By CinnamonGrrl

Part 17

They had a long march, and a hard one, from Erech down to Pelargir. Aragorn had his hands full controlling the Shadow Host, as his fellow Rangers had taken to calling the ghosts, but still he found time to wonder about the change wrought in Buffy.

As she rode alongside Haldir in companionable silence, or laughed at yet another of Gimli’s dirty limericks, or pretended she was ignoring Legolas, he found himself studying her. She was no more talkative than she’d ever been, but the jangling energy that seemed an intrinsic part of her character was missing. In its place was a sense of resigned calm, as if she’d finally accepted something she’d long avoided.

Aragorn knew she’d told Haldir what had happened when she was unconscious for that long, frightening day. His terror when she awoke had not been feigned; always her friend, he had come to view her as a sister during these past months and for Dagnir, the Slayer, to be so mysteriously incapacitated had been truly fearsome to him. She was indestructible, immortal, relentless in her pursuit of evil. Without her by his side, would he be able to lead Men to victory? A pang of self-doubt wracked him then, and the ghosts around them seemed to writhe and swell, as if they could sense his uncertainty.

For her part, Buffy had been studying him in kind, along with the rest of her companions. She knew Aragorn was having qualms about his leadership skills, but she also knew he was the strongest and bravest man she’d ever met, and had every reason to believe he would eventually triumph over not only his reservations but his enemies as well.

Gimli was so relieved she was well he had hardly shut up since she’d woken up; Haldir too was glad but restrained his joy to those tiny half-smiles for which he was famous. The other Dunedain were even more unnerved by her than they’d been prior to this whole Fellowship deal, although she thought Halbarad might have the hots for her, for some bizarre reason…

No more bizarre than the fact that she was positive one of Elrond’s twins had the hots for her. Which one she couldn’t tell, because they were like peas in a pod—tall, dark, beautiful, with silvery-grey eyes that give her little tingles. She was pretty sure they pretended to be each other just for kicks, and in her randier moments on the journey (because when you’re riding for days at a clip, there’s always plenty of time for randy thoughts) she entertained some of her naughtier fantasies about what exactly one might be able to accomplish when equipped with a really big bed, a bowl of brownie batter, and identically gorgeous twins sporting that fabulous elven stamina.

And speaking of things which were both fabulous and elven: Legolas… ah, there was a mystery. She was not much closer to understanding his sudden change of behaviour than she had been days ago even with Haldir’s explanation. Some sort of fight, or break-up, she could understand, but this deafening silence… Buffy couldn’t decide if wanted to beat him senseless, or just curl into a corner and weep for a few months.

After a few days of this, she decided she was more angry than hurt. In spite of her newfound sense of completion and tranquility, he was really starting to piss her off the way he behaved in the most neutral of ways, as if she were a stranger he’d just met, as if she hadn’t told him everything about herself and admitted to him she was falling in love with him. As if he hadn’t accepted that information and promised he would never make her regret trusting him.

On the morning of the fifth day, as the sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon and drive away the grey shadows of the night, Buffy sat on a log by the smoldering fire pit finishing the scrap of lembas Haldir handed her for breakfast and contemplated the concept of closure. She’d lacked it for seventeen years with the other men in her life, and she’d be damned if she went that long with this aching void between her and Legolas.

And so, quite methodically, she finished chewing, took a final sip of mead, wiped her mouth. Stood, brushed off her backside, made sure she was all ready to go, and excused herself from the others’ presence before finally losing whatever semblance of patience she’d been faking and stalking to where Legolas perched on a rock, examining his arrows.

“What are you doing?” Buffy asked without preamble. He looked almost ethereally handsome, the ivory planes of his face glowing in the dawn’s light, and even through her anger she was almost shaking with the effort to refrain from launching herself at him and begging him to take her, to love her.

“I am preparing for the day’s journey,” he replied, scarcely looking at her. It wasn’t disdain, exactly… more a benign neglect, and it infuriated her.

She tilted her head to one side, watching him a moment longer. Then, “It’s interesting how ‘preparing’ looks a great deal like sitting on your ass.”

He stopped then, and quirked a brow as he gazed up at her. Once, that expression on his enchanting face would have melted her; now, however, she only longed to slap if off of him. The feeling was not diminished in any way when he spoke next. “Is there something I can do for you, milady?”

Oh, he was back to calling her ‘milady’. He hadn’t used that with her since they’d left Lorien. Buffy clenched her jaw to keep her temper, and said, “We’re gonna have a talk.”

“Are we?” he asked conversationally, still not really catching her gaze as he carefully replaced the arrows in his quiver.

“Yeah.” Her hands were flexing in that way that indicated she was just about to get violent, had he been paying attention. “We can do this the hard way, or… actually, there’s just the hard way.” And she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and carried him away from the others, deaf to his mutterings of dire consequences for treating him that way and immune to his squirmings to be free.

When they were out of earshot of even the twins, she dropped him to land in a heap on the ground. “If you run, I’ll just catch you and tie you up,” she informed him coolly.

Legolas didn’t doubt it. He stood and brushed himself off with great aplomb. “What is it you want to talk about?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Buffy said, touching her fingertip to her chin in fake wonder. “Could it be… the reason you’ve been ignoring me since the last time I died?”

“I think you are mistaken, milady,” he informed her gravely. “I am ever aware of you.”

“Okay, then, I’ll rephrase it.” She paced in a circle around him. “Why is it that, back in Edoras, you were threatening to take me against a corridor wall—how did you phrase it? ‘I want to make love to every inch of your body’, yes, that was it—and since Helm’s Deep you haven’t said three words to me?” Buffy turned to face him then, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I know I didn’t do anything differently, so it’s got to be something with you.”

“Something with me?” he repeated, his face impassive as he watched her. “I do not understand.”

“Well, I don’t think I can talk any slower,” she retorted, and came to stand right in front of him. “What. Is. Wrong. With. You?” she asked, enunciating carefully, and poked him in the chest with each word.

Legolas carefully removed her pointy little finger from where it was bruising his pectoral muscle, and did not reply immediately. “Do you remember our conversation in Fangorn?” he asked her suddenly.

“The one where I poured my heart out to you, and you said you would never betray me?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “Yeah, I think I might recall that a little.”

He had the grace to flinch at her not-so-subtle reminder, but continued. “You said that I did not truly know you. I, in my foolishness, insisted you were wrong. But you were not. I was.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the ground, studying the tracks of her footsteps in the dirt. “I had formed an opinion of you that was incorrect, and for that I am sorry. I led you to believe I had feelings for you, when in reality I only had feelings for the woman I thought you were. But she does not exist.”

He looked up then, at her stricken and pale face. “I am sorry,” Legolas repeated sorrowfully. “I think, in my sorrow at this realization, that I was angry with you, as if it were your fault, when it has ever been my own.”

A rogue tear spilled from each eye, and she dashed them impatiently away. “Just out of curiosity,” she began speaking carefully so her throat didn’t close up, “In what way did you wrongly think I was someone you could love?”

“I did not know you wanted so deeply to receive your Gift, Dagnir,” he replied quietly. “Haldir explained it to me; you are indeed better off with him, if he can accept such a thing, but I cannot. It is not in me to stand by while my mate desires her end, instead of to be by my side. I could not join with you knowing that, more than you longed for me, you longed for death. It would almost be… an infidelity, do you see?”

His eyes, blue as the sky now lit above them in the fullness of morning, pleaded with her to understand. “Realizing this, I thought to end what we had before it became something more difficult to part from. I see now that I chose my method poorly.”

She stared at him with a growing expression of amazement, and then Buffy shocked him greatly, because she threw back her head and began to laugh. She laughed until she cried, laughed until she was hiccupping, laughed until her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees in the dirt. And even then, she laughed.

What he didn’t know, what she hadn’t told anyone, not Haldir, not Aragorn, not Dawn-- hell, she hadn’t even admitted it to herself—was that she didn’t want the damned Gift anymore. She wasn’t quite sure when the shift had come, when she’d changed, but somewhere along the way (somewhere between Lorien and Helm’s Deep, she suspected) her desire to end it all, to take her reward and drift away, had… drifted away. And now that she had spoken with Angel, and Riley, and even Spike, she was free to let go of that long-cherished idea, that goal she’d striven for for so long.

“Unbelievable,” she gasped at last. “You’re just frigging unbelievable. And, I might add, your timing sucks like a tornado.”

“Milady?” he asked, the slightest tinge of disease to his voice. He’d never seen a reaction like that in all his lengthy life.

She bounded to her feet. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed at him. “You’ve had your tongue down my throat, don’t you dare call me ‘milady’ like we just met at a goddamned party.” Eyes alight with fury, hair gleaming in the sunlight, she was a sight to behold, one he knew he would carry with him the rest of his days.

He backed away from her, hands up in surrender and shame. “All right,” he agreed cautiously. “Dagnir, then. How am I unbelievable?”

She looked at him sadly then; sadly, and with so much heartbreak and regret and pain that he thought he too might weep. “I guess it never occurred to you that you could just ask me if I still wanted my Gift, huh?” she asked, hazel eyes hard in contrast to her soft smile. “Or that, just maybe, you might be the reason I changed my mind?”

A terrible realization dawned on his face, and he just stared at her in horror. She smirked. “Guess not.” And she leant over to brush the dirt from her knees and shins before tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “I’ve become that woman you would have loved, Legolas, and it’s mostly thanks to you,” she told him at last. “Ironic, huh? I would have stayed with you forever, and you threw me away. It was all for nothing. And if you’d only just asked me…” Her voice trailed off.

“I used to think that real love and passion have to go hand in hand with pain and fighting, that that’s where the fire in a relationship comes from.” She sauntered over to Legolas, and ran her hand down the silvery spill of hair over his shoulder, up the smooth skin of his throat, to his lips. Brushing over them with her fingertips, she caressed them, watching as his eyes fell closed for a brief, blissful moment, then sighed. “But I was wrong. The fire comes from the other person loving and respecting you back, just as much as you love them.” She stepped back. “I’m not doing this again.”

And Buffy walked away, picking her way through the trees as silently as any elf, leaving Legolas alone with only his own tears as he realized the magnitude of his mistake, of the pain he’d caused her, of how he’d destroyed their newborn love.

Part 18

Morning dawned, and there was no sun, and Legolas seemed to grow ever more despondent until even Buffy was starting to feel bad for him.

“It is not just you that troubles him,” Haldir assured her. “Nor even the lack of sunlight.” The severe expression on his face said that he was not overly sad that his fellow elf suffered; in Haldir’s opinion, any elf who gave up on a fine love without even trying was not worth the lembas he ate.

That wasn’t much of an explanation, Buffy thought, and said as much.

“It’s the gulls,” her friend elaborated. “They sing of the sea, and I do not know of an elf besides myself who can resist their call.”

“You do not feel their pull?” asked Elrohir (at least, Buffy thought it was Elrohir). “How is that possible?”

Haldir shrugged elegantly. “I did not become march-warden and Guardian of the Golden Wood simply because I was had naught else to do,” he replied with a smirk. “Lorien gave me life, it strengthens me, and provides for me. I can do naught else but protect it, until the last time I draw breath. I have no desire to leave it, ever.”

He looked to the north then, toward where his home lay across the mountains and plains. “Even now, I can hear it call to me like the gulls to any other elf… I am incomplete when I am not there, and the waiting to be back pains me like a physical wound.”

Buffy stared at him in fascination. This was a side of Haldir she’d never seen—he must miss his home a lot if it made him forget his usual silent reserve and start blabbing about his private thoughts. She was also more than a little jealous, though she was loathe to admit it—she’d never really had a home, not Los Angeles, certainly not Sunnydale. Caras Galadhon was the closest she’d ever come to really liking a place, and even then, it was still foreign. It welcomed her, but was not her home.

A shout from ahead caught her attention, and she faced forward to see yet another group offering themselves for battle. This would make the third bunch of men from the tiny villages they passed: a dozen from one, two dozen from another… This set seemed to barely contain ten men, and they were only armed with the most rudimentary weapons, like pitchforks and clubs, yet the light of battle was in their eyes. They were willing to die for what they believed in, and that made them formidable warriors, to Buffy’s way of thinking. Passion would triumph over cold skill any day.

Behind them, the Shadow Host was still following. The elves were immune to them, the humans unnerved but bearing up well. Poor Gimli, however, was completely freaked out and Buffy tried as best she could to comfort him. She’d coaxed him into telling her more than anyone ever wanted to know about Dwarven metalworking techniques, but it seemed to take his mind off things, so she just kept nodding and smiling as he yapped on.

Then the scout Aragorn had sent ahead came back. “Not two leagues ahead,” he began, breathless from his exertions. “The entire fleet of Umbar, each with black sails unfurled.”

“Pirates?” Buffy piped up, interested, but everyone frowned at her, and she slumped back to pout. Legolas and the twins, however, seemed enchanted by the idea of huge ships, no matter that they flew the Jolly Roger. Already, she could see their noses twitching, trying so hard to smell the salt air that they strongly resembled rabbits.

“Pirates,” Gimli grumbled from his perch behind her on the horse. “Demons, dead people coming back to life, trees that talk, Uruk-hai, girls jumping through portals, ghostly specters, and now pirates. I wonder what I have done to so offend the great Eru that he would punish me so.”

“Tis but your axe-skill and loyalty that have brought you to this sad end, sir dwarf,” Aragorn told him with a faint grin. “Were you lazy, or talentless, or cowardly, you could be home right now in your mountain, feasting on haunches of beef and as much ale as you could hold without floating away.”

