By CinnamonGrrl

Part 25

One battle ends, another begins, Buffy thought as she made her tired way from the ruined gates of Minas Tirith to the plains that stretched to the river. In the weak light of the torches stuck at intervals into the bloody ground, one crew searched the hip-deep drifts of bodies for survivors, or the corpses of their allies; another was piling dead orcs and Wild-men up for burning. Already the stench of scorched flesh was thick over the battlefield, and Buffy was glad it was nighttime and too dark for her to see the extent of the carnage.

It didn’t take her long to reach the tent erected for the Fellowship’s use. One of the Rangers had told her back in the city that Aragorn was refusing to step inside the walls of Minas Tirith while he was yet uncrowned, but Dawn and the others suffering from the mysterious shadow sickness were worsening, and one of the healers had stated that ‘the hands of a king are the hands of a healer’. And so, she trudged her way through the dead and dying to persuade Aragorn to enter the city and save her sister’s life.

It didn’t end up being as hard as she had thought. Once she’d stepped inside the tent, she’d been swept into the fierce grip of Legolas, then tugged from his arms by Gimli, passed to Aragorn, who was pried away from her by Haldir, and finally even the aloof Eomer embraced her before Legolas claimed her once more.

“So, I guess that means you’re happy to see me?” she asked them from the circle of his arms, enjoying the triumph shining on their faces.

“My heart rejoices to know we have not lost but a few of our number, Dagnir,” Aragorn replied gravely. “Rohan has suffered deeply this day.”

“Yeah, I heard about Theoden,” Buffy said, offering a sad smile to Eomer, who stared down at his feet and blinked rapidly. “But Eowyn should be fine.” She slid her gaze to Aragorn. “If I can get a king to come heal her, that is.”

Both men blinked in shock. “Eowyn lives?” Eomer whispered, uncaring now that tears filled his eyes. “I had heard she was struck down, and Meriadoc with her.”

“And Dawn too,” Buffy said. “It took all three of them to kill the Black Captain, but they did it.” She paused a moment. “Of course, they’re all as sick as Faramir because of it. They need you, Aragorn.”

“Then they shall have me,” he declared with a grim smile. “None shall perish if I may stop it.” And he followed her into the city, pulling his hood up so none might recognize him as Isildur’s heir.

Buffy was immensely grateful for Legolas’ arm around her waist, supporting her as they went. Usually she was pretty perky after waking from her latest death, but the emotional upheaval of the day had worn her down quickly.

“Soon you shall rest,” Legolas whispered into her ear.

“I need a bath,” she muttered in disgust at her own ripe aroma before glancing up at him. “You smell just as amazing as always, though. How do you do that?”

He just smiled at her. “I am not as… amazing as I usually am,” he demurred. “Death will do that to an elf. Perhaps we can bathe together.”

Suddenly her fatigue was a distant memory as naughty ideas swiftly filled her head. “Sounds like a plan,” she said faintly, concentrating on placing one unsteady foot ahead of the other as his laughter echoed around them.

There was some confusion in the houses of healing over the matter of finding athelas, or kingsfoil as the herb was sometimes known. Once some was procured, however, Aragorn crushed it between his hands and sprinkled it into boiling water. The sickly smell of the ill and dying that filled the room departed instantly, and the air almost sparkled with clarity.

Aragorn dipped a cloth into the bowl of sweet-smelling fluid that Boromir held at his brother’s side, and bathed the younger man’s face gently. Almost instantly colour returned to Faramir’s face, and his eyes opened. “You have called me, my king?”

“Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!” Aragorn told him. “Awake, and be ready for when I return.”

Faramir promised he would, and admonished Boromir to go to Dawn. “I am in danger no longer, brother,” he said. “Your place is now by her side.”

Reluctantly, Boromir released his hand and made his way across the room to join Buffy and Legolas by the bed where Dawn rested. Her long limbs seemed very young and gangly against the white sheets. Some unknown struggle was being fought behind her eyelids, and he found himself reaching for Buffy’s hand, squeezing tightly in shared anxiety as another bowl of steaming water and more athelas were brought to Aragorn.

“Join us, Minuial, in the realm of the living,” he murmured to her, running the cloth over her face and throat before moving to her injured arm. She began to glow then, a faint tinge of green that suffused her entirely and made her limp body twitch just once before falling still again. It was over in a moment, though, and she slowly opened her eyes as if the lids weighed a thousand pounds each.

“Buffy,” she whispered so faintly only her sister’s Slayerly hearing allowed her to catch the word. “Boromir.” Each came up on a side of the bed and took one of her hands. “Please don’t yell at me.”

Buffy smiled through the tears that broke through her stony façade. “Not now, at least,” she said. “I’ll yell at you later.”

“I shall not yell at you,” Boromir told her, and she rolled her head on the pillow to gaze at him, eyes alight with love, “for I am more proud than words can express.” He had spoken to Gandalf, who told him how fiercely Dawn had fought, how many orc she had taken down. And Merry, before lapsing into unconsciousness, had informed them all that it was Dawn who had defeated the Nazgûl Lord’s demonic beast. Boromir lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. “If I did not love you before, I would be helpless before you now.”

Aragorn took his leave of them then, moving on to where Eowyn was being hovered over by her brother. Buffy decided to leave Dawn and Boromir to their romantic moment, and threaded her fingers into Legolas as they joined Aragorn by Eowyn’s side.

“It has never been me that she loved,” Aragorn said in a low voice, and Buffy glanced sharply at him. So he knew about Eowyn’s crush, did he? “In a trying time, she loved a hero, and a king.” He glanced up at Buffy. “But I am a Man as well, and loved by one who knows me as such.” He turned sad eyes to Eowyn, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Eomund’s daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!”

She stirred then, but did not open her eyes. “I must go to Merry,” Aragorn told Eomer, who hovered anxiously on the other side of the bed. “Continue to call to her.” The Rohirrim nodded and sat, taking up his sister’s hand in his own.

Buffy and Legolas followed along behind Aragorn, and it wasn’t long before Merry was sitting up in bed, demanding food and his pipe while Pippin cried tears of joy that his cousin would live. Laughing, they left the Hobbits to their reunion and left the houses of healing.

Outside a good-sized crowd of people had gathered to wait for Aragorn. Some were begging him to come heal them or their loved ones; others were just eager for a glimpse of their new king.

“He’s not doing anything until he eats something,” Buffy informed them firmly, for she had observed how her friend was visibly drooping with fatigue. Pippin had told her earlier where to find Boromir’s house, and she practically dragged Aragorn to it and heaped a plate with leftovers from one of the Hobbit’s cooking binges.

Joining him, Legolas ate sparingly but Buffy like Aragorn was ravenous and the two of them demolished dish after dish until all was gone and nothing but crumbs were left and they had to lean back in their chairs to accommodate their bulging bellies.

“Ah,” Aragorn sighed complacently. “Just a few more moments until I go again.”

Buffy frowned at that. “I wish you would rest a while first,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest to indicate that she was serious.

Legolas smiled. “You will have to talk quickly, Strider,” he teased. “For I have seen that expression often, and it bodes ill for you.”

Aragorn smiled a little at his friends. “Dagnir, glad I am that you worry for my welfare, but there are wounded who need tending.”

“Then the rest of us will tend them,” she replied stubbornly. “The twins are already at it, I’m sure, and--”

“There are many more with shadow sickness that need the hands of a king,” he told her gravely. “Would that I could share that duty with a prince,” he said, grinning at Legolas, “but alas, only Eomer and I qualify, and I fear he will not leave his sister until she wakes.” A tinge of bitterness tainted his dirty features then, but whether at having to take up Eomer’s ignored duties or regret at Theoden’s demise the others could not be sure.

“I would not blame him for that,” Legolas said softly. “For he has lost his uncle this day; his fear is deep, and it is not long since his cousin Theodred has died, either.”

“Will you at least wash up a little, and lay down for a half-hour?” Buffy pressed.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, slumping in defeat.

“Smart move!” she chirped, and ushered him into a bedroom to rest while she put on water to boil. When she returned, it was to find Legolas cleaning up after their meal. “A guy who does dishes,” she murmured, and slid her arms around his waist from behind. “Don’t I have all the luck?”

He flicked a glance at her over his shoulder, causing his hair to cascade over her face, and she inhaled deeply of his divine scent. “Aragorn is not the only one who will bathe this eve,” he informed her. “I have put on another cauldron of water.”

Buffy hid her smile against his back. “You say that like it’s a warning.”

He turned in her arms and put his own around her. “It is,” he said, and nibbled at her lips. “I give you fair warning now; tonight I will strip your clothes from your fair body and lather the soap over your breasts until they gleam like pink pearls.”

Heat zinged through her at his words, and her chest tightened with the now-familiar twinge of lust. “Oh?” she asked breathlessly. “And then what?”

Legolas trailed his mouth in tiny kisses over her cheek to her ear. “Then I will explore the treasure between your legs with my fingers and tongue,” he whispered, his hot breath teasing the strands of honey-brown hair that escaped her braid. “I will taste you, and then I will fill you with my flesh.”

“Sounds good,” Buffy gasped, her fingers clutching his shoulders to keep from dropping to the floor, as her knees had turned to pudding. “But can’t I be an active participant in this whole thing?”

“Most certainly,” he replied, and took her earlobe between his teeth briefly before kissing down the side of her neck to where it joined her shoulder, and pushed aside the collar of her tunic to place a love-bite in the hollow of her clavicle. “What will you do to me?”

Buffy had to work hard to make her muzzy brain think. “I would… touch your skin, all of it,” she began, and when he hummed encouragingly, grew a little bolder. “I will slide my mouth over you, and know the feel of you on my tongue.” Legolas shuddered against her, just once. “I will take you inside me, and wrap my arms and legs so tightly around you’ll think you can’t breathe.”

He exhaled then, a tiny ‘ah’ that told her how deeply she was affecting him, and slid his hands down her back to clasp her buttocks, pulling her tightly against him so she could feel his arousal. “And then?”

Buffy allowed her pelvis to rock gently against him. “And then I’ll flip you over and ride you,” she murmured into his ear, trailing her lips over the outside edge up to the point and flicking her tongue against it, then smiling as he jerked in surprise. “I’ll ride you, and pull your hands up to squeeze my breasts. I’ll reach down and pinch your nipples while I clench myself around you—“

“The water has been boiling for a while now,” Aragorn said mildly as he entered the kitchen, and smirked at them as they sprang away from each other, breathing hard.

“Yeah,” Buffy gasped. “On it. Just about to bring it to you.”

His grin only grew wider. “I doubt it not.” And he hefted the pot of water by its handle and carried it out of the room. She and Legolas stood on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other and panting as the sounds of splashing could be heard from the bedroom.

“I should… find Elrohir and Elladan,” Legolas said at last. “To tell them to make ready for Aragorn and a long night of healing.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “I need to check on Dawn one last time, and see that Boromir has eaten and is going to sleep at some point.”

They each turned and fled in opposite directions, knowing that if they did not, they’d never make it out of the house again that night.

Buffy fled toward the houses of healing, enjoying the cool night air on her flushed cheeks. Desire thrummed through her, and the anticipation of the lovemaking to come made her almost jittery as she banged open the door and jogged in.

“Hey, Dawn, Boromir,” she greeted them, plopping down at the foot of the bed. “Feeling better?”

“Tons,” Dawn replied weakly. She was sitting up and propped against about a dozen pillows, and Boromir sat beside her with his arm draped protectively over her shoulders. She peered at her sister shrewdly. “Making with the elf-smoochies again?” she asked.

Buffy blinked. “How did you know?”

“Your eyes are shining, your mouth is swollen, and you bounced in here like Tigger on speed,” Dawn retorted. “It’s fairly evident.” She tilted her head to the side consideringly. “Question is, which elf were you smooching?”

“I think it rather obvious that her heart—and her smoochies—belong only to Legolas now, sweet,” Boromir admonished teasingly.

Buffy stared at him. “You’re picking up on our lingo,” she said in amazement.

“It’s actually pretty creepy, isn’t it?” Dawn asked, and then yawned hugely. “God, I’m tired.”

“We shall leave you to sleep, then.” Boromir stood and kissed her lingeringly before turning to gaze down at his sleeping brother. “I will return early tomorrow. If Faramir wakes in the night, you will comfort him?”

“You know it,” Dawn assured him, and snuggled down into the blankets. She was asleep almost instantly.

Merry too was dead to the world, so Buffy left the houses of healing with Boromir by her side. “We’re staying at your place, I hope that’s ok,” she said.

“There is no need to share that humble place, Dagnir,” he told her with a faint smile. “Your place is in the palace with all other honoured guests.” His smile turned bitter. “Now that Denethor is not here to decree banishment, it falls to me to decide who stays where.”

“Boromir,” Buffy began, but he interrupted.

“I do not wish to speak of him yet,” he said softly before coming to a halt and turning to face her. The street around them was utterly silent, and though smoke still floated in wisps around them, the air had cleared for the most part and stars sparkled far overhead. The moon was but half-full, and its dim light cast harsh shadows on Boromir’s face, making him seem old and weary. “Much have I learned this day,” he continued. “I have heard a tale that pleases me little, of Legolas treating you poorly.”

Buffy frowned. “Haldir’s got a big mouth.”

“It was not Haldir, but Gimli,” Boromir corrected. “He worries much about both of you.”

“Why did he tell you about it?”

Boromir slid a glance her way and resumed walking. “I believe he feels that, as your future brother, I am the closest thing to a male relative you have in this world, and as such, your head of family and protector.” Buffy opened her mouth to protest with fury, but he held up a hand. “I know, I know. Do not begin a tirade; I am too exhausted to endure it. I only ask because of my love for you, as my sister.”

She exhaled sharply, her anger gone in the face of his concern. “What do you want to know?”

“You and the elf seemed… comfortable this day. Are matters mended, then?”

