Strangeness and Charm

The fire burned, and it burned hot. She knew this, somewhere in the back of her mind. But for the moment Faenorë dismissed it as the warm summer sun. Grimhelm sat on an old oak stump amongst the animals, carving up branches to use in their home. His hair, long, thick, and black, stuck to his face in choppy sections from the sweat. Lines were only just beginning to settle on his face, and his hands were just as worn as they always were. He stood up at the sight of her, thinking for a moment before grinning. He set down his work and slipped into the skin of a mountain lion, ever his place of comfort. With that he spurred off into the forest, meaning for her to follow.

She debated a while before finally slipping the wolf skin and bounding after him. Still, even in the shade, the heat persisted. She could hear the crackling of branches on fire and smell the smoke. But she ran after him, some part of her painfully oblivious to it. When at last Faenorë followed Grimhelm to a clearing near the mountain side, he shifted back to his human form and let out a bellowing laugh. At first, Faenorë did too, until a deep rumble sounded from the mountains and the earth seemed to shake. A moment of fear graced his face, but in a swift flash of grey, rocks toppled down from the sky to the ground.

His face was frozen like that, blood around his lips that were stuck in fear, and the great rock upon him that could pay no retribution for the evil it had done. Faenorë wanted to scream, she tried to, but the sound would not come. Instead the fires felt all too real and she realized the Drúadan was aflame. Branches began to topple around her, these ancient trees that housed secrets of the Istari and the Maiar and of those who left for Valinor.

A scream sounded out, completely foreign to her, and she watched as the old woman from the wedding stumbled through the clearing. He skin was covered in soot, her hair half-burned, and her clothes in rags. This wasn’t the cause of her panic, though. Instead her eyes were focused on the place where Grimhelm lay. Only now, there was something different. Faenorë took one hesitant step closer, and then another. Each step produced an arrow in his chest, and leaves fell upon the ground around his body. But by the time she finally loomed close, it was no longer Grimhelm but Boromir.

The sight of him like that, so close but yet completely gone, made her feel fear she could not remember. She backed away immediately, unable to cope with the sight, and watched as the woman wailed. Save him, save him, do not let our leader fall! She said the words over and over, the whole scene growing overbearingly warm and dark.

It was with a harsh snap that Faenorë awoke in the Gondorian bed. Her body was drenched in sweat and her lungs barely able to gather enough air to keep going. Worse, though, she was shaking. With determination she rose, rushing to the balcony to take in the night air. Just a nightmare, nothing more. Nothing more…

The words, though, did nothing to help her. She calmed her body’s responses, but her mind and her heart were harder to placate. It was late into the night, if not breaching upon early morning, but she could not wait. If she waited for the sun she would remain in agony. Quickly making herself somewhat decent, she took the skin of a crow and leapt from the balcony. As she soared above the great white city, she could see the charred remains of her forest. The sight did nothing to help her nerves, and so she focused on her destination. She debated whether or not to use the door as all others did, but decided against it. There could be guards outside who would try to keep her out, or worse her approaching Boromir’s quarters late at night could be some sort of bad thing. So she opted for landing on his terrace and taking on her human form, trying to compose herself.

He had been gone for a number of days with some of his men—he told her they were raiding the mountainside for any orcs coming too far south. She wanted to accompany him, but Faramir had needed her assistance in the city and a number of townspeople still required her help. In the end he had been gone for nearly a fortnight, and despite reuniting with him upon his return she longed for more.

“Boromir?” She called out quietly as she approached his bedside. His breathing was even and deep, and in the moonlight he could not have looked more at peace. Here, at least, he was not burdened by the weight of his people’s needs and his army’s direction and her. Seeing him like this made her feel at ease, but the image of his body lifeless forced her closer. She decided to let him sleep but crawled into the bed beside him as quietly as she could.