Gimli heaved a great sigh, his breath gusting over the back of Buffy’s neck. “It has ever been my downfall,” he said modestly, and she rolled her eyes. God, she was bored. What she wouldn’t give for a Gameboy, or even a book, thus proving the depth of her desperation… there was nothing to look at, here in the plains of Lebennin. Everything was blackened and trampled, and very depressing in general.

As they drew closer to the Anduin, which Aragorn called the Great River, the scent of the sea became more pungent and Legolas began to look positively feverish, his eyes glowing eagerly for his first glimpse of the ships. “I see them,” he said at long last, gaze fixed due east, and the twins snapped their heads around.

“Yes,” agreed Elladan (Buffy thought). “At least fifty strong, both large and small.” He turned to Aragorn. “What mischief have you in your pocket, that we will be able to defeat them?”

And Aragorn just grinned at his foster-brother. “Doubt me not, Elrohir,” was all he said, and Buffy frowned that she’d once again wrongly identified the twin.

“Do not grimace so,” Haldir whispered beside her. “He too only guesses which is which. It was mere luck that he was right this time.”

“And how is it that you know which is which?” she asked him archly.

He only raised a brow. “I am an elf,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

“Oh, yeah,” said Buffy. “I had actually forgotten for 10 seconds. Thanks for reminding me, Hal.”

He glowered. “Do not call me that, Buffy,” he snapped.

“Would you prefer I call you Oscar?” she asked sweetly, and somehow Haldir managed to frown even deeper.

“I would not,” he said with dignity, and spurred his horse a smidgen further ahead, nose in the air, Buffy’s laughter following him.

When they arrived finally at the Anduin it was still black as pitch and only the small pools of light thrown by the torches illuminated their surroundings. Buffy was intensely glad of her Slayer-vision, and knew the elves were equally thrilled to have their special sight as well.

“What do you see?” Aragorn asked, his voice low in her ear as they dismounted and stood to survey what would become a field of battle.

She squinted a little. “I see a huge bunch of boats tied up at rickety docks, probably all loaded with nasty, unwashed Corsairs,” she replied. “Wouldn’t seem to rate high in the ‘fun places to hang out in Middle-Earth’ guidebook.” She squinted harder. “They can see us too, thanks to the torches.”

Aragorn immediately motioned for them to be doused, but she waved her hand. “Naw, don’t bother. They know we’re here, and they’re laughing at us.”

“Laughing?” queried Elrohir (she was positive it was him, this time). “Why would they laugh at us?”

“Perhaps because we are a force a quarter their size, and consist mostly of peasants armed with farm implements, Elladan?” Haldir replied testily. Buffy swore under her breath—wrong twin, again. She was thisclose to making them wear signs around their necks. Elladan narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to reply in kind.

“Enough,” Aragorn admonished mildly. “Let us first slay our foes, before we begin slaying each other.”

“Good plan,” Buffy agreed. “Listen, Strider, I have an idea.” She pulled him away from the others, not wanting them to hear in case her brilliant idea actually sucked. “I was thinking, there’s no way we can win this if we have to go on the offensive against all of them, but if we can somehow make some of them leave the boats, we can ambush them and take them down easily.”

He was still listening, stroking his stubbly chin in consideration. “We can plant small groups around the docks, and attack when they disbark.” She nodded. “And I think I know a way to make them do just that.”

With that, he went to the front of their group and began to shout. “Now come! By the Black Stone, I call you!” It took Buffy a second to figure out he was summoning the ghosts. The living pulled away, as far as they could, while the dead swarmed around their king. Aragorn was doing a fair job of pretending he wasn’t thoroughly unnerved by the presence of so many shades completely surrounding him. “Drive them away!” he commanded them, and there wasn’t the slightest tremor in his voice. “Cast them into the sea!”

And the Shadow Host left them, all turned resolutely toward their quarry. The faint laughing Buffy and the elves could hear in the distance began to fade as the ghosts approached the ships, Aragorn’s forces following behind, until the only sound was the slapping of waves upon the rickety docks and stony shore. For a long, endless moment, there was silence.

And then all hell broke loose.

As the first specters reached the docks and began climbing aboard, shrieks of fright became screams of horror, and the pirates began to flee any way they could—running back away from the pursuing ghosts, they ran back and forth on the decks until they were cornered, and then jumped into the swirling black depths below.

Those who managed to leave the ships, or swim to shore, were met by an angry mob of peasants wielding their pitchforks with great ire. Aragorn motioned for Buffy, Gimli, and the elves to hold back. “This is their fight,” he said. “It is their land that has been ravished, their people who have been abused. Let them have their vengeance.”

Once their foes had been dispersed, however, and it was time to take control of the fleet, they made the unpleasant realization that it had only been the slaves and common seamen who’d fled their ships—the hardened sailors and officers had not been much phased by the confrontation of a company of ghosts, and had merely laughed them away.

“We need those ships,” Aragorn muttered. “We cannot allow them to remain in the control of Sauron.”

“Then let’s go get them,” Buffy replied grimly, adjusting her grip on the sword she held in one hand, and the axe she held in the other. “Split up, put at least one elf and one Ranger in each raiding party.”

Aragorn nodded, liking her plan. Buffy felt the air move behind her, and knew instinctively that Haldir had stepped to her side. “Legolas, Gimli, with me,” he told those two. “Halbarad, with Elladan…” he continued pairing them off until there was a small company for each of the largest ships. “And we go!”

As one, they advanced upon their respective targets. Buffy gazed up at the rigging with speculation, making Haldir quite nervous.

“What are you going to do?” he asked with great apprehension as she tucked the handle of the axe in her belt and sheathed her sword.

“She flies through the air with the greatest of ease,” she sang, very off-key, and bounced a little on the swaybacked gangplank, at the end of which were massed a sizeable group of Corsairs all waiting to begin the bloodshed. She began to bounce harder and then suddenly launched herself with a mighty leap trampoline-style, sailing up and reaching out to grab a dangling rope. “The daring young chick on the flying trapeze,” she finished, then, “Dammit.”

She was just a bit too high, and there was no time to climb lower, as the Corsairs had attacked the others. Tying the rope around her ankle, she pulled out her axe and let herself drop to hang upside-down. “Now we’re cooking with gas!” she exclaimed happily, and lopped off her first head.

“Dagnir!” Haldir shouted. “Idiot girl!” He dismembered one, then two enemies, trying to push his way through the mass of fighting bodies to her. “The rope is slipping!”

And so it was. Buffy could feel it loosen even as she swung the axe at a particularly ugly sailor. This is not of the good, she thought, trying to gauge exactly how far she was from the deck (about twenty feet) and if she would be able to land on someone soft and squishy (doubtful). Then the rope gave up its last bit of grip around her ankle, and Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, resigning herself to bruises on her backside, splinters, and quite possibly the mother of all concussions.

She felt nothing around her for a brief, thrilling moment, and then a hard arm grabbed her round the waist and pulled her tight to an all-too-familiar body. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring right into the brilliant blue gaze of Legolas. He was holding onto a rope from the next ship over, and had obviously swung from it to save her.

His face was absolutely extraordinary-looking, even more so than usual, because it held none of the typical expressions. Buffy was used to Neutral!Legolas, Amused!Legolas, Angry!Legolas, even Aroused!Legolas from that lone clinch they’d had in Edoras prior to the battle at Helm’s Deep. But this was a Legolas she had never encountered, and not only was she hard-put to recognize it, she could hardly believe it.

Because this was Legolas-in-love, and he was staring at her like he wanted nothing more than kiss her for a few centuries.

“Way to go, Tarzan,” she said, forcing some cheer into her voice. “You saved me.”

“I will always save you, Dagnir,” he told her seriously, as if they weren’t dangling thirty feet above the ground by his arm, and she hadn’t called him some strange name that was not his own. “I will always come for you. Even if you do not want me to.” He looked down then, as if embarrassed, or ashamed. “I will never turn from you again.”

Before Buffy could reply to this astonishing statement, however, Haldir’s none-too-dulcet tones sounded from below. “If it is not too much of an imposition,” he yelled up at them, and cut down a huge bald guy clad only in ragged trousers and a peg leg, “Do you think you might resolve your problems at a later date?” Another chap, sporting a quite unfortunate set of blackened teeth, met the edge of the march-warden’s blade and crumpled with a cry of pain. “Perhaps when we are not in the midst of a pitched battle?” His last words were heavily laced with sarcasm and a total lack of patience.

“An excellent idea, Guardian,” shouted Aragorn from his ship, where he was clashing swords with its captain. “Couldn’t agree more. Your assistance would not be amiss here, Legolas.”

Familiar laughter could be heard from the opposite end of Aragorn’s ship. “No, do not worry yourselves,” Gimli called to them, masterful arcs of his axe taking out entire clusters of men at a time. “If it means you two will cease making cow-eyes at each other, I will gladly fight by myself to the death.”

Buffy felt herself blushing, and looked away from Legolas, only to find that he had buried his face against her hair. “Forgive me,” he whispered, kissing her ear, then pulled back to meet her eyes. “Forgive me?”

“I—I’ll have to think about it,” she replied uncertainly. Not the best of times to really have a good ponder about her love life, after all.

He nodded solemnly. “Perhaps this will assist you in your decision,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Oh, this was heaven, she thought dreamily as the sounds of the battle below faded into nothingness. All that existed were what she could feel and smell: her body tight to his, silken hair spilling over her hands around his neck, his satin lips and velvet tongue caressing her mouth while that amazing scent of his swirled around them, wrapped them in a private cocoon…

“Dagnir!” cried someone from below, and something bounced off her ass with a solid thunk to land with an even more solid thunk to the deck below.

Frowning, she pulled away and squinted down. “I’m gonna ask you this once, and then I’m gonna get testy,” she hollered, her hands coming away from Legolas to grab the rope. “Did you just throw a peg leg at me?” she demanded of Haldir, starting to climb down. “Did you?” Once she had both feet on the deck, she swung on the end of Legolas’ rope to slingshot him back to Aragorn’s ship.

“Would I do that?” he asked with a smirk, and disarmed his opponent with an almost casual flick of his wrist.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “In a heartbeat, you would.”

Haldir turned away, nose lifted to the stratosphere. “Hmpf.”

“It was me,” confessed Elrohir (she was sure it was him! He was wearing that green tunic that he’d had on when Gimli had called him Elrohir!) from behind her, and shot an arrow over her shoulder to take out a short, fat Corsair running at them with murder in his beady little eyes. “We have subdued our ship, and Elrohir stands on the bow, ready to command it.” He pointed two ships over, and Buffy saw his twin as described, foot resting majestically on the base of the bowsprit while the wind blew his hair back in a most dramatic way.

“So you’re Elladan, then?” she asked grumpily, and swiped her axe idly at a gangly sailor wearing an eye patch, then watching him fall. The elf only nodded serenely at her, and she scowled. “Gonna make one of your dye your hair purple, or something,” she said, turning to engage another foe before realizing that eye-patch-guy had been the last.

“To me!” Aragorn bellowed from his ship. As the largest, it not only had the greatest number of sailors on it, but the best and most experienced fighters, and the commodore of the fleet as well. The Ranger was currently engaging that man in combat, and as he’d been fighting for a while already and the commodore was relatively fresh, Aragorn wasn’t doing so well.

Elladan eyed the ropes above, as if considering Legolas’ preferred method of travel, but Haldir grabbed the dark elf’s arm and yanked him along toward the gangplank. “Dagnir?” the march-warden prompted when he saw her studying the ropes as well. “Do not even think it.”

“Not gonna use the ropes,” she protested, looking a little like a sulky child who’d gotten caught being naughty. He nodded and continued to drag Elladan behind him, and so did not see Buffy take a running leap across the deck, jump into a handstand, and spring herself across the expanse of water to land, with only a split-second’s wobble, precisely in the centre of the fo’c’sle beside Gimli.

“Two axes are better than one, lass,” the dwarf said, his grin gleaming through his beard, and together they cleared the foredeck. “Thanks to you, I have over double the number of kills as that elf,” Gimli informed her happily, nodding toward the crow’s nest of the mizzenmast, where Legolas sat calmly picking off sailors with his bow. Sensing their gaze upon him, he gifted them with a glorious smile, and resumed his archery.

“To me!” Aragorn roared again, sounding distinctly cross this time, and Buffy and Gimli made their way to the very rear of the ship where the Ranger was still battling the commodore. With the three of them combining their talents, the swarthy man soon fell to them.

“And then there was none!” Buffy said in triumph, pushing a sweaty hank of hair off her face. God, what she wouldn’t give for a bath… even the murky water below was looking kind of enticing.

“Do not consider it, Dagnir,” Aragorn told her, and for a moment she was tempted to jump right in just to tease him, but there was a deep weariness on his face that stopped her. He was leaning heavily on his sword, its point on the deck, and gazing around him at his remaining men (and woman). “What are our losses?”

“One elf injured, Halbarad and another Ranger killed, a score of peasants dead,” Haldir informed him promptly, his face dispassionate, proving again why he was the most trusted warrior of elfdom.

“And the enemy?” Aragorn inquired.

“Decimated,” Haldir replied, this time with a slow smile of satisfaction, proving again why he was the most deadly warrior of elfdom. “The fleet is ours.”

Aragorn found a smile within himself, as well. “Excellent.” He looked around at the similarly exhausted faces surrounding him. “We shall rest now until morning, though I know not how we shall know it is the start of day. One elf, one Ranger, and a handful of Men on each ship, if you please; I do not want any of the Corsairs finding their courage and thinking to regain what they have lost.”