Buffy stared out over the wall, able to make out the dark shapes of people walking in the battlefield below as work continued. “I think so,” she said at last. “I hope so. Haven’t really had time to sit down and think the past few days, it’s been crazy, but…” She grinned suddenly, thinking of bath-time. “I think things are mended, yeah.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Then I am glad, Dagnir.” They had reached his house now; Legolas’ trim figure could be seen in silhouette against the candlelight within as he moved from room to room. Sensing Buffy’s return, he went still and faced the door as they entered, and bestowed a lovely smile upon them.

“Elladan and Elrohir came for Aragorn,” he informed them. “I have made them promise not to allow him to work all night; they will tie him to a bed and force him to rest if necessary.”

“Kinky,” Buffy quipped, and Legolas smirked at her as he held out his hand in greeting to Boromir.

There was just the slightest moment’s hesitation before the Man accepted Legolas’ hand, but all three were aware of it. “I will sleep now,” Boromir announced, then mentioned, “I am a very sound sleeper, and my chamber is upstairs, in the farthest corner of the house. So if… certain noises were made in the bedroom downstairs, I would not hear them.” And with that he stalked from the room, leaving Buffy and her elf standing there gaping after him.

“He is as subtle as an arrow through the neck, is he not?” Legolas muttered and busied himself by wiping up a few spilled droplets of water. So intent on his tidying was he that he didn’t notice until too late that Buffy launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and legs around his waist, until it was far, far too late.

Not that he would have wanted to evade her, anyway.

*minuial = dawn

Part 26

Aragorn spent much of the next day closeted with the twins, Gandalf, Eomer, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth deciding what to do next. Gimli spent much of it telling the Hobbits of their trip along the Paths of the Dead and taking of the Corsair fleet. Boromir spent the day fussing over Dawn and Faramir, and Buffy and Legolas spent it in bed together, much to the amusement of all of the above.

When they finally emerged from their room, Buffy was blushing like the bride she was and Legolas’ usual mien of serenity was even more profound than usual. Of course, Gimli felt it was his duty as not only their friend but a dwarf to tease them unmercifully and see exactly what shade of ‘tomato’ he could make Dagnir turn.

The merriment was not destined to last, however.

Pippin, with all the authority of a lord, ordered the dwarf and Buffy to set up tables in the garden behind Boromir’s house while he drafted Legolas to assist with cooking. “Merry is feeling well enough to leave the houses of healing for a few hours, so we shall have a party!” the Hobbit announced, stirring a glutinous mass atop the fire with a spoon almost as tall as he was.

Legolas was not a very able culinary assistant, however, and was soon excused from kitchen duty with orders to summon the other members of their group (“You’re faking,” accused Buffy, to which the elf merely smiled angelically on his way out the door).

Twilight was only just done when Legolas returned. Gandalf announced his appearance with a celebratory firework, and Merry weakly exclaimed “Huzzah!” from his perch in a nest of blankets in Aragorn’s arms. Behind the wizard were Eomer, Elladan and Elrohir, and even Imrahil. Pippin ushered them all into seats and commanded them to eat, eat, eat.

Buffy knew she wasn’t the smartest immortal in the place, nor the more observant, but even she picked up on the speculative glances the others were sending her way. “Ok, spill,” she said when they were done eating, throwing down her fork and glaring at Aragorn. “What’s with all the shifty looks?” He tried to protest but she narrowed her eyes at him dangerously.

“It would seem,” he began slowly, “that we will have perhaps seven thousand with which to confront Sauron.” His face was drawn and so, so tired looking Buffy felt like crying at the sight. “We are woefully outnumbered, and will need to use every weapon in our arsenal. You recognize that, do you not?” His eyed beseeched her to understand. “That I would not ask you this unless the need was desperate?”

She was beginning to get frightened, and with great relief felt Legolas’ hand slip into her, squeezing comfortingly. “You’re scaring me,” she said, her voice low. “What is it you want to ask me? You know I’ll do anything I can to win this war.”

“Truly anything, Dagnir?” Gandalf spoke up now, his wizened face grave as he peered at her through the smoke of his pipe. “Are you prepared to sacrifice the one thing you leapt into a portal to save? The thing given to you by the Valar themselves?”

Horrible realization began to fill Buffy. “You don’t mean…” she whispered, unable to say it.

Gandalf sighed. “Dagnir, I fear I will need to use Dawn for the battle that comes. It will require her blood, much more than the previous times.”

“No.” Buffy said it with great gentleness, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she meant it irrevocably. “Absolutely not. I’ll die for this cause again— I already have twice just in the past year, and a few dozen times since coming to Middle-Earth in the first place. But I won’t have you use Dawn like a— a tool, to wring her dry and discard her.”

The wizard frowned deeply. “Do not mistake me for those who have wronged you, Elizabeth Summers,” he exclaimed, and his voice held a note that was very disturbing. “Never have I done such, and I will not begin now. Protest as you may; this is Dawn’s fate, as I saw when first we met in Fangorn. Hers to be a tool, and mine to be the hand that wields it. She is flesh, yes, but she is also the Key; an entity of immense power.” He gazed pityingly at her. “Why else would the Valar have given her leave to join you in Arda?”

“No,” she repeated, and Legolas pulled her into his embrace. “It’s bad enough that I have to be the Chosen One, and have no control over my life. But not her, too!”

“We all have destinies, Dagnir,” Aragorn told her quietly. “Think you I want the burden of rule upon my shoulders? That I would not prefer to live out my days as merely Strider, Ranger of the North? It is not my wish to usurp Boromir from the role he has been trained to take, nor to have all look to me for guidance and protection. Easily could it mean my death; I do not relish it, not at all. But it is my duty, and my birthright. I shall not shirk it.”

Buffy gazed around the table at them all; Eomer and the twins met her eyes unblinkingly. They, too, had fates beyond their control, and would not support her. Looking at the Hobbits, she saw they flushed guiltily, but the sympathy on their faces told her that while they didn’t like the idea, they agreed with Gandalf and Aragorn. In desperation, she turned to Legolas.

He stared at her a long moment, an almost tangible current of emotion flowing between them, and then he turned to Gandalf. “I do not believe anyone’s fate should be decided by another,” he said at last, ignoring the expressions of shock and disbelief on the faces of the others. “Long have I been prince of Mirkwood, and long have there been expectations placed upon me that I would rather not. Why do you think I am here, instead of the forest of my homeland? For my heart longs to explore and seek, not to reside in a palace and rule. I did not have to be the elf that joined the Fellowship; Glorfindel would have done just as able a job.”

Legolas rested his gaze on each of them in turn. “I have know some of you for centuries,” he said, addressing Gandalf and the twins, “and some of you mere months.” He smiled briefly at Aragorn, Gimli, and the Hobbits. “And Eomer, Imrahil, it is my honour to know you, though it be but weeks. I would give my life for all of you, or each in turn, if I could. But I will not offer the life of my new sister, for it is not my place.”

His eyes hardened then; soft and dreamy no longer, they became hard and opaque as lapis. “I say we put the question to Dawn herself. If she agrees, then she shall join us at the Black Gates of Mordor. If she refuses, then you will have to step over the corpse of an Elf to do it.”

“And a Dwarf,” rumbled Gimli, scowling around the table at them.

Tears ran freely down Buffy’s face and she reached out to Gimli, clasping his hand tightly in her own. “And a Slayer,” she added thickly.

Then Pippin made a sound of great agitation, and leapt to his feet. “I cannot do this!” he exclaimed, shame writ plain on his little face. “Merry and I, and Sam and Frodo, we all joined the Fellowship of free will. If we die, it’s our own choice. But we can’t make Dawn do anything she don’t want to do!” And he bounded across the room to Buffy, submitting to her teary hug and standing proudly between her and Gimli. “You’ll have to get past an Elf, a Dwarf, a Slayer, and a Hobbit if you want to take Dawn against her will!” he declared.

“Two Hobbits,” corrected a frail voice, and all turned to see Merry struggle free of his blankets. “though I am not much of a barrier at the moment,” he continued weakly. “Still, bringing me down will slow you a little.” He walked slowly to Pippin’s side and leaned heavily on Gimli’s shoulder, allowing Buffy to kiss his cheek.

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged glances, and then the Man sighed. “It will be as you have said,” Aragorn conceded. “We will ask Dawn.” And he stood.

“What, now?” Buffy demanded. “It’s late! She’s already asleep.”

“This matter cannot wait for the morrow, Dagnir,” Gandalf told her. “If she will not come, we must devise an alternative plan for our attack.”

They made for the houses of healing, Buffy grumbling the entire way. Once inside, she stomped to the head of Dawn’s bed and crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at Aragorn and Gandalf as they followed her in.

“What is the meaning of such a scowl, Dagnir?” Boromir asked mildly from his position between Faramir and Dawn. His betrothed was fast asleep, and he’d been speaking quietly with his brother. She’d always been distant with Gandalf, but he’d thought her quite close to the future king and was quite surprised to see such ire directed Aragorn’s way from the small woman.

She smiled grimly, and it wasn’t a nice smile. “I’ll let Aragorn fill you in. I’m sure you’ll just love what he has to say.”

Boromir never thought he’d see the day when Aragorn son of Arathorn, also known as the mighty ranger Strider, future king of Gondor, would blush bright red and begin to stammer, but that is exactly what the Man did when Boromir turned an expectant face to his new liege. “Um, you see—“ Aragorn began, only to stop a scant moment later. “It is like this,” he tried again, but got no further. “It would seem that—“

“Oh, for chrissake,” Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes.

“You are not helping!” Aragorn exclaimed, glaring at her.

“Great, now you woke her up!” she retorted as Dawn stirred and opened her eyes.

“It is just as well, for this concerns her more than any other!” Aragorn snapped, and turned to smile pleasantly down at Dawn, who eyed him with great and increasing suspicion.

“Whaddya want?” she asked sleepily, pushing messy hair off her face. “You’re creeping me out with that smile.”

“You and your sister, ever suspicious,” he grumbled, fiddling with the tongue of his leather belt.

“With good reason!” Buffy snapped. “Will you just ask her, already?”

He opened his mouth to reply but Boromir raised a hand to silence them. “Enough,” he commanded. “Dagnir, shut your lovely mouth a moment, will you, my sister? Aragorn, tell us what troubles you.”

Aragorn took a deep breath. “Long have we debated it, and I need not tell you that your sister opposes us, but Gandalf and I, with Eomer and Imrahil, have decided that we will require you when we go to Mordor. Gandalf will need you as the Key if we are to defeat Sauron.”

Boromir exhaled sharply, and his face flushed a deep brick-red under his tan, but he did not speak. Indeed, it looked as if he were fighting some extreme internal battle with himself, and his hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs before he blinked several times, seeming to come to some conclusion, and his colour returned to normal.

“Honey, are you alright?” Dawn asked him, concerned. He only shook his head, refusing to speak.

Buffy beamed proudly at her future brother-in-law. “He doesn’t want to make decisions for you, Dawnie, but he really hates the idea.” He smiled tightly back at her in recognition of her perception.

“Um… Aragorn, it sounds like a great time,” Dawn began with not a little amount of sarcasm, “but I’m not exactly at my best, here.” She indicated the fact that she was sitting in a hospital bed. “Kinda indisposed from the last battle. Broken arm, dislocated shoulder, weird shadow mojo.”

“I know,” he murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “If we could wait until you were stronger, or there were another way, I would not hesitate to give the order. But I fear there is not.”

“When would we leave?” Dawn asked softly, her voice quavering a little as she reached out to clasp the hands of Buffy and Boromir.

Aragorn did not answer; Gandalf shifted from where he leaned on his staff and said, “The day after tomorrow, at first light.”

Boromir could not contain himself any longer. “You mean to drag her over war-torn lands when she is but days out of the grip of death?” he demanded, leaping to his feet. “Or is her health of no consequence? Will she not return from this mission?”

The glance exchanged by the wizard and Aragorn was his answer, and he again flushed darkly. “I will not answer for you,” he told Dawn, his gentle tone at odds with the murderous expression on his face, “but I do not want you to do this.”

Dawn turned to Buffy. “I already know how you feel,” she said, and Buffy nodded firmly.

“Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry are all on your side too,” she told Dawn.

“As am I,” mentioned a voice from behind Boromir, and he shifted aside to reveal Faramir propped on an elbow. He looked almost as angry as his brother. “It is irresponsible to ask this girl to give more, when she has almost forfeited her life already. She is but newly arrived in Middle-Earth! This battle is not her own.”

“Sing it,” Buffy agreed ominously. “I didn’t have her come here so she could bleed all over the place and make little portals for you to suck energy from.”

Aragorn stepped close to her, and was about to say something deeply stupid when Legolas’ calm voice flowed through the room. “Might I suggest you step away from my wife, Aragorn? For I cannot say I like how you are looming over her in that manner.”

“Wife?” Boromir asked, looking puzzled.

“Wife!” Dawn shrieked, and started bouncing up and down in the bed until she became dizzy and fell back against Boromir. “When did this happen?” she continued weakly. “And why wasn’t I invited?”

Buffy and Legolas exchanged a glance. “It wasn’t exactly a time you want to share with the family and friends,” Buffy murmured. “Sort of an intensely private moment.”

Dawn gave an ‘ah’ of understanding, and then leveled a very scary, very blue stare at Legolas. “I’ve heard you were a real dickhead to Buffy for a while,” she said to him. He blinked, but did not reply. “She’s apparently forgiven you; I’m reserving judgment. You’d better hope I never hear of it happening again, because elf or not, I will lay a smackdown on your ass like you’ve never dreamed.” He blinked again.

“I believe that means she will cause you deep suffering,” Boromir translated cheerfully. “And I second the sentiment.”

“And I third it,” Faramir piped up in back. “Think you an elf can resist an attack by three warriors of Gondor?”

“And a Ranger,” Aragorn added almost reluctantly, shooting her a sulky look from the corner of his eye.

“And a wizard,” Gandalf said with a gallant bow to Buffy.

She sighed, trying and failing to keep a smile off her lips. They were trying to apologize to her. “Oh, fine,” she said ungraciously. “I don’t hate you anymore. As long as you abide by Dawn’s decision.”

They all turned expectantly to Dawn then, and she squirmed uncomfortably. “I’ll have to give it some thought,” she said at last.

