By CinnamonGrrl

Part 9

“Buffy, it feels… wrong… in here,” Dawn whispered after they’d been walking for a while through Fangorn Forest. “There are some things I can just smell. It’s like a sixth sense.”

“Um, that would be one of the original five, I think,” Buffy said, poking her sister in the shoulder. “But I do have a sixth sense, and I can tell that there’s something out there. So can he.” She nodded toward Legolas, who had frozen and was staring through the woods.

“The White Wizard approaches,” Legolas said at last.

“Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us,” Aragorn warned, and all drew their weapons while Legolas nocked an arrow. Their finely tuned warrior senses directed them to spin to the right, and Gimli chucked his axe with deadly accuracy while Legolas let fly his missile.

But to their shock, arrow and axe were deflected, and the swords that Boromir, Aragorn, and Buffy held became so hot they burned their hands. Dropping them to the ground, they squinted and shielded their eyes against the fierce glow emanating from the White Wizard.

“You track two Hobbits,” the wizard said, his voice slow and deep.

“Where are they?” Aragorn demanded, glancing with longing at his fallen sword.

“They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?”

Buffy could almost hear Aragorn grinding his teeth with impatience. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

The bright light dimmed, and Buffy blinked, then blinked again when the White Wizard revealed himself to be none other than Gandalf. After a few minutes of utter shock, and they all exclaimed at length at the impossibility of his being alive before them, Gandalf-no-longer-the-Grey began to tell them what happened to him after falling off the bridge at Khazad-dûm… he seemed somewhat dazed by it all, still.

“Who is this guy?” Dawn muttered, and Buffy pulled her away to explain.

“He was this wizard, he was part of the mission from the very beginning at Imladris, but a demon pulled him into a bottomless pit months ago. We thought he was dead…” she looked back at him, at his white garb and hair. “But it seems he’s not. Definitely not like he was before, that’s for damned sure.”

Dawn peered at her sister. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

Buffy frowned. “It’s not that I don’t trust him, exactly…” She didn’t know how to express her unease. Sure, she knew she could return from the dead, but she knew how that worked. As a general rule, people generally didn’t return from bottomless pits all transformed into glowing celestial beings. That was just… weird. “I just think we should be careful, until he proves that he’s not… warped somehow.” She grinned at her sister. “I haven’t stayed alive this long by being naïve.”

Dawn snorted. “You’ve died, what? Twenty times? ‘Stayed alive this long’, my ass.” Buffy glared at her, and she relented. “But you have a point.” Buffy beamed at her. “For once,” Dawn added, ducking away from Buffy’s attempted slap to the arm with a squeal.

“I am Gandalf the White,” the old man was saying now, leading them out of the forest toward the plain where they had left the horses. “And I come back to you now at the turn of the tide.”

He turned slightly toward where Boromir stood. “I see you have resisted the temptation of the ring, son of Gondor. It fills me with joy, to know you could keep your heart pure.” He turned a canny glance toward Dawn, walking close to the man. “And it looks as if you have been well rewarded for your bravery.”

Boromir flushed and Dawn frowned. “Hey, I’m no prize,” she snapped at Gandalf.

“You are not wrong,” Gimli muttered, and the others couldn’t quite hide their laughter.

Dawn retorted, “You know what I mean!”

“Indeed we do, Lady,” Gandalf said gallantly. “You are better than a prize, after all.” Dawn looked at him curiously. “You are the Key, are you not?”

“Um, yeah. Kinda,” Dawn admitted. “But I don’t know what to do with my Key-ness. I can’t use it on my own.”

Gandalf patted her kindly on the arm. “That is where I will help you. Fear not.”

Dawn beamed up at him, and they chatted amiably as they continued their walk from the woods, but Buffy merely watched them.

“What are you thinking?” Legolas asked her.

“Who, me?” she said, flashing him what she hoped was a genuine-looking smile. His raised eyebrow told her he wasn’t buying it. “Why do you think I’m thinking anything special? I could be thinking about… about washing my hair, or what we’ll have for breakfast tomorrow, or—

“I know you better than that, Dagnir,” Legolas interrupted. “I know that look on your face. It means you are thinking hard, and about something that is important.”

“You don’t know me that well, Legolas,” she snapped, stomping away, trying to outdistance him, but his longer legs caught her up easily. She shot him a glance from the corner of her eye and saw he was smiling. “You don’t! I’m very enigmatic.”

He smiled wider. “I used to think so.”

Buffy stopped right there and folded her arms across her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I used to think so. But I have figured you out, and now you are as an open book to me.” He tilted his head to one side. “Does this bother you? I would not betray you.”

Buffy tried to frown at him, but felt her anger melting away in spite of herself. “I know that,” she said grudgingly. “I just…” She fell silent.

“Tell me,” he urged, placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing gently. His eyes were so calm, so deep, so blue… Buffy felt like she was falling into them, as she’d fallen into Galadriel’s mirror. Like she could learn the secrets of the universe within them.

“When Angel… went bad,” she began haltingly. “He knew everything about me, used it to hurt me, to kill my friends. He made it so Drusilla could kill Kendra, he killed Jenny, tortured Giles…” She lowered her head and stared at Legolas’ boots, watching her tears splatter onto their dusty toes. “I’m afraid,” she whispered, so low that only an elf could hear her. “I’m afraid that my weakness will get people hurt.”

“Weakness? What weakness do you speak of? For the Dagnir I know has none.” She looked at him quickly, to see if he were teasing her, but his beautiful face was serious.

She laughed shakily. “That shows how little you know me, Legolas. I’m full of weakness. I’m so scared, most of the time. Being in Middle-Earth these seventeen years has been both the hardest and easiest time of my life… I’ve had no one, I’ve been so lonely…”

She scrubbed at her eyes with her fists like a small child. “But at the same time, it’s been wonderful. There’s been no one to get hurt because of me. There’s been no guilt, no worry. The worst that could happen to a person is dying, and even that is denied to me by the Valar.”

“I know of the sorrow of which you speak,” Legolas said at last. “It is what comes of being an elf with mortal friends.” He looked toward their companions, who had continued walking and were now barely visible through the trees. “Deeply it pains me to think of their passing, knowing that I will go on long after they have departed. It is how I feel also for those of my kind who have departed Middle-Earth for Valinor. We have faith that their journey is safe, but no sure knowledge of their arrival.”

“It is for this reason that elves tend to refrain from friendships with mortals. We are a passionate people, we feel deeply. Our grief bites deep, just as our joy shines bright. It is easier to keep to ourselves, knowing that our dear ones will not grow old and sicken and die while we remain young forever. That is our limitation.”

He slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms, to grasp her hands. Lifting them to his mouth, he dropped a kiss in each palm. “Weakness shared is weakness halved. We are stronger now than we were before.”

Buffy blinked back tears. “You’re a really great guy, you know that, Legolas?”

He smiled serenely at her. “I have heard that before. But usually not from a weeping person. Could you tell me again, in a more convincing way? Because the tears make me doubt your sincerity.”

She punched his arm and sniffled. “You’re a good friend,” she told him with a fierce glare.

“Much better,” he gasped, rubbing his bruised flesh. “Thank you.”

“I aim to please,” she smirked, and jogged to catch up to the others, Legolas close on her heels.

Once back in the open grasslands, Gandalf told them, “One stage of the journey is over, another begins. War has come to Rohan. We must ride to Edoras with all speed.” And then he gave a piercing whistle. Soon an answering neigh could be heard and a horse galloped over the crest of a hill toward them.

“Speaking of glowing celestial beings…” Buffy said, gaping. For the animal was not merely white, but a pearlescent, silvery white, the colour of the moon on a clear night, and his mane and tail flowed like milk.

“That is one of the Mearas, unless my eyes are cheated by some spell,” Legolas murmured, his gaze roaming eagerly over the vision before them.

“Shadowfax,” Gandalf introduced the creature. “He’s the lord of all horses, and my friend through many dangers.”

“I want a friend like that,” Dawn said, hesitantly coming forward to stroke Shadowfax’s neck.

“You have me,” Boromir reminded her. “You may pet me like that any time you wish.” He stepped back, however, abashed when Buffy leveled a cold look at him. “Or perhaps not,” he amended hastily, and Gimli chuckled.

“Mount up, lad,” the dwarf advised. “You can’t win.”

*

Once they came within eyesight of the city of Edoras, nestled against a hillside, Gandalf explained how Theoden was under the control of Saruman. “Be careful of what you say,” he warned. “Do not look for welcome here.”

They rode into the city, and Buffy was taken aback by how gloomy and barren the place was. All were dressed in black and stared with open hostility at the newcomers.

“You’d find more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli muttered from behind Legolas, and Buffy knew from experience how correct he was.

She peeked over Aragorn’s shoulder at the hall atop the hill, and saw a woman standing on the flat landing, pale gown and hair streaming behind her in the wind. As she watched, the woman turned and fled in a whirl of skirts into the building.

They dismounted and climbed slowly up the steep stairs to the landing, where they were met by a guard who refused to let them pass with their weapons “By order of Grima Wormtongue”. Buffy smirked as she saw Legolas couldn’t resist giving his daggers a little fancy twirl as he handed them over. She cheerfully dumped her sword and various knives she produced from the hidden spots all over her body.

“It does not bother you to enter this place, weaponless?” Gimli asked her, giving his beloved axe a last mournful glance before entering the hall.

“Gimli, I am a weapon,” Buffy reminded him. “One of these days, I gotta show you what I can do with my bare hands.”

“I would like to see this, too,” Legolas murmured behind her, and somehow she thought he didn’t exactly mean fighting… she tore her thoughts away from that course when Gandalf pretended to be a doddering old fart so as to not give up his staff, and into the hall they all progressed.

They were followed closely by very hostile-looking men, and Dawn edged closer to Boromir, who wrapped a protective arm around her waist. A pasty-pale, utterly hideous man—Buffy assumed it was the Grima Wormtongue mentioned by the guard-- crouched beside a throne at the end of the hall. In the throne was slumped a disreputable heap of robes, and only when it moved did she realize that the heap was actually a person.

“Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear,” Grima said nastily. “Láthspell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest.”

”Be silent!” Gandalf roared, raising his staff. “Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!”.

“I told you to take the wizard’s staff,” Grima hissed at the doorman, and the hostile guards rushed toward the Fellowship.

“Looks like you guys get your demonstration earlier than I thought,” Buffy quipped, and punched one chap so hard he flew back twenty feet. Flying up, she landed a solid kick to another man’s chest, smashing him into a wall, and at the same time grabbed the heads of two others and knocked them together with a very painful-sounding thud.

Looking around, she saw Boromir fending five men off while trying to keep Dawn behind him, and Buffy took a running leap up a pillar, using it to spring up and somersault backward in the air, coming down directly beside Boromir.

“How did you do that?” he demanding, landing a right-hook on the jaw of one of his attackers, dropping him like a rock.

“I’m full of surprises,” Buffy replied, and sent a spinning-kick into the head of another fellow, who lurched into his neighbour and sent them both tumbling to the floor.

“Let me hit at least one of them!” Dawn wailed from behind Boromir.

“Here, sweet, I saved one for you,” he said fondly, stepping aside, and she beamed at him before slugging the last one in the stomach, then crashing her knee into his chin when he bent over in pain. With a shriek of pain, the man fell over, not able to decide whether he should clutch his belly or his face. “Well done, sweet,” Boromir commented, impressed.

“You’re so good to me, honey,” Dawn told him, with a kiss of gratitude. Buffy made a face.