The crowd dispersed gratefully, speaking in low voices that held none of the disheartened, dampened spirits they had prior to the battle. It would seem that it had not only served to gain them a mighty fleet of ships, but also to dispel the pessimism of the infantry and strengthen their faith not only in their leader, but in themselves.

“A masterful conflict, Estel,” one of the twins told his foster-brother (Buffy decided to give up on figuring out which was which). “Elrond would indeed be proud of you.”

“Screw Elrond,” Buffy said with a grin. “What would Arwen think?” And she laughed at the sight of their mighty leader and future monarch blushing furiously under his stubble.

“Enough teasing of the king,” chastised Legolas teasingly, and his gentle smile was all for her. She lifted uncertain eyes to him. “Will you walk with me? For I would talk with you, if you will come.”

Painfully aware of Aragorn, Haldir, and Gimli watching them, she ducked her head. “I—not tonight,” she told his boots. “And maybe not tomorrow.” She looked up. “I need more time.”

“As much as you need, I will give you,” he promised, and lifted her hand to his lips. She tried to pull away, as she was very dirty and sweaty, but he would not let her escape, and the warm brush of his mouth on her fingers almost made her shriek and fling her arms around him.

I’m the Slayer, she chanted over and over to herself as he looked up over her hand, silvery lashes lowered over eyes the colour of the midday sky. The Slayer is strong, the Slayer does not cave in just because a gorgeous elf is.. oh, God, he’s running his tongue over my wrist…

“That, surely, is quite enough, do you not agree?” Gimli asked mildly as he watched them.

“Let us hope,” Haldir grumped from behind him. “For I feel my dinner wanting to revisit me, and would keep it where it presently resides.”

With a last smile at Buffy, Legolas loped down the gangplank to meet up with a Ranger, with whom he would preside over a ship and small bunch of peasants on one of the smaller ships.

“Gimli,” Buffy began shakily, “Did I just imagine this whole night?” She passed a hand over her forehead. “I had another weird sleep hallucination thingy, didn’t I?”

He only smirked at her, and Haldir wrapped his arm her shoulder. “Let us return to our own ship, Dagnir.” Looking over at the next ship, he saw Legolas glaring daggers at him, and smiled widely at that elf.

“Will you be my first mate, Hal?” she asked with a playful grin, aware of who watched and thought perhaps seeing her flirt outrageously with someone else might be very good for him.

And Haldir obviously thought it a terrific plan as well, because waggled his golden eyebrows at her energetically. “If it will make Legolas grind his teeth like he is doing, I will be anything you like, Dagnir.”

“Please do not tell me you will keep us awake into the early hours of the morning, like you did for poor Dawn back in Caras Galadhon,” groaned Gimli. “I, for one, would like a decent night’s sleep without having to endure Legolas pouting when we awake.”

Part 19

“Should I be pleased or worried that you were devious enough to keep owning a house secret from your father all these years?” Dawn asked Boromir as she joined him in the back garden, kissing his forehead before seating herself at the table groaning from the weight of all manner of food, thanks to Pippin.

Pippin was trying to usher Boromir into a seat and press a loaded plate into the warrior’s hands. “I just can’t express how pleased I am to have a proper number of meals every day, and people to stuff them into!”

Boromir cast the Hobbit an amused glance before turning back to Dawn. He’d slept for two full days, bathed, shaved, and eaten everything placed in front of him and looked so handsome she was hard-pressed not to push him into one of the bedrooms and indulge in a major make-out session. As he smiled at her, leaning back in his chair with his dark-gold hair gleaming in the dappling of sunlight through the trees, he looked relaxed, and happy, if only for a short while until the brutalities of this war came back to them.

“You should be pleased,” he told her gravely. “If I were not devious, we would have had to beg Shadowfax and Timon to share their bit of straw in the stables, and Pippin here would not be able to stuff us with—what is this one, Pip, elevenses?”

Pippin rolled his eyes at the Gondorian’s ignorance. “Elevenses was, oddly enough, at eleven,” he told Boromir with a sniff. “It’s now half-one, and we’re having luncheon.” And he foisted a laden plate on Dawn, who took it happily.

“I don’t know what this stuff is,” she mentioned around a mouthful of lumpy brown goo, “but it kicks ass.”

“Kicking ass means it’s good?” Pippin asked cautiously, and at her nod, blushed with pleasure. “We call it pottage. It’s naught but beef cut small, moistened with a dab of cream sauce, flavored with herbs, and thickened with a few toasted breadcrumbs.”

Dawn followed the pottage with a generous helping of salad, an apple, two slices of thickly buttered bread, and a huge wedge of pie, washing it all down with a tall mug of sweet mead. When she was done, she collapsed back against her chair and sighed in satisfaction. “Pippin, if I weren’t already in love with Boromir, I’d marry you.”

The halfling blushed so hard the tips of his ears looked like they’d burst into flame, but before he could reply a sound echoed above them and stole the words from his lips—the arcing, echoing cry he had heard last back in the Shire as he and the other Hobbits had fled from an unimaginable evil.

“Nazgûl,” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice speaking the name sent a shudder up his spine.

Boromir had been lounging in his chair, tilting it back onto its two rear legs; now he snapped it upright and leapt to his feet. Leading the way, he dashed from the garden and down the street to the wall surround this fifth level of the city. shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, he gazed out over the fields of Pelennor below. “Eru,” he breathed in dismay.

Dawn couldn’t see a thing; she groped in her pocket for her sunglasses and perched them on her nose before looking where he was pointing. Pippin hopped up and down, but couldn’t see a thing; she lifted him to sit like a child on her hip and he too gasped in shock.

Circling in mid-air just out of bowshot were no fewer than five black flying… things… that looked like massive, hideous, cruel vultures. And just like vultures, they were circling something that caught their interest.

“Can you see, there?” the Hobbit demanded. “Men on horses!” Another piercing shriek rent the air around them, and Boromir looked torn between embracing Dawn, who was starting to look nauseous from the sheer nastiness emanating from the Nazgûl, and dashing through the tiers of the city to help the approaching riders.

Then a horn sounded, and he blanched. “That is Faramir’s horn,” he whispered. “I must go to him.”

“I’m coming too,” she insisted, and he grabbed her hand and began pelting down the street, wending their way through one gate after another, Dawn with one arm wrapped around her waist to settle her stomach and Pippin running frantically to keep up with them.

‘Open the gates!” roared Gandalf as he clattered out of the stables on Shadowfax, just as Boromir and Dawn dashed around the last corner. Speeding by, the wizard grasped Dawn by the arm and swept her behind him onto the Meara’s back. “Hold tight!” he cried, and as her fiancé and Pippin stared in horror, they flew as if on the same wings as the Nazgûl to meet Faramir and his companions, who now rode with frantic haste toward the haven of Minas Tirith’s strong walls.

“Stay here!” Dawn screamed at Boromir as they bolted past him.

He didn’t waste a moment, but ran for the stables and grabbed the first horse he could lay hand to, and took a running leap onto its back before wheeling out of the courtyard and following Gandalf and Dawn.

Dawn blinked a hank of Gandalf’s long white hair out of her eyes for the third time before tiring of it and stuffing the mass of it down the back of his grey cloak. Her own hair was streaming behind her, and the wind stung her eyes. Goddamn this horse was fast! The powerful shifting of his muscles under her, the motion of his legs as they ate up the ground and bore them swiftly toward her future brother-in-law was astonishing.

“Why did you grab me?” she asked, shouting to be heard over the increasingly loud cries of the Nazgûl’s flying creature thingies, and wishing she didn’t need to clutch him with both hands to stay on Shadowfax, so she could hug her gross-feeling belly. “I’m not well. I feel all oogy.”

They were bearing down now, just as the Nazgûl were, and the glint of sun on metal told Dawn that Faramir and the others had drawn their swords.

“Do you remember when we met in Fangorn?” Gandalf hollered back at her, and now it was his beard that slapped her in the face. Spitting it out, she grunted in the affirmative. “I said I would help you with being the Key. That time has now come.”

She wanted to ask him more, but there was no time; Gandalf had placed them between the Nazgûl and Faramir’s group; those five knew instinctively to make for the city, and Dawn looked back to watch their progress. She was not at all surprised to see Boromir riding hell-for-leather toward them, his mount lagging far behind the magnificent Shadowfax. She hoped he’d be smart and help his brother back to Minas Tirith instead of joining her and Gandalf; she had no idea what the wizard had in mind but she was fairly certain it would be dangerous.

Then she sighed, for after shouting instructions to Faramir, her boyfriend (who she was totally going to yell at later) started riding toward them again. “Great, we’re not even married yet and already he’s not listening to me,” she grumbled.

Her attention was drawn from Boromir, however, when one of the Nazgûl swung in an ominous arc toward them, the jaws of his airborne mount wide and dripping saliva as it screeched its soul-piercing cry. Gandalf moved then, faster than any old guy had a right to, Dawn thought; he grabbed her left hand with his, and dug his fingernail into the soft flesh of her palm until it drew blood. Crying more from surprise than pain, Dawn struggled to free herself from his grip but he was inexorable.

The moment the first drop of blood fell into the air, a pinpoint of green light appeared, and with the second drop, it grew. By the third drop it was the size of a plum; with the fourth, an apple; with the fifth, a good-sized grapefruit, and just large enough for Gandalf to put his hand through.

He released her then, and plunged his left hand into the flat, shimmering glow of green while the right he held, palm-out, toward the advancing Nazgûl in what Dawn privately called ‘the Supremes position’. “Stop in the name of love!” she shouted, then began giggling.

Gandalf shot her a puzzled, and exasperated, glance even as a column of white light, purer even than Shadowfax’s shining coat and crackling with immense power, sliced through the air toward their foe. The flying beast wailed and swerved, and apparently the whole group of them decided then that discretion was the better part of valour, for they flapped their mighty black wings and rose in lazy corkscrews until they vanished into a dark, ominous cloud hovering above.

Gandalf remained there, his posture stiff and tense, until he was sure the sound of their wingbeats had faded to the east, over the river and mountains. Then he relaxed and Dawn took it as her cue to tumble from Shadowfax, clutch her middle, bend over, and puke up all the luncheon she had only just ingested in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.

Boromir, who had just reached them, pulled his horse up sharply. “Urgh,” he said, or something like it. The delicately green tint to his face said he wasn’t a very good nurse where queasy patients were concerned. “Gandalf, you will help her, will you not?”

Gandalf was cleaning the small smear of Dawn’s blood from his hand, and barely glanced up to shoot them an amused smirk before resuming his task.

Dawn was a most unappealing shade of mint herself, and she frowned at Boromir. “If you can’t handle me being nauseous, what are you gonna do when I have morning sickness?”

“Morning sickness?” he asked faintly. “What is that?”

“It’s the daily fun-time when a woman is pregnant. During her first few months, she barfs like every day.” She stomped over to him and held up her arm for him to help her mount behind him.

“You mean to do this every day, when you are breeding?” Now Boromir was pale, as well as green, and pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand.

“Not like I’d want to,” she said grumpily, waggling her fingers in his face. “And don’t call it breeding; sounds like something you do with poodles.” He frowned, and she could almost hear him think, What are poodles? She sighed. “Just help me up, Mr. Pesty.”

He eyed her with trepidation. “You will not be sick again?”

“And if I were?” Dawn demanded testily. “You gonna leave me out here to walk back alone?”

Now it was Boromir’s turn to sigh. “You know I would not.” He grasped her arm at last, settling her behind him. “And I do not think I like that nickname.”

“If you are quite finished, Mr. Pesty?” Gandalf inquired politely. “I believe you would like to speak with your brother, would you not?” He ignored the sour look Boromir leveled on him, because he was grinning too hard.

When they returned to the city, they learned that Faramir had gone immediately in to Denethor to report on his activities during the past ten days of his absence from Minas Tirith. Gandalf insisted upon joining them immediately and stalked off, his face set grimly. Boromir and Dawn, meanwhile, returned to his house, where she set about brushing her teeth for a half-hour straight.

“Finally,” she said with relief when she exited the small bathing chamber off her bedroom, to find a strange but eerily familiar-looking man sitting before the fire with Boromir. Must be Faramir, she thought, because he resembled her honey so closely she could almost think they were twins.

Both men stood and Boromir took her hand, smiling warmly at her before turning to his brother. “This is Dawn,” he told Faramir proudly. “We are betrothed.”

Faramir reached for her free hand, pressing a brief kiss of greeting to it, studying her all the while. His hair was darker than Boromir’s, and his eyes were a lighter blue, and he had grown a full, short beard while his brother merely possessed a goatee, but the resemblance was uncanny. “You two must get your looks from your mother,” she blurted out, then gasped in horror, mentally kicking herself. Stupid, stupid, she chastised, but they only laughed.

“Indeed we did,” Faramir replied, and smiled, then greeted Gandalf as the wizard and Pippin entered the room.

“How fared your meeting with our father?” Boromir asked, his eyes hardening.

Faramir turned away then, his back to the others as he stared into the crackling flames in the hearth. “He is as venomous as usual,” he murmured bluntly. “He feels Gandalf has poisoned you against him. He wished it had been me who had joined the Fellowship in your place, so you would still be ruling by his side, and I would be the one exiled from the house of Denethor.”

There was a brief, horrified silence before Gandalf spoke, his voice rumbling in the darkening room. “In other news, however, Frodo and Sam still live, and are well on their way to Mount Doom.”

“Oh, good,” Dawn replied with heartfelt relief. She’d worried quite a bit about them ever since they’d parted from the rest of the Fellowship. “How’s Frodo doing?”

