Chapter 23: The return of the King

The first spring moon rose high in the skies above Ithilien. The winds had turned south and finally the chill of the receding winter had evaporated from the nightly air. It was two weeks after the battle at the Black Gates and the army was now camped in Ithilien, about half a day's march North of Cair Andos. With the great number of injured fighters, the wounded thrice outnumbering the uninjured, it had not been feasible to march any further. The spring night found Boromir wandering the earthen walls of the camp. The rested units from Cair Andros had dug a deep trench around the camp, the material from that and some more used to form a simple earth wall to shield the camp. It was a simple but effective measure.

Walking alone, until he stood under an Ithilien Elm uphill, seeing the shadow of the Ephal Duath under the silver light of the moon. Silently he recalled the names of his men that had fallen in the last battles. Gerion, Corfalas, Corluin… farmer sons from the western provinces; Hirion, Turan, Nardhel… all sons of the white city who had heard the call of war as young as Boromir had, other names followed, each of them held a face for him and he did not try to push those memories away. It had been a ritual among them, remembering those who had fallen, or who had been left behind under the Shadow. He would not wish to forget their faces. Veryan of Dol Amroth, the name brought a fresh jab of pain when he recalled the friend of his youth, the loyal comrade… the man who'd have followed him to hell and back if Boromir had asked him to. Veryan had been by his side in this war from the beginning, always at his shoulder, always there to be relied on, and now that he was gone Boromir knew he would miss his friend.

"Farewell, Veryan, may your path lead you home." Boromir raised his hand, reaching out into the dark, wishing his friend an easy journey to the lands where pain and darkness were but a memory.

They all had agreed to not mourn each other, it had been the compact between them, to not mourn but never forget. For they all had signed up for this war, they all had known that by placing their name on the recruitment roll they had signed their own death warrant. And while Boromir would never forget any of them, he would not dishonor their bravery by mourning openly.

Soft steps startled him out of his reverie. Not a soldier – the man was too light on his feet, a Ranger most likely. He sighed, recognizing the step. "Thorongil," he did not turn around; he could hear the light steps as Thorongil approached the Elm. "Is there anything you needed me for?" he asked, letting the Captain snap into place.

Aragorn joined him standing on the low hill; he wore the same black and silver armor he had worn when they rode from the city. "I wanted to speak to you, alone, without any of the others close to overhear." The King said calmly. "But I did not wish to disturb you saying your goodbyes. They all will be commemorated properly."

Boromir shook his head. "Ceremonies are meaningless, Thorongil, they are something for the survivors, for the families, the lovers, for those who have never seen war and will hopefully never face battle; maybe for their sons even to remember what their fathers fought for. But the ceremonies have no meaning… not to those who fought." His eyes went to the dark peaks in the distance. "Twenty-five years ago, this very night, I stood with two hundred men over there, near the crossroads. The Easterlings had raided the Eastern shore and dragged away many of our people, corralling them in the Thorn-fortress."

He still could feel the glances of the other soldiers. Their Captain was dead, his second wounded, and the other lieutenant in favor of retreat, and the soldiers were suddenly turning to him. It had not been the sons of any noble house who had spoken up, no it had been others. Turan, the son of an armorer in Minas Tirith; Bran, a woodsman's son and ten years Boromir's senior; and Eradan, an archer from Ithilien. "There has to be another option, M'Lord." Bran had spoken; he vividly recalled the deep voice of the twenty-seven year old soldier, leaning on his spear. "We can't leave them hanging." They had turned to him to come up with a plan, with an option, no matter what their remaining officer said. And while he remembered the cold fear he had felt that moment, seeing that they expected a plan from him, Boromir could only wonder that he had ever been so young.

"We came up with a plan to free out people from that dreadful place, it was risky and we knew we'd not all make it out alive. We made a compact then, we'd not stop to rescue one man and risk the mission, we'd do what was needed to get our people back from their hands and we would not mourn those who died, we would not mourn but never forget." Boromir closed his hand around a branch of the elm tree. "I gave them my word to not mourn them, but to never forget them. And looking back now, remembering them, I know that they'd be glad to see it finally done, to see the Dark Tower fallen."