“Everybody out now,” Boromir said, and flapped his hands in a shooing motion to usher them outside.

“I would speak with Dawn a moment,” Legolas protested gently.

Several sets of eyes narrowed at this; but he’d locked eyes with Dawn once more and she must have seen something in his that satisfied her, because she nodded. “It’s ok,” she told Boromir and Buffy. “It won’t take long.”

“And I shall remain,” Faramir said from his bed a few feet away.

The others clustered around the door, frowning suspiciously at Legolas as he whispered into Dawn’s ear. It was fairly obvious that Faramir was striving mightily to overhear what they were saying, but from the cranky look on his face was having no success.

“Faramir’s a hoot with his overprotective brother act,” Buffy muttered to Boromir.

“He has ever wanted a sister,” he replied just as low, smiling down at her. “As have I.”

“Aw, shucks,” Buffy said, grinning at him, and then was distracted by Dawn flinging her arms around Legolas’ neck. The elf’s eyes bugged out as his oxygen was cut off, and he patted Dawn’s back in an effort to encourage her to release him.

“What was that?” she asked curiously as Legolas joined her once more, rubbing his throat.

“It is for Dawn to share with you, if she wishes,” he only said mysteriously, and she could get no more from him.

Part 27

There was much fluttering and muttering, giggling and wiggling the next day. Too much, thought Faramir, for a place of healing, but he was becoming used to his brother’s future wife and her sister. They had strange manner of speaking, and were oddly masculine in both dress and demeanor sometimes—even now, Dagnir sat sprawled in a chair on the far side of Dawn’s bed with her ankle resting on the opposite knee, chattering happily with her sister, Boromir, and her new husband.

That was another odd thing—Dagnir’s relationship with the elf. Boromir had shared a grim tale of misunderstanding, death, and boons from the Valar until Faramir’s head quite swum in confusion. That she would forgive Legolas so quickly was testament either to her immense love for him, or else her immense foolhardiness. He hoped it was not the latter.

He still did not know what the elf had whispered into Dawn’s ear the previous night. It was very frustrating, this being bedridden. He was a soldier, a warrior, a Man of action. He was bored, and his new scars itched ferociously. His only comfort was in knowing that he was healing quickly, for had not the healer allowed him to take a short walk around the garden yesterday afternoon? He was not as well as Merry, for while the Hobbit had been able to take each of the seven meals a day he desired, Faramir could only yet eat sparingly, but he fared better than Dawn, who was still too weak to leave her bed.

Or poor Eowyn… Faramir was most impressed with the shield-maid’s resilience, and even more so with her brother’s devotion. Rarely did Eomer leave her side, but tried ever to coax her to stay awake just a moment longer, or to drink just a sip more of the fortifying broth supplied by the gallon.

Faramir was aware of Eowyn’s mortification when Aragorn and Gandalf returned for their answer; he felt her acute embarrassment at being privy to a private moment due to her stationing in the room, and smiled at her, looking to make her feel more at ease.

He did not expect, then, the flash of sudden attraction he felt at the sight of her eyes so large and sad against her white face, golden hair spilling over the pillows, and she offered him a wobbly smile of her own in gratitude for his kindness. “I thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “It is not meet for me to know of these private things, but you must feel as awkward as I.”

Faramir found himself scrambling for a reply. He settled for saying, “Um, yes,” and then flinched at its inanity. She did not seem to find fault with it, however, for which he was profoundly pleased. “You are feeling better this day?” he queried.

And so started their conversation, held in hushed tones as the rest of the room with its raised voices and disappointed sighs receded into the background.

***

“You refuse our plea?” Gandalf said, his voice bleak as he met Dawn’s gaze. Beside him, Aragorn rubbed his hand wearily over his face.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not well enough. There’s more than just me to consider. My health is important to Buffy and Boromir and… others. It’s just not a good idea.”

“But—“ Aragorn began, only to be cut off by his foster brother’s hand on his arm.

“Leave off, Estel,” Elrohir said quietly, staring at Dawn. “You ought not try to change her mind; it is decided.”

“Very well.” Gandalf’s disappointment was palpable. “We should go, now, and prepare to depart on the morrow.”

Buffy caught up with them as they cleared the doorway. “Um, I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I know you were really counting on her Key-ness helping out To be honest, I’m surprised she refused. I was positive she would insist on going.”

“It matters not, Dagnir,” Gandalf replied tiredly. “We will just have to find another way.” He turned and made his way down the street, a solitary figure all in white, very upright despite his aged appearance.

Aragorn was about to follow him when Buffy tugged at his sleeve. “Are we okay?” she asked the Man, eyes huge as she looked up at him.

He sighed. “Of course, Buffy,” he said, one of his rare instances of him using her actual name. “Just because we shared harsh words does not mean our friendship is severed.”

“Oh, good,” she said in relief, and hugged him fiercely. “I love you, you big jerk.”

“Likewise, you… big jerk,” Aragorn replied, grinning down at her even. The strange words felt odd in his mouth, but seemed to fit when speaking to her. “You are happy with Legolas?”

“That’s the popular question around here lately,” she said, fairly glowing at the thought of the elf. “Yeah, I am.”

”And he is aware of the beating to follow should he behave as he did after Helm’s Deep?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buffy replied with a laugh. “He’s been threatened, like, twenty times. I think he’s suitably frightened enough to be a model husband.”

“Excellent,” Aragorn said with a slow, dangerous smile before remembering something and sobering. “Have you spoken to Haldir recently?”

A pang of guilt shot through Buffy. “No,” she said slowly. “Haven’t really had the time… where is he, anyway?”

“He has been tending those of his elves injured in the battle, and doing what he can to help the Men as well.” Aragorn slid a glance her way. “He knows of your bonding with Legolas, and is… unhappy… you did not see fit to inform him yourself.”

“Oh, boy,” Buffy muttered under her breath. Haldir ‘unhappy’ was not a pretty sight. Ok, it was a pretty sight, as he was a damned hot elf, but it was certainly an unpleasant experience. “I should go see him, shouldn’t I?”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, you should. And you should apologize sweetly, as well, for he has worried greatly about your pain only to learn you have wed he who caused it in the first place.”

“Ooh,” Buffy groaned. “You’re giving me to big-brother lecture on how to treat people.”

He only smiled. “It is nothing compared to what Haldir will say, I assure you.”

And it was, too—Buffy sought and found Haldir in a tent healing the infected stump of a Rohirrim who’d lost a leg in the battle, and the cold look the elf sent her way sent actual chills over her flesh.

“Can we talk?” she asked timidly. He nodded curtly and rose from his patient, washing his hands with typically brisk, efficient motions before following her outside and leading her to another tent. Inside were three cots and the detritus typical to three elves at war, as he was sharing it with Elrohir and Elladan. A snarled, broken bowstring lay discarded on the floor; there was a whetstone tossed haphazardly on the hastily straightened blankets of one of the cots; a small table held a packet of carefully wrapped lembas.

Once inside, he turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest, and remained silent. Was he waiting for her to speak first?

“I don’t like when you’re mad at me,” Buffy said pitifully, eyes huge and sad as she gazed up at him, but still he said nothing thing. “Haldir, please.”

“What do you wish me to say, Dagnir?” he asked at last. “Would you have me tell you I understand what you have done? I do not. Would you have me approve of your binding with Legolas? I cannot. Would you have me give you my blessing? I will not.”

“I love him,” she whispered, hanging her head.

“Love,” he repeated with a snort. “Always have I admired the capacity you have for that emotion, Dagnir, but love is what has gotten you into every mess that has ever hurt you. You will forgive me if I do not believe it will be different this time?”

“It will be!” Buffy protested. He merely arched a dark-gold brow. “It will be,” she repeated sullenly.

“And you have this on whose authority? Not the Valar’s certainly.”

“Things are different this time,” she insisted. “This time there’s nothing to keep us apart, like him being a vampire. We’re both immortal.”

“But he is an elf. You have heard yourself how his blood sings for the sea. Think you he will remain on Arda all his days? What will you do when it is time for him to leave for Valinor? Know you if you can join him there? Or will you have to remain? Will he go without you, or will he stay here, slowly wasting from the longing to join his kin in the Undying Lands? If you bear him a child, will it go with his father, or remain with his mother?” Haldir’s rapid-fire questions were making Buffy’s head swim.

“And what of Thranduil? No matter that you are immortal, think you the King of Mirkwood will be pleased to have a human, and not even a human from our own world, to daughter? He has not the same lax attitudes as myself, Dagnir, and will not be won easily.” He paused. “And yes, I mean that as a warning—he is a hard elf, as ancient and unmovable as that mountain in which he lives.”

“Do you plan on making that forest your home, so far from Dawn? No? Where then shall you settle?” The look of bafflement on her face told him she hadn’t thought of any of these things. He exhaled sharply.

“I do not blame you for not knowing the answers to these questions, for they are not concerns common to your people, but Legolas—ah, him. Yes, him I blame fully. He knows well that these issues shall cause much pain and many tears for you both.” Haldir stepped close to her and cupped her face, his thumb wiping away the lone tear that traveled down her cheek. “I would not have you hurt or cry more than you have already, Dagnir. It distresses me to see it.” And he pulled her into his embrace, resting his cheek on her head .

“You must think I’m an idiot,” she mumbled against his chest.

“Yes, but I am used to that sentiment,” he replied, and smirked at her when she pulled away to glare at him.

“Why is it that every time we have one of these talks, I can’t decide whether to kiss or kick you?”

“I suggest neither, my lady,” Haldir drawled. “You are a married woman, so the first is improper; I too am a warrior, and would match your attack easily, so the second is unadvisable.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Buffy sniffled, and hugged him again.

***

When Buffy returned, Dawn insisted she have a bath and get dressed in one of the gowns she’d gotten in Caras Galadhon. “I’m tired of looking all skeevy,” she declared. So Boromir carried her into a small bathing chamber and Buffy helped her scrub until her whole body was bright pink with cleanliness.

“Can’t tell you how happy I am you decided not to go,” Buffy announced as she brushed Dawn’s hair dry.

Dawn’s gaze met Boromir’s. “Yeah,” she said at last. She smiled at Legolas. “My answer would have been a lot different if not for Elf-Boy.”

Buffy arched a brow at her husband. “Oh? And why is that?” Dawn blushed then, and looked down at the coverlet; it was a very strange reaction for her of all people. “Boromir?” Buffy prompted. “I know you know what’s going on.”

Boromir looked to include his brother in the conversation, but Faramir was deeply involved in talking to Eowyn, so turned back to the others. He gave his betrothed a look of such melting sweetness that Buffy found tears coming to her eyes. “We are to be parents, according to Legolas,” he said at last, his voice husky with emotion.

Her head whipped around to Legolas. “What? So soon? How can you tell?”

He smiled. “It is a combination of things, Dagnir,” he replied. “Her scent has changed, and her fëa is altered as well. Any elf would tell you the same.”

“So that’s why Elrohir told Aragorn to lay off,” Buffy murmured in comprehension, and Legolas nodded. “How far is she along?”

“Not more than a few days; less than a sen’night, I would say. But I am sure.”

Buffy turned troubled eyes to her sister. “Fighting in that battle, and your injuries… they didn’t do anything, did they?”

“You mean to hurt… it?” At Buffy’s nod, Dawn shook her head. “I don’t think so, but it’s so soon. I just don’t know.”

Legolas placed the flat of his hand on her belly, barely touching. “There is no sign of illness there,” he said after a silent moment. “I believe all is well, but you should have Elladan check, he is vastly more skilled than I.”

“At this, perhaps,” Buffy murmured for his ears only, and the tiny smile that quirked his lips was the only indication he’d heard. “Let’s go take a walk,” she said suddenly, standing and grabbing his hand.

“Subtle, Buf,” Dawn snarked. “We don’t suspect a thing, not us. Totally sure you’re just going to walk, and not run back to the house for a booty call.”

“Hey, we’re newlyweds,” Buffy replied perkily, unperturbed that her ruse had been seen through, and pulled Legolas from the room, her sister’s and Boromir’s laughter following them out. She led him to Boromir’s house, as suspected, but instead of entering it she went to the largest tree in the garden and plopped down at the base of its trunk, drawing him down beside her.

“Outside?” he inquired, and reached for the hem of her tunic. “It bothers me not, but I would not think you unmindful of Pippin or Aragorn disturbing us—“

“I actually do want to just talk, honey,” she interrupted, brushing his hands from her clothing, and he sobered.

“Your discussion with Haldir has given you much food for thought, then?” Legolas asked quietly, and she nodded.

“He tried to blame it all on you, but I’ve been around elves enough to know that I should have asked these questions before we joined, Legolas,” Buffy said. “I was just so… happy.”

He smiled sweetly at her, making her breath come faster as it always did at the sight. “That is my plea as well, for such an omission.” Taking up her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers in turn before laying a kiss in the palm. “I fear my eagerness to be one with you clouded my judgment. And much as it pains me to say it, Haldir is correct.”

“He brought up three issues that are pretty important,” Buffy told him, allowing her free hand to stroke the cornsilk of his hair, threading through the fine strands that ran like silk over her fingertips as she admired the play of sunlight over him. God, she loved him. “Your father… he’s gonna be pretty pissed off that you married a human, isn’t he?”

Legolas shifted to lay on his side, and placed his head in her lap. “My father is ever agitated over aught I do,” he replied. “Though he loves me dearly, I am not the son he would wish. This no longer concerns me. He has another son to lead our people if I will not.”

Okay, then. One issue down, two more to go. “Are we… do you want to have children, Legolas?” she asked, suddenly a little shy.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at her. “Right now? You said you wanted to talk.”

Buffy lightly smacked his shoulder. “Stupid elf,” she admonished, and he grinned. “I mean, eventually.”

“Perhaps in a century or two,” he said comfortably. “Let us wait until the world settles down from this latest conflict.”

“But you do want to?”

He nodded, taking her hand once more and pressing it to his cheek. “Eventually. I can think of naught better than to look at my child, and see your eyes.”