He slept with blankets and furs draped over him, locking in the heat of his body. She let herself under them and hesitantly moved close. He stirred but did not seem to wake, so she curled up against him. Even in his slumber his arm knew what to do, moving around her body to hold her close. She lay there with her head on his chest, taking comfort in the steady beating of his heart and the periodic feeling of his breath pushing against her hair. Her hand gripped tight on his loose shirt and in this place, by his side, she felt safe. Relieved. Almost as peaceful as he was.

“Promise you won’t leave.” She whispered into the darkness, clutching at him tighter. “Promise you won’t abandon me.”

“I promise.” He said quietly, catching her completely off-guard. She had apparently made the wrong assumption that he had stayed asleep after her impromptu entrance. He held her a little closer and she allowed it for a moment before sitting up a little. He simply lay there, watching her and reaching up a hand to stroke her hair. “Has something happened?”

“I dreamt bad things.” Faenorë admitted, sitting up all the way at the memory. He sat up as well, watching her intently. She let her eyes wander around the room, taking in the sight of all the maps and letters and nearly-gone candles that scattered every surface. “Of death and fire and loss. Of Grimhelm. Of you.”

“Who is Grimhelm?” He asked in a calm voice, watching her intently. It struck her that she had never spoken of him. That the only other soul that would remember him was Beorn, so very far away. Faenorë looked at her Gondorian Warrior and wondered how the story would make him feel. She opted to find out and began to weave the tale.

Faenorë explained how when she came of age Beorn allowed her to make a home of her own in the world. He had taught her all she could learn from another, and that the time had come for her to learn some lessons of her own. She had been close with Grimhelm since they were small children, and so she asked him to go with her. It made sense to her to have him with her, to have him close. In a way, she explained, she supposed she loved him.

They had spent so much time building the little cabin she had called home amongst the trees. When she was ready, she explained how he was taken from her. How she was left alone. It was different from when she was small, from when her people were decimated. With that, she could be angry at something. But with Grimhelm…she could not hate the mountains. Could not fight back against the stone.

“Have you ever felt the void, Boromir?” Faenorë asked in a distant voice, her hand finding his and holding on tightly. “Have you felt the sharp darkness bite away at you?”

“When my mother passed.” He said after a moment. “I was only a child, ten years. Faramir was even younger. I see her in him, so much of her.”

“What was she like?” Faenorë could not recall even the face of her own mother, let alone her personality. The notion of it felt empty and distant, but she still wondered.

“She was kind, gentle-spirited, and selfless. Finduilas was her name. When I was small I thought her an Elven Queen for all her beauty. She would always sing the sweetest songs. She was the light of this city. The whole realm mourned when she passed.” He had a way about him when he spoke of her, as though here and gone at the same time. As though happy and sad at the memory. Somehow, she understood.

Faenorë was struggling with the decision of whether or not she wished to tell Boromir of the dream, of the vision from the old woman at the wedding. It was chewing at her insides and darkening her mind, but she could not bring herself to speak of it. She could only focus on having him there, on the fact that he was alive with her.

“There was also a girl…in my boyhood. We spent many hours together…in truth, I planned to marry her. But she was promised to a man of Rohan and when she came of age I never saw her again.”

The she-wolf took comfort in the fact that his darkness mirrored hers, that they both had scars that seemed to line up right. Whatever her reservations were about him, his father, his people, his city, they could not mask the fact that she was attached to him. She did not want to lose him, and she had even come to rely on him. Without explanation he got out of the bed and wandered to a large cedar armoire. Opening the heavy doors, she watched as he reached in behind his clothes and pulled out a folded up piece of sheepskin. He reclaimed his spot at her side and handed the small package to her, watching her closely as she held it in her hand.
It held a deep weight despite its lightness, and she looked up at him with a questioning glance. He sported a small, muted smile and nodded for her to open it. Faenorë brushed her fingers over the rough surface of the material before gently peeling it away. At first the string of it fell out, a treated leather cord to hang whatever it was from her neck. But when she uncovered the pendant, her heart skipped a beat.