"Did you get your people home?" Aragorn could see that Boromir's eyes were on the sleeping landscape of Ithilien, looking far away into the past, maybe his mind was walking with the men again, that he had led against the shadow. It was here and now that Aragorn truly felt how long Boromir's war had been. Nearly twenty-five years, from an age so young he should not have known what war meant, to this very moment, and while he could see that the Captain had sought to be alone, the healer in Aragorn protested to leave any man alone with such a burden. Twenty-five years of war those were the best years of a man's life and then some, given to fight, to death, to a hopeless struggle. Did Boromir even feel now that the yoke was lifting?

"Aye, we got them home. Lost thirty soldiers, and the commander in Osgiliath was not sure if he should commend us or have us whipped for disobeying orders. He decided for both, for good measure." A smile rose on Boromir's lips. "Baranor… he was one tough commander, the very best."

"I think I met him as a young man," Aragorn recalled a young soldier of that name but he had a hard time picturing easygoing, laughing Baranor, with his mischievous blue eyes and bright singing voice as the old grizzled commander of Osgiliath.

When he spoke, Boromir tensed, his eyes focusing again, and the Captain straightened up. "You said you wished to speak to me," he said, his voice becoming more formal, an unspoken Sire hung in the air after the sentence.

Aragorn sighed inwardly; he could well see the wall Boromir built up. Was this all he'd ever get from the man, a grudging acceptance, because this was how things had to be? "Can we be as honest as we were that day outside the walls of the city?" Aragorn asked, hoping that Boromir would be willing to speak openly. "I would like to know where I stand with you."

The Captain shrugged, leaning back against the tree, his posture slightly relaxing. "I wonder why you feel you have to ask, Thorongil," he said. "When we reach Minas Tirith you will be crowned, and you will have no opposition from me."

"That is more than I had a right to expect, given how much you despise me." Aragorn still wondered why Boromir would do that, he could have given Aragorn a lot of trouble, the armies might be awed by the returned King but they would stand behind their Captain beyond doubt or reason. During the long journey that had been the last year he had come to doubt Boromir more than once, to be time and again surprised by him, he had come to question Boromir's motifs and honor several times, and had learned that while maybe the most ruthless soldier to ever serve the White City, Boromir's loyalties were beyond question. And he was very grateful that Boromir would not turn the armies against him and begin a bloody civil war, deep in his heart Aragorn was not sure if such a war could be won – Boromir was a charismatic leader and a man who had been shaped by a long, brutal war.

Pushing away from the tree, Boromir approached him, meeting his eyes calmly as an equal. "I may have been harsh with you at times, Thorongil," he said. "maybe harsher than you deserved, you had your own struggles and dangers to contend with. Maybe we had to fight this war on our own, maybe the long struggle under the shadow was necessary, to hammer out the army you could lead unto the Black Gate itself. Had you been here, we might have been too weak to last under the storm, so I not will hold your long absence against you like I once did."

He looked past Aragorn, back to where the city lay beyond the river. "And I think you may be the best thing that could have happened to Gondor. She had her leaders of war, she had her heroes who sleep in their graves under Ithilien's moons… but now she needs a King of Peace." His eyes went back to Aragorn, and for the first time Aragorn could detect vulnerability in them. "And none of us would know how to be that. No one born in this generation has ever seen peace, and our fathers knew little enough of it. You will be the healer to mend Gondor and restore peace to our people. In that, you are the very best thing you could happen to Gondor."

The words touched Aragorn's heart in unexpected ways. Coming from the man who had lived a life of war to protect this nation, who had been ready to die for Gondor, they meant a lot, they indicated a trust Boromir had that Gondor would be in good hands with Aragorn. Yet, there was a distance in the man's green eyes. "Gondor again," Aragorn observed. "you will always do what is good for her, Boromir. But what of yourself? You said you can accept that I would be a good King for Gondor…" Among the elves, Aragorn had learned insight into the souls of others and he could clearly read what there was in Boromir. "A good King for Gondor but never your King, is it?" he asked, without any accusation in his voice. It was not meant as such, and he was not offended, he slowly began to see what Boromir was trying to say, and he could appreciate that it was not easy for him to truly admit it.