“Aw,” Buffy breathed, and bent to kiss him. His lips, as always, were soft and beckoned her to explore them more fully, but she steeled herself and merely dropped a quick smooch on them before straightening again. “That leads us to our next topic… Valinor.”

“Valinor?” Legolas was surprised enough to sit up and face her. “What of it?”

“Well, are you going?”

“I… yes. Yes, I am. I know not when, but yes. I am going.” Realization was dawning on his face. “Unless you cannot, and then I will stay here with you.”

“But… what about the gulls?” she asked, her voice small. “You said you heard them in your dreams, that you would have no rest under any tree ever again.”

“That is true,” he admitted, pulling her to sit on his lap and winding his arms around her. “I will lie not, and say it will be a simple matter for me to endure. But more deeply would it wound me to part from you, Buffy. I would remain in Arda to the end of my days, to be with you and our children, and never see the shining shores of Valinor if that is what is required.”

Legolas lowered his head and sipped the tears from her cheeks. “Weep not, tithen maethoramin,” he admonished gently. “I have what Haldir does not, and that is hope. I cannot think the Valar would keep you from their home, nor our children. If they would, surely there must be some way to convince them of your worthiness to make that journey and live your days in the Undying Lands.”

He pressed her hands to his chest, where she could feel the steady, comforting beat of his heart. “Where there is love, there is hope; where there is love, there is strength. We shall endure, herves-nîn, no matter what sour Haldir might say.”

Buffy tucked her head under his chin and snuggled closer. “I love you,” she told him, and kissed the smooth skin of his throat.

“And I you, Buffy. And I you.”

*fëa = aura, soul, spirit

*herves-nîn = my wife

*tithen maethoramin = my tiny warrior

Part 28

Traveling toward Mordor, the first few days weren’t so bad. Ithilien was beautiful, heavily wooded and very green. Buffy smiled to see the interest with which Legolas surveyed the area.

“This land reminds me much of my home,” he told her happily. “But, no spiders. A marked improvement.”

Boromir was not so thrilled, however. “I do not like leaving Dawn,” he told Buffy. “Glad I am that Faramir and Merry remain behind to tend her.”

“She’s pregnant, Boromir, not dying,” Buffy reminded him, but he would not be swayed from his worry. “You’re not going to be that way when we’re expecting, are you?” she asked Legolas,

“Probably,” he replied, looking uncomfortable with the question. “When that time comes, in the far, very distant future. Many years from now.”

“He seems alarmed at the idea of being a father,” Haldir murmured, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Well, I’m alarmed at the idea of being a mother,” Buffy shot back. “I’m also alarmed at the idea of you being a father.”

Haldir then alarmed everyone with his outburst of hearty laughter. “As that is a highly unlikely occurrence, Dagnir, there is no need to fear.”

She frowned. “Whyzat, Hal?” she asked. “You’re not gay… I’d know.” She turned to Legolas. “Wouldn’t I know?”

“What is ‘gay’, herves-nîn?”

“Likin’ only the boys,” she elaborated with a grin, and Aragorn flashed a smile of his own over his shoulder, obviously eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I am not gay, as you call it,” Haldir replied with a sniff. “And do not call me Hal.”

“I won’t, if you tell me why you don’t think you’ll ever have kids.”

He sighed deeply, giving the impression that he was very beset upon indeed. “I am the Guardian of the Wood, Dagnir, and shall not be joining my kin in Valinor. Ever have I know it, and there are none who wish to share this fate with me.”

“I think it more accurate, mellon, to say that it is you who do not wish to share this fate with others,” Legolas said quietly. “For I know of several who would stay, or follow, whichever you desired.”

“It matters not,” Haldir said repressively, and steered his mount away toward Elladan and Elrohir.

“Now you have upset him,” Gimli teased Buffy from his place behind Legolas. “Wondering aloud if he were gay… Elves do not appreciate such a question. Do Men take kindly to such an inquiry?” he asked Aragorn.

“Do not ask him, he was raised in Rivendell and is more elf than Man himself,” Boromir called from where he was talking with Imrahil, shooting a saucy grin at the future king, who narrowed his eyes in response.

“Nay, Legolas, Men are no happier than elves to field such a question,” Aragorn replied before playfully eyeing Gandalf. “How deal the Maia with matters such as this?”

The wizard just rolled his eyes and said a rude word under his breath before spurring Shadowfax to a trot, leaving them far behind in a matter of seconds.

“Dwarves are never asked the question,” Gimli mentioned. “I do not know why that is.” He seemed oblivious to the obvious reason; that is, because no one wanted to think about gay Dwarves.

“Yeeeah,” Buffy said slowly, repressing a shudder. “And on that note.” She turned to Aragorn. “I’m worried about some of the men, they seem to get more and more scared the farther north we get.”

He nodded. “I have seen that too. Have you noticed the Nazgûl?” For the remaining of the nine kings of legend had been circling overhead for some hours now, never coming close enough for elven arrows to hit but still near enough to bring ‘unhappy belly rumblins’, as Buffy called them, to the stomachs of all assembled.

Late that day they reached the northern limits of Ithilien, and emerged from the trees to the desolate, wide-open space where the Wetwang met the Dead Marshes. “God, it stinks,” Buffy complained, pinching her nose shut.

“The stench is the least of our problems,” Legolas replied, sensitive nostrils quivering in disgust. “Look you yonder.”

Obediently, she turned to see a goodly number of the soldiers having a very bad reaction to the swamp. Some were muttering to themselves, eyes darting in panic all around; others had wrapped their arms tightly around their waists and rocked from side to side. The most affected, however, simply dropped to their knees and wept. And far above, the Nazgûl swooped and swirled, the cawing shrieks of their devil-mounts echoing off the clouds.

“This will not do,” Aragorn said with great sadness, and looked pensive. “I will send them south once more, to Cair Andros, where they might take back that island for Gondor.” He considered a moment. “I will send Boromir to lead them.”

Buffy knew he’d chosen Boromir because going to Cair Andros was safer; she’d have protested, except she kind of agreed. Boromir had more than only Faramir to think about now, more than just Dawn. Best to keep him in one piece, if possible. And so Boromir was sent off with these several hundred men, grumbling and glancing suspiciously at Buffy, who only smiled brightly and waved at him.

The next day was spent in silence, as the growing gloom seemed to press ever closer the more they drew near to Mordor. Finally they reached the end of the Udun valley, and the Black Gates rose before them. With a last deep breath, the Captains of the army progressed, accompanied by heralds, flag-bearers, and trumpeters. The closer they came, the more happy Buffy was to feel Pippin’s arms around her waist as he rode behind her.

The heralds shouted over and over for Sauron to appear, but silence was their only reply. “Getting bored,” Buffy mumbled, and peered skyward to see if she could spot any of the Nazgûl. She jolted in surprise, then, when a rumble of drums began from far behind the gates. No sooner had she gotten used to that sound when another joined it: a harsh, raucous blaring of horns that made her eardrums tingle in pain. With a crash, the door to the gate was flung wide.

“Who’s tall, dark, and fugly?” she asked Aragorn, but he only shook his head absently, not taking his eyes from the black-clad figure as it came forward, spewing insults. Long moments were spent thus, in the staring contest to end all staring contests, and finally the dark ambassador broke the gaze.

“I have things to show you,” the Messenger sneered, recovering from his discomfit and reaching for a bundle held toward him by one of his guard. Slowly, dramatically, he held aloft each item as he unwrapped it. First was Sam Gamgee’s little sword, then a small grey cloak one of them had received in Lórien. Lastly, and most worrying, was the mithril-coat that had saved Frodo’s life in Moria. Behind Buffy, Pippin sobbed in anguish.

“Name the terms that Sauron would have,” Gandalf demanded, his voice carrying clearly in the steamy, smoking air. Sauron was a greedy bugger, it would seem; he wanted to rule everything west of the Anduin, including Mirkwood (Legolas tensed at that) and receive tribute from every land between that Great River and the Misty Mountains (Eomer and Haldir tensed at that).

It was patently ridiculous, and Gandalf lost no time in telling him so, but grabbed the cloak, mail, and sword and thrust them at Pippin. The halfling hugged them close, burying his face in them as he continued to weep. Furious, the Messenger seemed to undergo some sort of wrath-induced seizure before wheeling round and galloping back to the gate. Before he had even cleared it, however, the gates opened and a multitudinous army poured out.

There was little time to prepare; Aragorn took one flank of their forces, and Gandalf the other. “Rohan and Dol Amroth with me!” cried the wizard, brandishing his staff aloft, while Aragorn called, “Gondor, to me!”

Buffy cast a last glance toward Aragorn, silently telling him to be careful even as the Dunedain and Haldir’s elves gathered around her, for it had been decided that she would lead the frontal assault. She cast her gaze on each of her friends in turn.

“Be careful, and watch out for each other,” she shouted to be heard above the din. “Hold tight, Gimli and Pippin. If you fall off the horses, you’re screwed.” Those two nodded their fervent agreement. There was scarcely a moment for her to mouth “I love you” to Legolas one last time before the orcs were upon them.

Buffy flung herself into the fray. She had liked the performance she’d gotten from the big axe during the last battle, and so wielded it again. Pippin was simply too small to accomplish much, so she had to protect him as much as take down the enemy, but she found his presence comforting. And he was handy, too, because he kept shouting, “Watch out!” and “To the right, Dagnir!” just in time to prevent her from taking an arrow or sword-blow.

She fought her way right up to the very gates themselves, and could tell from the avid expression on Pippin’s face that he wanted to take down the Messenger as much as she did. “Let’s—“ she began, eyes glinting with zeal, but before she could continue an extremely big hand reached out from the gate’s door toward her.

Buffy meant to maneuver out of the way, really she did, but one of the Nazgûl lurking overhead dipped perilously close just then and she was overcome with a wave of paralyzing fear and nausea. Only the sound of Pippin’s frightened shouts calling for her to rally helped her retain consciousness. Unfortunately, merely being conscious wasn’t going to help the situation, as she quickly learned when the huge hand was followed out of the gate by an equally immense body. “Hill-troll,” she muttered in disgust.

“Dagnir,” it addressed her in its growly rumble, thinking she’d greeted it. “Supposed to be dead.” Its body odor alone was enough to knock a lesser person out (Pippin was listing seriously to starboard and looking almost as green as the troll’s skin) but it was even uglier than it was smelly, with great tufts of reddish-black hair sprouting from its long, skinny ears and cavernous nostrils.

“I may be dead but I’m still pretty.” She hacked at its wrist as it reached for her once more, but the nausea was really debilitating her, and she was dizzy besides, and where the hell was Legolas? “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Gimli cried out in pain not far away, and Buffy forced her eyes to focus. What she saw when the world stopped spinning didn’t make her feel any better: rivulets of blood were streaming down Gimli’s face and he was swinging his axe wildly in one hand while he used the other to press against the gash in his forehead. Before him on Arod, Legolas was doing his best to repel his own troll, but the creature’s arms were so long that the short weapons were almost ineffective.

Distracted by her concern for them, she didn’t comprehend Pippin’s scream of warning until it was too late and their troll had grabbed her round the middle, hefting her from the saddle so quickly that she dropped her axe. It landed on the troll’s foot and he howled in pain so loudly she thought her eardrums would burst. The troll swung her around like a rag doll, making her dizzier and preventing her from getting a firm grip on its ears as she would have liked, so she could snap its neck. Then the troll slammed her against the gate and everything went dark for a moment.

Blinking to focus, she saw Pippin standing on their horse’s back trying desperately to stab the troll. Buffy decided enough was enough and swung out with her legs as best she could, locking them around the Hobbit and lifting until she could grab him by the scruff of the neck.

“Aim for the eyes,” she told him breathlessly, and thrust him toward the troll’s hideous face, but it was prepared for such a tactic and kept moving its head and blinking. Pippin exhaled impatiently and with a vicious jab, jammed his sword right up the troll’s nose.

The troll’s roars of rage stopped abruptly, and he went stock-still. Then, with a howl that made the very hills around them shake, he dropped Buffy, who dropped Pippin, and staggered back to slam against the gate, yanking desperately to remove the sword from where it was lodged into the cartilage shielding his brain.

Buffy grabbed three things in short order: her axe, Pippin, and their horse’s reins. Then she clambered hastily back into the saddle and spared only one last glance to make sure the troll was, indeed, in the throes of death before wheeling around to help Legolas and Gimli. “Good work, Pippin!” she told him breathlessly.

“But I have lost my sword,” he replied sadly, clutching her tightly around the middle in his fright as a Nazgûl swooped low over them. Buffy wasn’t sure, but she thought that the thing it was riding on might have drooled down the back of her neck.

“We’ll make do without it,” she told him, hewing at the back of Legolas’ troll. “My axe is getting dull,” she complained.

“Severing vertebrae will do that to an axe,” Gimli agreed, using his own more as a blunt force weapon than a chopping tool; after hours of battle, its edge was nearly gone. His head wound had slowed to a trickle and though his face was smeared with blood, the grin he sent her way was cheery enough to make her stop worrying about him.

A scream split the air, thin and high, and sent tendrils of unease skidding down their spines like an icy finger. Buffy looked up to find no fewer than three Nazgûl darting directly toward them, the razor-sharp talons of their mounts extended as if to snatch them up bodily and carry them away.

Before the one pelting toward Buffy could grab her, however, she pulled herself to stand on her saddle and leapt up to grab around the creature’s ankle with one hand while the other brought her axe over and over to slice and cut at its underbelly.

With a shrill caw the beast flapped its mighty wings and rose into the sky; its rider hung over the side to try and reach Buffy with his spiked mace. She jerked to the left, narrowly missing having her cranium perforated. I’m now thirty feet in the air, and he’s gonna hit me eventually, she thought miserably. Thinking fast, she looked down and saw she was almost directly overhead where Legolas and Gimli continued to battle their troll.

Just as the Nazgûl swung at her with enough force to knock her head clean off her shoulders, Buffy took a deep breath and released her hold on the winged one’s leg. There was a moment of stillness, of weightlessness, as she fell and then with a thump she was where she’d expected: sitting squarely on the troll’s shoulders.