Faramir’s expression turned even more grave, somehow. “It strains him deeply,” he answered. “I fear for him. Glad I am, though, that Sam stays by his side. He is ever a stalwart ally.”

Boromir grinned down at Pippin. “Hobbits are a hardy race, it would seem, and a loyal one.” he said. “We cannot make this one go away, no matter how we try.”

“If you would have me take my leave, milord, you have only to say,” replied that halfling stiffly, only to eep in surprise when Dawn caught him up in her arms and hugged him fiercely.

“You’re not going anywhere!” she declared. “Who’s gonna feed me if you leave?”

“You really should put him down now,” Boromir told her, trying not to laugh. “Tis not proper to maul a Hobbit.”

“You’re just jealous that he’s getting snuggles and you’re not,” Dawn accused, leaning over Pippin to plant a kiss on Boromir’s chin.

“Yes,” he agreed blandly. “I am jealous Pippin, indeed. If only you would pick me up like a child and kiss me chastely! Ah, how happy I would be!” He clasped his hands dramatically over his heart and heaved an exaggerated sigh, fluttering his eyelashes.

Dawn set Pippin down and took a few steps until she was only a hair’s breadth away from Boromir. “You,” she informed him, “are a drama queen.”

He frowned. “I do not know what that is, but it does not sound good,” he said, and glowered a little at her, his gaze intent on her face, turned up to him. Gandalf gave Faramir and Pippin a credible smirk and motioned for them to follow him out; he and Pippin would find other lodgings for that night.

“It means that you love making a big deal out nothing, that you like causing a scene,” Dawn told him, a faint sigh escaping as his arms came around her and pulled her tightly against him. She slid her hands up the broad plane of his chest to encircle his neck, and she delved her fingers into the thick, curling locks at the nape of his neck, shivering a little at the low growl that came from his throat at her actions.

“And if I do?” he asked, nipping with strong white teeth along the line of her throat. “Then what?” And his hands roamed down her back to cup her backside in his hands and lift her snugly against him.

She did not answer; dazed blue eyes stared at him when he pulled back to see her response. “Huh?” she asked, voice slurred with desire.

Boromir only smiled down at her, and placed a kiss at each corner of her mouth. “I love you,” he said. “Are you sure you are ready to lie with me? Because if we do not stop this soon, I will ravish you to within an inch of your life, sweet.”

She grinned impishly up at him. “Would that be a promise, then?” And she raised up on tiptoes and planted a deep, passionate kiss on him that he returned with great enthusiasm, not breaking it even when he swung her up into his arms and carried her into his bedchamber. “I just love it when you take charge, you man, you,” she gasped when he tossed her to the bed and shut the door behind him before beginning to remove his layers of tunics.

And Boromir just grinned back at her, eyes gleaming.

Part 20

Two days later, in spite of the deepening of their relationship in a most delightful way, Dawn’s heart was heavy with fear. Denethor had sent Faramir out again, his only response to his son’s plea to think better of him when he came back being, “That depends on the manner of your return.” Boromir had wanted to go as well, but the younger brother had insisted he stay and protect Minas Tirith and Dawn. Seeing the wisdom in that, Boromir agreed, but grudgingly—he hated to miss a good fight.

Speculation was rife about Faramir and how he fared; it was no secret how Denethor scorned his younger son in favour of his elder, and now that Boromir had repudiated his birthright there were rumors flying left, right, and centre about whether the Steward of Gondor would simply replace one son with another, or if he would bend his proud knees and make the necessary apologies in order to mend the break between them.

The next day, a messenger came with word of a mighty force approaching Osgiliath from Minas Morgul, the tower at the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow that separated Gondor from Mordor. Worse even than that was the news that the Black Captain led them, and the spirits of the people of Minas Tirith dipped even lower.

When Gandalf heard how severely outnumbered Faramir was, he hied himself off to join the Man at once. Near frantic with apprehension, Boromir seemed to forget how he’d turned his back on his duties and spent almost all of his waking moments preparing, equipping, training, advising, and supporting the forces remaining at the White City, and Dawn and Pippin spent most of the night cuddled in thick blankets against each other on the wall, staring eastward.

“I don’t know what it will do to Boromir if Faramir is hurt, or killed,” she murmured, her cheek pressed to the Hobbit’s curly head. “He’s already freaking out, hardly sleeping or eating. I’m worried about him.”

“I don’t know what it will do to me,” Pippin sighed. “For just as Merry was struck with the nobility of Theoden, and pledged himself to the service of Rohan, I am likewise stricken. Faramir is a lord one follows to the death, so strong and wise is he, and…” he trailed off then, a little shy until Dawn poked him in the side. “I too have taken a vow.” She looked at him enquiringly. “A vow of fealty,” he clarified. “I am Faramir’s man, as Merry is Theoden’s, and would even now be at his side, but he insisted I stay here and protect you.” Pippin looked very morose indeed at this turn of events

“Am I such bad company?” she griped teasingly, poking him again and making him squirm. Hobbits were, it turned out, very ticklish, and they nearly plummeted off the wall as Pippin struggled to escape their cocoon of blankets and her invading fingers.

“Say uncle!” Dawn insisted even as they tumbled backwards to land in the dusty road. “Say it!”

“Why… would I… say uncle?” Pippin demanded breathless his giggles. “What does… my uncle have.. to do… with anything? Or… my aunt, or my… great-grandfather, or my… third cousin twice-removed…” And so distracting her with his blabbering, he took advantage of her pondering to lunge on top and worm his hands under her arms, tickling her fiercely.

“Noooooooooooo!” Dawn shrieked, screaming with laughter. Footsteps ran up to them and stopped abruptly, and she and Pippin slowly stopped torturing each other and slumped back, exhausted and gasping. They looked up to see Boromir glaring crossly down at them, sword in his hand.

“Are you feeling better, then?” he asked dryly, resheathing his weapon and raising a dark-gold brow at her. She’d been uncharacteristically glum that morning when last he’d seen her, barely mustering some interest in the heated wake-up kiss he’d bestowed upon her.

“Besides terror about everyone’s safety and a general feeling of impending doom? Yeah, I’m not doing too bad.” she told him, standing and hoisting Pippin to his feet, then setting about dusting his small body off until he slapped her hands away. Grinning at her little friend, she stepped up to Boromir and more than made up for her lackluster smooching earlier that day.

“Bleh,” said Pippin at their display, and turned away to stare once more over the wall while the other two made their way back to their house for… some ‘alone time’.

Gandalf returned the next day with wounded men, but swiftly told Boromir that his brother was still in good health. The pinched look left the Man’s face then, and he was able to return to his tasks a little lighter of step. The wizard spent long hours closeted with Denethor, arguing about tactics and the need for a sortie from the city against Mordor’s forces. When at last he left the Steward, his bleak expression told all around him without words that Denethor was not thinking or acting wisely any longer.

Time passed. Still the everlasting night was upon them, and it was uncertain what was the hour of the day. Pippin was seemingly glued to his patch of wall, gazing toward the mountains of the east for some sign of Faramir, and it was his cry of fear that alerted them to the first onset of the enemy. As they watched, individual flickers of light converged, grew, lengthened, until they looked like rivers of flame, and they were all flowing toward the White City of Minas Tirith.

“They come,” Boromir said woodenly, and Dawn turned to look at him. His face could have been carved from stone, so still and grave was it. “I do not know what to do,” he admitted, hands pressing hard against the top of the wall. “My brother is out there alone, my father is slowly going mad, and I… I stand here, helpless.”

Dawn’s heart ached for him, ached to find a way to ease his sorrow. "When it's dark,” she said at last, “and I'm all alone, and I'm scared or freaked out or whatever, I always think -- what would Buffy do?"

He looked at her then, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “She would fling herself in every direction at once, tell some terrible jokes, become drenched in gore, die several times, and wake up in a mood so excellent we would kill her again just to get some peace.”

“Sounds about right,” she agreed, forcing her tone to be light and chipper before becoming serious again. “She’s always saved me, Boromir.” Dawn slid her arms around his waist, kissing a line up his throat to his chin. She really liked his chin. It was strong, and she suspected there was a dimple under his goatee. “I know how she thinks. This isn’t about evil or good for her any more, it’s about protecting those she loves. She’s got people she cares about, and she won’t let anything happen to us.”

Boromir smiled sadly down at her. “It is good that you have such faith in your sister, Dawn, but—“

She cut him off. “No, you don’t get it, Boromir.” She pulled back a little to look him squarely in the eye. “I mean, Buffy will never let anything happen, not to me, or you, or Legolas, or Haldir or Aragorn or the Hobbits. She has more power than you can imagine, and she’s the most stubborn jackass in the world. There is nothing in Middle-Earth, or my Earth, or any other planet for that matter, that will prevent her from keeping us safe.”

He looked skeptical. “It’s ok if you don’t believe me,” she told him, snuggling into his embrace once more. “But you haven’t seen how she fights when her friends and family are involved. The way she died for us, and Haldir? It was nothing compared to how it’s gonna be when she gets here.”

*

Hours later, they were down at the Great Gate of the city, still fervently working to organize the sortie, when Denethor made his appearance. “I had wondered how the men were so orderly and well-prepared,” the Steward said as he approached his eldest son. “Ever have you been unable to resist the role of captain, Boromir. You should not fight it; it is in your blood, a part of you like your hand or foot.”

“It is not my nature that I fight, milord,” Boromir said mildly, not meeting his father’s eyes as he continued to inspect the weaponry waiting to be wielded in the battle to come.

“Let us not be at odds, my son,” Denethor said expansively, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of reconciliation. “For these times are dark enough without harsh words between us. I would have things as they were before you left for the elven city so many months ago.”

Boromir did look at him then, and his eyes were cool and distant. “You would, would you?” He nodded to the soldier next to him, signaling his approval, and turned to face his father fully. “And would you also change your demeanor toward Faramir, and be not harsh and cruel to him any longer? Would you welcome Dawn to your bosom, as a daughter?” He took in Denethor’s narrowing eyes and thinning lips, and shook his head, squeezing gratefully the hand Dawn slipped into his. “If you cannot show some mercy and affection to them as well as to me, then it would seem you are ever destined to disappointment. For I cannot be the son of he who abuses those he should love.”

“Enjoy your orphan status, then,” Denethor snarled. “For my son Boromir is dead to me, and I have but one other, and he is Faramir.” His cruel gaze raked over them, lip curling as it passed over Dawn, and he stepped back as if he could not bear to pollute himself with their proximity. “Get you gone, children, for the sortie is about to take place, and only men of Gondor may take part in it.”

Boromir blanched then, two livid spots of red on each cheek the only colour in his face. “You mean to make me stay behind, while the others sally forth?”

“Do not cry foul, Boromir,” his father said mockingly, “for you have purchased this fate with your own coin. Defending Gondor is a privilege only a faithful son of this land can earn, and you have stripped yourself of that honour.” He stared at them a long moment, his eyes flat and black, before turning his back on them and facing the gate.

A muscle ticked in Boromir’s cheek, and his free hand gripped the pommel of his sword almost convulsively until Dawn tugged him back. He stared blindly ahead of him the entire time she led him back to the house, and seemed somewhere else entirely as she struggled to remove his armour. Worried at the force of his anger, she reached up to him, thinking to soothe him with a kiss, and was surprised when his arms banded around her like iron, clasping her tightly as his mouth ravished hers.

*

The little streams of flame grew into rivers as they came closer, and Faramir’s forces started to retreat back to the city, but the hordes of torch-bearing orcs and wild-haired Southron men screeching in their guttural languages were making his men nervous. Full-fledged panic broke out when the Nazgûl swooped from the sky like vultures toward particularly fragrant carrion, and Faramir’s soldiers either turned heel and ran in terror, or dropped their weapons and fell to the ground, overcome with fright.

“It is a rout,” Pippin breathed, scarcely daring to speak at all as fear broke over him like waves upon the shore. But then there was the call of a trumpet, and the gates were flung open, and the sortie was away. Pippin’s heart flew up to his throat when he heard a second trumpet blast, and joining the mounted forces of Gondor were those of Dol Amroth, their Prince leading them, his banner of gold and white and blue gleaming brightly even in the gloom.

And one amoung them broke away, a flash of quicksilver in the night. Gandalf charged the Nazgûl as he had before, and another column of pale flame burst from his hand. Startled, the Nazgûl pulled up hard, their beasts wailing horribly in their confusion. Inspired by this show of weakness, the Gondorians took heart and began to thrash their opponents. The torches borne by the orcs and Wildmen dashed out as their bearers fell, and the battlefield was wreathed in greasy smoke, but still they fought.

*

Dawn was startled at his vehemence at first, until she realized that he was channeling all his fury and frustration into the kiss. She stroked his face, his hair, his shoulders, until the violence of it gentled. “I love you,” she told him over and over, and it took the edge off his mood even as it whetted their desire.

Bothering to light neither lamp nor candle, they stumbled to the bedroom, knocking into walls and doors as they made their way blindly. Eager hands wrenched at stubborn buttons and lacings until they fell away; greedy mouths drank deep kisses from the other. At last, skin was to skin, and they sighed at the relief of it.

*

Despite their initial success, even the stalwart nature of Gondor could not withstand the sheer numbers of the enemy, and Denethor called another retreat. As each company re-entered the city, those remaining without the walls endeavored to protect the ones within and keep the open gates from being breached.

It was in the company farthest from the gates that Faramir fought, the Prince of Dol Amroth at his side. Shield upraised, sword dripping black and red, he slashed and parried, hack and stabbed, and still more came at him. One of the Nazgûl pounced upon him, crashing a hard blow against his shield that rocked him to his toes, and he staggered back knowing his shoulder was dislocated at best, and broken at worst.