"I had never expected to live beyond the last battle," Boromir replied tilting back his head slightly. "nor that I'd see the Dark Tower fall in my lifetime." They eyes met and Aragorn could see a more open expression in them than he had before. He had no doubt it was true, Boromir had been sure to die in the battle, to never live to see the end of the war.

"You did not mind following me to your death, because it was necessary to protect Gondor. But now that you have lived through that night…"

"I will not turn on you, if that is what you fear. I am not like Daín." Boromir said firmly, he had turned around fully to face Aragorn, falling into his favourite posture when talking with him: arms crossed in front of his chest, feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to be heard – or to argue. "I will not steal the throne from the rightful Prince. Much as it leaves me with things to consider."

"Maybe you struggle so much with it because you do not want to admit that another holds your loyalties already, Boromir." Aragorn decided to break up confrontational pose Boromir had chosen, he had learned already how easy it was to simply argue with this man. Thus he sat down on one the boulders, gesturing Boromir to sit as well. He had come into this conversation fairly tense, expecting anger, rage, maybe even open defiance from Boromir, and he had been confused to find resigned acceptance instead. Now that he was seeing more clearly, Aragorn felt easier, on familiar grounds again and with a basis to actually talk.

The Captain followed the gesture and sat down. "My first loyalty was always Gondor," he told him.

"Nay, I would not doubt your loyalty to your homeland, Boromir," Aragorn said. "but if you had to place your black sword of yours at the feet of any man and swear to him, it would not be me. Though I think I know whom it might be."

Now Boromir's head perked slightly up as he cast Aragorn a curious glance. "Enlighten me."

Aragorn laughed. "Boromir, it was frighteningly obvious, though it confounded me at first. When I first met you and Kíli in the trollshaws, I was simply surprised to see that I could not tell clearly who of you was the leader. You were willing to follow a dwarf's lead in some things, something unheard of you any son of your fathers', or of your own reputation. But I believed it to be you being stranded in a strange, wild land, trying to fulfill your mission, and that Kíli had won enough of your respect, that you would trust his judgment. When I saw you with that axe and noticed your missing dagger as we set out from Rivendell, I thought that this one dwarf might have impressed you somewhat, but when Gimli questioned you, you were so clearly on Kíli's side that I again was confounded what to think. Only in Moria I began to understand."

"You are not making much sense," Boromir had relaxed slightly; he sat leaning forward, elbows resting easily on his legs. Whether he truly was not following Aragorn's argument or if he waited for Aragorn to present his conclusion was not to be told, but he had given up on being argumentative, which was progress indeed.

"The crossroads, where we met Kíli, do you remember that day?" Aragorn asked back. "When I told you that it would be better we had some answers and you asked Kíli about them? Do you recall that moment?"

"Tharnul's Crossing, in Moria." That was what Kíli had called the broken place. Frowning, Boromir thought back, he recalled Kíli setting down the pack and himself noticing the dwarf was tired. He had guided Kíli over to the broken stones to sit. "I remember." he said, not seeing the point.

"When you guided Kíli to sit on that broken wall… you acted much like he was a Prince, even staying close like you were a guard," Aragorn said. "you did not even know who he was then, I think you only learned there that he was of Durin's House, but the way you treated him was like you already knew." He could see Boromir frown anew. "and then our travel through Moria. Of all among us, even Gimli, you were the only one unafraid, when we others would hardly dare to look at the darkness and the ruins closing in on us, you looked at that dark place like it was the greatest wonder left in the world, like it was something indefinitely precious."

"It is," Boromir interrupted him. "it is maybe the greatest kingdom there was in the world, hidden from the prying eyes of mortals… and lost to the shadow. How could any man look at Dwarrowdelf and not admire the greatness and the sheer loss of such a realm?"

"Greatness," Aragorn raised his hand, slightly pointing towards Boromir, to underline his argument. "I would deem that one of your weaknesses, Boromir, that you seek for a cause of greatness and pride, beyond even that what mortals may achieve."

"So you are calling me arrogant," The Captain said. "And… I am still not sure what you are trying to say." A part of him knew though, if only in whispers, in dreams half remembered at dawn.

"Only you can know what happened between the moment you left us on Amon Hen and the day we met again before the walls of Minas Tirith. But I saw it again when we spoke of your father's death – Kíli would try and protect you like you were one of his men, and you wanted to beg his forgiveness for whatever your father did to him. Am I now closer to the mark?"