It was, needless to say, quite shocked and so barely protested when she started slamming her axe into its face. It recovered quickly, however, and began to reach over its head at the hindrance seated atop it. “Go for the eyes!” she found herself yelling once more as she grabbed hold of a greasy clump of ear-hair to retain her perch. “Or the nose! Anything, just kill it!”

Legolas lunged forward then, and thrust his dagger deeply into the troll’s eye; with a gruesome pop it deflated, spewing thick fluid in all directions. Bellowing in torment, the troll stopped trying to claw Buffy off its back and struck out blindly.

Pippin gave a wordless sob of alarm; Buffy took that to mean the Nazgûl was making yet another pass toward her. This troll was sturdier than the other; Legolas had taken out its other eye as well but still it fought on. “My daggers are too short,” he lamented, and began searching the ground for a discarded longsword.

“Take your time looking, honey,” Buffy shouted with a trace of sarcasm. “I’ll just hang on and— ow, dammit—get beat on, ‘kay?” She clung to its neck, still slapping at it with her dull axe, wondering if she should stop trying to keep from puking and just yack all over it.

The decision was rendered pointless, however, when Legolas came up with a spear and threw it with breathtaking accuracy into the hollowed-out socket of the troll’s eye. It arched its back in a paroxysm of agony, flinging Buffy off at last, before falling over like a felled tree.

“Timber,” she shouted gleefully. Then she bent over and threw up. Gimli took the spear from Legolas and guarded her back while the elf placed himself and his daggers between his wife and the battling orcs surrounding them. Pippin tossed a flask of water over their heads to her when she was finished, and she was very glad to rinse her mouth.

“Better now,” she announced, and pilfered a sword from the corpse of a fallen Rohirrim. “We have to get back on our horses, or we’re toast.” Astride once more, Legolas suggested they make their way back to Aragorn. Slowly, inexorably, they pushed through the teeming masses, and as an unholy shriek heralded the attack of all eight Nazgûl, Buffy was very happy there was nothing left for her to upchuck.

Stuck as they were in the midst of a melée, there was really nothing to be done, and she’d resigned herself to grabbing another Nazgûl ankle when another shriek was heard… and this one brought a sense of not despair, but hope.

“The Eagles are coming!” someone shouted, and the cry was taken up around the battlefield until it was on the lips of everyone. For far above, speeding toward them with incredible velocity, flew an absolute squadron of the biggest damned birds Buffy had ever seen. It didn’t take long for the eagles to drive the Nazgûl away into the dark shadows of Mordor beyond the Black Gate, and as the skies emptied once more the men of Gondor, Rohan, and Dol Amroth took heart. Inspired, hopeful, they pressed forward against their enemy and for the first time since the battle had begun, the tide turned in their favour.

Buffy, Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin spurred their horses into a canter; eager to reach Aragorn, and Legolas had just pointed to where the Man sat astride, his sword flashing silver and white in the gloom, when the ground beneath them gave a mighty heave. Pillars of smoke and shadow shot up into the sky, and the gates crumbled apart with a wrenching whine as metal was rent asunder.

Pippin buried his face in Buffy’s back. She wished there was a back she could bury her own face in, and thought whimpering might well be in order as well, but had to settle for staring wide-eyed at the spontaneous destruction around her.

“The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his quest!” Gandalf cried above the din, and a shout of joy rose from the throats of those assembled. “The realm of Sauron is ended!”

Terrified by this sudden change in plans, the orc-army panicked and broke ranks. They began to flee, and utter confusion reigned. Buffy and the others arrived at Aragorn’s side in time to see Gandalf climb onto one of the eagles and fly away. She climbed off the horse and lifted Pippin to stand beside her; Legolas and Gimli dismounted as well, and she kissed her husband lingeringly before turning to Aragorn and hugging him fiercely.

“He did it,” Aragorn said, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Frodo did it!”

“I doubted it not,” said Legolas.

“Nor I,” Pippin added, very pleased his kinsman was a hero and had saved them all.

“I doubted it plenty,” Gimli said. “But I am glad I was wrong.”

They all turned to Buffy, waiting for her input; but she was staring into the sky where Gandalf had disappeared into the dreary land of Mordor. She realized they were staring at her, and frowned.

“Do I have a really bad concussion, or was that huge bird really talking to Gandalf?”

*herves-nîn = my wife

Part 29

The mood of the people of Minas Tirith was not light after the departure of the Host, as those going to battle Sauron were called. Citizens of the White City scurried about as if a shadow were upon them at all times, even as they rebuilt their walls and lives. With Denethor dead and Boromir off to war, rule of the city fell to Faramir and, to her utter shock, Dawn.

“You will be their Lady once you are wed to Boromir,” Faramir explained to her the third time someone asked her for permission to do something. “It is not unusual to take up the reins of control before the marriage occurs, if there be need.” They were sitting in the garden of the houses of healing with Eowyn and Merry, all four of them recuperating from their shadow sickness at differing paces. Faramir was nearly to full strength once more, and Dawn was rallying as well, but Eowyn was still wan and far too thin, her hair lying dull and lifeless on her narrowing shoulders.

“But… I have no idea what I’m doing!” she wailed, and burst into tears. It had not taken long for the hormone fairy to visit Dawn, and it had been followed on swift wings by its sister, the patron saint of morning-sickness, as well. Consequently, she was somewhat more erratic (and green) than usual. “What if I do something wr-wrong?”

He pulled her into a comforting embrace and rubbed his hand in soothing circles over her back while Merry held her hand and made sympathetic noises. “It will be of no consequence if you make an error, Dawn,” he told her, looking over her head at Eowyn, pleading for help.

Eowyn smiled faintly and took one of Dawn’s hands. “I will guide you, if you will let me,” she said. “Ever have I been reared to rule, though now it seems unlikely that rearing will be put to use. But I will teach you what you need to know.” For the first time since leaving her sickbed, the shield-maid’s eyes held the faintest gleam of life.

Faramir was glad to see it. As the days passed and the four of them spent more time together, he had become both increasingly fond of and anxious about Eowyn. He was convinced the reason she healed so much more slowly was because she did not care if she lived or not. Indeed, sometimes she seemed almost saddened she had not perished upon the field. There were moments that such depths of sorrow and guilt could be read in her eyes that Faramir felt he could cry on her behalf.

Ailing as she was, she looked much like a drowned rat with her sallow skin, lank hair, and increasingly bony frame. Why, then, did his chest ache in a suspiciously central region whenever he looked at her? It is foolishness, he admonished himself, and madness. She has lost her uncle, and her heart belongs to Aragorn, if Dawn tells me true.

He sighed and glanced over at her again. However, it was not Eowyn who caught his eye, but Merry. The Hobbit was grinning broadly at him and Faramir got a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach which only deepened when Merry opened his mouth.

“I say, Eowyn, weren’t you saying before how you’d like to take a walk along the wall and look out at the river?” Eowyn frowned at Merry’s sudden change of subject and he hastened to continue. “Because Faramir was just telling me earlier how he wished to do the same.” As matchmaking techniques went, it was one of the more transparent ones, and Faramir sat on his hands to keep from burying his face in them.

“Merry…” Dawn began, about to tell him to shut up and stop embarrassing her almost-brother-in-law, but a gentle hand on her arm halted her.

“He is right, I would like to see the river,” Eowyn said quietly, and offered a smile to Faramir as she stood.

He fairly leapt to his feet, and took the hand she offered, tucking it snugly in the crook of his arm. He led her away, shortening his stride to match hers, and Dawn called after them.

“Hey, Faramir, see if you can piss her off a little. Her being so quiet and nice is starting to scare me… where’s the woman who screamed her head off in Edoras because Aragorn wanted to take the Paths of the Dead?”

Eowyn ducked her head, a blush suffusing her pale cheeks. Faramir bit the inside of his cheek to keep a smile off his face, and led her away.

***

3 weeks later

Still with no word from the Host, morale in Minas Tirith had sunk to a new low. The four Shadow patients had begun taking long daily walks along with wall, staring outward for any hint of the return of their loved ones, and gradually were healing good as new. Dawn was eating enough for two and crying enough for seven, but at least she was just as likely to cry over good things as bad.

“You look so pretty!” she bawled at Eowyn one morning when the shield-maiden appeared for breakfast wearing one of her old gowns, for she had finally put on enough weight to keep it from slipping off her shoulders.

“Thank you, dear friend,” Eowyn replied briskly. “Now, do stop blubbering lest you put Merry off his food.” Along with a few pounds, it would seem Eowyn had also regained most of her former businesslike outlook on life, and would brook no silliness in her presence.

Fortunately, it was exactly what Dawn needed, and never failed to shut her up when she got started, to Faramir’s great relief. He just was not equipped to deal with weepy, expectant females, and not for the first time wished he’d been able to join the Host on their journey to Mordor. Surely risking death was preferable to listening to Eowyn scare Dawn speechless with tales of bizarre things happening during pregnancy?

“—and her ankles swelled so large she could never again take a bath, for her feet would not stay underwater, but would fly upwards so suddenly her head would submerge. She almost drowned four times!”

Dawn gasped.

“—her stretch marks were so pronounced, ‘twas like claw-marks across her belly. Her husband thought she’d been attacked by orcs!”

Dawn whimpered.

“—the child was a month early, and still more than a stone in weight! A miracle she wasn’t split asunder, though it was over a month before she could sit upright again… her husband began chasing other women before the year was out.”

Dawn moaned.

“Oh, really!” Merry snapped one early-spring day.

“Indeed,” Faramir agreed fervently, but his relief was to be short-lived.

“You said you would tell us the tale of the watery-mole child, and instead you blather on about these silly tales.” For Merry had developed quite a morbid interest in Eowyn’s grim accounts of childbirthing. His favourite was of the woman who had carried her babe for several years, and when she was finally delivered of it, found it was made not of flesh, but of stone!

Faramir gripped fistfuls of his hair and groaned, wondering if he actually gave in to the urge and ripped it out, would it impress upon these three how deeply he did not want to speak of such things? Opening his eyes, he found them watching him with varying expressions. Dawn blinked rapidly, Merry merely looked impatient, and Eowyn was smiling at him.

“Come, then, let us walk,” she said, and held out her hand to him. Merry made as if to join them, but Dawn grabbed the Hobbit and held him tightly against her.

“I’ll tell you about the watery-mole,” she told him, and he gave Faramir and Eowyn a last shrewd glance before settling into the half-circle of Dawn’s arm for the tale.

And so she did, and he was properly amazed and mystified by such an occurrence. He had scarcely finished his exclamations over it when everything seemed to… warp, somehow. The air thickened, and became hard to breathe; the light streaming around them took on a greyish tinge, and all sound ceased. Then the ground beneath them gave a mighty shudder, as if sighing in relief. For an endless, breathless moment Dawn and Merry stared at each other, and then turned as one toward the east. In the far, far distance a column of pure black streaked up over the mountains, and then as suddenly as it had begun, everything went back to normal.

“What in the blue hell was that?” Dawn demanded. Merry was incapable of speech, however, and just motioned toward where Eowyn and Faramir had disappeared around the bend. They stood and dashed after their friends, coming to a screeching half (in Dawn’s case literally, because Merry slammed into her back when she stopped so suddenly) at the sight that met them.

A fresh wind had come to stir the still air, and Eowyn’s hair was blowing wildly about like a golden cloud. And in the middle of it, oblivious to everything else but each other, she was kissing Faramir like her life depended on it.

Perhaps it did, Dawn thought. Eowyn had been so despondent over Aragorn, over the futility of loving him, over her grief for Theoden’s death, over her worry for Eomer and everyone else. Dawn hadn’t been anywhere near as frightened by Eowyn’s horror stories as she’d let on, but she knew they made her friend feel better, that they brought a sense of normalcy and mundanity back into a world gone mad, and so pretended to be properly horrified.

Eowyn needed to be useful, needed to be needed. She’d always been valued for her practicality and sensible nature, but no one had really seen or understood her immense courage and boundless strength. No one, that is, except for Faramir. He’d seen it from the first, had never doubted Eowyn would rally from her despair, had patiently encouraged the woman until she had not only accepted that she was alive, but embraced it. It was natural for her to love Faramir. Probably inevitable.

Dawn grinned, and hugged Merry to her side. “Couldn’t happen to two nicer people,” she whispered into his pointed ear.

He beamed up at her, and patted her belly. “It already did.”

***

2 weeks after that

“I’m showing!” Dawn shrieked in delight as she and Eowyn ran around getting dressed, for the Host was finally returned from its siege of Mordor and camped but a few miles away from Minas Tirith, near Osgiliath. “Look!” And she pulled the front of her gown tight against her. “Boromir’s gonna be so excited.”

“That, my friend, is the result of too many good meals and not enough exercise,” Eowyn told her with a grin, and ducked to avoid the pillow Dawn swung at her head. “Now stop mauling your gown, else you cause it to wrinkle.”

“You’re just jealous,” Dawn teased, obediently releasing her gown and going to brush her hair before the mirror.

“I do not see how that is possible,” Eowyn replied calmly as she fastened a chain of silver and amber around her slender white neck. “For within a year, it will be likely I find myself in the same condition.”

Dawn spun to face her. “What? Faramir?”

Eowyn smiled, just a hint of her former shyness making an appearance, and nodded. “He has asked me to wed with him.”

“Oh, yay!” Dawn exclaimed, hugging her friend tightly. “Faramir is adorable, and—ooh! We’re gonna be sisters!”

“You do not mind having another?” Eowyn turned Dawn to face away and began lacing up the back of the brunette’s gown.

“It’ll be great to have a second sister,” Dawn assured her. “It’s not like Buffy will spend a lot of time here once this is all over…” her words trailed off as she realized what she was saying, and her eyes met Eowyn’s in the mirror. “She’s not, is she? Where will she and Legolas go? Now that Aragorn’s going to be king, where will Boromir and I go? What about you and Faramir? What’s going to happen to all of us?”

“It is impossible to know, Dawn,” Eowyn replied sadly, taking the other’s hands and squeezing gently. “As it always is, in dark times.”