“You two are weird,” she grumbled, ambling over to where Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn were dusting off their hands after finishing off their attackers.

Gandalf once more raised his staff. “Theoden, son of Thengel, too long have you sat in the shadows.” He gestured with his hand. “Harken to me! I release you from this spell.”

“Hey, the nasty guy is trying to get away!” Dawn whispered, pointing to where Grima was unobtrusively creeping off to the side, and Gimli shot over to him with impressive speed, pinning him to the floor with his boot on the worm’s throat.

Saruman jeered at Gandalf from Theoden’s body, and the lovely woman they’d seen at their arrival ran forward with a cry. Only Aragorn’s swift arm around her waist held her back.

“Rohan is mine!” Saruman bellowed from Theoden’s mouth, and Gandalf strode forward to smite the elderly king with his staff. Theoden slumped back into his chair with a moan, and Eowyn wrenched free of Aragorn’s grasp to go to him. Tenderly, she lifted his head from his chest and gasped to see his face transform to that of a much younger and more aware man. The dingy hall filled with light as the evil was dispelled.

“I know your face,” the king said, his voice rough, as he looked at the woman. “Eowyn? Eowyn!” She burst into happy tears and buried her face against his arm. “Dark have been my dreams of late,” Theoden told them, staring down at his trembling hands.

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword,” Gandalf said kindly, and the door-guard rushed forward with the king’s sword laying reverently across his arms.

Theoden picked it up, gazing at the gleaming metal and gems, and Grima whimpered in fear, struggling to get out from under Gimli’s boot. Slowly, deliberately, Theoden turned to face his onetime advisor. With an impressive lurch, Grima pushed Gimli away and leapt to his feet, running for the door.

With a shout of rage, Theoden dashed after him, the Fellowship in pursuit. Outside, Buffy saw that Grima had tripped over his own feet and tumbled down the steps. Theoden followed, murder in his eye, but Aragorn put a placating hand on the king’s arm.

“Let him go, my lord,” he urged. “Enough blood has been spilled on his behalf.”

Grima took advantage of Theoden’s hesitation to jump up and shove through the crowd, grabbing the first horse he could and riding hell-for-leather out of Edoras. Theoden slowly sheathed his sword as someone in the crowd shouted, “Hail, Theoden-king!”

Soon, everyone was shouting it, and Buffy found herself kneeling between Aragorn and Gimli as Boromir tugged Dawn down beside him. Theoden smiled, and then turned to Eowyn. “Where is Theodred? Where is my son?”

Part 10

“Poor Theoden,” Dawn said to Buffy, dunking her head under the surface of the water to rinse out the soap. “Poor Eowyn.”

They were in a large room, each in a big wooden tub filled with steaming water, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air.

“Hm,” Buffy said noncommittally, slouching lower into the silky water. Her heart ached for Theoden, but as for Eowyn—she wasn’t sure what to think. She was fiercely loyal to her uncle and kingdom, that was true, but…Buffy had seen the looks the woman had given Aragorn, hungry looks. It made her uneasy.

“Are you done yet?” Dawn asked, snapping her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see Dawn had gotten out, dried off, and dressed while Buffy was woolgathering. “You’re gonna get all pruney.” She grinned, and started brushing her hair dry. “Although I bet Legolas wouldn’t mind, even if you were a big ol’ prune.”

Buffy glared at her sister, and stood up, reaching for a drying cloth. “I happen to know that’s the only dress you have,” she said calmly, toweling her skin dry. “Wouldn’t it be a shame if I pushed you into the tub and you had nothing clean to wear tonight, and instead of feasting with the rest of us, you had to stay in your room and sulk?”

Dawn smirked. “Wouldn’t bother me any,” she retorted, the motion of her arms smooth as she drew the brush through her long chestnut hair. “I’ll just get Boromir to keep me company. Hm, what could the two of us do in a bedroom together, while everyone else in the city is eating and dancing the night away?”

Buffy glared harder and tugged on a filmy white chemise, then a gown of silky-soft golden-brown wool. “I told you. No talking about the sex near me, I’m squeamish.” She shook her damp hair out. “Think I should lop some of it off? I only kept the last foot or so because it was still blonde.”

Dawn bit her lip, thinking. “Yeah, I think so. It’ll look healthier, and be easier to care for.”

One of the serving women stepped forward with a wicked-looking pair of shears, and with a few snips, the blond strands fell to the floor.

“Hm, lighter!” Buffy said, twirling. Her hair now only came to just below her hips, a wavy gleaming mass the colour of dark honey. “It’ll take less time to dry, too. Yay me!”

Dawn laughed. “C’mere, let me brush it dry so we can eat sometime this year.”

*

Entering the hall, Buffy and Dawn were both struck suddenly shy. The room was huge, and filled with hundreds of people, of whom they only knew five. Dawn’s hand crept into Buffy’s, and she squeezed it back with what she hoped was reassurance.

“Do you even see them?” Dawn asked, impatient to see Boromir again, and eat.

“How would I know?” Buffy answered grumpily. “You’re the tall one, look around.”

Dawn rose up on tiptoes and craned her neck. “I think I see Legolas’ hair. Oh! And Gimli’s beard.”

Buffy laughed, and let her sister tug her down the aisle. “Thank God for landmarks, huh?”

The men of the Fellowship stood when the women reached the table.

“Visions of loveliness,” Gimli said gruffly, kissing their hands, while Aragorn and Gandalf smiled and nodded politely. Legolas murmured a compliment as he bowed over Dawn’s hand, and said nothing to Buffy, but it wasn’t necessary—the frank appreciation in his crystalline eyes brought a rosy blush to her cheeks.

Boromir’s eyes, however, were only for Dawn. “You are an angel,” he said breathlessly. “Come, sit by me.”

Buffy took the seat Legolas indicated beside him, and beamed a smile at her scrubbed and laundered compatriots. Even Gimli’s beard looked freshly combed and braided. “I am very, very proud of you all,” she announced. “Did you use the soap I gave you?”

Aragorn coughed. “Um, no. We were able to obtain something less… feminine.”

Buffy laughed, and leaned close to Legolas to sniff him, then jolted in shock. He smelled like heaven and hell all rolled into one, like rain and trees and cinnamon and leather and… “Oh, my God,” she moaned, and leaned closer, sniffing harder. “What is that?”

“Buffy, you’re gonna make yourself hyperventilate,” Dawn warned, staring at her sister. “What are you doing?”

“Dawn, you’ve got to smell him!” Buffy said, her pupils dilated. “Do the rest of you smell like this?” She leaned toward Gandalf on her other side, but he leaned away, a look of apprehension on his face.

Dawn moved as if to smell Legolas, but Boromir wrapped his arm firmly around her waist. “I don’t think that is necessary,” he said repressively. “You may sniff me.” Dawn happily indulged.

Buffy turned back to Legolas, and saw the elf was blushing quite furiously as he stared at the tabletop. “It’s just you,” she said as she realized, and he nodded shortly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It is nothing,” he said tightly. “I am not embarrassed.”

She frowned in confusion. “Then why are you blushing?”

He turned to face her, and her mouth dropped open to see his eyes blazing with desire. “To know you are scenting me like a bitch in heat is very arousing,” he murmured in her ear, so quietly only she could hear him. “Now sit quietly unless you want me to carry you from the hall and take you in the corridor, against the wall.”

Buffy swallowed the lump in her throat, and wondered if lust could actually catch her on fire. The image of him pressing her into the stone wall, his lean body moving sinuously against hers, his eyes burning into hers as his heavenly scent swirled around them, rose in her mind and for a crazed moment she almost grabbed him and yanked him to that corridor herself.

But then the food arrived, and her stomach growled, and Aragorn coughed loudly to get her attention, and the haze of yearning faded to a level she could at least function over. Mechanically she lifted her fork and knife, exquisitely aware of the elf to her left. Oh, she moaned in her head, his leg against mine is so warm… and he smells soooo good…

“Dagnir,” Aragorn addressed her.

“I’m not turned on!” she lied blatantly, dropping her utensils with a clatter to the plate, and then violently blushed as Dawn collapsed against Boromir, laughing hysterically. She looked frantically around the table and saw the men were watching her in puzzlement, with the exception of Legolas, who had a tiny, knowing smile playing on his lips. “I mean, yes?” Thank God they don’t understand Earth slang, she thought.

“We ride tomorrow for Helms Deep, a fortress. We have reason to believe an army of Uruk-hai and orcs advances upon it. I know you will join us, but…” He looked pointedly at Dawn, who was speaking quietly with Boromir at the other end of the table. “Your sister’s battle skills are not adequate. I fear for her safety.”

Buffy nodded. She’d been worrying about the same thing. “I know. Is there somewhere she can go, where she’d be safe?”

“Eowyn will be bringing the people of Edoras to Dunharrow,” Gandalf suggested. “It is not far from here, and should be quite secure.”

“I’ll talk to her after we eat,” Buffy agreed. “Thanks for thinking of her, Aragorn.”

He inclined his head to her, and she was struck with how regal the motion was. “You really are a king, aren’t you,” she asked admiringly, but her smile faded when she saw the droop of his shoulders. “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” she recited, and smiled at the appreciation in his eyes at the elegance of the expression.

“Uneasy, indeed,” he agreed with a lopsided grin. “There are days I long to be just Strider the ranger, once more, but there is no escape from destiny.”

“Don’t I know it,” Buffy grumbled. “You at least get a crown and a throne and people to call you ‘your majesty’. All I ever get is attempts on my life and a lame nickname.”

“When I am crowned, I will make you a knight of the realm and give you a fine title,” Aragorn told her with a smile. “All shall behold you with respect and love, and there will be much groveling and bending of knee to you.”

“It’s good to be friends with the king!” Buffy said, and raised her goblet to him. “To Aragorn, son of Arathorn!” There was cheering, and much drinking deeply of the good Edoras wine.

“To Theoden, king of Rohan!” said a clear voice, and Buffy looked to see Eowyn standing beside her uncle, her goblet lifted high. “To the memory of Theodred!” More cheering, and more drinking.

“Whew, no more for me,” Buffy said, her hands pressed to her flushed, hot cheeks. “I’ll barely be able to stagger to bed as it is.” Legolas didn’t say a word, didn’t even look her way, but yet she still felt… something, a current of awareness, run from him to her. She concentrated on breathing, and kept eating, no longer hungry but needing something to distract her from him.

Finally, blessedly, the meal was over and the tables were cleared away. “Time for dancing!” someone cried.

“Dancing?” Buffy felt her stomach knot with dread.

“Dancing!” Gimli exclaimed, a wide smile splitting his beard, and Dawn clapped happily when the music began.

“I don’t know what to do!” she said to Boromir, eyes glowing. “Will you teach me?”

“Anything you want to know,” he promised fervently as the music was struck up and she tugged him onto the floor.

“You do not like dancing?” Aragorn asked teasingly. “Do not tell me that you will sit on the side, while even Gandalf makes merry.” And sure enough, Gandalf had taken the hand of a pretty matron and was leading her through the intricate steps of the dance.

“I’m just not that good at formal dancing like this. Really more of a freestyle dancer,” Buffy said nervously. It was true—she could never remember all the steps, the motions, where she was supposed to go. It was much easier back in the Bronze, where she could just fling her arms over her head and wiggle as she pleased to the music. Here, there were rules and responsibilities, and people were depending on her to do exactly the right thing, at exactly the right time… “Too much stress,” she said finally.