Filled with agony and despair, struggling to keep his shield aloft as he swiped with increasing desperation with his sword, Faramir battled on. The Nazgûl’s mount reached with razored talons and grazed his forehead just where his helm left him bare; blood coursed down his face and occluded his vision; Faramir strove still.

*

Boromir covered Dawn’s body with his own; settling himself between her long thighs, he captured her mouth in a searing kiss and sheathed himself in the wet heat of her body. “Eru,” he groaned, eyes almost crossing at the pleasure of it.

Dawn only sighed, and raised her knees to lock her ankles around his waist. “Yessss,” she hissed in his ear, then nipped it, making him rear up over her. “Yes, Boromir, yes.”

His pace, smooth at first, began like his breath to grow ragged. “You clench me tighter than any fist,” he muttered into her hair, burying his face in it, breathing in her scent, feeling the silken strands catch on his sweaty skin and stubbled cheeks. “You wrap me in yourself, I am trapped, I cannot escape.”

*

“We must retreat!” shouted the Prince, but Faramir ignored him, his sword arm seemingly possessed by another entity, for it was not still even a second but always moving, slicing, carving. Hot, dark blood jetted from a cleft he made in the beast’s side, its scream of outrage and pain seeming to ring off the very metal of their armour. “Come, Faramir, we must go now!”

Faramir flicked his gaze from the Nazgûl for a moment; the briefest, merest splinter of a second, but it was enough. A dart shot from a second Nazgûl, hurtling toward the lord of Gondor. He saw it arcing toward him, and had he been whole and rested it would not have troubled him to avoid it, but wounded and fatigued as he was, his sluggish swerve only served to bring him more fully into its range. It seemed to hang in the air, there, as if daring him to try and escape, as if it were giving him a head start on a race to which there was only one possible end.

*

Dawn’s face creased into a frown of deep concentration, as if she were working very hard to achieve a long-sought goal, and Boromir dipped his head to capture her mouth in another kiss, tasting her passion. His hips flew, and he felt himself moving against her in a near-frenzy, elbows digging hard into the mattress beneath her as he buried his hands in her hair and framed her face with his long fingers, holding her head still for the onslaught of his mouth.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dawn’s entire conscious whittled down until it was focused entirely on a specific portion of her body; all sensation, all blood, all thought flowed toward it like a migration, a pilgrimage. Her body thrashed up against him, and with a hoarse cry her eyes flew open to stare at him blindly, shock and wonder plain on her features in an endlessly long moment of joy.

“I love you,” Boromir groaned, overcome, and joined her in release.

*

Faramir thought of his childhood then, of swimming in the river with Boromir when they were boys, of his first swordsmanship lesson, of his mother’s smiling face before death had claimed her, even of his father looking with approval instead of censure at his youngest son. He thought of these things, and a smile came to his lips.

And then the dart hit him, and he dropped to the ground like a stone, and knew no more.

Part 21

Dawn and Boromir had just woken up and were about to have another go when there came a ferocious pounding on the bedroom door.

“Boromir!” shrieked Pippin’s voice over the pounding. “Dawn! Faramir is wounded! You must come!”

With a bound, Boromir had disentangled himself from Dawn’s limbs and was pulling on his clothes; she merely reached for her gown and pulled it over her head before yanking on her soft boots. He caught her hand in his and pulled her after him as he ran from the room.

“Where is he?” Boromir demanded, raking his fingers through his unruly hair.

“The houses of healing,” Pippin said, then squeaked when the Man caught him up in his arms and began running toward that building.

The city of Minas Tirith was in chaos; its citizens, eyes wide with terror, scurried all over but whether they were running to or from something, Dawn could not tell. A hail of flaming missiles fell upon them, and they flattened themselves against a wall under some eaves for protection, then stomped until their feet were sore to put out the little fires that caught on the wood, the straw, the fabric awnings.

“Tell me… what… happened,” Boromir panted as they ran once more.

“I’m not sure,” Pippin replied, closing his eyes as Boromir narrowly missed barrelling into a large, armour-clad soldier dripping blood from a significant shoulder wound. “The Prince of Dol Amroth bore him back to the gate, and made for the leeches, and they are closeted in a dark room. Denethor refuses to come out.”

“Leeches?” Dawn demanded from behind them, where she laboured hard to keep up with Boromir’s pace. She clutched a hand to her stomach as nausea swelled within her, and knew even without hearing their cries that the Nazgûl had returned. Hazarding a glance skyward, she counted eight of them… where was the ninth?

“Healers,” Pippin explained from his perch on the back of Boromir, because his mount was too busy shouting at the owners of a large, laden cart of supplies that currently blocked their way to move their useless arses or he’d slay them all.

“Honey, calm down,” she admonished him gently, as he was getting very red in the face. “Just go around.”

He turned desperate eyes to her, grateful that she was thinking when he could not, and obediently went around the cart to continue his frantic journey to his brother. Once at the houses of healing, however, he was turned away with no little regret by the guards stationed at the door.

“Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor, has forbidden your entrance,” one said apologetically even as he took a firmer grasp on his spear and adjusted his stance to one slightly more threatening. “We cannot let you pass.” Boromir got a certain glint in his eye then, a glint of murder and mayhem, and Dawn hastened to grab his arm and pull him back, murmuring soothing nonsense-words to him.

“Pippin, you go in and stay with Faramir, no matter what!” she commanded the Hobbit. “If anything happens, come get us.” Heartsick, she led her betrothed away to find Gandalf.

They found him in the third circle of the city on yet another of his circuits… he had assumed control of Gondor’s forces in Denethor’s absence, and made it a point to try and keep up the flagging spirits of its people. “But there is too much to do for just one,” he said darkly, his face seeming more lined and aged than ever. He leant heavily on his staff and sighed, then turned to the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“You take the Citadel, and the sixth circle. I shall patrol the fifth, fourth, and third. Boromir,” here he turned to that Man, who was staring hard at the ground, jaw clenched as he pondered this latest betrayal by his father, “You take over the first two. The soldiers are here, and they are your men. You trained them, lead them, ruled them. They know of your father’s folly, and will not fail you now.”

Slightly cheered by being given a task, Boromir nodded briskly and strode off, Dawn at his side, but he was looking straight ahead, mind already whirling with thoughts of what he must do. Her tugging on his arm seemed to startle him, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Yes, sweet?”

“What can I do?” she asked, eager to be of some assistance, and frowned when he looked about to say something she knew she wouldn’t like. “And let me first inform you, there are two choices here. You can a) tell me how I can help get things ready around here, and I’ll be really happy, or b) you can tell me to go back to the house where it’s safe and wait for you, in which case I’ll slap you so hard your eyeballs switch sockets.” She smiled sweetly at him and waited for his reply.

“Fine,” he grumbled at last, and continued walking, pretending to ignore her as she skipped along beside him, happy to be included. “But if you get hurt, I will tell Dagnir it was your own fault. And she will yell at you, for several weeks at least.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Dawn replied happily.

*

After another quick dash back to the house to put on leggings, a knee-length tunic with slits up the sides to her hips, and sturdier boots, Dawn grabbed her elven pike from where it stood in the corner and ran back to join Boromir at the Great Gate. The shouts and growls of the orcish army had grown in volume, and she knew they were right outside.

“Put this on,” Boromir told her, and handed her a piece of armour. Taking it, she was surprised to realize it was much lighter than it looked.

“What is it?” she asked, struggling to drape it over her shoulders and buckle it into place around her waist.

“Chest-plate of mithril,” he explained. “And my mother’s; she was a shield-maiden of Rohan before she married Denethor. I found it in the armory whilst you changed your clothing.” He nodded in the direction of that building. “Her shield lies there as well, but you cannot use it with a pike.”

Dawn felt tears come to her eyes. “Thank you for trusting me,” she whispered.

He drew her close into his arms for a brief moment. “More than I fear for your life, sweet, I want you to be happy, and I know you would be greatly shamed to sit idly while we others went toward danger. I know because it is how I felt when Denethor banned me from the battlefield earlier this dark day.”

Boromir bent his face to hers then, intending to kiss her, but an immense crashing noise startled them and they sprang apart.

“Holy crap!” Dawn yelled, eyes huge as the Great Gate began to shudder and quake.

“They begin to break it down,” Boromir said grimly. “And we will be here to greet them when they do.”

It wasn’t long before the gate lay in huge splinters on the ground, and the Lord of the Nazgûl rode triumphantly through. The sight that greeted him, however, was not as hospitable as he might have wanted: for there before him stood a young human woman, an exquisitely forged pike held with ease and familiarity as her long, dark hair swirled round her in the wind; the tall and strong elder son of the Steward of Gondor, eyes ablaze with determination as he gripped his sword and shield; and between the two, seated upon a silver-white Meara named Shadowfax, was Mithrandir himself.

“You cannot enter here,” Gandalf informed the Black Captain calmly. But the Nazgûl Lord only laughed at him, and his confidence in his victory sent a chill down Dawn’s spine. There was no face between the neck of his tunic and his crown; how did you fight such an enemy?

“Buffy, where are you?” she whispered. “We need you.”

In the silence that fell, tense and edgy, a rooster crowed. Such a mundane sound, so common it seemed almost obscene, coming as it did in the middle of this extraordinary scene. Oddly, it gave Dawn a bit of hope—roosters had been signalling the coming of morning for time immemorial, and would continue to do so. Come what may, morning would come, and a rooster would crow, and somehow life would go on.

Later, she’d wonder if it were a coincidence, but at the time she was so happy to hear it that it never occurred to her to feel anything but overwhelming relief. No sooner had the rooster’s crow faded into the murky early-morning shadows than a horn sounded in the distance, beyond the walls of Minas Tirith, to the north.

“Great Eru,” Boromir said, face shining with hope and joy. “Rohan has come.”

The emanating evil of the Black Captain seemed to seethe and swell with fury, and without another jeering word he wheeled and flew off.

“Oh, good,” Dawn said fervently. “And the sun is rising, too.” And so it was, the first rays of daybreak creeping over the mountains that loomed to the east. “Can’t say I’m too impressed with his grand entrance. I give it a 7 for style, but 2.5 for actual substance.”

Boromir was climbing onto Timon. “Dawn, will you be with me or Gandalf?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Gandalf,” she replied. “He’ll need my Key-ness.”

The wizard nodded. “I must once more draw on her power to fight the Nazgûl,” he said, and reached out a hand to hoist her behind him. She settled herself and clasped his waist with one arm, stretching out the other toward her betrothed.

“Boromir,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Whatever happens…”

“Whatever happens, know I love you always,” he replied, stripping off his glove so he could grasp her hand, skin to skin.

Dawn nodded, throat too tight to speak. “I love you,” she mouthed, and then Shadowfax was sprinting away, tearing their hands apart. Her last sight of him was his hungry gaze on her as he spurred Timon to follow, and then she turned resolutely away to face what would come.

The battlefield was a horror, and it was difficult for her to use her pike while remaining seated behind Gandalf—they weren’t weapons designed to be used from horseback. She poked her palm with the tip of her pike, and made a small portal before drawing Gandalf’s attention to it. “Here,” she said. “Enjoy.” Then she hopped down and began to fight in earnest.

It seemed like she fought for hours, but it was probably only one. She couldn’t really tell after a while—the orcs that fell to her pike seemed never-ending, and with the sun gleaming so brightly in her eyes, she couldn’t really see that well. Dawn mumbled yet another ‘thanks’ to Spike for insisting on long hours of practice, for as she continued to fight her movements took on a smoothness, an efficiency—lunge forward and skewer an orc in the throat, tug the pike free and turn as the orc died to skewer another.

Lunge, tug, lunge, tug. It went on and on until her shoulders ached, but she couldn’t let herself stop. She hadn’t seen Boromir since leaving the city, and Gandalf since she dismounted from Shadowfax. Everything was a huge mess, and the piles of stinky orc corpses were truly impressive. She wondered how many of them were dead because of her, and was surprised at how apathetic and, frankly, numb she felt at the question.

Then came the familiar shriek of the Nazgûl, and she could hear Theoden scream for his men to surround him as soldiers fled in terror. Spinning in the king’s direction, hair whipping around, she gaped to see his horse rear up violently and then tumble over backwards, trapping Theoden beneath its bulk.

“Shit,” she muttered then, because the Black Captain was back, and carrying a hella big mace. With him came the debilitating nausea of before, and she swallowed convulsively. “Shit.” Where were all the Rohan soldiers going? Only two remained near their king; a short, slender man and… a Hobbit? Squinting, she gasped to see Merry crawling on his hands and knees.

“Be gone!” the lone soldier commanded, and Dawn’s eyes nearly popped from her head when she recognized the voice: Eowyn. “I will hinder you, if I may.”

The Black Captain laughed then, like he had when he’d entered Minas Tirith. “Hinder me? No man may hinder me!”

Eowyn laughed then, and threw off her helmet, her golden hair streaming down her back in a sunlit torrent. “I am no man.”

A surge of admiration filled Dawn then for Eowyn’s bravery. She had enjoyed her company and appreciated her quiet strength in Edoras and Dunharrow, and liked her even more now. She had seemed somewhat predatory with Aragorn, but Dawn knew what it was like to be stressed out, scared, and then confronted with a really hot guy with loads of manly stubble. She could sympathize with the hormone overload.

I’m probably really being stupid for doing this, she thought even as she did it, but stepped forward to stand by Eowyn’s side. “Neither am I, you big gross old loser.”