Boromir looked down, knowing Aragorn had seen directly into his soul. When he looked up, had again schooled his features to a calm mask. "You are right, Aragorn, if I had that choice, if I were free to give my loyalties, I'd rather follow this Prince in Exile than anyone else. That does not mean I will not do my duty for Gondor, for our people. No man's fears and no man's dreams may stand in the way of protecting the White City. No ties but her."

And finally Aragorn understood, Boromir would always place his duty first, he would serve, even if his heart was not in it any more, he would fight for Gondor, if not her King, even if it broke his very soul. Aragorn regretted that he would never win this man's loyalties; he had wished they could be friends, much as the stubborn and prideful son of Denethor had sometimes aggravated him. "It leaves one other choice," he said, rising to his feet, placing his hand on the head of the still sitting man. "Boromir, Son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, the Heir of Isildur declares you free of your oaths and obligations to the White City and the land of Gondor, no duty binds you, no oath ties you to this land or crown. You shall be as a stranger to the White City and free to choose your path from this moment onwards."

Under the light of the moon, Aragorn saw all color drain from Boromir's face. For a moment it appeared like the man would speak, say anything at all, but when he opened his mouth the words never came, he remained silent.. Pale but steady he rose, backing away from Aragorn, before turning around and walking off into the night outside camp.

TRB

The silent hour before Midnight found Boromir by the riverside, after wandering aimlessly through the forest. The Moon stood low above the hills and would soon vanish to sleep beyond the mountains. Not that Boromir truly saw the moon or his surroundings. Aragorn's words had revealed what had been on his mind sometimes, though whenever he had considered it, he had known the clear, hard fact that it was impossible. He was sworn to serve Gondor until the day he died, and his father would have sneered at such a release from duty. Only a coward weasels his way out of his duties. We all are born into one place and we have to fill this place, and fill it well. He who fails to do so is no man, but a piece of garbage. He could almost hear the scathing voice of the old man. Boromir shook his head. His father might have thought like that, and maybe he would have despised Boromir for having it let come to this… but his opinion or approval was nothing Boromir cared about any more.

During one of their advances across the river Paros Boromir had once found a haradic Lion, chained to a wall in a courtyard of the abandoned city. There had been no living being left in the city but the captured animal. Boromir had approached the giant cat, and finding it did not attack him, had broken the collar setting it free. There was no need for the proud animal to die of thirst in the empty city. The huge, golden cat hat looked at him confused and then slunk along the walls of the yard for a while, like it did not know what it should do with its sudden freedom.

Right now Boromir felt exactly like that, like someone had broken his chains and he did not know what to do with himself now that he was free. He thought back to the lion, who had eventually run out of the city gates and vanished into the vast width of Harad's steppes. Maybe this was his answer? Stop pondering and walk through the gate that had opened before him? He knew that the strength to believe and to fight for something was still unbroken inside him, he could still embrace a cause and fight for it. He did not fear fighting, or danger… or whatever else may await down that road. All he needed to do was leave his doubts behind.

When he returned to camp, third watch was being called, and without planning on it, his steps guided him towards the dwarven part of the camp, where no one seemed to sleep. By a bright blazing fire Kíli, Dwalin, Bofur and a number of other dwarves were sitting and talking. Making room for him by the fire, Dwalin invited him over with a wave of his hand.

Glad for the company, Boromir sat down with them, noticing the dwarves' solemn miens, whatever they had been speaking off, it could not be a happy topic. "Should I leave?" he asked.

"No," Bofur said. "maybe you can tell us something. How fast will Gondor aspire to reclaim Arnor?"

This was not a question he had expected. "With the coronation of Aragorn, Gondor and Arnor would be again united under one crown, the kingdom fully restored. Given that the King is a man from the North, I doubt he will tarry to follow up on this claim." Boromir expected no less.

"Damn," Bofur said grimly, he had taken off his hat and twisted the already looped sides even more. "that gives us one summer, maybe a year to pull our people out."

Perplexed, Boromir looked at the greying dwarf. "What do you mean, Bofur?"