Aragorn just grinned at her and allowed Eowyn to pull him into the dance, leaving Buffy standing with Legolas. Gimli had deserted them at first opportunity and was skipping with great enthusiasm beside Dawn, who laughed uproariously at the dwarf’s antics while Boromir watched, smiling, from the side.

“She is happy here,” Legolas said quietly.

“Yes,” Buffy replied. “I was worried about that. I thought maybe I should leave her in Lorien until this was all over with the Ring. I know she doesn’t much like him, but Haldir would protect her—“

“Yes, let us speak of Haldir,” he interrupted smoothly, and Buffy got a sinking feeling in her stomach. Uh-oh, she thought, here it comes. “What are you to each other?”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “Haldir… was the first friend I made in Middle-Earth,” she said at last. “He found me in the woods, brought me to Caras Galadon. He was surly, and arrogant, and exactly what I needed to keep from pitying myself too much. It took years for our friendship to become more, but I won’t lie to you. He’s been my lover for over a decade. I like and respect him. He’s been good to me.”

Legolas was staring stonily at the dancers, his face expressionless. Buffy cupped her palm around his cheek and turned him to look at her. “I do not love him,” she said softly. “And once this is over, I will not be returning to him as a lover, ever again.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not love him,” Buffy repeated. “And for some reason, I find love to be… very important to me lately.” She held her breath, waited for him to hear what she had not said.

It didn’t take long. Elves were very perceptive, after all. He raised his own hand to her face, brushed the back of his fingers over her lips before placing his palm against her cheek, and lowered his mouth to hers. He rubbed his lips against hers softly, merely enjoying the feel of skin against skin, before nudging them open and tasting her.

The velvet touch of his tongue against hers sent a shock-wave of heat down Buffy’s spine, and she could feel herself trembling like a leaf in high wind. Legolas pulled away and smiled at her, that smile that never failed to turn her knees to jelly.

“Let us find a place more quiet,” he said, his voice deep. “I want to make love to every inch of your body.”

Buffy almost melted right there. “Keep that up and we won’t even leave the hall,” she warned as he caught her hand in his and led her from the huge room.

“Hm, I wonder what I must say to get you to keep that promise,” he replied, glancing at her from under silvery lashes, making her breath catch in her throat.

Dawn is insane for not liking elves, Buffy thought hazily, and then the thought of her sister wiped all traces of haze from her mind. “Wait,” she said, skidding to a halt in the corridor. Legolas turned, looking at her inquiringly. “Dawn,” she said. “I never got to talk to her about tomorrow.”

“Can you not simply tell her in the morning?”

Buffy shot him a look. “You’ve met her, do you think she’ll just say, ‘Ok then, I’ll stay behind and the rest of you can go risk your lives’?”

Comprehension crossed his handsome face. “This will take a few hours, will it not?”

Buffy nodded. “A few hours, and all the persuasion that Boromir and I can muster.”

Legolas smiled and took her hand again, this time to lead her back to the hall. They found Dawn in a clinch with Boromir in a corner, and Legolas was grinning as he tapped the Man on the shoulder. “Come, Boromir of Gondor, and bring with you your lady, there is a matter to be discussed.”

Boromir and Dawn disentangled themselves from each other and followed Buffy and Legolas out of the hall to the landing outside the great doors, curiosity plain on their faces. In the moonlight, the city of Edoras was peaceful and quiet, and the only sound beside the faint whinny and nicker of the horses below was the wind whispering around them.

“Well, what is it?” Dawn said, a trifle impatient to get back to her liplock with Boromir.

“We’ve been discussing it—Aragorn and the others and I—and we don’t think you should come with us to Helms Deep tomorrow,” Buffy said hurriedly, then closed her eyes in preparation for Dawn’s explosion.

But it didn’t come. Instead, Dawn said softly, “Why not?”

“We’re worried about your safety, Dawnie,” Buffy said earnestly. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Dawn looked to Boromir and Legolas. “Do you two agree with this as well?”

Legolas nodded; Boromir caught up her hand and pressed his lips to it. “Dawn, I would carry you in my pocket and know you were close to me always, if I could; but greater than my desire to be with you is my need to know you are safe.”

She studied him a moment, then nodded. “I believe that’s your reason.” Then she turned to Buffy and Legolas. “And your reason too, Buffy. But you,” she addressed Legolas. “What’s the real reason?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Because I know that it’s not just a burning desire to keep me safe with you and Aragorn and Gandalf.”

“Dawn…” Buffy began, but Legolas held up a hand to silence her.

“You are observant,” he told Dawn, respect in his blue eyes. “The concern of Aragorn, which Gandalf and I share, is that your skills are not good enough to protect you. We would be too concerned with your safety, and not able to concentrate as we should on keeping ourselves alive. Your presence would be dangerous to us.”

Dawn stared at him a long moment, then at Buffy and Boromir. All wore identical expressions, of concern and honesty and just a touch of pleading. She nodded. “All right. I won’t go to Helms Deep.” Then she laughed when Buffy looked shocked. “Buffy, I’m thirty-one years old. I don’t have tantrums anymore, and I’m perfectly able to listen to reason and accept things I don’t like.”

She grabbed her sister’s hands and pulled her back inside. “Now, let’s dance!”

And Buffy was only able to shoot Legolas a glance of regret before Gimli grabbed her round the waist and spun her into the mass of bodies on the floor. He only laughed and joined the dance himself.

Part 11

The next morning, in spite of the brightly shining sun and clear sky, was somber and drear as two groups prepared for their journeys: one consisting of women, small children, and very old people, were being clucked over by Eowyn and Dawn as they rushed about helping everyone prepare for the trek to Dunharrow. Dawn wore her sturdy cargo pants, the myriad pockets of which were stuffed with all sorts of handy items—bandages, medicines, small knives, a packet of lembas Legolas gave her.

“Gotta get me a pair of those,” Buffy muttered to herself as she strove to find somewhere handy to secret her own stash of miscellany, but leather trousers, linen tunic, and wool cloak were not conducive to storage. She was a member of the second group. Its ranks were entirely male, with the sole exception of Buffy, and she was saddened to see how very young some of them were.

“Beardless youths,” Boromir murmured beside her. “And elders well past their prime. We have come to a pitiable state, indeed.”

“Where is Aragorn?” Buffy asked, scanning the group but not seeing the ranger

“He is in the stables with Gandalf, moaning over Theoden’s poor choices,” Boromir answered wryly. “They believe going to Helms Deep is a disastrous move, but the king shall not be swayed.”

“Is that Shadowfax?” Buffy asked suddenly, pointing to the distance where a luminous silvery-white blur was heading east.

Boromir squinted against the sunlight. “Aye, I think is it. Where does Gandalf go at this time?”

Aragorn was trudging up the hill to them. “He goes to see what others he can rouse to the fight,” he told them, and looked impossibly weary, his handsome face tired and lined with responsibility.

Buffy squeezed his arm and smiled at him. “I’m with you, Strider. To the end.”

He attempted a smile of his own. “And that means much to me, Dagnir. Glad I am that you joined us on Caradhras, and have been with us since.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Finally it was time for the two groups to depart, and Dawn bid her sister and her lover farewell with tears in her eyes. “Take care of each other,” she told them, hugging them fiercely. “If you die, I’ll kill you.”

“I will not die,” Boromir told her. “For how can you wed a dead man? Tis impossible, I am told.” And, without giving her time to respond, he swung up onto his horse and trotted away, grinning hugely.

Dawn stared after him, then turned to see her sister beaming at her. “Not the most romantic proposal I’ve ever heard,” she grumbled, cheeks becomingly flushed pink.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Buffy replied, her head tilted to one side, considering. “I kinda liked it.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You would,” she shot back. “You’re weird. You like elves.”

Buffy’s eyes sought and located Legolas, looking impossibly gorgeous as he helped load supplies. His graceful movements, even when lifting a heavy box and plunking it without ceremony into the back of a crude wagon, stole her breath even as the gleam of his pale hair in the sunlight dazzled her eyes. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up and caught her watching him, and gave her a tiny smile that promised much.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “I really, really do.”

*

They were almost to Helms Deep when Aragorn decided to do some scouting. Buffy insisted on going with him. “If you die, we’re screwed,” she told him flatly, and he sighed, knowing she was right. She gave Legolas a glance of farewell, and off they rode.

“Stop,” she shouted after a while, and they halted their mounts. “Wait.” She closed her eyes and extended her senses the way Giles had taught her so long ago, listening and feeling. Slowly, things became clearer to her: the whisper of the wind over the grasses, the sound of the horses’ breathing, even the faint thump of Aragorn’s heartbeat. And… in the distance…

“An army,” Buffy said at last, her face blanching as her eyes flew open to look at Aragorn.

“How many?” he asked, apprehensive.

“Thousands,” she whispered in horror. The sheer magnitude of the battle they would fight threatened to overwhelm her, and she swallowed hard to contain the jolt of panic that rose in her belly. “Tens of thousands. And they are closing fast.”

“Eru,” Aragorn breathed. “We are lost.” He looked as disheartened as a man could look; as if he were mere moments away from catatonia. Having once enjoyed that state herself, however briefly, when Dawn had been taken by Glory all those years ago, Buffy knew it was essential to keep her friend’s despair at bay, or else it would conquer him as no orc or Uruk-hai ever could.

Pushing back her fear, she forced her face into what she hoped was a neutral-but-encouraging expression. “There’s still Gandalf,” she reminded him as convincingly as she could, but she wasn’t so very sure herself. “As long as we’re still alive, anything could happen. There is always hope.”

He stared at her a long moment, and then nodded firmly. Without a word, they wheeled their horses and pelted toward Helms Deep. They arrived not long after the others, and found Theoden arguing with Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas about their defenses. Theoden was of the opinion that the Deeping Wall, a tall and broad structure guarding the entrance to the cave-fortress beyond, was impenetrable and no reinforcements were needed.

Boromir was trying, without success, to convince the king of Rohan that these were not ordinary orcs. “These are Uruk-hai! They are smarter, faster, stronger! And we a force of but 400, and many of them children!”

Theoden was far from convinced. “Who will come to help us? Elves? Dwarves?” His contemptuous glance raked over Legolas and Gimli. “They will not answer the call.”

“Gondor will come,” Boromir told him angrily, face flushing in anger.

”As it came when the Westfold was attacked?” Theoden sneered. “No, fair lord, we are alone.” He saw Aragorn and Buffy approach then. “A handful of men, some children, and a woman. Rohan has reached its final hour.” With this parting shot, he stalked away to join a group of his men across the hall.

“Ain’t he a ray of sunshine?” Buffy muttered. “Jerk.” Then she sighed, watching as the men and boys of Rohan were outfitted with armour and weapons. “I’m glad Dawn’s not here to see this.”

“As am I,” Aragorn agreed. “It is no place for her, her light would dim.” Buffy smiled a little at this unexpected poetry, and looked where he pointed at a young boy, his shoulders hunched and face pale with fear. “Like his does.” He walked to the boy. “What is your name, child?”

“Haleth, son of Hama, my Lord,” the boy replied nervously. “The men are saying that we will not live out the night. They say that it is hopeless...”

Aragorn placed a hand on Haleth’s shoulder, and glanced back at where Buffy stood watching them, her form silhouetted in the sun and her hair gleaming gold. “There is always hope.”