“But these dark times come swiftly to a close,” said a voice from the door, and the turned to see Boromir standing in the doorway, Faramir just behind and peering over his taller brother’s shoulder.

“Budge over, you great lump,” Faramir said with mock-gruffness, pushing past Boromir to go to Eowyn. “How long do you think they shall stare at each other, dear one?” he asked her, taking her hand and lifting to his lips.

Eowyn did not answer, but surveyed the scene; her friend stood stock-still, blue eyes huge in her face as they roamed over the form of her betrothed, searching for any indication of injury. Dawn’s hand had unconsciously gone to her belly, cupping the nonexistent mound there protectively.

As for Boromir—ah, the look on his face was extraordinary. He was weary, yes, and had a heavy growth of beard on his tanned face, but the bleakness that had been stamped upon his features for so long was gone. In its place resided love, satisfaction, pride, and oh, such hope. Such hope as Eowyn had never seen before, and as Boromir came forward and took Dawn in his arms, she felt release the final hold the Shadow had placed upon her, felt it slip away and fade into the ethers.

Faramir slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder as they watched the reunion of the two lovers. “I find that I no longer fear the morrow,” he murmured into her ear. “For it seems very bright to me.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes glowing, and kissed his cheek. “And to me, beloved.”

Part 30

Boromir had a bath, and Dawn accommodatingly scrubbed his back, nagging him to shave off his beard as she did. He might have been annoyed by her prattling had he not been so happy to be with her again. He was somewhat baffled by her behaviour—she seemed to cry much more than he had remembered. Surely he had not been away so long that he’d forgotten she was ever a weepy lass?

No, he recalled Faramir telling him that it was common for a breeding woman to collapse into a sodden mess over naught. Dawn had wept to see him again, had wept when he undressed and she saw his new scars—he thought them quite dashing, personally—had wept when he had removed his beard and stood before her, scrubbed and clean-shaven and combed.

“Come, sweet, you must cease,” he pleaded gently. “Do you wish your sister’s first sight of you in many days to be of red eyes and swollen face?” He pulled her into the bathing room and pumped some cool water into a basic. “Here, splash your poor eyes; they look sore enough to make me cry.”

He stood there so tall and broad, looking so manly and not about to weep, that Dawn couldn’t keep from smiling. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, and dashed water over her face. It felt heavenly on her overheated face. “I just can’t seem to help it.”

He enfolded her in his arms and rested his cheek on her smooth hair. “Was it very hard, these past weeks without Buffy or me?”

“Not really,” Dawn replied, allowing him to lead her from the small chamber and out into the garden. She tilted back her head, marveling at the clear light streaming down over them. Ever since that weird earthquake, the air had taken on a different quality, as if it were cleaner somehow, moist and fresh. “I was worried about you all, of course, but you’re all so good at the butt-kicking that I knew you’d be ok.” She grinned at him. “I just missed you, something awful.”

“And I you. Ever was I thinking of you and our babe.” He placed a possessive hand on her belly. “How does it fare?”

“Seems pretty good,” she replied, covering his hand with hers. “I’m eating more than Merry these days, which scares everyone, and there’s the crying. Oh! And the puking. That’s kind of a drag.” Her grin turned wry. “But you gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues.”

Boromir blinked at her. “No, didn’t catch any of that,” he said finally.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Some things are worth suffering for,” she clarified, and he nodded in comprehension.

“So they are,” he agreed. “And speaking of suffering, there is the matter of a coronation to attend.”

“Oh, man, do we have to?” Dawn knew there was a little bit of a whine to her voice, but couldn’t help it. Standing around in the sun while people made speeches was not her idea of fun.

Boromir tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out to the street. “Yes, we do.”

“But you’re not the Steward, Faramir is,” she persisted as they passed through the fifth gate. “He’s the one who has to welcome Aragorn to the city, and then Gandalf will crown him, and blah blah.”

He shot her an amused glance and guided her around a steaming pile of horse apples. “Though my duty is no longer that of the Steward, still I must make an appearance, as must my betrothed,” Boromir replied. “And he is Aragorn no longer, but Elessar.”

Dawn frowned. “How many names is this guy going to have?” she demanded. “First he was Estel, then Strider, then Aragorn, and now Elessar. What’s next, Frank?”

“King Frank.” Boromir frowned. “That does not sound very regal. No, I do not like that at all. Elessar is vastly better.” Dawn giggled.

They walked in silence through three more gates, stopping before the ruined remains that the Witch-King had trashed. “Such fear, such despair, the last time we stood here together,” Boromir said quietly.

“And now, such joy,” Faramir said behind them. He was resplendently dressed for his role as Steward, and didn’t look too upset for a guy about to hand over the keys to the kingdom he’d always thought would be, if not his, then his brother’s. Beside him, Eowyn was wearing a gown of deepest purple, and her hair shone brighter than the sun against it, falling to her hips, unbound and wavy.

“I’m nervous,” Dawn confided in her as the brothers spoke about the ceremony. “What if I yack?”

“Do not be nervous,” Eowyn admonished soothingly. “You will not…uh… yack. For you have learned well these weeks all I have taught you about being a lady, and look very well besides.” She raked her critical gaze over Dawn, but could find nothing amiss in the other woman’s grey-blue gown and the silver circlet binding her sleek brown hair. She reached out and gently pinched Dawn’s pale cheeks, bringing some colour into them. “Now lift up your head in pride, for it is time to proceed.”

She stepped back and took Faramir’s arm, and the two of them swept out toward the assembled Host and people of Minas Tirith outside in the field, looking impossibly majestic. Boromir smiled at Dawn, proud to have such a beauty on his arm, and she found her courage buoyed by his satisfaction in her.

“Wait for me!” Merry cried, running up. “I am here!” He grabbed at Dawn’s hand. “You are looking very queenly,” he told her, and was rewarded with a brilliant, if wobbly, smile.

Lifting her chin, she strode between them as if she’d been born to rule. The aisle cleared through the crowd was long, and at the end stood Aragorn. Or Elessar, whichever it was this week, Dawn thought grumpily. As they drew nearer, she began recognizing people. A flash of white and red drew her attention. It was Gimli—the red was his beard, of course, but the white was a vast bandage swathing his head. Dawn sucked in her breath in dismay, but Boromir patted her arm comfortingly and assured her the dwarf was fine.

But she wasn’t really paying attention any longer, for standing behind Gimli was her sister and Legolas. Buffy waved enthusiastically, and Dawn forgot to be queenly for a moment, waving back until Boromir, grinning widely, grasped her arm and pulled it back down. “Calmly, sweet. Calmly.”

Buffy was doing some sort of bizarre pantomime, pointing to her stomach and then jerking forward as if heaving. “Oh!” Dawn exclaimed. “She wants to know if I’ve got morning sickness.” She nodded vigourously, and Buffy bit her lip in sympathy. Beside her, Legolas was grinning.

“Can you not at least pretend that this is a solemn occasion?” Boromir asked wryly.

“Sorry,” Dawn replied, chastened. They came to a halt. A few paces before them, Faramir removed a really old-looking crown from a box and began speaking. Dawn was sure it was all very inspirational, but it was high noon and her dress, though of very fine cloth, was starting to get pretty hot, and she had a persistent itch in the middle of her back as well. She tuned out and looked around. There was Haldir, smirking like usual. She blew him a kiss, and grinned when he blinked in surprise.

“Impressive, sweet,” Boromir murmured in her ear. “It is not often you can surprise an elf.”

“Especially that one,” added Merry from the corner of his mouth. Dawn smiled serenely and wished she could reach that itch…

Faramir handed the crown to Elessar, but he gave it back, saying that the Ring-bearer should bring it to him. Dawn’s wavering attention snapped back. “Frodo?” she whispered as a small figure, shoulders bowed as though under a great weight, came forward to take the crown. She blinked furiously to keep from crying yet again.

“Frodo,” Merry whispered as well, and Dawn took one look at the tears that streamed down his face and felt her own control slip. Frodo carried the crown to Gandalf, and Elessar knelt before the wizard, head bowed in utter humility. To the right of them, Frodo rejoined two other small figures: Sam and Pippin. “Oh, they are all safe. I am glad,” Merry said.

Once it was on Elessar’s head, and he stood once more, a brightness appeared to suffuse him, as if there were a single spotlight upon him. He seemed taller, somehow, taller and stronger and handsomer and wiser.

“Behold the King!” Faramir shouted, and Dawn jumped about seven feet when trumpets began blaring in celebration. “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office,” Faramir continued, bowing before Elessar, but his head flew up again when the new King spoke.

“That office is not ended, for I shall have need of such men as you and your brother.” Elessar replied, and his smile encompassed both Faramir and Boromir alike. “Join me now, as I enter the White City for the first time as its ruler.”

Then Faramir and Eowyn stepped to one side, and Boromir and Merry pulled Dawn to the other, and Elessar passed them flanked by Gandalf and Frodo to enter the city. Falling in behind, there was all of thirty seconds of dignified solemnity before Buffy’s voice could be heard.

“Coming through, make way! Hey, shove over, Porky.”

“Porky?” demanded Haldir in outrage, while Legolas laughed in the background.

Then Buffy was hugging her, and Dawn was crying again, and everything was alright once more. “You didn’t die again, did you?” Dawn asked with a trembling, soggy smile.

Buffy pulled up short. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “You know, I didn’t!” Turning to Legolas, she beamed up at him. “I didn’t die this time!”

“Sometime to be proud of, certainly,” he murmured before gracing his sister-in-law with a lovely smile. “You are well, Minuial?”

“Mostly,” she replied, giving him a one-armed hug, reluctant to release her sister from the other. “You?”

“I too am fine.” He certainly didn’t look any the worse for wear, unlike poor Gimli.

“What happened to you, Dwarf?” she demanded playfully.

“Troll,” he replied succinctly. “Bashed the nasal of my helm into me. Bled like a stuck pig,” he announced with pride. “But in the end, triumph was ours!”

“Was whose, friend Gimli?” Legolas asked, his voice mellow. “From whose hand did the spear fly, that killed the troll?”

“Who distracted the troll by clinging to its ear-hair?” Buffy asked sourly. “You two have been arguing about this for a month now; can we just let it go?”

Both elf and dwarf gave her exaggerated bows of deference; she sniffed and linked her arm with Dawn’s, and the two women departed while the others burst into laughter.

“So, morning sickness, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty gruesome,” Dawn admitted. “And the crying is getting on everyone’s nerves, especially mine. But on the other hand, I’m totally out-eating Merry, and Eowyn loves having someone to fuss over.” She grinned down at her sister. “How’s newlywed life?”

“Groovy beyond my ability to describe,” Buffy gushed, with the zeal of the faithful toward an agnostic. “I cannot believe you don’t like elves.”

***

Not long thereafter, there began a mad rush to prepare for the departure of several of their party, for not only did Haldir and his elven forces have to return to Lórien, but Eomer and Eowyn were needed back in Rohan. Dawn hugged her friend tightly, even though Eowyn would be returning within a few weeks, and even brushed a kiss over Haldir’s cheek while he stood patiently and allowed it.

Buffy, however, flung herself into the tall elf’s arms and sobbed. “When will I see you again?” she demanded. “Soon?”

“If Celeborn and Galadriel allow it,” he replied. His time was no longer his own, but belonged to his lord and lady once more. “If your desire for me bites too deeply,” he continued smoothly, grinning when Legolas frowned at his choice of words, “you have but to come visit. Lothlórien is your home, and you are ever welcome in it.” Then he gave Legolas a last fierce look of warning before swinging up onto his horse and kicking it into a trot. He did not look back.

Eowyn and Eomer, and the other of their men, mounted with the fluid grace of those born to the saddle, gave jaunty waves, and were soon naught but a blur in the distance. They would travel together with the elves until they were past the Druaden forest, and then Haldir would turn north while the Rohirrim continued their westerly course.

Life settled down again, just a little. Elessar began issuing all sorts of decrees, not the least of which was to make Boromir the Prince of Ithilien.

Dawn almost had a heart attack when she heard. “I’m gonna be a what?”

“A princess,” Boromir replied soothingly.

“I don’t think I want to be a princess,” Dawn replied anxiously. “I don’t know what to do. I was hopeless helping Faramir run Minas Tirith while you were gone—“

“Do not fret so, sweet. It will be… nice.” He sobered. “But if you are truly opposed to it, I shall refuse the title, and we will stay here.”

“Tis a lovely place,” Gimli offered. “Legolas was quite enamoured of it.”

The aforementioned elf flicked a considering gaze at his wife. “Shall we tell them now, tithen maethoramin? Perhaps it will ease her mind to know?”

“Might as well,” Buffy replied with great cheer. “Dawn, Legolas and I have decided that we’re going to live in Ithilien after all’s said and done-- he wants to start some sort of elf commune there, since there’s no spiders. And it’s nice and close to Minas Tirith, so we’ll be able to hang out with Aragorn, um, Elessar. And you, too… we thought you’d be staying here. But if you were going to be living in Ithilien too…”

“That’s totally different!” Dawn exclaimed, and hugged her sister, then Legolas, and even Gimli (though no one was sure why) before planting a big kiss on Boromir’s cheek. “We’ll be neighbours!”

“Well, I don’t know about neighbours, exactly,” Buffy hedged. “It is a pretty big forest.”

“And knowing Legolas, he’ll want to live up a tree somewhere remote,” Gimli added.

“I am not living up a tree, buster,” Buffy told her husband, eyeing him severely. “Had enough of that in Caras Galadhon.”

“How go your plans for the wedding?” Legolas asked Dawn in an attempt to distract focus from him. It worked admirably, because Buffy and Dawn immediately began discussing the issue. Meanwhile, the males present rolled their eyes in the manner of all men when dealing with women and wedding plans.

“What have I done, to merit such a punishment?” Boromir hissed at the elf when Dawn requested he pay some attention, dammit.

“Don’t listen to them, Dawnie,” Buffy sniffed. “I’m gonna give you a beautiful, fun wedding if I have to kill everyone in Middle-Earth to do it.”