"A lot of our people are spread out through the lone lands," Kíli replied in Bofur's stead, his hand moved over the low fire and for a moment Boromir believed that he saw a glowing outline of a map in the embers. "you saw Bofur's settlement in Rhudaur, there are many like that in Rhudaur, Arthedain and Cardolan."

"There was no claim to that land anymore; we went where we found ores or stone to make it worth staying." Bofur told him, putting his fist down hard on his knee. "two thirds of our people are there, with the other third in Cardemir. But with Arnor's claim to the land… it's back to the road for us."

"I would never think Aragorn would drive your people off the land," Boromir said, no matter his own disagreements with the man, Aragorn was a good man and he'd not be stupid enough to drive off an industrious and hardy populace.

"If we wanted to live under a foreign king we could have stayed with Dain eighty years ago," Dwalin said firmly. "we did not bend knee to Dain and we won't for Aragorn either."

"We may not have that many options, old friend," Kíli said to the warrior. "Cardemir can't support a populace that size. The iron mines in the Ered Luin are ancient, and you know how deep they already go."

Bofur nodded grimly. "We could move north, towards Forochel, nasty cold place but there's still a chance to build mines under the ice."

"We'd still touch the borders of Arnor," Kíli said. "the claim will be made for Arnor's furthest old reaches, old friend. There won't be that much room left on that side of the mountains."

"So it's back to the road," Bofur confirmed grimly. "we did it before, Kíli, we can do it again."

Boromir averted his eyes, unable to meet their eyes in this moment,, these dwarves had fought to protect Gondor, they had bled and died to aid the White City and opposed the shadow bravely, but victory meant for them to lose their homes again. "What of the Southern Ered Luin?" he asked.

"No better than the northern parts," Bofur told him. "Boromir, these iron mines are the oldest in the world, going back all the way to the first age. We only manage to still mine ore there by digging very deep, and support structures, air, not to mention water management can only do so much. We are at our limit there."

"What of the Misty Mountains?" Boromir asked. "neither Arnor nor Gondor ever held any claim to them." He vividly recalled the dream he had during their travels, the dream of Moria… there had to be a place for the dwarves somewhere. Maybe some Wizard believed that this was the Age of Men beginning, but this Man sitting here would not want to live in a world without dwarrow any longer.

"Full of Goblins," Dwalin told him in his deep rumbling voice. "small settlements would have to fight even harder than they do now. With the Black Lands not draining the Goblin's numbers any more, things will heat up before long. But… you have a point there, Boromir."

"No." Kíli rose, walking a few steps so he stood with his back to them. "I won't let you all go to another life on the road, of suffering and needless death. I'll do what I should have done eighty years ago." He hesitated, like the next words were a burden of lead on his shoulders. Finally he raised his chin, inhaling sharply, though when he spoke his voice was calm and steady. "I will go to Erebor, kneel to Dain and swear to him. It will allow our people to go home."

"No way." Dwalin growled. "I swear upon my brother's grave, the day after I'll call Dain out, he can't deny the son of Fundin's blood is descended from Durin's line, much like his own. I shall challenge him for his stolen crown and I'll hack him to pieces."

"Dwalin…"

„No, Kíli. If Daín is too much of a coward to fight… there is a man, out in the East who is right now thinking about a foothold in the west and I think a fat dwarf King and his lazy vassals would be just right for him to vent some serious anger." Dwalin's eyes shone in angry fire as he stood there, determined to not give ground.

Kíli whipped about, facing his old friend. "Dwalin, we can't send our people wandering again. You know the southern reaches, neither Dunland nor Enedwaith are places where we will gain a foothold, you were there, you know what it was like there the last time. And Rohan has some vengeance to vent down on the Dunlendings anyway; I'd not get between them and a serious grudge. We could try the Ered Mithrin again, but that means contending with the wyrms in the Withered Heath anew."

"And that would place us on Erebor's doorstep," Bladvila threw in. "we might as well move east and see what of the former Kingdom of Rhûn we can carve up for our own."

"We don't have an army to take on the Easterling Empire," Brea told him. "And most of us are at home in the west."

Dwalin gestured them to be silent. "What about Moria?" he said. "All say that Gandalf slew Durin's Bane, so there's no contending with that beast anymore."