Damn, but the man was amazing, she thought in admiration. No matter how depressing things got, he was just… indefatigable. For the first time in a long time, perhaps since meeting the elves of Lorien, she felt the fine, strong glow of friendship burn in her for Aragorn. He was very different from her old friends back in Sunnydale, but what had made her love Willow and Xander so fiercely were the same characteristics Aragorn displayed so consistently: strength, courage, resilience. She realized, with a start, that she loved him, loved him like a brother, like a Scooby, and knew without a doubt she’d die for him.

She smiled brilliantly at Aragorn, making him wonder what had her so cheerful all of a sudden, and walked away.

*

“Dagnir, I still say it is foolishness for you to be without armour,” Gimli said for the fourth time. He himself had added a too-long shirt of mail to his usual outfit of helm, bracers, and shield. Aragorn was buckling himself into plate armour, and glanced up to watch the discussion.

“Slows me down too much,” she told him for the fourth time, not lifting her eyes from where she sat sharpening her sword. “Besides, it would be a waste, when someone else could wear it. It’s not like I can really die, after all.” She glanced up at Legolas, who stood leaning against the wall and watching her with a faint smile. “How come you haven’t weighed in on this discussion?” she asked him. “I bet you’d just let a girl go off to her doom.”

“Not just any girl,” he replied with a smirk. “You’re special.” She grinned at him and the others rolled their eyes.

Suddenly, they both became alert. “You heard a horn?” Buffy asked Legolas, who nodded.

“That is no orc horn!” he told them, and they all ran outside to the battlement, Gimli tripping over the hem of his mail shirt, to find the guards gazing down in shock.

“Send for the king!” a guard shouted. “Open the gates!”

Buffy lost patience with trying to look over the wall and leapt nimbly onto the parapet. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed, drawing not a few glances to her. “It’s Haldir!” she said with delight. “He’s leading a pile of Lorien elves!” Hooting happily, she waved down at the march-warden, who calmly lifted a hand in reply.

“How is this possible?” Theoden gasped, out of breath from running from the caves.

“I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell,” Haldir told the king, alighting from his horse. “An Alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together.” He looked up to see Buffy, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli running down the steps, and smiled. “We come to honor that allegiance.”

“I love elves!” Buffy yelled, and flung herself at him. He hugged her back, then put her gently away from him with an amused expression when he saw the glare Legolas was leveling upon him.

“Mae govannon, Haldir!” Aragorn said, and surprised the elf by pulling him into a big bear hug. Haldir was startled, but after a moment, haltingly returned it. “You are welcome.”

Buffy returned to Legolas’ side and he wrapped a proprietary arm around her waist before regaining his good humour and clapping Haldir on the shoulder with his free hand, grinning.

“So this is how it is,” Haldir murmured to Legolas while Buffy was occupied in teasing Gimli about his mail shirt. “It does not surprise me.” At Legolas expression, he elaborated. “Long have I known that you and she would be a fine pair. I was not eager to see you meet, if I be honest. But I see it is what the Valar have fated, and even I cannot thwart them.”

“Not even you, Guardian of Lorien?” Legolas murmured, just the faintest hint of mockery in his dulcet voice.

Haldir glanced down his nose at the Mirkwood elf, then pointedly turned to Theoden again. “We are proud to fight alongside Men once more.”

Then he said to Buffy and frowned. “Should you not be wearing armour?”

Part 12

The day dragged torturously, and in spite of the coming battle, the combined forces of Rohan and the remnants of the Fellowship were almost relieved when it was over and twilight turned blue the plain stretching out before the Deeping Wall.

Night fell finally and hard, and the torches of the approaching army of Uruk-hai came steadily closer. Up on the wall, Gimli and Buffy both strained to see what was happening. She leapt up onto the parapet as she had before, but Boromir neatly plucked her down.

“You make yourself a tempting target, Dagnir,” he told her. “Climb on my back if you need to see that badly, else Dawn will never forgive me.” So she did, propping her elbows on his shoulders as she peered over his head.

Gimli, however, had no such offers, and continued to hop up and down for a glimpse. “What’s happening out there?” he demanded petulantly.

“Shall I describe it to you?” Legolas asked, grinning. “Or shall I fetch you a box?”

Gimli poked the elf in the leg, and laughed while Buffy looked at him with sympathy. “Being short sucks,” she said, and he nodded firmly.

Just then, an older man lost his grip on his nocked arrow and let it fly, where it hit the neck of an Uruk in the front of Saruman’s army. A hush fell over both sides, the very air seeming to still, and Buffy was convinced that time slowed as she watched the Uruk clap a hand to its neck, then sink with agonizing slowness to its knees, finally falling onto its face. For a second that felt like an hour, the Uruk-hai turned to face the Hornburg, and as one, began screaming in rage.

Then they charged.

“So it begins,” Theoden said grimly, and Buffy leapt down from Boromir’s back and grabbed the bow she’d leant against the parapet. On Aragorn’s command, she, Legolas, Haldir, and the other archers fired, and many Uruk-hai fell to the ground. Their fellows merely stepped over them, and continued to advance.

Volley after volley of arrows flew into the masses, and hundreds fell, but were instantly replaced by more behind them. The archers continued to shoot even as ladders were raised, and Uruks started to climb.

“Just keep shooting!” Buffy screamed. “Shoot them off the ladders!” Those who could hear her obeyed, but further down the wall they had dropped their bows and pulled out their blades in preparation for hand-to-hand combat. Gimli was already rushing down the wall, eager to dampen his axe with Uruk blood.

“Dammit,” she groaned, and thrust her bow and quiver into the hands of a nearby soldier. “Keep shooting them off the ladders!” she told him, and yanked her sword from the scabbard while dashing after the dwarf.

“Legolas, two already!” Gimli shouted over the noise as he killed another.

“I’m on seventeen!” Legolas replied happily, and loosed two more arrows into the throats of a pair of Uruks about to attack Theoden. “Nineteen!”

“You’re counting?” Buffy asked in amazement, her sword thrusting through an Uruk’s chest. She pulled it out with a gruesome sucking noise and turned to the next, neatly lopping his head off. “You two are unbelievable.”

“You’re just jealous,” Gimli said, taking down his fourth.

“Hah!” Buffy huffed. “Jealous of what? I’ve already taken down twenty-three.”

Gimli was outraged. “I’ll not have an elf and a human outscoring me!” And he made his axe flash impressively as he slashed, taking down three more in quick succession before scrambling up onto a parapet between two ladders and swinging with glee, knocking Uruks off left and right. “Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-two!”

“What is that there, Aragorn?” Boromir shouted above the din, pointing with his sword to a small group of Uruk-hai huddled under the causeway. Aragorn peered at them, saw one holding a special kind of torch.

“Legolas, bring him down!” he yelled, and Legolas spun to shoot the Uruk in the neck just as he had felled thirty-seven others, but with a strange gleam in his piggy little eyes, the creature lurched to his feet and continued his run toward the culvert. “Kill him!” Aragorn screamed, and Legolas fired again.

But the Uruk didn’t seem to even notice the second arrow piercing his throat, and with a final effort, tripped and fell into the culvert, torch in outstretched arm just reaching whatever it was that the others had been stuffing under the causeway.

Immediately, there was an enormous explosion, and rock and men flew in all directions as a considerable portion of the Deeping Wall was blown away. Theoden stared in shock, unaware that Aragorn was flung back from the force of the explosion and lay limply on the ground, unconscious.

“Brace the gate,” he whispered, then repeated in a shout, “Brace the gate! Hold them! Stand fast!”

Boromir pushed his way through the men and started slapping Aragorn in the face, trying to rouse him. “You must wake!” he yelled at the ranger. “I cannot find Dagnir or Gimli!”

Legolas spun around at that. “Where were they last?”

“They jumped down off the wall onto the Uruks who flooded in,” Boromir said, no small amount of pride in his voice. “Just as I expected. She is truly insane, and he is a dwarf.”

Legolas frowned, pulling out his daggers, and ran to the edge of the wall, killing two Uruks in his way almost idly as he peered into the chaos below. It was a roiling mass of bodies, all struggling against each other… there, was that an axe?

“Forty-one!” howled a voice. “My axe drinks deeply this night!”

Gimli was fine, then. But what of Buffy? He scanned the scene anxiously, and suddenly Buffy flew upwards to stand on the shoulders of one of the Uruks. “Take my sword, will ya?” she demanded, and reached down to twist his head off his shoulders; leaping lightly down again, she grabbed her sword from his grubby hand before it could hit the ground.

Then she grabbed the Uruk’s sword for good measure, and set to using both blades against the enemy surrounding her. Legolas grinned and turned back to Aragorn, who with Boromir was making decent headway against another wave climbing up the ladders.

“Aragorn, fall back to the keep!” Theoden told him, and began motioning toward the great doors. “Get your men out of there!”

“Pull back to the keep!” Aragorn shouted. “Haldir, to the keep!”

Haldir nodded and began telling his elves to fall back. Gimli was reluctant to leave the place of his success, and had to be dragged backwards from the courtyard, struggling and protesting all the way.

Haldir hacked at the Uruk-hai as he turned toward the keep entrance, but one sword got past his defense and stabbed his shoulder, making him drop his sword. Crying out in pain, he was barely able to raise his shield to block another thrust.

Buffy’s sensitive ears recognized the sound of her friend’s distress, and she began to shove her way through the retreating men. “Dagnir!” Legolas yelled, reaching out to grab her, but she ignored him and threaded herself nimbly through the masses of fighting bodies. Three steps at a time, she dashed up the stairs to the remains of the wall and with the sword in her right hand lopped off the head of one of the Uruks attacking Haldir, while stabbing another through the throat with the second sword.

The last Uruk was advancing on Haldir where he slumped against the parapet, unconscious. “Crap, not again,” Buffy said tiredly, and flung herself in front of the march-warden just in time to take the vicious slice across the belly that had been meant for her friend.

Her vision narrowed almost immediately to pinpoints, and with her last moments of awareness she was able to shove a sword into the Uruk’s chest before collapsing against Haldir. “Dagnir?” he moaned, waking.

“You owe me,” she gasped, and died.

Haldir knew of her immortality, so his expression was not of grief, but of determination. He lurched to his feet and, wrapping his arm around her waist, draped her over his uninjured shoulder before staggering down the steps.

Legolas was struggling to make his way to them, but the Rohirrim guards were fighting to shove him inside the keep. At the sight of Buffy slung like a sack of parsnips over her former lover’s shoulder—he emphasized the word former to himself in order to keep his temper—he broke free of them and raced to Haldir.

“She is dead?” Legolas demanded. “Again?” He snatched Buffy from the march-warden, who allowed the guards to yank him inside. Legolas just frowned at them, and they let him walk in under his own power, the tiny woman cradled tenderly in his arms.

They made their way down the corridor toward the great hall of the keep, Haldir clutching his hand over his seeping wound. “What do you mean, again?” he asked breathlessly, “Did she die since last I saw her?”

“Saving Boromir, yes,” Legolas replied shortly. “I do not like how she values herself so little that she squanders her life for others.” They arrived at the hall, and he reluctantly permitted Aragorn to take Buffy and begin to clean her up while Gimli wrung his hands and fluttered uselessly nearby. Unless his elvish ears were mistaken—and he deeply doubted that was possible—the dwarf was muttering, “Oh dear, oh dear” repeatedly, thus lending credence to Legolas’ suspicion that Gimli was slowly turning into a maiden aunt.