The stone within was familiar to her. Its turquoise colour glowed in the darkness of the room, a gentle light that pulsed in her grip. Feeling the smooth surface against her palms set off waves of muted electric charges. The shape of it was roughly circular, with concentric rings that dwindled into the oblivion of its centre.

“How…” She breathed, barely able to tear her eyes from the pendant long enough to look up at the Gondorian. “How did you come by this?”

“I found it amongst the hoard of the orcs we killed along the border.” He cautiously took it from her to put it around her neck. “In truth I knew not if it was the pendant you spoke of, though I imagined it would make an acceptable gift even if it was not.”

The beating thing in her chest began to flutter and she couldn’t recall the last time ever feeling this way. She crawled forward and placed both hands on his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. The gesture caught him somewhat off-guard but he was quick to respond, placing his hands on her waist as she crawled closer. When she pulled away she spoke with vulnerability and honesty.

“The void is a cold and empty space…but you are helping to fill it.”

She brought her lips down on his again, crawling into his lap and tugging at the hem of his shirt. At this, he immediately stopped them and pulled away. There was a torn expression on his face but he watched her cautiously. Her brows furrowed at his actions, eyes searching his for some answer.

“I…I do not want to compromise your honour.” He managed finally. She heaved out a sigh and rolled her eyes, taking his hand and turning it over against her palm. With his eyes watching intently, she took one of the rings from his fingers and slipped it onto hers. It just barely fit, nearly slipping off, but it was the symbol she cared about getting across.

“Does claiming me make it honourable?” She asked impatiently, reconnecting with him. The gesture seemed to satisfy him, or else he could no longer bear to resist.

She tugged his shirt up over his head, letting the material fall on the floor. He hesitated before slowly lifting up her gown, easing the material off of her arms and getting rid of it. Bringing her back to him, he pressed his lips to hers in an honest, deep kiss. Nothing of Boromir was what Faenorë was used to. With Grimhelm, these moments were few and these moments were rough. It was always fast, like a race, and his hands gripped and pulled and tugged. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, but she simply could not have known anything different until now.

Until him. Even as their bare bodies met, his arms cradled her and gently laid her down. She was so used to bracing herself at first, but he eased into her and reconnected their lips. Faenorë couldn’t recall ever looking upon Grimhelm’s face during the course of their nights; they had spent so much time in animal skins that their actions mimicked them too and left her focused on the wall or the floor.

He slowly moved against her, drawing out the act and occupying her mind with carefully placed touches. Her arms, her chest, her waist, her neck. His thumb brushed against her cheek before he slipped a hand behind her head. Boromir’s eyes were trained on her, keeping track of every muscle movement in an attempt to react appropriately. She had been so caught up in how she felt that she almost forgot he was active in this as well.
Kissing him deeply, she quickly reversed their positions so she straddled his hips. At first he was shocked, but as his eyes wandered her body he quickly acclimated and welcomed the gesture, settling his hands on her waist. She flattened her palms to his chest and began to move her body, marvelling at the way he looked at her. Faenorë knew in the deepest parts of herself that there would never be another like him.

Her name left his lips in a frenzied breath, and she could tell from the way he gripped her that he was close. She took one of his free hands and guided it between her legs, silently leading him on what to do. There didn’t seem to be enough air no matter how quick her lungs worked. Worse, though, was the realization that in the woods there was no one around to hear here; whereas here a whole city stood audience. She tried to stifle the noise, but failed horribly when at last the both of them reached their limit.

The force of it sent her leaning forward, her body shuddering, before she finally collapsed atop him. He was quick to wrap his arms around her body and keep her pressed close even as she settled into the bed beside him. Her body, her spirit, her heart felt content.