Eowyn shot her a disbelieving glance before turning back to their foe. The flying evil-bird-thingy screamed, its funky-smelling spittle flying everywhere, and leapt up to pounce on the women before it. Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn saw Merry begin to crawl his way behind the Nazgûl Lord, and then instinct took over.

The creature’s snapping jaws came just a tad too close for her comfort, and she once more fell into fighting mode. Pulling her pike back as far as she could, Dawn dug in the heels of her boots and flung herself forward, jabbing the weapon at the thing. Its point struck directly in the sinewy flesh of the creature’s throat, and with a garbled, juicy moan of agony it fell like a rock, making her and Eowyn dance backward to avoid being trampled by its corpse.

“Yay me!” Dawn yelled, and pumped a fist into the air. “Who’s your daddy?”

But her triumph was short-lived; the Black Captain disentangled himself from his slain mount and swung at her with his mace. Eowyn tried to hold her shield in front of Dawn, and it deflected the blow a little, but still the shock of the strike sent pain coursing through her as a horrible double-crack of breaking bone and rending shield sounded in the still air, and she fell.

“Shit,’ she said for the third time that morning. “Buffy and Boromir are gonna be so pissed…” The queasiness rose in her again, but she refused to allow herself to puke and propped herself up on the elbow that wasn’t broken to watch what came next.

The Nazgûl Lord turned toward Eowyn, and was just about to smite her with his mace as well when he screamed in pain. Dawn blinked dust from her eyes to see Merry had stabbed him in the leg, and he was staggering just as much from shock as incapacitation. He turned with wrath toward the halfling but before he could take even a step toward Merry, Eowyn was there.

She thrust her sword-point into the empty space beneath his crown, and with a sound like shattering crystal the blade splintered as both he and his killer fell to the ground. Satisfied that they were all three of them safe at last, even though Merry and Eowyn were both unconscious, Dawn grinned happily and allowed herself to pass out.

Part 22

Boromir thought he’d seen every manner of terror and fright; he had, after all, slain countless numbers of orcs, Uruk-hai and crazed Wild-men just that morning alone, and that was not counting what had gone before at Helm’s Deep, and Moria. If he hadn’t seen fit to wet his trousers at the sight of the Balrog, then it was fair to say that there was little that could reduce him to a blubbering heap.

Until, that is, he saw the slight, still form of his betrothed being borne into Minas Tirith on the tall scutum-shield of a soldier from Dol Amroth. His heart stopped beating for a long moment, he was sure of it, and then resumed its customary behaviour with a painful, right thump that made him quiver from the force of it. “Dawn…”

“Hey, punkin,” she murmured, lashes fluttering from the effort of trying to open her eyes. “We got him.”

“We?” he asked, clasping her hand and pressing it to his lips, trying hard not to weep. “We who? Got who?”

“Eowyn, and Merry and I,” she replied sleepily. “We got the big invisible guy, the one who knocked down the gates.” Her head rolled a little as she passed out again, and he stepped back, dashed the tears of relief and pride from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Bring her right away to the houses of healing,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with authority instead of the weak, scared-sounding whisper that came from his mouth. “And care well for the other lady, and the Hobbit.” They three were carried away, and Boromir took a moment to breathe deeply and compose himself.

Dawn was injured, aye, but still alive and with excellent chance for recuperation. But the battle was far from over, and though he longed to sit by her side until she woke again, he knew he could not. The valiant Timon had fallen to an orcish sword, and Boromir had been forced to return for another mount if he were to remain as effective as he had been—on foot, he was a mighty warrior, but astride he was a true angel of death, and death was what counted on a day like today.

Choosing another horse from the stables, he led it forward and mounted, casting a last look back toward the sombre procession of Dawn and the others toward the houses of healing before wheeling round and launching himself back into the fray.

He sliced, he slashed, he stabbed and hewed and carved. Over and over, death without end. In the distance to the north, he saw Eomer beneath the banner of Rohan, and to the south was the Prince. Hacking his way to those of Dol Amroth, he glanced toward the river and felt the blood leave his face at what he saw.

For coming round the bend in the mighty Anduin was a fleet, black-sailed and ominous. Pointing his sword with a trembling hand, he drew the Prince’s attention to it. To his credit, the Prince merely nodded and looked even grimmer, allowing no trace of fear to show on his regal face.

“We press back to the west, against the walls of the city,” the Prince announced. “We cannot become trapped between the orcs and the Corsairs.”

And so they moved back, and sent their forces out to the north a bit until their men on that end joined with the most southron of Rohan’s, and like a long, broad wave they began to surge forward, pressing down toward the approaching ships. The horns of Rohan, of Gondor and of Dol Amroth blared a constant fanfare of calling to all men to fight, and Boromir fixed his attention to it as his arm worked automatically to exterminate the vermin flocking before him.

“That’s… interesting,” came the Prince’s calm comment from beside him, even as he beheaded an orc, and Boromir looked up to find that instead of the infamous skull-and-crossbones flag, another banner entirely was flapping and furling from the tallest mast of the fleet. In the centre of it was the White Tree of Gondor, but around it were stars that glittered and sparkled in the clear sunlight, and there was a golden crown sparkling above the tree.

“Holy crap,” Boromir breathed, unconsciously borrowing Dawn’s favourite expression of shock. “It’s Aragorn.”

Strength and courage renewed, he flung himself once more into the battle, always keeping one eye on the ships. It was not long until they weighed anchor and large ramps were extended to the shore, and with a mighty blast of a horn, riders came thundering down the plain toward them.

There was Aragorn himself, and on his right was Legolas with Gimli behind. To his left was Dagnir, long braid flying behind her as she rode hell-for-leather, crouched low over her horse’s neck and grasping the reins with one hand while the other clutched a rather large axe. Just behind was a sizeable group of tough-looking men, and a smattering of elves. They looked like the very incarnations of death, but more noble a sight Boromir had never seen, and he felt his spine go weak with relief and gratitude that his friends had arrived.

The river was to the East; Boromir and the Prince pushed East, Eomer moved South, and Aragorn worked his way North until the enemy was hemmed in on all sides.

“How do you feel about taking down that group of orcs over there?” Aragorn asked Buffy, pointing with his sword while she swept her axe around her in a flurry, chopping off limbs and heads willy-nilly.

“I feel pretty good about it,” she replied with a grin, and took off in the direction he indicated. She didn’t have to look behind her to know that both Legolas and Haldir were following. She felt a surge of energy, of power, and smiled grimly. How many times had she gone into battle with Giles, and Xander and Willow? Sometimes there had been Oz, or Riley, or Cordelia, or Angel, and that last time Spike had been ally instead of enemy, but the core group of Scoobies hadn’t changed.

She had new Scoobies here in Arda, she thought with amazement. For all the times she’d fought and killed, in these last moments as she faced death, barrelling across a war-torn plain surrounded by beloved allies with a massed horde intent on killed them in front of her, she’d never felt so completely, gloriously alive, and Buffy knew finally why she no longer wanted her Gift.

The moment stretched, lengthened, and sounds seemed to fade away… the howl of the wind, the lapping of the waves, the thud of the horse’s hooves, the shouts of the men. The was nothing but her breath and her heartbeat, and she glanced to her right to see Legolas with a matching expression of exhilaration on his beautiful face.

He looked to her then, and smiled his blinding, pure smile. Behind him, Gimli gave his axe a happy little wave. To her left was Haldir, his movements fluid as he controlled his horse effortlessly with only his legs, both arms occupied with his bow. In the distance was Aragorn and his foster-brothers, all three looking so regal that she felt her heart swell with affection. Buffy didn’t know what was going to happen after this, but in that moment, there was perfection, and she found herself grinning back.

And then they reached the orcs, and with a jarring shock time sped up again, and all her senses rushed back, and then there was just chaos. Aside from the occasional death-scream of a horse, the cries of Man and Orc blurred together into a dull roar in the background, and after her mount was killed from beneath her, Buffy found herself once more wielding two weapons at once, the more efficient to decimate the enemy.

For hours she fought, occasionally catching a glimpse of the others. There were the twins, fighting back-to-back as they took on a host of Wild-men; there were Legolas and Gimli still astride Arod and keeping score of their kills (“forty-two!”); there was Haldir with a few of his elves, somehow managing to keep that arrogant eyebrow quirked even as he took down opponent after opponent; and there was Aragorn, holding no less than four orcs at bay while Narsil flashed in the sunlight.

She fought her way to his side, barely sparing a glance for those she felled, and was rewarded with his grim but pleased smile.

“Ah, Dagnir, we fight together again,” he greeted her, and ran an orc through. “And here I was thinking we would not share in the joy of bloodshed this fine day.”

She squinted at him through narrowed eyes, and sliced off the sword arm of a Wild-man. “You’re a very complex man, aren’t ya?”

He only smiled blissfully, and Buffy turned back to her fighting with an eye-roll and a smile of her own. He was a nut, but he was her nut, that crazy Aragorn. “Eomer is up to the north, Strider, did you see?”

“I did not,” he admitted, “but Boromir wends his way from the west.” He lunged and slashed an orc across its beefy chest, then knocked it soundly on the forehead with the pommel of his sword. It dropped like a stone. “I do not see Theoden, or Gandalf.” His tone was worried.

“I don’t see Dawn, either,” Buffy said. “I’m thinking that Boromir locked her in a cellar somewhere, because that’s the only way she’d stay out of a fight like this.” She could feel Aragorn’s gaze on her, and refused to meet it; she was pretending that Dawn was perfectly safe and whole, because she couldn’t bear anything else.

“So! What goes on with you and Legolas, Dagnir?” he asked as he came up against a particularly large orc, and spun in a circle as he swung his sword in order to get maximum momentum. Unsurprisingly, he cleft the creature almost in half when Narsil connected.

“I have no idea,” she replied over the din, then flinched when a particularly enthusiastic Wild-man got right in her face. “Ugh,” she groaned, and shoved him away. “Your mouthwash just ain’t cutting it.” To prove her point, she cut his head off. “Ever think that maybe there’s something wrong with us?”

Aragorn looked at her oddly. “How so?”

“Well, you know,” she said, frowning, “this whole cavalier attitude we’ve got going for us… We’ve killed almost a hundred today each, and we’re cracking jokes while we do it. Is that wrong?”

He seemed to give it some thought even as he engaged an Uruk-hai in combat. Stronger, faster, and smarter, this one required more of his attention than your standard garden-variety orc. “I think that it is the only way we can accept the destruction we cause,” he said at last. “And it is not as if we do Arda a great disservice by removing orcs and the like from it. These are not exactly fine, upstanding citizens that we slay.”

“Ow,” Buffy said by way of a response, as she’d been paying more attention to Aragorn’s engagement of the Uruk than her own opponent, and he managed to slip his sword past hers to score a long cut down her arm. “Dammit.”

“You are injured?” Aragorn inquired, not looking away from his foe.

Already the blood was beginning to course in rivulets. “Just a little,” she told him, wiping the exultant expression from her attacker’s homely face when she lobbed her axe at him, lodging it firmly in his chest, “but I’m going to fall back a little so I can bind it.”

Aragorn nodded and she began to hack her way toward the knot of Rangers and elves fighting toward the rear, knowing they would surround and shield her while she bound her wound. Halfway there, she found Gimli blithely swinging his axe to and fro like a child swinging a basket, and was not at all surprised to realize he was humming a jaunty tune.

“Where’s Legolas?” he asked her, not seeming terribly concerned. “We have been separated almost an hour now.”

Buffy, however, became very concerned, and forgetting how her arm bled, began scanning the crowd around them with increasing intensity. “I don’t see him, Gimli!” she exclaimed, aware her voice was shrill with worry. “I don’t see him!”

The dwarf’s brow creased in a frown, and he opened his mouth to speak when a Ranger battled his way over to them. “Do you speak of the Mirkwood elf?” he asked, shouting over the noise. When both nodded, he continued. “Not ten minutes ago, I saw him surrounded by a fierce band of Southrons over there. He pointed in the direction. “We tried to reach him but he went down beneath their weapons before we could.” He smashed his sword sideways into the skull of an orc, then jabbed it deep into the creature’s belly.

Buffy felt like her very soul was draining from her, and spots of all colours danced in her vision. Gimli howled wordlessly, and in his sorrow redoubled his efforts against the enemy, sending one after another flying, dripping blood and gore as they died in mid-air, but Buffy blinked and whispered, “No.”

And then she grabbed up a sword that lay discarded on the ground, and began a whirling maelstrom of destruction as she wove, leapt, ducked, and simply bashed her way toward where Halbarad had said he’d seen Legolas last.

“Come to claim his pretty corpse?” grunted an Uruk-hai blocking her path, twirling his club in a menacing way. “You will make a fetching carcass yourself, Dagnir.” And he grinned at her, revealing blackened, bloodstained teeth.

“Ooh, scary,” she told him, unimpressed. “There are a lot of scarier things out there, though.” She swung her borrowed sword, slicing his head off effortlessly. “And I’m one of them.” Not even watching as his body fell to the ground, she strode past him to where Legolas lay crumpled on the ground.

His bright hair was like a beacon, drawing her to him. So incongruous, so beautiful even lying in the muck and blood and offal, his fair face exquisite in repose. “No,” Buffy whispered, dropping a sword and taking his hand in hers. Somehow he’d managed to remain spotlessly clean with the sole exception of the sword wound in the middle of his chest, and it seemed so very wrong to dirty his hand with her grimy one. “Please, no.”

The world seemed to recede, and her vision narrowed to a pinpoint: there was nothing else in the universe except Legolas, and the fact that he was dead. For the first time since becoming Slayer twenty years ago, Buffy Summers forgot to pay attention to the danger around her.