Haldir eyed his fellow elf a long moment before slumping to the floor and waving over one of his elf-archers to tend his wound. “I can see you know that she will return from death,” he said slowly, wincing as his armour was removed and his tunic cut away from the injury. “Do you understand how she has longed for it to claim her? For how long? That it is a goal that lays shining and golden, beckoning to her with all the seductiveness of the One Ring itself?”

Legolas winced at that; as an elf, it was utterly foreign to actually desire death. To pursue it, to treat it as friend instead of foe, was anathema. “We have talked about it, but…” his voice trailed off uncertainly.

“But ever have you failed to understand the depth of her commitment to this gift of hers,” Haldir finished for him, and hissed when a foul-smelling solution was poured over his shoulder to cleanse the wound of dirt. “She sees it as the end of all her woes, all her suffering, and loneliness, and guilt. You do not know all of Dagnir if you do not understand her quest for oblivion, Legolas,” the march-warden said through clenched teeth. “You must learn to embrace even this part of her, or you will drive her away.”

The healer was approaching with another bottle, and Haldir actually blanched. Legolas knelt and placed a fold of his own cloak between Haldir’s teeth, wincing in sympathy when the other elf bit down ferociously against the pain of the caustic liquid poured into the gaping hole in his flesh, causing it to knit instantly, but with immense pain. Haldir jerked and then was still, falling abruptly unconscious.

Legolas carefully moved Haldir to lay on his back on a pallet, arranging his limbs comfortably and even brushing a stray strand of hair from the other elf’s fair forehead. “Your brand of honesty is brutal, Guardian,” he murmured. He stood and took a deep breath, staring over at where Aragorn was finishing up with Buffy, having washed her up a bit and lain her on a pallet of her own. “But if there ever were a time when brutality was needed, this be it.”

*

Theoden paced in the hall of the keep, his face etched with discouragement. “So much death,” he sighed. “What can men do against such reckless hate?”

Aragorn’s gaze flicked over his companions. Legolas and Boromir were flanking Buffy’s still-limp form where it lay on a pallet on the floor, and Gimli was sharpening his axe with grim determination. Haldir sat across the room, awake once more and almost returned to peak health after the drastic remedy used by his healer, and shooting the odd glance Buffy’s way every once in a while.

As Aragorn watched, a faint glow suffused Buffy’s body, and a barely perceptible motion of her chest made him smile. “There is always hope,” he murmured. Then, “Ride out with me.”

Theoden turned and stared at him in disbelief and growing interest. “What say you?”

“Ride out with me, and meet them,” Aragorn said, stepping forward, his hand out in entreaty. Gimli looked up then, and smiled grimly at the idea of confronting the enemy, instead of sitting there waiting for ruin to come to them.

Theoden’s eyes lit with determination. “For death, and glory.”

How had this man lasted as king so many years? Aragorn wondered. Theoden was as heedlessly passionate and impetuous as a child. He shook his head. “No. For Rohan. For your people.”

“Yes!” Theoden said, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep one last time!”

“Yes!” bellowed Gimli, caught up in the moment, and ran to the mouthpiece of the massive horn, blowing it with gusto. The sound rumbled and echoed through the keep, making even the walls quiver.

“Now that’s what I call a wake-up call!” Buffy said, propping herself up on one elbow and pushing hair from her face. She looked up at Theoden’s astonished face. “What’s all the hubbub, bub?”

“You are well?” Legolas inquired quietly, helping her to her feet.

“Never better!” she replied, and stood on tiptoes to brush a quick kiss over his face. He didn’t flinch, exactly, but something flickered over his face that made her study him briefly before asking, “How’s Haldir?”

“I am fine,” said that elf from behind her. She turned to him, and he bowed. “I thank you for my life, and wish it had not been at the cost of your own.”

“Don’t mention it,” Buffy demurred with a grin. “My life is pretty damned cheap these days. I’m like a bad penny, you can’t get rid of me.”

“For which we are thankful, Lady,” Theoden said, his eyes still wide. “Can you ride?”

Buffy strapped on her swords. “Oh, yeah,” she said, the light of battle in her eyes. “Let’s kick some hiney.” She glanced at the light streaming in the window, then at Aragorn. “Sunrise on the fifth day,” she reminded him softly. “Think Gandalf will come through?”

He shrugged. “I have to believe so,” he told her. “There is nothing else.”

She nodded, and hugged him. He helped her onto a horse, then mounted his own. Boromir was already seated on Timon, and Gimli clambered onto Arod behind Legolas.

Theoden looked around and put on his helm. Satisfied all were ready, he raised his sword. “Let this be the hour when we draw swords together. Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And a red dawn!” With that, the doors were flung wide and they rode out, weapons flashing in the early morning sunlight. Gimli was having a tough time of it, trying to swing his axe and grip onto Legolas at the same time, so Buffy stuck close to them.

“Gandalf!” she heard Aragorn cry, and looked over to see a white rider on a gleaming silver horse atop the ridge bounding the causeway.

“Eomer is with him!” shouted Theoden.

“To the king!” they heard Eomer call, and the Rohirrim and the White Rider charged down the hill.

Surrounded on two sides by mounted warriors, the Uruk-hai’s victory to this point turned, and as more and more of their number fell to the eager blades of Man and Elf (and Dwarf) alike, they began to flee.

“Toward the forest!” Gandalf instructed, and they corralled the retreating Uruks toward the dark and mysterious woods that had somehow appeared overnight. Thinking to escape, the Uruk-hai ran to it eagerly, and soon disappeared into its depths.

“Victory! We have victory!” Theoden yelled, waving his sword joyously over his head, uncaring that black blood showered from it onto the heads of those around him.

Gandalf leaned wearily over the neck of Shadowfax. “Sauron’s wrath will be terrible, his retribution swift,” he intoned. “The battle for Helm’s Deep is over, the battle for Middle-earth is about to begin. All our hopes now lie with two little Hobbits, somewhere in the wilderness.”

Part 13

Buffy wasn’t thrilled to be woken early the next morning, but Gandalf wanted to go to Isengard and see how that area fared. “I hate mornings,” she grumbled, shooing away Aragorn who was nudging her with his foot. “When this is over, I’m gonna sleep for a year.”

“By the time this is over, you’ll need to,” he replied, grabbing her hand and tugging her up. “Come now, awaken. Gandalf wants to go to Isengard. We must ride.”

She was still rubbing sleep from her eyes when they mounted and headed north. By midmorning they were at the fords of Isen, and the sun was still high in the sky when they arrived at Isengard. The devastation of the trees brought tears to Legolas’ eyes, and the smoke still rising from the rushing of the river into the fiery pits dug into the earth made Buffy’s own eyes water.

She’d been wondering at Legolas’ behaviour since she woke from her latest death, how he had retreated into a guise of polite distance, where his smiles were courteous but held none of the warmth she’d become accustomed to. It was as if they were back to where they’d been in Moria, when he’d watched much and said little.

Buffy was not ashamed to admit that she was hurt by it, and more than a little confused. Was he mad at her for dying again? Or was it because she’d died for Haldir, of whom it was clear he was more than a little jealous? Aragorn had not noticed, she knew, but Gimli seemed more upset about it than she, and kept casting worried glances at the elf. For her part, Buffy just kept her distance and her silence from Legolas, though she was unable to stop herself from looking his way, so used to letting her gaze roam over him.

“Who stands at the doors to the tower?” Boromir said, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun to peer more closely at the base of Orthanc and jolting Buffy out of her gloomy reverie.

“It’s Pippin and Merry!” exclaimed Legolas joyfully.

She squinted, then gaped. “And… they’re having a picnic. That doesn’t make any sense.” She turned to Aragorn. “Did I take a head shot yesterday, in addition to dying?”

He laughed. “Hobbits are always able to locate a feast, wherever they find themselves,” he told her. “My heart sings to know they are safe.”

They rode swiftly to Orthanc, and the Hobbits leapt to their feet when they recognized the riders who approached. “Welcome to the field of battle, milords,” Merry greeted them, his eyes sparkling with humour. Holding his arms wide as he bowed, goblet of wine in one hand, half-eaten apple in the other, he continued, “I am the Lord Saruman’s doorwarden; be welcome.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said with equal humour, and Pippin whispered “Gandalf!” with joy in his voice. The wizard nodded benignly at the Hobbit, and Pippin stuffed a fist in his mouth to keep from sobbing with relief that Gandalf wasn’t actually dead.

"The Lord Saruman is within,” Merry said importantly, continuing his jesting role, “but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honourable guests."

Theoden and Gandalf decided speak with the Ents, especially the one the Hobbits called Treebeard, and investigate the extent of the damage; the others gave in to the Hobbits’ urging and partook of the feast before them, and Gimli and Aragorn even joined Merry and Pippin in smoking some pipeweed.

“That stuff’ll kill you,” Buffy told them mildly, and chucked a pear at Pippin’s head when he retorted, “Then why do you not smoke it? I thought that death was your fondest wish?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You’ve missed a lot, buddy. I’ve died twice since you saw me last.”

“Is that so?” Merry said around the stem of his pipe. “I am impressed; you are looking considerably fine for a corpse.” He leaned to the side, dodging the persimmon that came flying his way. “As are you,” he told Gandalf, who had appeared in the doorway to the storage room where they took their leisure.

“I will have a parley with Saruman,” the wizard told them without preamble. “Be you on guard, for he has a wily and treacherous tongue.”

*

“What a jerk,” Buffy whispered to Boromir an hour later. Saruman had hurled seductive pleas and promises as well as insults, mockeries, threats, and everything else he could think of at them.

Gandalf was still trying to be civil and mannerly, but even Gandalf’s patience came to an end, and he shouted up at the balcony where Saruman stood in his tower-prison, “I am no longer Gandalf the Grey, but Gandalf the White, and I dismiss you from the council of wizards!” There was a flash of light, and Saruman’s staff cracked in two, the head falling from the balcony to land with a thud at Gandalf’s feet.

A shriek of fury came from behind Saruman, sounding thready and feeble from such a distance, and then a round black object came hurtling over the balcony at them. Gandalf sidestepped it neatly, and it landed harmlessly to roll by Pippin, who tried to pick it up.

“Heavy,” he muttered, needing both hands to lift it.

“Come,” Gandalf said to his companions, his voice weary as he snatched the ball of what seemed to be shiny, opaque black glass from the Hobbit. “We leave now. Once we are out of this valley, the Ents will flood the city once more and make sure Saruman does not leave Orthanc.”

They made camp at the end of the valley, and Buffy promptly fell asleep after another hearty meal served up by the halflings. She was awoken just a few hours later by the sound of voices.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice low and urgent at the sight of Gandalf’s grave and angry expression. Pippin stood shaking before the wizard, his face both shamed and frightened as he whispered over and over, “Forgive me, forgive me.”

“This is a Palantir,” Gandalf told them. “It was created long ago, to allow distant people to communicate. This Hobbit, in his curiosity, thought to examine it, but it examined him, did it not, young Took?” His look, while not unkind, only made Pippin shake harder. “Take it,” he said to Aragorn, holding the Palantir out to him. “It is yours by rights.” Aragorn reached out slowly, almost reluctantly, but grasped the dark sphere.

Buffy shivered; once more, she had jumped from her bedroll without pants. “Are you sure you want that thing, Strider?” she asked him, her voice low and urgent. “It’s giving me the wiggins.”

He frowned momentarily at her odd phrasing but seemed to understand what she meant. “I think I can make it work for us, not against us,” he told her at last, eyes locking with hers. She stared back, her gaze searching. She seemed to find what she was looking for, because she nodded briskly and began complaining about getting back to sleep. But an echoing cry resounded from above, and a dark winged shape flew overhead in the direction of Isengard.