There were no more nightmares in her slumber that night. The comfort Faenorë found in her Gondorian Soldier was unexpected but welcome all the same. They slept all through the night, eased gently out of sleep by the warm sunlight pouring in from the terrace. It carved blocks out on the bed, heating the bodies beneath them. Boromir woke to Faenorë’s hand grasping his, her other one gently tracing each of his fingers. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her head to let her know he had awoken.

“Will you be king one day?” She asked in a quiet voice, snuggling closer to him and laying her cheek against his chest. He was silent for a few moments before answering.

“No, I shall not.” Boromir said, sliding his hand down to settle on her back. “We are the line of Stewards, not of Kings.”

At this Faenorë was visibly jarred, releasing him completely and sitting up. Her eyebrows were furrowed, forever confused by these customs of men. Crawling on top of him, she flattened her hands on his abdomen.

“You should be king.” She said simply, lightly trailing her hands up and down. “There…There have been no kings since Isildur. Even if one did return, he would be a stranger. The people love you. You would be an honest king. A just king…One worth kneeling to.”

He cocked his head to the side and smiled absently at her speech. Taking hold of her hands, he pulled so she lay atop his chest. Her eyes were unwavering, so wholly convinced that her words could simply make it true.
“To rule a realm is a heavy burden.” He said after a moment. The words meant nothing to her.

“With Faramir as your steward, surely you would manage.” She reasoned. He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips before looking her in the eyes.

“I would manage better with a queen.” He admitted in a small voice. Pressing his fingers to the ring she had taken, he asked plainly what she had meant by it.

“I know what is in my heart. There will not be another who captures me as you have.” She spoke strongly and without shame. “If I were to have children I would have them be yours. I am as much yours as you are mine.”

From the expression on his face, Boromir had not expected such words from her. He looked upon her with fresh admiration, with hope, with love. Closing the small distance, he brought her into a deep kiss. She let her hands roam and tangle into his hair, her back tingling as he trailed fingers up and down her sides. They broke apart only at the sound of a distant rumble. The two of them looked out of towards the terrace, Faenorë sitting up for a better look.

“Boromir!” The door flew open, tearing them from their observations. Faramir was out of breath but his eyes grew wide at the sight before him. Immediately he turned, averting his eyes and muttering apologies.

“Faramir, what is it?” Boromir asked as Faenorë understood she was to be covering herself. Faramir barely turned his head to speak out urgent words.

“It’s Osgiliath.” He heaved, one hand on the doorknob. “The city is under attack. We must ride.”

“Mordor?” Faenorë asked, rushing to clothe herself as Boromir did the same. When she pressed a hand to Faramir’s arm he willingly turned around, looking between them and nodded. “They will pay for every step they set in the city.”

“Return to Osgiliath and lead the men.” Boromir said, easily slipping into his role as a leader. “I will gather our forces and march with haste.”

“For Gondor.” Faenorë said quietly, almost more to herself than to the brothers. Still, though, they looked upon her with a sense of admiration amongst the encroaching chaos. She did not linger for any words to escape them, simply took the skin of a crow and set off for her room. On the way there she could see the evidence of the battle, of smoke and ruin and tiny distant black dots moving back and forth like ants.

In her quarters she made haste, finding her own clothes, her woodland clothes, and located her weapons. On the table she spied the set of Gondorian vambraces that had been gifted to her shortly before Boromir left for his patrol in the Drúadan. She strapped them on, growing accustomed to the added weight, before running and leaping from the balcony.

In mid-air she grew the wings of a raven, moving with urgency through the skies. Below her, the head of the army was beginning its journey across Pelennor fields. Like water from a damn the soldiers poured from Minas Tirith’s front gates. The sun was beginning its morning ascent into the sky, the light fighting against the persistent darkness that overflowed from Mordor. Faenorë caught sight of the steward’s sons and amongst the Gondorian army and flew ahead towards Osgiliath to survey the battle. As she flew the skin-walker realized that for perhaps the first time in her life, she was no longer fighting just for her own survival. The prospect of the fall of Osgiliath threatened Minas Tirith and the people in it: that was what pushed her. That was what fueled her.