And so it was no real surprise to anyone when an orc realized one of the enemy was crouched on the ground, crying over a dead elf, and with a hoot of elation, ran her through. She didn’t cry out, only let out a sigh, and tumbled forward onto Legolas, her face coming to rest in the crook of his throat and shoulder. His delectable scent surrounded her, and it was the last thing she was aware of as she died. Again.

Part 23

When Buffy awoke again, it was not on the battlefield, nor in Minas Tirith, nor any other place she had ever been. It was a large, empty plane with only the odd boulder here and there, quite colourless and vacant. The air was cool and moist, and while there didn’t seem to be any sunlight per se, the entire area was suffused with a soft, grey glow. It looked a little familiar… where had she seen it before?

Then the memory of the last few moments of her life came crashing over her and she fell to her knees in the resultant weakness. “Legolas,” she whispered in despair, tears wetting her hands as she cried into them.

“Yes?” he replied from behind her, and she made an ungainly leap to her feet and spun around to face him. There he stood, hair only slightly dishevelled as he frowned down at his wound, fingering the ragged edges of the bloody rent in his tunic while she gaped at him.

“You’re not dead?” she whispered, eyes roaming over him greedily. It was all she could do to keep from launching herself from him, touching his skin to feel its living warmth, lay her head against his chest to hear his heartbeat.

“I have never been dead before, so I cannot be sure,” he said thoughtfully. “We elves are supposed to go to the Halls of Mandos.” Legolas looked around him with great doubt. “This place does not appear to be them.” He frowned deeper. “At least, I hope it is not.”

“Hey, it’s not much but it’s home,” came a cheerful voice, and they both turned to see Skip approaching, smiling widely. Legolas stepped in front of her, to protect her with his body.

Buffy groaned. “Whenever you show up, something big is about to happen.” She looked up at Legolas, still in shock after her last sight of him had been his still, cooling body on the ground. “It’s ok, he won’t hurt us.” The elf only nodded down at her, but did not relax his stance.

“What can I say?” Skip asked, spreading his hands wide. “When the Valar care enough to send the very best.”

“Argh,” was her response, and she rolled her eyes as she stepped from behind Legolas. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why is Legolas here and not in the Halls of Mandy? Weird, naming it after a Barry Manilow song.”

Skip sighed. “Good thing you’re not as blonde as you pretend to be, Slayer,” he told her severely. “Chaos would have reigned eons ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she grumbled. “So, give. What’s the what? Where are we? Are we dead?”

“Pretty much, yes,” Skip replied. “This is The Vestibule.” Buffy could almost hear Legolas’ eyebrow lift. “Most people—and elves—when they die, get sent directly on to their final destinations. But there are certain of you—beings of great light or darkness—who get the special business. They are given… opportunities, choices they can make that will effect not only their eternity, but everyone else’s. Both of you are to have these same choices put to you.”

“Was Angel one of these?” Buffy asked in a whisper, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist, and Legolas turned his head sharply to look at her.

“Don’t be jealous, boy. The vampire was a Champion. It’s a logical question to ask.” Skip told the elf kindly before turning to Buffy. “Yes, he was.”

“Boy?” Legolas asked, nose lifting a fraction into the air.

Skip grinned. “Compared to me, you are a boy,” he said. “Do you know what a kalpa is?” Legolas shook his head ‘no’. “It’s a Hindu thing. A kalpa is 4,320,000 years old, and I,” he continued proudly, “am almost four kalpa old.”

Even ancient Celeborn would have to blink at that, so Legolas felt no shame when he realized he was gaping. “My apologies,” he said at last.

Skip nodded briskly and turned back to Buffy. “Yes, Angel came here. His choice… ah, looks like the man himself is here to tell you about it.”

Her eyes bugged out, and she spun once more to find yet another person had appeared in their vicinity. Angel stood there, still dressed in “King of Pain” mode—head-to-toe black, knee-length leather coat, hair tousled in that way Spike had always dearly loved to mock.

“Buffy,” he said, and held out his hand to her. She took a few halting steps forward and placed her hand in his, gasping to feel it was warm, not cool. He nodded at her expression. “Yes, I’m human again.”

“What’s going on?” she demanded, her voice low. “I’m all confused, and worried, and I don’t like it.”

Angel took her other hand as well, and tugged her closer to him until he could press her palms flat against his chest. There was a noise from behind her that Buffy could have sworn was a growl, if elves were indeed capable of that sound. “When I died, I was given a boon.”

“A boon?” Funny word, she thought dazedly. This was uber-strange, and the way he was looking at her was making her nervous.

Angel nodded. “I was able to ask one favour, and it would be granted to me. Anything I wanted, within reason.” His dark eyes were glowing with a soft light, and Buffy realized that the demon she was used to seeing lurk in the recesses of him was gone—he was all Angel, with no Angelus at all.

“What did you ask for?” she asked breathlessly, staring up at him in wonder.

“You,” he replied simply. “I asked to be able to be with you, forever.” He looked down at her with a gentle smile, knowing she would be touched and delighted by his revelation.

Buffy surprised him a lot, then, when she pulled back and slapped him with a solid whump on his chest, ignoring his startled ‘ouch!’ of pain. “Back in the Paths of the Dead, you said that was it! That we’d never see each other again!”

“They met on the Paths of the Dead?” Legolas inquired of Skip, who’d seated himself comfortably on a boulder and sat back to watch the festivities.

“Yeah, while she was passed out for that day… it was a whole thing,” Skip explained out of the corner of his mouth, not wanting to interrupt Buffy’s momentum, as she seemed on quite a roll.

“You’re mad at me because I’m not gone forever?” Angel demanded, disbelieving. He was watching her with a wounded expression and the slightest bit of a pout. Twenty years ago, both would have melted her swiftly, but now…

I’m almost forty years old, she thought angrily. I’m not going to let him manipulate me like he used to. Fury filled her until she felt she would explode from it. “I’m mad because you lied to me, and what’s this about making another decision that affects me?” She punctuated this question with another smack, this time to his shoulder.

“She is ever a violent woman,” Legolas murmured fondly, folding his arms across his chest and surveying the two. Angel was holding up his hands in surrender and trying without success to apologize, but Buffy wasn’t letting him get away with it.

“I’m sick of this, Angel!” she ranted, arms waving in agitation. “I’m sick of men thinking they know what’s best for me!” Here she turned the force of her glare at Legolas, and he had the grace to look a little sheepish. “And don’t think you’re getting off lightly, either!” she yelled toward Skip, who flinched, and then upward where she imagined the Valar to be. “No more messing with Buffy’s fate! This ends here!”

She pulled away from Angel and strode to an empty spot between two big stones. “I wanna know all the secrets concerning me, all of them. Or I swear to… you, I will never kill another bad buy again!”

Skip stared at her in disbelief and alarm. “You would stand by while Middle-Earth sinks into wrack and ruin?”

“C’mon, Buffy,” Angel cajoled. “You know you couldn’t do that.”

But she just levelled a look upon them that was, to Legolas at least, hauntingly reminiscent of Haldir at his snootiest. She was serious. “She means it,” he said softly. “And I do not blame her. She has been a pawn for far too long.”

“Darn tootin’,” she agreed, looking at each in turn, but her eyes lingered on him just a fraction longer. “Spill it, Skip.”

The demon sighed. “Fine,” he agreed sulkily, looking greatly put out. “Angel here has requested that you two be together forever. Your gift is death, as it always has been. But you can decide what form it will take.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“Did you know what, in the right hands, life is a currency?” Skip asked, tilting his head to the side. “You tried to buy Dawn’s life with your own, but that didn’t work. Wasn’t the right situation, didn’t have the proper authority.”

“And are you the proper authority?” she drawled, not looking at all impressed with him.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He smirked. “You can buy Legolas’ life, if you want. But that will mean no more waking-from-death for you; if you take this choice, this will be the last death you will wake from.” He paused. “In fact, you don’t have to wake from it if you don’t want to. You can just walk off with Angel here, if you want.”

Buffy turned to face the former vampire, reading on his face all his anguish, his longing, his love. “And the alternative?” she asked quietly, flinching at the hurt that crossed Angel’s features.

“The alternative is you wake up, Legolas doesn’t, and you continue as you have for the past seventeen years.”

Buffy stared down at her feet, thinking hard. The first choice meant leaving behind Legolas, her friends, and Dawn to be with Angel; the second meant deserting Angel to return to those back on Middle-Earth, and Legolas would still be dead. “I need to think about this,” she said unsteadily. “And I need to talk to Skip about it. Alone.”

Angel and Legolas walked away, going in different directions but still eying each other suspiciously as Buffy turned to Skip, her face anxious. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her tone pleading. “What do I do?”

“I can’t tell you, Buffy,” Skip said sadly. “Wish I could.”

“Isn’t there some sort of middle ground?” Buffy asked. “Some way Legolas could live, and I could go back?”

Skip goggled at her. “You don’t want to be with Angel?”

She studied her clasped hands, head bent in sorrow. “No,” she whispered. “I still love him—I will always love him—but that’s over. It was over when he left me, twenty years ago.” She looked up, her eyes settling gently on Legolas. As if he felt her gaze on him, the elf looked up as well, and they merely stared at each other for a long moment. “So much has happened since then. I’m not who I used to be. I don’t want to die anymore. ”

“It doesn’t help that Angel hasn’t changed at all, either. Still trying to ‘cute’ his way out of trouble, still making my choices for me. He’s always treated me more as a protégée than an equal, because of his age and experience. Walking around like some wise master, and I’m just an impressionable student of his” She snorted. “But you know what? Legolas is way older than him, and he’s never made me feel stupid, or young, or foolish just because he’s been around a few thousand years more.”

She heaved a sigh. “I don’t know if I can ever be with him—he’s shown alarming tendencies to made decisions for me, just like Angel does, but…” she dragged her attention from Legolas back to Skip. “But I can’t let it end here. I can’t just walk away. Ten years ago, even one year ago—yeah, I would have taken my Gift and run with it. But not any more.”

Buffy straightened her shoulders. “Here’s the deal. Legolas gets to live, and so do I. I also get to choose when I die—meaning, I’ll live as long as I damn well please, and not a moment less.”

Skip looked doubtful. “The Valar don’t like to make bargains,” he began, but she placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“That’s the deal,” she repeated stubbornly. “I think I’ve done enough for them, I deserve this. Legolas comes back to life, and I live no matter my illness or injury until I decide otherwise. Tell the Valar to put that in their pipes and smoke it.”

Skip looked toward Legolas, and red eyes met blue for a long moment before the demon shrugged in resignation. “Fine, fine, fine,” he grumbled finally, tugging on his chin-ring in agitation. “But they’re not happy.”

“Cry me a river,” she retorted, supremely unconcerned that she’d earned the displeasure of the gods.

“No,” Legolas interrupted, striding toward them. “You will not leave it like that, demon,” he informed Skip. “You will not let her think she has succeeded in her demands, when she has not.”

Buffy frowned. “What in the blue hell are you talking about?” she demanded of Skip, who was studying a boulder in the distance with rather more care than really was warranted.

“Kalpas be damned,” Legolas said, lip curling in disgust. “You are a coward.” He turned to Buffy. “He has not told you of my boon, Dagnir.”

“Dagnir?” Angel snorted from a bit away, bitterness plain on his face. It was clear he knew how this was going to end. They ignored him.

“What is your boon, Legolas?” she asked softly.

He reached out then, and caressed her cheek with his hand before lightly grasping the wrist-thick braid that hung over her shoulder. “I asked only that you be given free will, tithen maethonamin, instead of settling for what others wish for you. That is why the Valar agreed to your bargain, because I wished for you to have whatever you wanted.”

She was struck speechless, and stared up into Legolas’ face, helpless to tear her eyes from him. “You gave up your boon so I could make my own choices? Are you insane?”

Legolas laughed. “It has been said so in the past,” he admitted, and tugged on her braid. “But I consider it a sacrifice well-spent. There are no words to express my sorrow for hurting you, Buffy.” Blue, blue eyes glowed at her, warm and soft with devotion. “I can only plead fear and stupidity on my part.”

She gazed at him for long seconds more before turning to Skip once more. “So?” she demanded abruptly, tapping her foot impatiently. “You gonna send us back, or what?”

“I thought you’d want to say goodbye to Angel,” the demon replied stiffly.

She turned to look at Angel, studied the familiar slouch of his shoulders, the line of his profile. “No,” she replied softly. “We’ve already said goodbye.” The ache at the sight of him was back, but much dulled. It felt more like a fading bruise than the gaping wound it had been for decades, and Buffy knew she truly was getting over him.

Legolas, however… the pain, confusion, and anger she felt in regard to him was still fresh, but still there was an undercurrent of excitement threaded throughout it all. “I can’t wait to see what’s gonna happen,” she murmured, and then there was a flash of light, and she fell unconscious once more.

*tithen maethonamin = my tiny warrior

Part 24

"I. can't. lift her!" groaned a voice close to Buffy's head as her limp body was grasped round the waist and tugged upward. "She. won't. let go. of him!"

Now that consciousness had returned to her, her senses were following. First, of course, was sound; then smell: the stench of blood and sweat hovered around the periphery of her mind, while Legolas' own particular scent captured the majority of her attention. Feeling returned to her then, and she realized that beneath her cheek pressed to him, his chest neither vibrated from his heartbeat, nor rose and fell with his breath. She began to get a little worried that perhaps Skip had fibbed to her.