“Nazgûl,” Aragorn said resignedly, and passed his hand over his forehead in the universal sign of weariness.

“There is no time to wait for sunrise, we ride now!” cried Gandalf. The camp was disbanded quickly, and within minutes they were mounted once more. “Pippin, with me, that I might be sure you suffer no ill effects from the Palantir.”

They had not travelled far before Legolas frowned in concentration. “We are being followed,” he told Aragorn. “At least a score, on horseback.”

“Take what ease you may,” Theoden was saying. “We wait to see who follows.” Ease was not on their minds, however, but defense; all began to ready themselves for attack.

Their pursuers turned out to be, not more forces from Saruman, but thirty rangers of Dunedain—kinsman of Aragorn and Buffy. They greeted Aragorn warmly, but as they had never quite understood why a woman would want to be one of their number, they were much more restrained in their salute to the Dagnir.

With them were Elrond’s twin sons, Elrohir and Elladon, with a message from their father to Aragorn. “The days are short. If you are in haste, remember the Paths of Dead.”

Aragorn blanched, but nodded. Halbarad, their leader, handed over a staff wrapped round with black cloth and bound tightly with leather straps. “The Undomiel made this for you, Strider, and bid me give it into your hands.”

Though the others watched curiously, Aragorn did not unwrap the banner, merely holding it reverently as if afraid to soil it with his dirty hands, staring to the north where he knew his love to be before recovering himself and turning to Buffy as he gave it back to Halbarad to keep for him. “Still unimpressed with true love, Dagnir?” he asked her. His face seemed to have rejuvenated several years, and his eyes shone brighter than they’d been in months.

She looked toward Legolas, who was pretending to ignore their conversation, his beautiful face carefully blank, and felt something die within her. It was hope, she realized, and laughed. It was a harsh and ugly sound, carrying clearly around them, as did her next words. “More than ever, Strider. More than ever.”

And she clucked her tongue at her horse and rode into the night, not at all caring if they followed or not.

*

They caught her up within a few hours, and it was a weary group who arrived at the capital city of Rohan that evening, and Buffy was yawning yet again when she heard her name called. Then a blue blur was engulfing her in a fervent hug.

“Buffy!” Dawn cried. “I was so worried when Haldir came back without you! I’m so glad you’re back! And not dead again!” Beside them, Gimli coughed. Dawn frowned, peering closely at Buffy, who avoided her eyes, instead glaring at the dwarf for causing trouble. “You didn’t!” She turned to Boromir, who stood waiting patiently for his greeting. “Did she die again?”

He grinned. “Yes, sweet, she did. Now will you kiss me?”

With a last scolding look at her sister, Dawn allowed herself to be enfolded in his strong arms. “Missed you,” she mumbled against his mouth.

“Missed you more,” he mumbled back, then set her down. “I am going to accompany Gandalf and Pippin to Minas Tirith. Will you come?”

“When?”

“An hour, perhaps two. No more. There is no time to wait overnight.” His face was carefully neutral, not wanting to influence her decision.

Dawn held onto him, hands gripping his forearms as she scrutinized him, taking in every streak of dirt, every smear of blood. Buffy thought she might be imagining how much different this homecoming could have been if he’d been hurt. “Yes,” Dawn said finally, and turned to her sister, demanding, “Are you gonna try to talk me out of it?”

Dawn knew these were perilous times; she knew Boromir could be killed at any time, and wanted to spend as much time with him as she could. Buffy couldn’t exactly blame her, and sighed. “Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Then no, I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. Just be sure you don’t die.” She turned to Boromir. “I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do to you if she gets hurt, do I?” She leveled a look on him that had struck fear into many a demon and orc; it scared him no less.

“Um, no,” he replied, and suddenly found pressing things to do far away from his love’s sister while Aragorn smirked.

Eowyn appeared before them then, a vision in white, a circlet of gold and jewels on her pale hair. She had eyes only for Aragorn, leading him into the hall with her arm twined through his, mindless of any dirt or blood he might get on the bodice of her pristine gown as she almost snuggled against him.

“If you think any harder, you will give yourself a cramp,” Gimli teased her, and she realized she had been staring at Aragorn and Eowyn.

Buffy sighed, and gave him a wan smile before climbing the steps to the main hall. Inside were Haldir and the remainder of his archers, and when he stood to greet her, to her horror she burst into tears. Alarmed, he grasped her arms. “What has happened?” he demanded. “Is Legolas dead?”

But that elf was entering the hall just then, hale and whole and studiously avoiding Buffy as if she weren’t there, sobbing against Haldir’s chest. Understanding then, he scooped her into his arms and strode out, uncaring of the glances he attracted.

Entering a small chamber, he dumped her onto the bed and glared down at her, hands on hips. “Tell me,” he commanded, and Buffy found herself blabbing about how Legolas had been ignoring her ever since she’d died.

“Ai, Valar,” Haldir sighed in comprehension, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “If that elf were any thicker, he’d be a dwarf.” He thought a moment. “No, that’s not true. He’s thicker than a dwarf, at least thicker than the one in your company. He seems canny enough.”

“He is,” Buffy sniffled loyally. “Gimli’s great.”

He sighed again. “I’m afraid Legolas’ change of heart is my doing, Dagnir.” She looked sharply at him, and he held up his hands defensively. “I told him that he had to stop ignoring how devoted you are to your Gift… that it was a part of you, just like your courage and your kindness and your terribly silly sense of humour.” He tucked a look strand of hair behind her ear. “I fear he took my words to his heart, and cannot find it within himself to understand or accept that part of you.”

“So he just starts acting like I’m not there?” Buffy demanded, dashing her tears from her cheeks before standing and jamming her hands angrily on her hips. Then she seemed to deflate before him, hands falling limply to her sides. “He never really loved me,” she whispered. “Or even just liked me. Because he wasn’t seeing the real me.” She turned away to stare out the window.

Outside, all of Edoras slept, and few window glowed with light. The dark shapes of the houses and barns against the night sky was peaceful, in direct counterpoint to the turmoil churning within Buffy. Hadn’t she kept a distance from others all these years for exactly this reason? To avoid this kind of pain?

“He said he’d never betray me,” she said. “But he’s turned his back on me. Just like Angel did, just like Riley did.”

Haldir came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms loosely around her. “I will not turn from you, Dagnir. Ever.”

She twisted slightly to look up at him, and hugged his arms closer to her. “Why couldn’t I fall in love with you, huh?”

He smirked down at her. “For the same reason that I could not fall in love with you, it would seem. We are not meant to love each other in that way.”

She sighed and leaned back against him. “I feel a little better now. Thanks, Haldir.”

He rested his cheek against her head, gazing out over the city. “It was my honour, Dagnir.”

Eowyn came to fetch them for supper, after which Aragorn announced that he had looked into the Palantir, but had not allowed it to control him. “Sauron now knows that Isildur has a living heir, and will be sending forces against Gondor to fight me,” he told them. “I hope to distract his attention, so Frodo may continue his journey unimpeded.”

There would be no dancing after the feast this night. All too soon, Boromir was helping Dawn onto Timon and climbing up behind her as Pippin sat before Gandalf on Shadowfax. “We will see you in Minas Tirith,” the wizard promised, and with a last wave from Dawn, they were off.

“Gandalf and Boromir will protect her,” Gimli assured Buffy, patting her shoulder. “They would die to keep her safe. Even Pippin would breathe his last to save her life.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said, and pointedly ignored Legolas as she turned back to the hall when a cry of dismay sounded from inside. “If I’m not mistaken, that was Eowyn. Sounds like she just heard Aragorn wants to take the Paths of the Dead.”

Eowyn had indeed, and was at that moment squawking up a storm. Her brother, Eomer, had joined his voice to hers in protesting that route.

“There is no other way,” Aragorn said through clenched teeth, and Buffy knew he was close to losing his temper completely. “The decision is mine to make, and I have made it. We leave at sunrise.”

Part 14

The next morning, Buffy was sad to see that Merry would not be joining them on their trek to intercept the enemy coming from the south.

“I have sworn myself to Theoden, and by him I must stay,” the Hobbit said proudly. Buffy had to smile; he was so incongruous, standing amoung his fellow Rohirrim, but his face wore the same fierceness, bravery, and determination as any hardened soldier. She shook his hand, then indulged herself by hugging and kissing his little face, which be bore with stoic patience.

They left for the Paths of the Dead, and the deeper they penetrated into the murky glen, the more morose everyone seemed to become. For the first time in many years, Buffy found herself doubting her choices and abilities. Did she really have any place in this war? Should she be at Aragorn’s side, or would she be better placed back in Forlinden, helping to control what must surely be chaos, now that most of the Rangers had come south to battle against the forces of Mordor?

They came to a tall spike of rock, jutting ominously into the late morning sky, and behind it was the Dark Door. The horses balked at entering, especially the Rohirrim horses, and it was only due to Legolas’ soothing song that they were able to be lead inside the tunnel. Gimli, alone of their company without his own mount, was left alone at the door, and stood staring at it in dread until Buffy poked her head back out.

“C’mon, Gimli, it won’t be that bad,” she told him.

“Do you promise?” he asked with apprehension.

“Yep!” Buffy replied brightly. “Cross my heart.” He still looked doubtful, but slowly and with great deliberation stepped across the threshold.

They walked until they came to a great room, and the light from Elladan’s torch glimmered on something of gold to one side. Laying before a stone door, it was a skeleton, a warrior, and a rich one at that judging by the quality of the mail shirt and jewel-encrusted weapons. His fingertips lay in the cracks of the door as if, after all these years, he were still trying to pry the door open.

“No, do not touch him,” Aragorn tried to warn Buffy, but desperate for a glimpse of some beauty after hours of nothing but grim terror, she brushed some dust off the garnets on the skeleton’s gold belt. Almost immediately she felt herself falling, and reached to grab something to stay upright, but there was no one there.

No one alive, that is. For as she fell with a thump to the floor of the tunnel, and looked around, the rest of their group was gone, and she was surrounded by ghosts. They surrounded her, creeping closer until she had scooted as far away as she could, and was pressed right beside the skeleton against the stone door. She studied them for long moments, saw the anger and despair and weariness on their translucent faces, and something clicked in her head—she understood them.

Wasn’t she a ghost too, really? Condemned to linger for eternity until someone decided she’d suffered enough? Her fear dissolved and she pushed away from the wall to stand, looking upon the ghosts with something akin to comradeship, if not actual sympathy. She was not an oath-breaker, after all.

“Very good,” drawled a voice from the back of the clutch of ghosts surrounding her, and they parted before the speaker as he approached Buffy. It was, amazingly, Spike, and he seemed as corporeal as she. “I was wondering how long that would take before you twigged.”

“Spike?” she croaked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“’Not really here, pet. S’not really me.” He stood there, so cocky just like she remembered, in that damned leather duster, bleached hair gleaming in the weak torchlight.

“Oh, great,” she muttered. “Hallucinations. Just what I need right now.”

“Don’t knock it, Slayer,” Spike scolded, waggling a pale finger at her playfully. “This might be exactly what you need.”

She placed hands on hips impatiently. “And what the hell do you mean by that, Mr. Cryptic?”

But he’d turned and was wading through the sea of ghosts that still ringed her. “You’ll see,” floated back his enigmatic reply to her.

He hadn’t gone long when another voice rang out over the tunnel’s rough-hewn stone walls. “Buffy!”