Seeing the river city under siege again reminded her of the last battle she had seen. The attackers had brought a Nazgul that time, and Faenorë anxiously searched the skies for any sign of its return. She had been careless last time, and it ended up hurting her in the end. This time, she would be calculated and careful. Though no less deadly. When she reached Osgiliath the army was not far behind, now headed by Boromir. Minas Tirith shone in the daylight behind them, a stark contrast to darkened and war-torn city before them. Faenorë shed her wings in favour for her true form and awaited the Captain at the entrance. Upon his approach he immediately gave out orders, but paused to listen to her findings from her scouting.

“They are in the city in force and more approach the city. Siege weapons come with them, fewer than eight. On this day they plan to take the city for good.” Faenorë said gravely. Boromir looked her in the eye but did not reflect her fear, instead nodded and turned to face the company. He began a short speech but the sound of men screaming behind them drew the skin walker away. A group of orcs had come across on a boat and arrived on the shore, spurring everyone into action.

Faenorë killed her share and moved along the river, surveying the city ruins properly and trying to imagine they were her trees. Trees provided cover and shelter, much like the stone walls, and the both of them offered labyrinthine ways to lose or become lost in. There were a few broken bridges along the length of the river that connected towers, most of them gone beyond repair. Instead Faenorë focused on what they could control. Along one of the taller buildings, a mass of archers were attacking the opposing force. The skin walker ran for them, dodging attacks along the way and pausing to pull her blade from the neck of an orc.

“The boats!” She roared upon her arrival, drawing the attention of the men. “Light your arrows and aim for the boats! Burn them alive!”

The faction leader nodded in approval and the men followed through on the order, setting fire to the tips of their arrows and raining down flames upon the orcs. Some would jump in the water to avoid the flames, and some would die from it, but it would at least give them pause before continuing. All around her the battle roared on, the sound of death impossible to escape. It didn’t always sound like screams of pain: more often it was the subtle gasp that marked the end of a life.

Amidst the chaos Faenorë found her way back to Boromir, fighting at his side as he occasionally called out orders. He was determined to be where the fighting was thickest; determined to defend his forest. However many orcs were killed, there were still so many more approaching the city. Faenorë knew this and constantly had the image in the back of her mind. If they did not gain a foothold somewhere, the city would be lost to them.

“Boromir!” Faramir cried out upon approaching. The two of them looked over as the second born rushed up. “There is a battalion of archers across the river, they’ve fortified a barricade across the northeast bridge and they’re decimating our forces by the great dome.”

“We cannot repair the bridge, the gap is too great.” Boromir said while severing the head of an orc. “Divert the Southern archers and wipe the battalion out.”

“Without the archers we cannot hold the southern crossing.” Faramir said desperately.

“I will fix the bridge.” Faenorë said sternly, wiping the orc blood from her face. The stewards sons looked at her with the same look of puzzlement. “A wolf learns to isolate her prey: I will fix the bridge and lead a team across to stop their numbers as best we can.”

Before either of them could object she slipped away, bounding up crumbling stairs and avoiding the corpses of men and orcs alike. There were archers trying to attack the enemy from the northern side of the broken bridge. She ignored them and surveyed the stone that once connected each half of the city. It was mostly stable but had a large gap in the middle where someone severed it to keep the other side at bay. It was too large a gap to simply jump across, but there was the remnant of an old make-shift bridge that had at one time been put up as a temporary fix. If she could just bring the ropes to the other side, she could fasten them and the bridge would be usable again.

With a deep breath she ran out, taking the ravenskin once more to avoid detection. The orcs seemed preoccupied with the men; no arrows flew at her while she dove under the bridge. Taking the severed end of the rope and plank bridge she struggled to lift its weight. Dropping it, she flew up high to gain some momentum and plummeted towards the bridge, quickly grabbing it and using her speed to fly back up with it. The moment she was high enough to fall onto the other side, she switched back to her human form. It was starting to take its toll on her, all of the shifting, and so she paused for a moment to gather her strength.