"Only with legions of Orcs," Kíli pointed out. "Dwalin, returning to Moria will mean ten years of war, at the very least. And we'd need numbers to do it."

"If we have every dwarf of Eriador and the Ered Luin in on it, we have the numbers." Bofur stood too. "And if we call on those of Durin's folk who still live in exile beyond the mountains, we'd get even more. Kíli, Dwalin is right, we have a chance now and… you have the right by blood to claim Khazad-Dum, you are the last of the line."

By now all of them were at their feet, Boromir too stood, between Dwalin and Bofur. Kíli looked at them, each of them, taking in their faces, their expressions. "It will mean another war, and a tough one at that," he said calmly. "Is that truly what you wish?"

"Yes." Bofur was the first to speak, the others nodding in agreement, a few soft "Ayes" sounding in between. "We know it will be hard, but we are used to that. Kíli… let us go home, let us retake our true home… and make sure no one will ever take it away from us again."

Guide me, Raven's wing, I shall follow you home. Kíli recalled the runes on his sword. Thorin had left him a legacy much greater and much heavier than he had ever known. But backing out or letting down his people was not possible, not with that unwavering trust they put into him. They did believe in him and they had followed him, even to war, even under the wings of the Shadow, he could not let them down. He straightened up, meeting their eyes evenly. "Then it is decided, I will return to Moria, I am calling on all of Durin's folk who are willing to follow me to the gates of our ancestral home. Let it be known that any of Durin's Folk coming freely and willingly will be welcome amongst mine, and so will be those of Var's folk," he added with a warm smile to Bofur, who had originally been a Blacklock, and "Linnar's folk"—a glance to Brea who had been born a Broadbeam—"that are willing to cast their lots with us."

"We will stand with you." Dwalin's firm voice echoed what all the dwarves present felt.

Boromir had been awed to watch this moment, seeing how the dwarves found together to chart the course their people would follow. Again he recalled that dream he had in Moria months ago; he had never considered that it might have been a portent, a dream emerging from the foresight the blood of Númenor was gifted with. And now he knew that he'd gladly follow it, no matter what. He stepped forward and drew the black sword. "I will stand with you too, if you'll have me."

TRB

After Boromir had hastened off into the night, Aragorn felt doubts. Had he done the right thing? Boromir's reaction indicated that he may not have wished to leave Gondor after all. Aragorn thought he had read him right, but what if he had been wrong? Boromir was a strong, proud warrior; he would never ask to be allowed to stay now that Aragorn had released him, even if he wished so. Worried, Aragorn began to look for the man, who knew what such a perceived dishonor might drive him to?

After two hours of fruitless search, Aragorn heard light steps approach him; only his trained Ranger ears picked up on the man shadowing him. "You can come out," he said, turning towards the point where he knew him to be.

Faramir stepped from the shadows of a tree, his ranger cloak having provided him with good cover. "Forgive the intrusion, my Lord," he said with a light bow. "I saw you wander deep in thought and without guard… these lands may be freed but no one knows how many escaped dark soldiers would gladly take their revenge where they can find it."

"Do not apologize for your watchfulness," Aragorn replied, gesturing the other Ranger to walk with him. Up till now he had perceived Faramir mostly through his great likeness to his brother. They both were much alike in appearance, the same light hair and familiar features, only that Faramir seemed less scarred by the long war. Yet he had stepped between Aragorn and the Easterling foe and stood his ground where others had failed. Now Aragorn noticed other things as well, that set both brothers apart. In the battle he had noticed that Faramir was a defender, contrary to his brother, but the differences went deeper. Watching the man walking beside him, Aragorn saw a man of compassion, of care for others, untainted by the long war and a gentle soul that had not broken under the Shadow. "I was looking for your brother," he said. "we had a misunderstanding and I fear what may come of it."

"He passed the camp an hour ago, going towards the river, my liege," Faramir spoke calmly, no worry or contention marring his voice. "He often does so when he wants to think something through. Whatever words were spoken between you, I doubt he misread you that badly."