She’d slumped to sit once more, so shot to her feet, frowning as she struggling to recognize him. “R-Riley?” she stammered at last.

He strode forward, head and shoulders above the ghosts, a faint smile on his handsome, wholesome face. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed in some sort of military fatigues, though they were dark grey and rather ominous looking, she thought. “Hi, Buffy.”

“Hi, Riley,” she replied, feeling it an incongruously normal greeting for two people who hadn’t seen each other in almost twenty years, and had, apparently, both died. “Are you dead?”

“Yep,” he replied cheerfully, jamming his hands in his pockets. “About twelve years ago. Monpiltithan demon surprised me. Got Sam, too.”

“That’s too bad,” she said automatically, then, “Who’s Sam.”

“My wife,” he informed her. Married her a few months after I left you.” The words were spoken so casually that, even nearly two decades after the fact, Buffy found herself wincing. “Now, Buf, don’t be like that,” he admonished, seeing her reaction. “I’m here to tell you why I left you.”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” She laughed then, a dry and humorless rasp in her dry throat. “I repel men. There’s something about me that does it, like that predator pee you can put in your garden to keep the deer away. One sniff and they run screaming for the hills.”

“Nah,” he said with an airy wave of his hand. “Got nothing at all to do with you, really.” The skeleton at Buffy’s feet seemed to interest him, and he squatted down to inspect it more closely. “People are really self-involved, you know that?” He poked at the figure’s hauberk, then ran a fingertip over the damaged sword by its side. “We’re so busy trying to make ourselves happy we don’t see what we do to other people.”

Riley stood then, and smiled at her. “If you weren’t so self-involved yourself, you’d understand that.”

She was starting to lose her temper. “What the hell does that mean? Spike’s vague, you’re vague. Got a bellyful of the vague, you can stop any time now.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he teased, but relented at her expression of growing ire. He held up his hands in supplication. “Okay, okay,” he said appeasingly. “You think that all the men in your life leave you because there’s something wrong with you, right?” Buffy nodded. “Well, it’s not true.”

“No?” Her skepticism was blatantly obvious. “The statistics tend to prove you wrong. If we go chronologically, there’s my father, then Angel, then Parker, then you, then Legolas.” Saying his name tightened her throat and it came out garbled.

“Nope.” Riley shook his head firmly, serious for the first time since appearing before her. “We all left you not because there’s something wrong with you, but because there’s something wrong with us, Buffy.” He sighed. “I can’t really speak for the others, though I am pretty sure of Parker’s motivations, but as for myself, the reason I left was because you didn’t need me, and I needed to be needed.” He frowned. “I hope you understood that.”

She nodded slowly, and he continued. “I was used to being the leader. Of my soldiers, of the students when I was a TA, of my girlfriends. But you… you were the leader of your group, and though you made a place for me in the Scoobies, it wasn’t the place that I wanted. That’s why I got the suckjobs from those vampire whores—they needed me.”

Buffy started to look queasy.

“It’s true!” he protested. “Every pull of their mouths on my arm was like a massive stroke to my ego. They needed me, needed something I could provide. They made me feel necessary, essential. You didn’t.” The bluntness of the words made even him flinch. “Um, sorry. But that’s also why I gave you that ultimatum, to ask me to stay or I would leave. I was trying to force you to admit you needed me.”

Riley exhaled sharply, and stared at his feet. “It was wrong of me. Manipulation, emotional blackmail… there’s never really a time where that’s a good thing. It’s never really excusable, and I’m not trying to get you to forgive me. Just to understand me, to know that it wasn’t you.” He looked up. “That you were right when you didn’t give in to my demand.”

“But I did,” she whispered. “I did give in.” He looked confused. “I ran to the helicopter landing to ask you to stay, but you’d just taken off, didn’t hear me yell for you.”

Riley looked stricken for a moment, and then his face eased. “But Buffy, that was meant to be,” he explained softly. “You made the right decision, when it counted. It was only when you began doubting yourself that you made the mistake of coming after me.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to halt her. “My time’s just about up now,” he said. “Remember what I told you. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Then he turned and walked back through the throng of ghosts, leaving her there. Her legs wobbled unsteadily, and she slid down the wall to curl up, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees.

It didn’t take long for the next visitor to arrive, and she wasn’t at all shocked to see who it was. “Angel.”

He smiled down at her for a long time, his dark eyes piercing as they gazed on her, noting every detail—the medievalish clothing, the hip-length hair, her dead and very thin companion. “Hello, Buffy,” he said at last.

“So,” she said, standing yet again. “What wisdom do you have to impart to me, O Ghost of Christmas Past?”

He reached out and brushed a wisp of hair back from her face, echoing Haldir’s caress of the night before. “I left you twice, you know,” he said by way of introduction, and Buffy was somewhat surprised to feel that the pain of those departures hadn’t much dimmed since they’d happened.

“I know,” she said softly, hand pressed over her heart as if she could stop it aching like that. Didn’t work, she thought sourly. Still hurts.

“And both times, it was just as Riley said. Because there was something wrong with me, not with you.” His hand now came to cup her cheek, and she leaned into it, feeling the still-familiar coolness of his dead flesh. His scent, leather and blood and some exotic spice from the Orient, filled her sensitive nostrils and she was swept back to her high school years, when that smell could reduce her to a blubbering heap of hormones.

“The first time, it was because of the curse. The second time, it was because I thought being away from you would help you in the long run. But it was really because I was weak,” he admitted. “Because I loved you so much, wanted you so much, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist making love to you for long, and I couldn’t bear the thought of Angelus coming back.”

Angel’s other hand came to cup her face, and she stared up at him, into his long-beloved face, watching his lips move as he spoke. “It was all about me, Buffy, and what I needed. What I was afraid of, what I couldn’t take. I should have been stronger for you, should have known that you were worth any sacrifice, any amount of hard work and torment. That being with you, even chastely, was better than being apart.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. “I was so wrong, Buffy. We could have searched for a way to end the curse, and even if we couldn’t find one, we would have been together. Would have drawn strength from each other. You can’t know what it did to me to know you were all alone that last year of your life… learning that you suddenly had a sister to protect, losing your mother… knowing I deserted you to bear that all alone…”

Angel stopped then, his throat too thick to continue for a moment. “It was a hell worse than where you sent me. Knowing I had condemned you to that, by my selfishness. And knowing there was nothing I could do to make it up to you.”

“Until now,” Buffy told him, and pulled away a little to smile crookedly at him.

He smiled back, even though tears were dripping off his chin. “Until now.” He trailed a finger through the tracks of her own tears. “You don’t know how I leapt at this chance to see you again, Buffy. To say goodbye.”

“Does it have to be goodbye?” she whispered, eyes pleading.

“You know it does.” He turned away then, hands fisting at his sides as he struggled to gain control of himself. “I was sent here to give you closure.” His voice hardened, as if he’d found a reserve of determination somewhere deep within him. “You’ve never really been able to move on from me, and you have to. You have a lot of your life to live still—a lot—and you can’t spend the next few thousand years moping about me. I’m gone now, gone for real, and I’m not coming back again. This is it.”

Part 15

When he turned back to her, she was watching him carefully, hungrily, feasting her eyes on him so the sight would last her a lifetime. “This is the lesson I’m supposed to teach you, Buffy… you are an extraordinary woman. You need an extraordinary man. Or, um, elf. Whatever,” he amended clumsily. “You need someone who won’t put himself and his fears and issues ahead of yours, someone who can deal with you as an equal, can handle your uniqueness and isn’t threatened by it. That wasn’t me, Buffy, and it wasn’t Riley. Wasn’t Spike either, but he’ll explain when he comes back.”

“Oh, there’s more fun to come?” she said dully. “Yay.”

Angel tilted her face up to his, then slid his arms around her. Her own arms easily remembered how to embrace him, and when he lowered his mouth to hers, the familiarity of the position thrilled her almost as much as the sensation of the kiss itself—for so long, everything had been so new, so unknown. He still tasted like death, she thought, death and desire and oblivion. Kissing him still made her want to die, but when he pulled away she was able to smile, even if it were a rather wobbly smile.

“I will love you forever,” Angel promised fervently. “My soul and demon both. That’s why Angelus hates you so much—because he loves you so much. They’re not so different, love and hate, you know.” He stepped back, still holding onto her hand.

“I know,” she agreed, tasting the tears that coursed down her cheeks and into her mouth, clinging to his hand until he stepped back one final time and they parted. He walked backwards through the mass of ghosts, never taking his eyes from her, until the ranks closed once more and he was hidden from view.

Wrapping her arms around her, she bowed her head and wept for what felt like a century or two before another pair of arms came around her. They too were cool, and smelt of blood and leather, but also of cigarette smoke. “Spike?”

“Yeah, pet,” he said, rubbing his hand in soothing circles over her back. “That must have been hard for you.”

“You have no idea,” she replied, scrubbing the wetness from her face.

“Don’t I?” he asked, a sardonic twist to his mouth. “Watching the love of my unlife leave me without a backwards glance, never to be seen again… no, got no clue what that’s like.”

Buffy stared at him and then glanced away, ashamed. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

Spike shrugged. “You’ve always underestimated me, Slayer. Why should now be any different? People are creatures of habit, we are.” He eyed her sharply. “Unless we make a concerted effort to change ourselves.”

Buffy sighed. “And what knowledge are you here to convey, sensei?”

He removed a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his duster and tapped one out. “Mostly, I’m here to absolve your guilt, lay your wonder to rest.” He stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit it.

“Guilt? Wonder?” she echoed. “What in the frilly heck are you babbling about?”

He quirked his scarred brow. “You know, even after all these years, Red still talks like that, too.”

“Is Willow happy?” Buffy asked, anxiously for some word of her friends. “Are they all happy?”

“She hooked up with Dog Boy, got herself some kids, owns the Magic Shop with Glinda. Her joy blinds us all. Revolting, really.” He said it with only a trace amount of derision, and sucked on his cigarette. “But that’s not what I’m here to discuss with you.”

Buffy folded her arms over her chest. “Well, get to it. I haven’t got all year, you know. Got a war to fight. And I wouldn’t mind a bath some time in the near future, either.”

Spike only smirked at her. “Let’s tackle the ‘wonder’ aspect first, shall we, pet?” He began a languid pace around the small circle of space left to them by the surrounding ghosts. “You’ve been wondering all these years if you should have given me a chance, if you should have at least let me try to prove to you that I loved you, and could be decent.” He tilted his head at her in that canine way he had. “And now that you know I really did love you, and really could be decent, you’ve got the guilt.”

“Get outta my head,” Buffy grumbled, trying to turn away from him, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. It was the hand holding the cigarette, and its smoke wafted up into her face, but she ignored it.

“No, pet, you don’t understand. This isn’t me trying to invade your privacy,” he protested. “This is me trying to explain that, once again, it wasn’t something that was wrong you with. It was me. Though, not really my fault.”

“Again with the cryptic!” she exclaimed in frustration, throwing up her hands. “Just spit it out!”

Spike heaved a sigh of long suffering. “It’s like this, cutie. Yes, I loved you—still do, if I’m honest—and yes, I’ve been a white hat ever since.” He dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, toeing it out with his heavy black boot. “But I had a fundamental flaw, one you couldn’t overlook. I was a soulless monster, and though some have been able to overlook that, you didn’t. You’re the Slayer, pet. You couldn’t. It was amazing enough that you bent the rules enough to hook up with the Poof, but he at least had a soul, and a century of redemption under his belt.”