"Even in death, she is ever stubborn." The voice continued, and she was released to slump back on top of Legolas. It was Aragorn, she realized, and he sounded more amused than upset. Hmph, she said to herself, thinking he could be a little less chipper in light of the fact that her no-longer-dead body was pinning Legolas' still-dead one to the ground.

A little further away she could hear muffled sobbing that sounded suspiciously dwarven, and she thought her heart might break at Gimli's grief. Concentrating hard, she willed strength back into her limbs, then forced her arms to release Legolas. Pushing up slowly, she sat back on her heels and stared down at him. He looked like he could be asleep, except his eyes were closed. And, of course, the lack of breathing thing.

"Buffy?" Aragorn asked, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Even so, she flinched away from him, eyes still locked on Legolas. What was wrong? He was supposed to be alive, both she and he had used their boons to make sure they both lived.

"He's not supposed to be dead," she told him dully, and Gimli sobbed louder. She looked up to see not only he and Aragorn, but a crowd of others standing around her, pity plain on their faces. She turned her gaze once more to the elf. "Please, Legolas, don't be dead." Feeling wane the little strength she'd gathered to herself, Buffy placed her head on his chest once more.

Long moments passed, and she held him close, waiting patiently for something, anything to indicate that he lived, but nothing happened. One by one the crowd dispersed until there was only the core group: Aragorn, Gimli, Haldir, Boromir. Aragorn sat on the dusty, bloody ground beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist, knowing that even if she gave no indication, his warmth comforted her.

Finally the sun began to go down, and Aragorn spoke. "My sister," he began, "There are things I must do. We are winning, but still there are more to fight, and many are injured that need my help, but I will not leave you. You must come away from here; we will bring Legolas, and once in the city you can sit with him again."

Buffy fastened bleary eyes on him, her gaze moving over each of them in turn. Gimli sat on Legolas' other side, clasping the elf's hand in his own stubby one; he looked dreadful. Haldir's face was impassive, but his eyes never wavered from her. Boromir seemed not only exhausted, but somehow guilty as well. a vague sense of suspicion crept into her mind, pushing back her numbness and the blind-barbaric fury that threatened to overtake her at Skip's betrayal of his promise to them.

"Where's Dawn?" she asked sharply, sitting up once more and leaning against Aragorn. For the first time since reawakening, she looked at her surroundings and realized they were no longer in the middle of the plains-cum-battlefield where they'd died-sometime after that they'd been moved to this sheltered niche in the great wall of Minas Tirith. In the distance a ring of soldiers cordoned of the area from the remaining enemy.

Boromir knelt by her, his face pleading for understanding and mercy. "She rode out with Gandalf; I thought she would be safe there. But she leapt from Shadowfax almost the first chance she had, and. I am not sure what happened," he said in a rush. "But I was in the city when she was carried back-"

"Carried back?" Buffy demanded, voice rising. Aragorn squeezed his arm tightly around her waist and she eeped at the pressure.

"She said that she, Merry, and Eowyn had killed the Lord of the Nazgûl," Boromir told them, and smiled with pride. "Not with a full company of men could you defeat that monster, but my Dawn, a Hobbit, and a shield-maid of Rohan did the deed." He sobered then. "Of course, they are quite ill with some dark sickness."

"They are why I must return soon, Dagnir," Aragorn said quietly. "They will need my healing, and whatever the twins can do for them."

Torn between her love for her sister and the raging ache in her chest for Legolas, she looked down again at him; he was as unmoving as ever. "Yes," she agreed, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears, hollow and empty like her heart. "We'll bring him to the healers as well."

"Buffy," Aragorn began as he stood and stretched a hand to help her up, "My soul grieves as well for his passing, but Legolas is dead. You must accept this." Boromir and Gimli watched her, concern plain on their faces.

"You don't understand," she said tiredly, ignoring his hand. "When I was dead this time, I had another chat with the Valar. They were supposed to let Legolas live. They said I could have whatever I wanted, and I wanted his life. They said he would live!" Her volume rose until she was screaming up at the sky. "You bastards! You said he would live!" Buffy collapsed back onto his chest then. "You said he would live," she mumbled against the growing wet patch on his tunic from her tears.

An arm wrapped around her waist again; this time, it was Haldir's. "Dagnir, please," he entreated, his deep voice soothing. "We must go now. Cling to me if you must cling to someone, but we must go." He tugged on her, trying to peel her away from Legolas. "The soldiers cannot continue to shield us much longer."

But Buffy had locked her arms around Legolas again, even as her head came up so she could stare at his face. "Legolas?" she asked, the words trembling on the air, quivering from the force of her hope. She'd felt a heartbeat-just a single one, but it had been there. Crouching beside him, she lay her palms flat on his chest and began to perform CPR, or as close to it as she could remember after so long.

"What is she doing?" Gimli muttered to Boromir, who shrugged.

"I do not know, but it appears to be working," the Gondorian replied, for Legolas drew a great, shuddering breath, eyes flying open to stare blindly at the darkening sky above.

Sitting back, Buffy stared at him until he blinked and turned his head feebly toward her. "Ever are you beating on me, Dagnir," Legolas complained, and tried to sit up. "Do not make me wish you had chosen Angel instead of me." He frowned when he fell backwards, too weak to manage it, and frowned deeper when no fewer than four sets of arms came forward to support him.

Buffy's were not amoung them, however. "You didn't seem to mind my beatings when I was directing them toward Angel." As the others watched in fascination, she crossed her arms over her chest. "And who says I chose you, anyway, Mr. Smug Elf?" She tilted her nose up haughtily, leaving all but one of them thinking she was spending entirely too much time with Haldir.

Legolas brushed their hands from his shoulders and sat up again, this time with success. "Did you not choose me over the vampire, then?" he asked, brow raised elegantly. "For it seems to me that you are here with me now, instead of in that strange place with him."

She waved her hand airily, brushing away his reasoning. "Means nothing," she informed him, standing. "Totally irrelevant. Just because I didn't want you to die is no indication of anything-"

"Indeed not," he agreed, but his eyes were twinkling. He even allowed Gimli to assist him to his feet. "But the broken sobbing all over me. ah, that is most definitely a hint that you might perhaps be more devoted to me than you wish to admit." She opened her mouth to deny it, but he stepped to her and took her hand, pressing it to the tear- dampened patch over his heart. "Why will you insist on pretending you do not love me any longer?" he asked quietly. "I know you do, as I love you. Will you not leave off with the deceit?"

"I'm scared, Legolas," she whispered. "You hurt me a lot when you shunned me, and so much has changed so quickly. I need to think about things more, before I can commit to anything."

"You do not need to commit to anything but loving me, for I will not press you to anything you do not wish," he replied, and his eyes were so blue and intent as they gazed into hers that she could not keep from raising up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips.

"Aragorn!" called a voice from beyond their guard, and all turned to see Eomer gesturing wildly. "You are needed! This battle is not yet over!"

"Are you feeling strong enough to fight?" Aragorn asked Legolas with concern, handing his bow, quiver, and daggers back to their owner.

The elf stumbled a little over his own feet. "Not by myself, just yet," he admitted reluctantly. "Perhaps Dagnir and Gimli would be so kind to flank me?"

"It had been my plan even if you had not asked," the dwarf announced grimly. "The last time you left my side, you ended up dead. It shall not happen again."

"You'll be fine in a few minutes," Buffy assured Legolas. "The first time I died I was shaky, too. It gets easier."

And with that, they waded back into the battle. The enemy's numbers were severely depleted, and as the sun lowered in the sky and Legolas' strength returned to him, it became clear that the day would belong to Gondor.

Buffy had just decapitated an Uruk-Hai with a serious halitosis issue when she heard a thin, reedy voice calling her name from very far away.

"Dagnir! Boromir!"

She shielded her eyes against the sunset's glare and peered up, and up, and up. Standing on the wall at the highest level of Minas Tirith stood a Hobbit, waving his arms in agitation.

"Is that Pippin?" Buffy asked Legolas, who spared a scant glance over his shoulder

"No, that is Gimli," he replied, and carved open an orc's chest with a double slash of his blades.

She rolled her eyes. "Look up," she instructed, pointing.

He obeyed, and then frowned. "Yes, that is Pippin. He calls for Boromir as well." They exchanged a look; if both she and Boromir were needed, it could mean only one thing.

"Dawn," Buffy whispered, then yelled, "Dawn?" as a question up at Pippin. His little form immediately began hopping up and down excitedly.

At Buffy's shout, Boromir whipped around from where he was impaling a Wild- man, his face filled with alarm. "What about Dawn?"

"Something's wrong," she replied harshly, and began to run toward the gate, pausing when Legolas and Gimli began to follow. "You two stay here, Aragorn needs you." She reached up and kissed the elf hard on the mouth. "Be careful, we don't have any boons left."

He nodded, his blue eyes glimmering as they stared into hers, and he brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek before spinning around and flinging himself back into the fray, Gimli charging gleefully after with axe upraised.

Buffy and Boromir ran toward the demolished gate, and she became aware of how tired he was as he began to swiftly flag. "How long have you been fighting?" she asked him. "Have you eaten at all?"

"All day," he gasped. "I fear there is not much more left in me to give. And no, there has been no time to eat."

She dug a cake of lembas from a pocket and stuffed it into his mouth. "Chew, and swallow," she ordered him. "If you collapse that's one more thing I have to worry about."

He grinned around the lembas and it wasn't long before the elven waybread did its job and his speed picked up a little. Once they'd entered the city it became clear that all was in chaos, and peering up they saw that the highest level of the city was wreathed in smoke and flame.

"What the hell is going on up there?" Buffy demanded, grabbing the arm of a soldier who leant against the wall, pressing a bloodied wad of cloth against his head wound. His eyes were frightened and very white in his dirty, soot-streaked face.

"I do not know!" the soldier exclaimed. "Some are saying the Steward has gone mad, and Gandalf is set to slay him-"

Boromir took off at a run. Releasing the soldier, Buffy pelted after him. Halfway through the city they met Pippin, who was nearly hysterical as he ran down to meet them. She snatched him up and settled him on her, piggy- back, as they continued through the gates.

"Your father has gone mad!" Pippin declared. "He thinks to burn Faramir and Dawn on a pyre!"

"But they are not dead," Boromir ground out.

"Did I not say he was mad?" Pippin shrilled. "He has soaked them and himself in oil, and waves about a torch! It is but Gandalf's skill with words that has prevented him from yet setting them all alight."

They passed through the last gate, and immediately were assailed with the acrid gusts of smoke pouring from a small building at the base of the great white tower. Its door was flung open, and Gandalf's familiar figure stood in the threshold. Buffy and Boromir pushed past the wizard and entered the building.

Denethor glanced at the newcomers with wild eyes as he brandished a torch, pitch dripping from it with each of his erratic gestures. Behind him, side- by-side on a slab of stone, were the motionless forms of Dawn and Faramir. Their skin and clothing glistened with what Buffy recognized by smell as the oil used in lamps.

"Father!" Boromir shouted. "What folly has come upon you?"

"My son, my eldest!" Denethor cried. "Ah, my heart breaks to see you, alive and yet dead to me!" The torchlight reflected eerily in his eyes, and Buffy suppressed a shudder even as tears began to course down Boromir's face. "One son dead, one nearly in death's grip, and my daughter." He reached a hand out to Dawn, caressing her cheek gently. "Beautiful, beloved daughter. they will not wake again. Should we not go to death together?"

"He's really wigging me out now," Buffy muttered. "Beloved daughter, my ass. Gandalf, distract him so we can get them out of here."

Gandalf stepped forward. "Come, Steward of Gondor, we are needed!" he said, lifting his arms welcomingly. "This can be put behind us." Denethor took a few steps toward the wizard, and Buffy and Boromir took the opportunity to dart behind him and grab their respective siblings. The stench from the lamp oil was very strong on them, and set all four to coughing.

"So!" Denethor cried in triumph when he saw the limp bodies of Faramir and Dawn whisked from the smoky building. "Even in this am I thwarted!"

"Surely you realize it could not be permitted?" Gandalf asked, sounding very old and weary.

"Permitted!" Denethor shrieked. "I am the Steward of Gondor! Lord of Minas Tirith, the shining white city! There are none to say me nay in all this land!"

"There is one, Father," Boromir reminded him, turning from where he lay his brother on the ground. Pippin jumped forward to replace him in tending to Faramir, smoothing rumpled hair back from the damp, smoky brow. "He is Aragorn, true and rightful king, and he shall come to claim his throne. You must give up this fever in your brain, for it is futile." He took a hopeful step forward. "Put down the torch, Father," he entreated. "Put it down, and help me see to Faramir, for he shall be healed."

"Yes," Denethor whispered, and for a brief, shining moment Buffy thought everything would be okay. But then he leapt backward into the midst of the oil-soaked room and flung his arms wide. "Yes!" he cried. "All is futile, and the king is coming! No need is there for a Steward any longer. No Steward, no son, no legacy. Just this. Just a wreath of flame, and eternity."

And with unnerving calm, he set his robes alight before removing a Palantir from his pocket and laying down on the slab previously occupied by his younger son and Dawn. Clasping it on his chest as the flames rose to lick at his body, he closed his eyes peacefully.

Buffy left her ministrations of Dawn and Faramir to help Gandalf restrain Boromir from running to his father. "You can't do anything now!" she told him, yanking him back and out of the building. Gandalf slammed the door shut, his aged face lined with sorrow, and Boromir slumped to the ground, weeping.

Buffy felt her own eyes prickle with tears and fell to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm sorry, Boromir," she murmured, wincing as he clasped her tightly and sobbed into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

 

Continue