As she heaved in breaths and held onto the rope with a death grip, Faenorë watched in horror as the large blackened stones began to fly through the sky towards the city. The orcs finally had the trebuchets within range. The sight pushed her forward, heaving the rope bridge up and securing it as tightly as she could. When the men on the other side finally saw what she had done, they immediately came to back her up. The skin walker ran forward at the unsuspecting orcs and began to attack the nearest ones, knowing that once the archers were dealt with and they could retreat, any orcs attempting to cross the bridge would be easy to take out.

The arrows were now focused on the group of them as more of the archers were killed. Faenorë fought with all of her anger and fury that had ever been pent up. She fought for the Drúadan forest that lay barren, she fought for her entire community of skinwalkers that were butchered, she fought for the city of innocents who lived in the great stone city. After throwing an orc over the walls of the barricade to its death, Faenorë turned in time to see an arrow heading straight for her chest. She had no time to react, no senses quick enough to save her life.

Blackened metal struck against the gifted necklace on her chest, the only heirloom aside from fractured memories that Faenorë would ever have of her people. Her family. Where the gemstone should have shattered, it pulsed instead. A warm glow emanated from it and rippled through her body, a gust of wind rushing through the group of men and orcs alike as her hair whipped furiously around her. The arrow clanged to the ground and the orcs looked on in shock as Faenorë began to swell with rage. It felt different from a human’s anger. It felt more primordial, volcanic, undeniable. The skinwalker began to stretch into an unfamiliar form. She felt raw power and strength and impossible authority. Wings carried her up and above the city, and she felt fire in her belly. Dragon.

The necklace must have tapped into some connection with her dead kin. Some base power that lay dormant in them all and connected across generations. As the dragon hovered above the city, winged and spiked and stewing with fury, Faenorë revelled in the power. She was the fire-breathing defender of an endangered people. She was the vengeful ghost of her slaughtered kin. She was the lethal whisper of a destitute forest, long since turned to ash—and she would have her revenge.

The men of Gondor that had followed her over the bridge retreated, and Faenorë immediately engulfed the enemy archers in flame. She wanted to smash the whole southern side of the city, she wanted to watch as the stones crushed the life out of the orcs, she wanted to set the fields of Pelennor on fire and burn the blight of the orcs from existence. It was a small voice in the back of her head that reminded her only the orcs deserved her fury: that she could not destroy the city without destroying the men. The good men. Not like the one who tried to take her in her cabin. Good men, like her Boromir and Faramir.

Faenorë took to the skies and sought out the enemy trebuchets. They were made of metal, but to a dragon nothing is strong. Nothing endures. She smashed them with ease using either her tail or her great feet, even melting the iron of one into a useless shape with the heat of her flames. The dragon flew and destroyed all that she could, focusing on the incoming supply line of orcs and weapons that trickled out from Mordor. They tried to loose arrows at her, but she flew too high for any of them to hit their target. In one fatal swoop she drew close and lay an ocean of fire upon the approaching orcs, roasting hundreds of them alive leagues from the city. It would give the others pause, if not send them back to the Black Gates altogether.

As she returned to the city she could feel her strength, her fury, waning. She made the most of her power, destroying enemy boats and other groups of archers, but it seemed the sight of a dragon alone was enough of a deterrent for some of the orcs. When at last the gifted power left her, Faenorë fell into the great dome of Osgiliath. The impact and the sudden shift back to her human form left her incredibly weak and disoriented. For a while she lay there, trying to keep herself conscious and ignore the pain her body felt. She scrambled for her weapons, hearing the scuffle of rushed footsteps approach her. For the first time in so long she felt the deep fear of death: try as she may she had not the strength to defend herself against any number of orcs.