“Ever bloodthirsty,” Legolas murmured, fingering her long braid and giving it a gentle tug.. “Let us hope it will not come to that. We have, after all, just risked life and limb to save everyone in Middle-Earth.”

*Minuial = Dawn

*mellon = friend

*tithen maethoramin = my tiny warrior

Part 31

Eowyn returned as promised within a few weeks, and preparations for Dawn’s wedding to Boromir progressed swiftly. Before they knew it, the day was upon them.

“I can’t wait for the guys to go non-verbal when they see you,” Buffy chirped as she and Eowyn helped Dawn dress.

“You really think they will?” she asked, gazing in the mirror at her reflection. “There’s enough mithril on this thing to make Gimli elope with me.”

The women paused a moment to think about the mental image that Dawn’s words had created, and then began to laugh. “Have you got everything old, new, borrowed, and blue?” Buffy gasped.

“Well, the dress is blue, the circlet is borrowed—thanks, Eowyn—the baby is new, and as the Key, I’m pretty damned old. Is that good enough?”

“I think that’ll do,” Buffy agreed with a grin. “How’s Junior holding up to the excitement?”

“Hasn’t said anything, so I assume he’s ok with it all,” Dawn replied. “I, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop peeing every five minutes. Really hoping I won’t have to make a pit stop in the middle of the ceremony.” She peered over at her sister. “Don’t you think you should get dressed now, too?”

“Indeed, Dagnir,” Eowyn agreed. She and Buffy had come to a sort of truce, now that Eowyn wasn’t chasing Aragorn any more, and found they actually rather liked each other. “Unless you plan on attending as you are?”

Buffy looked down at her comfortable leggings and the tunic she’d appropriated from Legolas, which was miles too large for her. “It’s comfy,” she whined.

“Up,” Eowyn ordered. “If we must suffer, so must you.” And in short order, she and Dawn had stripped Buffy down to her knickers. Dawn dropped the gown over her head and pushed her arms into the sleeves; Eowyn fastened the belt around her slim hips and adjusted the neckline. Feeling obligated to put up a show of resistance, Buffy fought them every step of the way,.

“There!” Dawn finally, panting and brushing back a loosened strand of hair. “Hey, aren’t I supposed to be the nervous, reluctant one?”

Buffy glowered at her sister from under the curtain of hair that had come free from her braid during their struggles, and grunted.

“That shade of green looks very pretty with your hair, Dagnir,” Eowyn ventured, ever the peacemaker, and began to comb said hair.

“Hngh.”

“Again with the grunting,” Dawn complained, hands on hips. “Buffy, what’s really wrong?”

“It’s just…” Buffy plopped down on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands, clenched in her lap. “You’re getting married, and going to be a mother.. my little Dawnie…” A few tears rolled down her cheeks. “And I feel bad that Mom’s not going to see it. And Spike too, and Giles and Willow and Xander. They would have wanted to be here for this.”

Dawn’s face crumpled then, and she fell to her knees to drop her head in Buffy’s lap. Buffy leant over Dawn and gave into her own sobs. Eowyn hovered nearby for only a moment before she, too knelt and began to cry.

“Theoden, my uncle… I avenged his death, but still he is gone!” she wept. “Glad I am to have Eomer, for I know I would not have survived without him, but oh, Theodred… so young he was, and bold…” Without breaking stride, Dawn and Buffy put their arms around her.

It was this tangled knot of sodden women that Elessar discovered minutes later when he came to escort Dawn, as they had asked him to ‘give her away’. It was an intriguing concept, one with which he was thoroughly unfamiliar, but they seemed to consider it an honour, and so he was duly honoured by their request.

When he opened the door, expecting three flushed and happy faces but finding three red and tear-streaked ones, his eyes widened and he slowly, carefully backed out of the room. What could have happened, to upset them all so? He was used to Dawn blubbering, as she’d been doing so for weeks now, but he’d never before seen either Dagnir nor Eowyn give into tears. It was… unnerving.

Elessar pushed open the door to the palace study, where the rest of the men were waiting for the ceremony to begin. Legolas, Gimli, all four Hobbits, Gandalf, and Faramir were ranged around the room, some sitting, some standing. Boromir, however, was pacing before the huge fireplace and seemed to be muttering to himself.

“Elven marriage rites, why could it not be elven?” it sounded like to Elessar’s sharp ears. “Then it would be just Dawn and I, no one to watch, nothing to go wrong…” Ah, the groom was anxious as well. Elessar wondered if perhaps the women upstairs were merely releasing their tension with tears, as women were sometimes wont to do, but then remembered how the durable Buffy and stoic Eowyn had clung to each other…

“There is a problem,” he said from the doorway, and eight pairs of eyes flew to him.

“The great hall has collapsed, and we must have the wedding in a room so small only ten may fit?” Boromir asked hopefully.

“Alas,” Elessar replied with a kind smile. “Nothing so soothing to your nerves, Boromir. No, I fear that the women are… disquieted about something, and are crying quite fiercely.”

“All of them?” Legolas asked in his typically unruffled way, standing.

Elessar nodded. “Not just Dagnir and Dawn, but Eowyn as well.” This raised eyebrows around the room, and now Faramir was on his feet.

“Come, brother,” he said to Boromir, “let us go rescue our women from whatever demons haunt them this day.”

And Elessar could not be sure, but he thought he heard Boromir say, “Would rather face a demon… yes, yes, a Balrog. Vastly preferable…” Elessar was not entirely sure he blamed him.

The men (and elf) were all extremely pleased to learn that the women had recovered by the time they made their way up to the room where Elessar had left them. “Sometimes girls just need to have a good cry,” Dawn assured Boromir as she shut the door on him. He nodded, but clearly had no idea what she was talking about, and was very relieved indeed to be shooed from the room.

Elessar returned, and this time they were ready for him. Buffy and Eowyn preceded him and Dawn down to the great hall, and some lovely elven music was struck up as they entered, for the sons of Elrond had remained in Minas Tirith and Elrohir plucked with deft fingers at a lute while Elladan held a flute to his lips. The entire populace of the White City had tried to cram itself into the hall, and there was literally only standing room available.

Buffy thought Boromir looked like he’d prefer to be back at Helm’s Deep facing ten thousand orcs all by himself, if the panicked expression and nervous tugging at his collar were any indication, but then his gaze moved past her and Eowyn to Dawn, and all doubt vanished. His face became calm and sure, and a smile lifted his lips as his eyes locked on Dawn like they were the only people in the cavernous room.

She felt tears threaten again, but happy ones this time. Nevertheless, she blinked until they receded, and searched for Legolas. He was toward the front, and watching her the same way Boromir was watching Dawn. The same way Faramir was watching Eowyn, in fact. Love is in the air, she thought, and smiled.

At the end of the hall, Buffy went left and Eowyn went right, joining their respective men, and Buffy leant against Legolas’ side as he curled an arm around her and dropped a kiss on her hair. Elessar handed Dawn off to Boromir, who accepted her as if she were made of the finest, most delicate crystal, and both turned to face Gandalf.

“Dark times have we suffered of late,” the wizard began. “But throughout all, a love has shone brightly, and dispelled the darkness with its purity. Each has risked death for the other; and with this risk, has purchased joy.” He smiled down at them. “Does your kin approve of this match?”

“Yes,” Buffy said, followed a moment later by Faramir’s “Aye.”

“Does your king approve of this match?” Gandalf asked.

“I do,” Elessar said firmly. “They have the blessings of Gondor.”

Legolas stepped forward. “And of the elves.” Off to the side, Elladan and Elrohir nodded their agreement.

“And those of the dwarves,” Gimli added. He’d allowed Legolas to braid his beard for the occasion, and looked almost alarmingly cheerful.

“And of the Hobbits!” cried Merry. “Indeed!” agreed Pippin, Sam, and Frodo.

“Glad I am to hear it, Mister Brandybuck,” Gandalf chuckled when the laughter had receded. “And now we must hear from you, Dawn, and you, Boromir. What say you to this union?”

“I say that I was not worthy of you when you offered yourself to me, Dawn, and I doubt I ever will be, for I am naught but a rough soldier.” One of her tears splashed onto his hand as it clasped hers, and he rubbed at it with his calloused thumb. “But I give you all that I am.”

“What say you, Dawn, to this union?” Gandalf asked her.

“I say that my only regret is that it couldn’t have happened ten years ago,” Dawn replied, eyes shining brightly as stars. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for you, Boromir.” He smiled tenderly at her, and raised her hand to his lips.

Gandalf pulled a cord from his sleeve. “As your hearts are bound, so are your lives.” And he wrapped it in an intricate knot around their clasped hands, entwining them so closely together they could not have pulled away if they had wanted.

Which, fortunately, they did not, for Boromir threaded his hand into the shining fall of Dawn’s hair and pulled her close for a passionate kiss. It was only the noisy applause of all assembled that made them stop eventually.

“Alas,” Boromir whispered against her mouth, grinning.

“Not alas,” Dawn contradicted. “The opposite of alas. Yay. Because if I don’t get to a potty soon, there’s gonna be trouble.”

The twitching of Gandalf’s lips indicated that Maia have excellent hearing, and so he hastened to announce that standing before them were Boromir and Dawn of Gondor, husband and wife.

“Thank God,” Dawn muttered, and began to walk very quickly down the aisle, pulling Boromir with her as she’d forgotten they were still tied together. “Oh, for…” she yanked on the cord but it would seem that Maia also had excellent knot-tying skills, because she only made it tighter.

“Be calm, sweet,” Boromir laughed, running lightly beside her as people began to flood the aisle, eager to offer congratulations. Light poured through the tall windows, falling in golden beams over them, and he thought he’d never seen anything so lovely as her face. “We will get there, together.”

She stopped, and turned to him with a wide smile. “Yeah,” she agreed, and slipped her free arm around him for a quick hug. “I like the sound of that. Together.” Then her eyes widened. “Hope you like to be really close,” she said, warningly, “because I don’t think I can wait until we get this thing off.” And she took off running.

***

Elessar’s gift to them was a trip down the Anduin on the largest of the Corsair ships. Actually, they were accompanying Prince Imrahil and his forces back to Dol Amroth, but it was the closest a person could get to a honeymoon cruise in Middle-earth so Dawn wasn’t about to complain.

Since they were going to be sailing on the sea for a few days, the twins insisted on going as well, and if the twins were going then Legolas wanted to go, and if Legolas was going, of course Buffy was going too. Then Gimli expressed his reluctance to be left behind in Minas Tirith, Faramir and Eowyn declared they wanted to know if it would be worth their while to take one of these ‘honeymoons’ and shouldn’t they experience it for themselves, and before she knew it the Hobbits were all saying they’d certainly like to see some gulls as well and Gandalf had begun humming sea chanties under his breath whilst packing suspiciously nautical-looking wizard robes.

“Can’t Elessar come too?” Dawn demanded acidly as they plodded up the gangplank. “How about Eomer? The Dunedain, perhaps? Can’t we just bring everyone? I mean, as long as Boromir and I are going to have people all over the place, why not a few kings and a troupe of Rangers?”

“Oh, shut up,” Buffy said, and threw a companionable arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Could be worse, could have Spike here glaring at Boromir 24/7 for daring to touch his Nibblet.”

Dawn rolled her eyes and planted herself at the end of the plank, flatly refusing to allow anyone else aboard. “Forget it, Dumbledore,” she told the wizard. “Bad enough I’m going to have my sister with me on my honeymoon, and a bunch of elves, but there’s no way the rest of you are coming along.”

Gimli sulked; Faramir and Eowyn looked hurt. Gandalf frowned, sufficiently puzzled by the strange name she’d called him to rather forget to be offended, and the Hobbits all tried to pout so adorably she couldn’t possibly deny them, but Dawn was made of sterner stuff.

“I love you,” she said, kissing their little faces. “Now get the hell off the gangplank and go eat elevenses.”

After that it was, pardon the pun, smooth sailing. Buffy was careful to keep the elves away from the newlyweds, and Dawn was so happy her morning sickness was finally gone that she was in a superb mood. As for Boromir, he just lounged most of the day on the deck, became even more deeply tanned, and smiled a lot.

The elves were having the times of their lives, and Buffy couldn’t stop grinning at their antics, at how amazed and thrilled they were at practically everything. By the end of the second day, all three were scampering about the rigging like tall, gorgeous monkeys and saying things like, “Look yonder at the beautiful rock” and “Have you ever seen such a handsome gull?” with all seriousness.

“Elves in good moods are funny,” Dawn whispered in Buffy’s ear one late afternoon as twilight was falling over them. They were both peering up toward the crow’s nest, where Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir were crowded into the small space and staring out over the horizon before them. They were relaxed, had the loveliest creamy tans, and chatted happily in the musical Sindarin language.

“They deserve it,” Buffy replied, waving in response to her husband’s smile. “We all do.”

They returned all too quickly, and Arwen showed up in the middle of July, the same day as Dawn’s bump. “Look!” she exclaimed to the daughter of Elrond, pulling her gown tight across her middle to proudly display the small, firm mound beneath. Now in her second trimester, she was enjoying herself immensely as all morning sickness, weepiness, and panicked urges to pee had diminished entirely.

Arwen smiled. “Good health to you,” she said, cuddling Elessar’s arm to her. She hadn’t let go of him since arriving. He didn’t look as if he were going to release her any time soon either, to the delight of her grandparents, whom Buffy kept hugging as she’d missed her friends a lot. Elrond, however, walked around with a perpetual lemon-sucking expression on his handsome face and even his mischievous sons could not raise his spirits.

Elessar and Arwen were wed two weeks later with as much pomp and circumstance as anyone could stomach. Just four days after that, a sizeable contingent departed Minas Tirith for Edoras to bring Theoden’s body home for burial.

“It’s gonna be like a massive party, and I’m gonna miss it,” Dawn lamented as she and Boromir stood at the broken gate of the White City to say goodbye.

“You had your chance with the ship,” Buffy replied with a grin. “Could have had a honkin’ big boat party, but no.”

“You’ll be back soon?”