Aragorn nearly smiled at Faramir's unspoken assumption that there could neither have been harm nor enmity in Aragorn towards them; it was a trust that came as a surprise from Boromir's brother. With Boromir trust, respect had always been a struggle; Aragorn had always felt in competition with him, which made Faramir's acceptance of him, his trust all the more welcome. "I may have misread him, Faramir." He said, telling him of their conversation in words as simple as possible. "I believed he wished to be free, to chart his own path from hereon, but… I fear I misread his love to this land."

Faramir neither spoke nor passed judgment; he simply accepted Aragorn's words, something for which he was grateful in this moment of worry. A blink of his eyes, nothing more than that, asked Aragorn to follow him, and he understood that Faramir knew something that might help.

Guiding his future King towards where he had seen Boromir headed, Faramir's mind has circled around his own worries; he had not failed to notice the contention between his brother and the heir of Elendil. Knowing his brother like none other, Faramir had seen the countless times that Boromir had curbed his pride, or held back on a sharp tongued reaction. And it made Faramir fear for the future, for he could also see that Lord Aragorn held the same amount of tension towards Boromir.

Moving silently through the nightly forest, Faramir led Aragorn down to the river, along the bank and then back to the other fringe of the camp. There Aragorn saw Boromir standing among a group of dwarves, the light of a fire and several torches illuminated the scene. Before he could approach the warrior, even try to talk to him, he saw Boromir draw his sword and approach Kíli. The wind had not allowed him to hear what had been said previously, but he did not need to, for Boromir knelt before Kíli, presenting the black blade on his open palms.

Boromir's voice was firm and steady as his words rang out into the night: "Here do I swear fealty and service to Kíli son of Dis daughter of Thrain, and to the line of Durin hereafter, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir son of Denethor of the House of Húrin."

Had the world gone up in flames, Faramir could not have been more surprised. Across the distance, he saw the Dwarf Prince standing in the light of several torches, his brother kneeling, rendering that oath in a calm and steady voice, the flickering of the light and shades made it hard to make out an expression Faramir was almost sure that Boromir's decision must have surprised Kíli.

"I should have spoken to him sooner," Aragorn whispered, watching Boromir stepping forward and bend knee to Kíli.

"No," Faramir said softly. "This is no anger, Aragorn… he is free. Finally, the chain that held him through duty and obligation since he was a youth is broken. You set him free." It hurt horribly to see it and it was exhilarating to watch but Faramir knew that this was his brother's choice, the cause he chose freely and that he would gladly follow. Though the way Boromir had rendered the oath had made Faramir wince, this was not the way dwarves swore their loyalties; he had read about that, their oaths were as ancient as their people were.

But Prince Kíli did not correct nor rebuke the oath; he took the blade, accepting the offered loyalties. "And I have heard your oath, as have Mahal and the forefathers. Under their eyes it was spoken and it was heard by world below and the skies above, may it endure until the world ends. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, nor valor remain unhonored, if to the lawcourt you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for no arm alone will win battle."

Being used to the stark promise of Gondor's oaths, the kind of serious, deep seated loyalty sworn between them was something to touch Faramir. It was a bond of an Elder Kind, that belonged into the tales and stories of an elder age. He knew that this oath was not traditional dwarven either – with Boromir invoking neither Mahal nor Eru in his vow, Kíli had to call upon Mahal and the world itself to satisfy dwarven propriety. Also the last part of the oath had been changed, but Faramir understood why Kíli would not use the brotherless phrase in this context. He saw Boromir receive the blade back and Kíli lifting him up. The following embrace conveyed a wealth of feeling. The other dwarves cheered, a ring closing, as Boromir was welcomed into their ranks.

Faramir looked to Aragorn, who's eyes were still on the dwarves, were Boromir's welcome had turned into a round of raucous hugs and shoulder claps. What was the future King thinking about this? Faramir had seen how worried he had been when he thought he had pushed Boromir too far, and yet he watched that scene with a palpable amount of sadness. Even with all the tension between them, maybe there had been a measure of understanding too, one that Boromir had eschewed by choosing to follow another. "I am sorry it came to that, my liege," Faramir said. "He was Gondor's best soldier."

"Nay." Aragorn turned towards Faramir. "It is well done. He may have been her finest, most ruthless soldier, but he was not the man who stood between me and certain death at the Black Gates. Boromir follows his heart; there can be no better path to choose. And I have the man I would wish for by my side."