“My lady!” A man cried out, rushing over to her with a group of men in tow. She realised it was Eregion, and was hesitant as he helped her to her feet. “Lord Boromir is searching for you. Are you injured?”

“Nothing severe.” She said in a hoarse voice, leaning against him for only a moment before finding strength enough to walk on her own feet. He and the other men escorted her out into the city, and it was only then that she realized Osgiliath was quiet. Looking around, the fighting had almost entirely stopped. The orcs had retreated or died. We won. Eregion led her past hundreds of corpses to the city square, where men were all gathering.

“Lady Fae!” Faramir called out from their left. He turned back for a moment and then approached with Boromir. A relieved smile overtook both of their faces as the skin walker embraced her stalwart warrior.

“The necklace—it changed me.” She managed, trying and failing to explain that if he had not recovered it for her she quite possibly would have died. He only focused on kissing her, on letting her feel his hands against her body. His lips came at hers longer than they ever had before, and despite her selfish want for him all to herself she pulled away. “Shouldn’t you address the men?”

He laughed and nodded, laying his hand on her cheek before promising his return. Faramir stayed at her side while Boromir ascended to the top of a tower, the shining flag of Gondor firmly in his grasp as he marked the city with it. The whole crowd of men amassed before him, crying out his name.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom. A place of light, and beauty, and music. And so it shall be once more! Let the armies of Mordor know this: Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands. The city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed. For Gondor! For Gondor! For Gondor!”

Everyone cheered out, echoing his words. If Faenorë hadn’t felt so weak, she would have joined them. It made her heart feel light and airy, knowing that the city was safe. Minas Tirith was safe. The people she cared about could live now without the fear of incoming war. Everyone began to turn to their comrades and celebrate, congratulating one another and sharing tales of the battle. More than a few men gave thanks to the skin walker, but despite the warm welcome she stayed at Faramir’s side where she felt most comfortable. She smiled at the memory of how they had all met: nothing more tying them together than a desire for the second born to not lose his arm and his elder brother’s plead for help. When Boromir finally made it back to the two of them Faramir embraced him with a grin.

“Good speech. Nice and short.” He nodded, the sheepish grin spreading to Boromir.

“Leaves more time for drinking!” Boromir cheered, turning to everyone around him. “Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

Mugs of ale began to appear, everyone passing them around, and when one was handed to Faenorë she downed it gladly. It would help numb the pain until she had the strength to aid in the healing process.
“Remember today,” Boromir began, lacing his hand with Faenorë and looking from her to his younger brother. “Today, life is good.” His smile dropped at the look on the skin walker’s face. “What?”

“He is here.” She said quietly, releasing his hand. Though Denethor no longer enforced her banishment from the city, he bore no overwhelming love for the girl. Faenorë was combative by nature in nearly all circumstances, but when it came to Lord Denethor she tried to do as little as possible that would incur his scorn.

“One moment of peace. Can he not give us that?” Boromir sighed as the steward’s voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Where is he? Where is Gondor’s finest?” Denethor called out, moving through the throng of surviving men. “Where is my first-born?”

“Father!” Boromir went to greet him and Faenorë stayed with Faramir, feeling a pain in her chest at the sight of how poorly Denethor regarded Faramir.

“They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly.” Denethor beamed, bracing his son’s shoulders. Boromir shook his head.

“They exaggerate.” He turned to Faramir in an attempt to stand up for his younger brother. “The victory belongs to Faramir also.”

“But for Faramir, this city would still be standing.” Denethor said disdainfully, scowling at Faramir. “Were you not entrusted to protect it?”

“I would have done,” He said in his defense. “But our numbers were too few.”

“Oh, too few. You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim.” Denethor hissed, lowering his voice and nearing his second born. “Always you cast a poor reflection on me.”

“That is not my intent.” Faramir said with a blank face, sighing heavily. Faenorë looked to Boromir who shared her exasperation. He turned to his father and shook his head.