“We’ll be back before the baby’s due,” was all Buffy could promise, for she didn’t know how long it would take to do everything they needed to do, and all too soon Elessar and Eomer were ushering them toward the horses. Buffy hurried to hug Boromir, patted her future nephew or niece one last time, and hopped into the saddle.

Buffy found herself vastly relieved to be on the road again. Being cooped up, even in a city as big and convenient as Minas Tirith, made her antsy; she’d been a wanderer for far too long since coming to Middle-Earth to enjoy staying in one place too long, and said as much to Legolas.

“What if I get bored living in Ithilien?” she worried aloud one evening during the journey, as they curled up against each other in their bedroll rather a bit far from the fire, in a private little cove of trees. “What if I get a scorching case of cabin fever?”

“Then we shall strike out on another adventure,” he replied, unperturbed. “There is much still to see in Middle-Earth… you can bring me to Forlinden… Gimli wishes to show me all the treasures of the dwarf realms, and I would show him the forests of my youth. You, I would introduce to my father… ah, how I cannot wait to see his face…”

She raised up to look him in the face. “You only married me for the shock value, didn’t you?” she teased. “I knew it; I’m an undesirable element. The elven equivalent to hooking up with an unemployed biker with a lot of piercings and tattoos.”

Legolas was used to her saying things that made no sense to him, so it was no bother whatsoever. “Undesirable?” he asked, tracing a fingertip down the soft skin of her cheek. “I think not, herves-nîn.”

Then he kissed her, and she forgot all about cabin fever, and bikers, and anything except the feel of his lips and hands on her body. And when it was all over and she sighed “I love you, Legolas” before falling asleep, he even managed to forget about the call of the gulls for a short while, too.

*herves-nîn = my wife

Part 32

At Edoras, Theoden was laid to rest beside his son. Theodred’s grave was still somewhat fresh, with only a few bits of grass growing over it yet, and there was something grotesque about digging another so soon after the first. Eomer and Eowyn clung to each other as their uncle was lowered into the ground, but Merry stood alone, disconsolate, and dropped a fat pouch of pipe-weed on the shroud-wrapped form below.

“As a father to me, you were, Theoden! Farewell!”

Eomer was crowned king of Rohan, and at the feast thereafter he announced Eowyn’s betrothal to Faramir. Eowyn stood tall, every inch the noblewoman and lady she’d seemed that first glimpse Buffy had had of her, but the brittleness that had made Buffy wary was gone, especially when she looked upon her betrothed. Faramir, for his part, couldn’t seem to stop smiling, which was nice to see because he was somewhat of a more serious man than his brother, and given much to introspection.

“Brooders,” Buffy muttered under her breath. She had plenty of experience with brooders; Angel’s King of Pain act had been the classic and definitive example. Denethor’s final actions had marked Faramir deeply, and Boromir had been worried about him. She watched him that day, saw him so happy, and knew that her newest brother would not succumb to his sorrow.

“Gah,” she said to Legolas, who turned from his conversation with Gimli to attend her. “I’m becoming some kind of deeply philosophical wise-woman. I think you elves are a bad influence on me.”

Across the table, Celeborn’s eyes lit up. “Philosophy?” he asked in delight. “I have just finished reading—“ He was cut off by his wife’s gentle hand on his arm.

“Dearest, let us go speak with our granddaughter,” she said in her tranquil voice and bestowed a glorious smile upon him. Celeborn heaved the sigh of the long-married husband and rose, holding out his hand to Galadriel and shooting an exasperated glance around him.

“Don’t worry, Celeborn, some day you’ll find someone else to nerd around with,” Buffy told him cheekily, laughing when he quirked a silver brow and led Galadriel in Arwen’s direction. “Weird,” she said to no one in particular. “Never thought elves could be geeks.”

As it turned out, elves could also have temper tantrums. When it came time to depart for those who would carry on the journey, and for Arwen and Elrond to say goodbye (for she would go no further than Edoras) they had the elven equivalent of a knock-down, drag-out fight. To Buffy’s disappointment, hardly a sound could be heard from the room where father and daughter closeted themselves (elven slobberknockers being very much like regular conversations but with loads more tension), but when it was over they emerged with eyes were bright and hard, and red spots of colour on their fair cheeks.

Their party, minus Faramir now as well, continued on to Helm’s Deep. “It is time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain, elf!” Gimli cried, referring to the promise they had made the first time they had been at that fortress: to show the other what they found beautiful in their native worlds.

Deeper and deeper Gimli led them into the Glittering Caves, and Buffy thought Legolas might crush her hand as the walls grew ever closer around them. “It will be worth it,” Gimli assured his friend, and Legolas gave him a tight smile in return. “Now close your eyes! For I would have this be a surprise to you!”

They did as instructed, and the dwarf took one of their hands in each of his and pulled them after him. Buffy could tell that the air was gradually getting fresher, for which she was very glad, because it was pretty musty down there.

“You may look now,” Gimli said, his gleeful voice echoing, and Buffy opened her eyes to find they were in an immense underground cavern. Far, far above was a jagged hole in the rock, and sunlight poured through to fall in a straight column of butter-yellow to the ground. Motes floated gently like bits of stardust, and wherever the light struck, brilliant colours flashed and sparkled because the entire place was encrusted with…

“Are those diamonds?” she whispered, barely daring to breathe for fear of dispelling what must surely be a dream. She raised a hand and stared at the flashes of cerulean and celadon that darted over her skin.

“Except for the veins of mithril in the walls, aye,” Gimli affirmed, grinning at her disbelieving enchantment with the cavern. Streaks of fuchsia and salmon-pink lay across his broad, bearded face, thrown by the refractions. “Legolas, what think you of this?”

“I—“ Legolas began, but stopped. “It is—“ This time he frowned. “This—“ He was starting to get annoyed now, even as golden and tawny-orange twinkles surrounded him like a halo.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, honey?” Buffy asked solicitously, taking his hand and squeezing it. He nodded. “And wasn’t Gimli right about how nice it would be?” Another nod. “And aren’t you glad he brought us?” A third nod, and she turned to the dwarf. “There you have it, Gimli. You’ve knocked him speechless.”

Gimli crowed in triumph, not even minding when Legolas grouched, “It will be the one and only time, dwarf, so enjoy this brief moment while it will last.” He was very keen to even the score, and didn’t want to wait at all to go to Fangorn but Buffy asked him very nicely indeed, so he agreed to travel north until Galadriel and Celeborn turned eastward to go home. “We shall part from them at Dimrill Stair and head south,” he announced, seeming pleased a course had been set.

That settled, the group went to Isen to see what the Ents had gotten up to in the interim. There, they learned that Treebeard had allowed Saruman and Grima to escape. Gandalf wasn’t glad to hear that, not at all, but manfully (Maia-fully?) bore up. Treebeard gave Ent-draughts to Merry and Pippin, and Buffy was tempted to ask for one herself…

“I could do with being a few inches taller,” she said, looking wistfully at the Hobbits as they drank their bowls of the funky smelling stuff.

“But if you were, I could not do this,” Legolas told her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her head. “And this is my favourite position for us.”

She tilted her head back to look up at him. “It is?” she asked, eyes innocently wide in a way that made everyone around her very suspicious. “I thought your favourite was when I was—“

“Ahem,” Elessar coughed loudly, and they looked over at him. “I am but newly wed, and you will corrupt me with your wicked speech.”

Buffy snorted. “Corrupt? You? You’re like ninety years old. I don’t think so.” He only grinned at her.

That grin was one of the last things they saw of him, for he was going no farther than the Gap of Rohan. “You’ll take care of Dawnie until I get back to Minas Tirith?” Buffy asked, clinging to him.

“She is with her husband, you know,” he replied, his voice mild as he looked fondly down at her. “I daresay he is up to the task himself.”

“I know, I know,” she grumbled back. “It’s just that… well, you know…”

“I trust you above all others, as well, Dagnir,” Elessar murmured. “You have ever been a staunch ally, and fine friend. I am proud to count you as foster-sister.”

Buffy sniffled a little. “You never knighted me, you know.”

“It was apurpose,” he declared. “For now you have another reason to hasten back to the White City.”

The Hobbits were sad to leave him as well, for he had been their companion since leaving Bree so long ago, and they all hugged him until he begged mercy. “We will see each other again, that is my promise as your king,” he told them affectionately.

The diminished party travelled for another week up the western border of the Misty Mountains before a grubby pair of beggars accosted them.

“Hello, Saruman!” Gandalf greeting his fellow Istari amiably. “Where are you going?”

Saruman replied in the Middle-Earth equivalent of “what’s it to you?” and the two were off and running in a war of words. Buffy took the opportunity to dismount and stretch her legs, perhaps find a private bush to take care of a few pressing needs (or at least one in particular). She’d just located a nice, leafy shrub that looked promising when she felt a touch on the back of her leg.

Spinning, she looked down to see the other beggar—the one not arguing with Gandalf—staring pitifully up at her from where he crouched in the dirt. It was that wormy guy Theoden had kicked out of Edoras once Gandalf had restored him. He was filthy, with matted hair and many bruises on his face and neck, and she recoiled at the sight of him. “Don’t touch me, you’re crusty. What do you want?”

“Mercy upon poor old Grima, milady!” the wretch moaned, and hugged her around the knees. “Always beaten and cursed! How I hate Saruman! I wish I could leave him!”

“So leave him,” Buffy retorted, peeling him off. “What are you, some sort of battered wife? This co-dependant thing just isn’t healthy. Embrace the pain, spank your inner moppet, whatever, but get over it.”

Grima’s wasn’t the only blank look her monologue received, and she just threw up her hands in disgust before rounding the shrub.

“I think not,” Legolas said, off his horse in a flash to grab the scruff of Grima’s neck when he went to follow Buffy. “My wife prefers to be alone for such moments.” He deposited the man none too gently at Saruman’s feet. “If you think to curry some pity from her because she is female, you are destined to disappointment. There is no softness in her heart for such as you.”

Saruman cuffed Grima about the head, and dragged him off in the opposite direction, muttering maledictions the whole way. Buffy was relieved to see them gone when she rounded the shrub once more, and they passed from there into Dunland, and from Dunland to Eregion.

All too soon it was time for the Lórien elves to turn east and cross over the Redhorn Gate. The Hobbits were in a flood of tears at parting from them, and Buffy was all teary as well. Even Gimli was heard to sniffle once or twice before the trees covering the mountain became too thick to see the little group at the foot, watching them.

It took four days to cross through Redhorn Gate and descend at Dimrill. The exit from Moria and Khazad-dûm gaped like a huge, ominous mouth and Buffy shivered to remember what that grim day had been like, thinking Gandalf gone forever. That was before Dawn had come to Middle-Earth as well, and Buffy had expected her life to be just as bleak from that point forward as it had been before.

She woke before everyone else the next morning, sitting in the tall grass and watching the sun rise over the Golden Wood in the distance, but was not surprised when bare feet walked up, and a body sat gracefully at her side.

“How fare you this morn?” Galadriel asked, her voice pitched low so as to not wake anyone. The filmy sleeve of her gown brushed against Buffy’s arm, and a perfume like fresh rain surrounded them.

“Pretty good,” Buffy replied, and lay her head on the elleth’s shoulder. “You?”

“I am well,” replied Galadriel serenely. “My heart is glad to know that all is as it should be; the Ring is destroyed, though the Ringbearer succumbed at the last. Gollum’s greed was his doom, as shall always befall any who revere what they should not.”

“How are you feeling about Arwen?” asked Buffy. “I know Elrond’s panties are in the mother of all wads about her staying here instead of going with him to Valinor.”

“Elrond has lost many in his life; his brother chose the fate of Man, and died many years ago. His wife, my sweet Celebrían, passed to the Undying Lands without him in the last century. Arwen as his only daughter has ever been precious to him, and he sees her decision as a preference of Elessar over her father.” Galadriel sighed. “And I fear that my grandsons will choose mortality, and remain on Middle-Earth, as well.” Buffy gasped in surprise, and the elf-witch continued. “So you see, there is much for him to be displeased about.”

“Must be tough for you too,” Buffy ventured after a few minutes of silence. “Three grandchildren, and none choosing elfdom?”

“I have wondered what we did wrong in raising them, yes,” the other admitted dryly, and Buffy bumped her shoulder against Galadriel’s playfully.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that I chose immortality, even if I’m not an elf, or half-elf, or related to you in any way.”

“Speaking of relations,” Galadriel commented, glancing sideways at her, “You are happy with Legolas? Haldir was… most vocal when he returned. There was the matter of a misunderstanding, and Legolas’ treatment of you was… how did he put it? ‘Thoroughly shameful for an elf of his years. Would Dagnir not beat me, I would knock that Mirkwood pup senseless!’ Ah, yes, that was it.”

Buffy giggled. “Haldir’s a sweetie. Waaaaaaay too protective, but sweet.”

Another silvery-blue glance was slid in her direction. “And is my march-warden’s heart broken?”

“Hardly,” Buffy snorted. “We’ve never been anything than really good friends who happen to have really good sex. And now that the nookie’s over, he’s practically my big brother.” She paused, thinking. “I seem to have acquired a lot of brothers in the past year… Haldir, Elessar, Boromir, Faramir, Gimli, the Hobbits… no, wait, they’re more like children.”

Warming to her topic, she leant back on her hands and crossed her ankles as she admired the play of tender golden light on the gently swaying grasses. “Celeborn’s the hot but nerdy professor, and Gandalf’s like a batty but stern great-uncle. Elrond reminds me a lot of a principle I had back in high school. Except, way tastier.”

Galadriel smiled, and it vied with the barely risen sun for splendor. “And I, Dagnir? What am I?”

Buffy smiled back. “You’re my best friend.” She sobered at a sudden thought. “I’m gonna miss you like crazy when you leave, you know.”

A tilt of the head brought Galadriel’s hair brushing the ground, pooling like molten gold. “Then you will just have to come with me, will you not?”

Hazel eyes widened in surprise. “I can do that? They’ll let me?”

“Your best friend is in rather good standing with the Valar, Buffy. Anything is possible.” She brought her knees up and rested her chin on them, closing her eyes when the sun finally broke clear of the mellyrn in the distance. “Anything.”


~Fin~