Unused to praise or acknowledgement, Faramir felt his cheeks heat, glad that the darkness hid it. He bowed respectfully, surprised to see Aragorn smile. "Go to your brother. I fear it may be the last chance for you to speak for a long time."

Seeing Boromir between his new chosen comrades was something Faramir would have to get used to, he thought. They were the wildest, toughest bunch of fighters and travelers he had ever seen, but somehow that was what made him think why Boromir would be all right with them. He had always been the warrior, the fighter, and the war had shaped him. They too had been formed and hammered by a merciless world. Faramir knew his brother had chosen another war to join, but if he was brutally honest with himself, he could not picture Boromir in a peaceful City going over the peacetime duties of a Captain.

"Fari!" Boromir called out to him, stepping away from his conversation with Kíli and Dwalin. It had been years since Faramir had seen his brother smile so easily, or seen his eyes sparkle with such life. If he had held any doubts about Boromir's decision now they would have been alleviated. Boromir was happy, he had made a choice straight out of his heart and while Faramir could not quite follow why his brother would chose thus, he was content to know it had been the right choice for him. But he also could see that Boromir was searching for words to explain what had just transpired.

"I saw, Boromir," he simply stated, "and I am happy if this is your choice, even as you have charted your path straight into the next war." And a big war at that, the Orcs still had their strongholds in the Misty Mountains, and if he took Boromir's descriptions of Moria seriously, then Dwarrowdelf was full of Orcs and dangers. Yet… even with all these worries in his heart, Faramir knew Boromir's decision was right, it was the path Boromir wished to follow.

"It is my choice, Fari. And if someone does not begin to fight the Orcs in the Misty Mountains, we might as well send envoys to that Goblin King under Mt. Gundalbad." The brothers' eyes met and many things did not need saying, they both understood wordlessly. "Will you be all right?" Boromir asked. "With the new King…"

"Whom you dislike." Faramir slapped his brother's shoulder. "You serve the King you chose, and so will I."

TRB

The road wound up the high hills of Mindolluin before it would bring them to the entrance of an ancient dwarven road, long forgotten and abandoned. The column moved slowly past the sharp turn in the road, taking the steep path up. Boromir had guided his horse to the side of the road and turned back. Nestled in the shadow of the mountain lay the white city, a thorn of pearl and silver glittering in the morning light fnally free and finally at peace. After five decades of constant was, peace had at least come to Minas Tirith.

Boromir's eyes strayed back to the Tower of Ecthelion. The last time he had looked back on the city, he had begun a journey into uncertain lands for an even more uncertain reason; following a haunting dream his brother and he had shared after retaking Osgiliath. Fear and darkness had accompanied his ride north, as had doubts gnawing on his soul. He would always be grateful for that dream, for it had led him to not only find hope, but also the friendship and strength to see this struggle through to the very end.

He could not have returned to the Citadel, to Minas Tirith, without feeling the cold echo of his father's crazed end, or expecting Veryan to be right at his shoulder. He had loved this city with all his heart; she had been what had made him stand strong even when he had felt he'd break under the strain, and yet… he had given her all he could. From the time he had turned sixteen, the duty to her had been an iron weight upon his shoulders, supporting the failing rule of his father, fighting the war. Twenty five years, and now she was safe and in the hands of one who would heal her. The thought woke a soaring feeling in his chest, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a duty that had always threatened to crush him lifted and he finally could take flight. Boromir smiled and raised his hand in goodbye. Saying that the white city was no longer his city, no longer his home did not hurt.

Hooves resounded on the stone grounds beside him and he saw Kíli approach him astride his white pony. "Ready to move out?" he asked, his voice indicating understanding if Boromir needed time.

"Ready," Boromir turned his horse, following Kíli as they galloped past the marchers to the head of the column. No need for time and no regrets, no second thoughts. He was free and they were going to reclaim the greatest kingdom of Middle-earth. He would not have it any other way. As their horses sped towards the dwarven road, Boromir laughed.

One warm summer night, he rode out of sight

On a wild mare that was so perfectly white
I'd dreamed I'd go with him and I was right
Wishes can come true when you wish with all your might

(Blackmore's Night: "The Peasant's Promise")

Finis.