“You give him no credit and yet he tries to do your will.” Boromir said severely, walking away as Denethor followed. “He loves you, father.”

The two of them stood in an alcove while the men continued to celebrate. Faenorë and Faramir were close enough to hear them speak, but stayed out of their line of sight. The skin walker claimed two more mugs of ale for the both of them, longing for nothing more than a long bath and even longer sleep.

“Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses, and they are few. We have more urgent things to speak of. Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumoured that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

This caught Faenorë’s attention. She had learned, in her books from Faramir, about these places and people. Of enemies with legendary stories so far away they felt like fairy tales to her.

“The one ring… Isildur’s Bane.” Boromir said gravely.

“It has fallen into the hands of the Elves. Everyone will try to claim it: men, dwarves, wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor.” Denethor said desperately while Faenorë ventured a few steps closer. She could see Boromir through the crowd, could see the apprehensive look on his face.

“Gondor?” Boromir breathed, subconsciously taking a step backwards. Faenorë read the ring was powerful and dangerous, but if it was brought to Gondor she knew Boromir could keep it safe.

“It’s dangerous, I know. Ever the ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men. But you, you are strong and our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying.” Denethor was almost growling, and despite her detest of him he was right. Faenorë had once suspected that the increased sighting and expansion of orcs may have been the hint of something worse to come. “Sauron is biding his time. He’s massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift.”

Boromir thought about his father’s words, but when his eyes looked over at Faenorë he seemed to find resolve. Shaking his head, slowly at first, he kept her gaze for a moment too long and then returned to his father.

“No. My place is here with my…with my people. Not in Rivendell.” He left his father’s presence at that, walking back over to Faenorë as best he could. She tried to hide the small smile taking over her features, but when he mirrored it she let it grow.

“Would you deny your own father?” Denethor said dangerously from behind them as he followed after his first born.

“If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead.” Faramir interjected, stepping forward hopefully. Denethor regarded him with disdain and shook his head. Boromir stood at the skin walker’s side and she tentatively laced a few fingers with his. A small act of defiance.

“You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.”

Suddenly Faenorë remembered the night of Beregond’s wedding. In the tavern, amidst the celebrations, the old woman who approached her and relayed a vision worse than an army of orcs. Boromir, dead and alone in a forested area with arrows protruding from his chest. Faenorë vowed to protect him from any harm, by her life or death. She would save him any way she could.

“I will go with you.” She said quietly, the words meant for him and no other. He looked over at her with mild shock and she repeated the words, eyes fluttering down to his lips for a brief moment as he fully took her hand in his. With a nod to his father, Denethor announced Boromir would leave immediately with a small group of the city’s best men and ride north for Rivendell.

Along the ride back to Minas Tirith Boromir had a hushed conversation with his brother, the three of them parting ways once inside the gates. Faenorë made quick work of packing for the journey: she was already accustomed to travelling light. Before she could leave her room Boromir appeared at the doorway, clad in his freshly cleaned armor. He approached and took her hands in his.

“You need rest, Faenorë.” He said gently, looking down at their enjoined hands. “You need not come.”

“Must I remind you with words that I will not easily be removed from your side?” She challenged, raising an eyebrow at him. He smiled at her, a smile filled with adoration, and she pressed her lips to his. “If something were to happen and I was not there, I could not bear it. I will go with you.”

“As you wish.” Boromir bowed slightly and then the two of them descended to the first level of the city where the gates stood open for them. Five men would ride with them, the guard of Gondor’s finest. Faramir awaited them and offered earnest goodbyes and well wishes. Faenorë promised they would return and mounted Asta, wondering how the elation after the victory in Osgiliath could have given way to such solemn farewells.

“Remember today, little brother.” Boromir said kindly, though there was sadness in his voice. Boromir led the way out of the city, Faenorë at his side, and the guard behind them. No matter what it took, the skin walker would keep the woman’s vision from coming to fruition.

Nothing would take her Gondorian away from her.