“What did I have?” he continued, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and cocking a hip to the side. “Dick-all, that’s what I had. Well, a chip, and my love for you, but that was it. It was never gonna happen. Took a while for me to accept it, but you were dead and all, so it’s not like I had a choice.”

She was just staring at him, so he relented. “Ok, words of two syllables or less. You wondered if you were wrong about refusing my love, back before you died. Yes, you were. But, you shouldn’t be guilty about that, because while you were wrong about the facts, you weren’t wrong about the morality of it.”

Spike grinned then. “Oops, ‘morality’ has three syllables. Sorry.” Buffy jabbed him in the shoulder, frowning, and he rubbed it while continuing. “My point is, you couldn’t have done anything differently, Slayer. Nor should you have. You have to trust yourself more, and know that your intuition won’t steer you wrong.”

“Easy to say,” she replied hotly. “I was following my intuition with Legolas, in spite of my suspicions that it would end badly, and look where it got me!”

“Ah, Buffy, can you blame him?” Spike asked with a sigh, and extracted another cigarette. “He’s an elf, for chrissake. What you’re doing is acting like a suicidal nutter on a quest for the perfect shotgun to end it all. That sound like an emotionally healthy person to start a relationship with?” He lit it and took a deep drag. “I was with Drusilla for a century, luv. I know from barmy, and even I would think twice at hooking up with you.” He leered at her before continuing salaciously, “No matter how tasty you happen to look.”

Buffy was unimpressed. “Your standards have definitely slipped, then,” she informed him haughtily, “because I am dirty, grubby, sweaty, grimy, dusty, and other sorts of adjectives that all add up to the grand ‘ew’.” She relented then. “But I get your point. This whole thing has been about looking outside the box, right?”

“The box being your obsession with yourself, yeah,” he agreed. “Try to see things from other people’s perspective, and try to remember that not everything revolves around you. Yeah, you’re the Slayer, so a goodly amount of it does revolve around you, but you have to find the ability to discern which does, and which doesn’t.”

“’Discern’?” she questioned teasingly. “I thought you said two syllables or less. That’s at least a fifty-cent word, maybe even a full dollar.”

“’Discern’ is a two syllable word, you stupid bint,” Spike growled around his smoke.

“Oh, yeah!” she giggled, laying on thickly the blonde bimbo act before sobering. “You haven’t called me a bint in a long time, Spike,” she told him nostalgically.

“Yeah, good times.” He took a last drag and let that butt join its twin on the floor. “Gotta get moving, pet. Places to go, orcs to kill, yeah?” She nodded. “How’s the Niblet doing?”

“She’s doing pretty well,” Buffy told him. “I think she’s in love, even considering getting married.”

Spike frowned fiercely. “Well, you tell him that if he acts anything like the last husband she had, I’ll find a way to get to wherever the bloody hell you are and kill him myself. No more chip, mind… nothing keeping me from the business.”

“Yes, Spike,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I will tell Boromir: blood and mayhem to follow if he so much as hogs the covers.”

“’S’right,” he said with a righteous nod. “I look after my girl.”

Suddenly overwhelmed with affection for him, she threw her arms around him for a big hug. “Thanks, Spike,” she said, and kissed him lightly on the lips. But before she could pull away, he cupped the back of her head in his hand and plundered her mouth with his tongue, positively ravishing her.

When at last they separated, he was grinning wolfishly at her. “Just a little taste of what you were missing, luv,” he told her before turning in a swirl of leather and striding away. He did not look back.

“Wow,” she said thoughtfully, fingertips tracing her swollen lips. “Wow.”

“What is wow, Dagnir?” asked a voice close to her ear, and she blinked, then blinked again, for she was no longer in that weird place in the tunnel, surrounded by ghosts. Now she was outside, and it must have been nighttime, for it was still dark and torch-lit all around them, and she was in Haldir’s arms. No, she corrected, in Haldir’s lap, for the elf was seated on the ground, his back against a rather ugly and ominous-looking tree, and he was staring down curiously at her.

They were, however, still surrounded by ghosts.

“She is awake?” asked Aragorn, falling with a thud to his knees beside them and yanking her into his arms for a ferocious hug. “Do not do that again!” he barked at her. “Die if you must, I am used to that, but do not fall asleep and refuse to wake up!”

“I won’t,” she whispered, hugging him back. “I promise.”

“Like you promised me that the tunnel would not be ‘so bad’?” demanded Gimli from behind Aragorn. He was wringing his hands again. “It was horrible! More so when you fell insensible to the ground, and none could wake you!”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I didn’t know that was gonna happen.” She was still a little dazed from her experience with her lovers. Speaking of which, Legolas was nowhere to be seen.

“We thought you would never wake again!” the dwarf shouted at her. “We were not prepared for this! Everything, we tried… shaking you, dousing you—“ Buffy noticed then that she was damp—“and Elrohir even tried some elven magic.” He quieted and finished sadly, “You promised.”

“Yes, yes, I lied, I’m a terrible person. Can we move on now?” Buffy asked irritably. “It’s not something I could control. It was the Valar again.”

Every single person in the company stared at her, except for Haldir, who was used to Buffy receiving messages from the gods. “And what did they want?” he asked.

“Oh, the usual,” she replied breezily, and disentangled herself from Aragorn to stand. “To confuse me, mess with my head, make me cry, and stir up my loathing for them all over again.” Buffy glared up at the dark bowl of the sky above them. “Lot of wankers,” she called them, inspired by Spike’s Britishness. Gotta hand it to the English, she thought. They’re great with an insult. “So, where are we?” She eyed a large round shape not far from where they had set up camp for the night.

“At the Stone of Erech,” Aragorn replied. “We awaited your return to us before proceeding.”

“Decent of you,” she commented dryly. She looked up at it. “It’s a big rock. I can’t wait to tell my friends. They don’t have a rock this big.”

Aragorn only shook his head at her and accepted the silver horn Elrohir held out to him, then blew strongly upon it. The ghosts that had trailed them for hours drew closer, and Aragorn demanded, “Oathbreakers, why have you come?”

A misty voice replied, “To fulfill our oath and have peace.”

Aragorn replied, “Your promise shall be fulfilled when the last servant of Sauron is gone from the land of Gondor, for I am Elessar, heir of Isildur, and make you this vow.” At that, Halbarad unwrapped Arwen’s banner, and though it was so dark they could not see what was on the fabric, still they could see the silhouette of it against the night sky.

“Well, then,” Buffy said after a long moment of silence. “Been a long day. I’m pooped. Who’s for a little shuteye?

Part 16

Dawn tried her best not to slump too much against Boromir as they rode to Minas Tirith, knowing he had to be tired after a full day of traveling, but after a few hours of the rhythmic motion of the horse and Gandalf’s voice pointing out to Pippin every hamlet and molehill they passed, she was so sleepy couldn’t help herself.

Before she woke, she dreamt of blood, and green portals, and Spike’s face when she said goodbye to him. Boromir smiled wearily down at her, and she found herself telling him all about the vampire, about how devoted he’d been to her since Buffy’s ‘death’, how even after his chip was removed he hadn’t wavered in the least in his pursuit of eliminating evil from the world.

And most of all, of her guilt at leaving him to come to Middle-Earth after he’d remained by her side for seventeen years, helping her deal with the loss of her sister so soon on the heels of her mother’s death. “What’s he going to do now?” she wondered aloud, brushing tears from her cheeks. “Where’s he going to go? He said he might stay with Cordy and Wes and the others at AI in LA, or maybe fly out to visit Giles in London, but…” She realized then that Boromir had no idea what she was talking about, and drooped a little.

“I am glad you had a foster-brother like that,” he told her gravely. “And now you shall have another, my brother, Faramir. He is a fine man, and I think you shall love him as I do.”

“Is he anything like you?” she asked, curious even as she studied the lean angle of his jaw, under the loads of manly stubble, and pressed a kiss to it.

“Not much,” Boromir replied, giving her a little squeeze. “For he is ever circumspect, while I am impetuous.” He grinned down at her. “He, for instance, would never ride into Minas Tirith with an unknown maid on his horse and announce she was his betrothed.”

“Yeah, speaking of which,” she said, pouncing on his words. “What the hell kind of proposal was that? Cuz it left a lot to be desired, let me tell you. Not saying you have to drop down on bended knee and present me with a ring, but—“ Here she stopped speaking, because Boromir had halted their horse abruptly and climbed down, tugging Dawn after him. Gandalf noticed they had fallen behind, and wheeled back to rejoin them, grey eyes gleaming with humour as Boromir dutifully knelt before her in the dust.

“Boromir, you don’t have to…” she demurred, but he reached up and placed a finger on her lips, hushing her.

“Yes, I do,” he corrected gently.

“Yes, he does,” agreed Pippin. “You must woo a maiden properly, else she’ll find another who will.”

Dawn pulled a face at the Hobbit, who only laughed at her, and Boromir pulled a bit of cloth from a hidden place in his tunic. Unwrapping it, he revealed a ring wrought of pale metal, richly engraved with vines and leaves. “This is mithril,” he told her, “and my mother’s. I keep it with me to remember her; never did I think I would want to give it to someone, for it is precious to me. But more precious to me than the ring, are you, Dawn,” Boromir told her. “And I trust you to keep it safe, as I trust you to hold my heart.”

“Your love and courage were made plain when you left behind your home to come to your sister, to take on her plight as your own. You do not shrink from danger, and your first thought is for others than yourself. Your faith in me has healed me of my lust for the One Ring, and I give you this other ring as token of my adoration of you. Will you accept it? Will you accept me? For I would ever strive to make you a fine husband, though I might fail on occasion.” And he held the ring out in his palm, which trembled ever so slightly.

Dawn stared through the tears blurring her vision at him; his face was utterly genuine, his eyes open and clear. Boromir really loved her, she thought in amazement. He wasn’t just after her for her appearance, hadn’t mentioned her beauty once as he declared his love for her. Her ex-husband, Layne, hadn’t really been interested in her so much as her looks. Of course, she hadn’t been much better—she’d been entranced by Layne’s gorgeous face and body, and not so much by his personality.

Once the novelty of sex with a beautiful woman had worn off, Layne had started sleeping around. Dawn had only learned of it during her yearly female exam, when her Pap smear had come back abnormal. It would seem that not only was Layne unfaithful, but undiscriminating as well, and had passed an STD on to his wife. Fortunately, medical technology was vastly better than it had been before Buffy’s death, and Dawn was able to be cured completely, but the betrayal and pain lingered, would always linger, even as it dimmed…

Boromir would not betray her, this she knew. He was so strong and brave, she thought, placing her hand on his face, her thumb brushing over his lips. Suddenly she too knelt in the dust, and grabbed his hands. “Do you love me?” she asked earnestly. “I have to hear you say it.”

He nodded, golden hair swinging down around his face. “I love you, Dawn. I have almost from the beginning, but only did I realize it that night when the orcs attacked, and Dagnir fought them without her trousers.” Dawn giggled at the memory. “I had not slept before Frodo cried the alarm, because I was laying there listening to you breathe. It was sweeter, more restful and comforting to me, than any sleep could be. That is when I knew.”

She stared wonderingly up at him until he grimaced showily and shifted. “Will you be telling me your answer soon, sweet? For I fear my knees shall never be the same, if we continue to crouch here in the dirt.” He glanced around her at their companions. Gandalf was watching them with a raised brow, while Pippin wept with unrestrained joy. “And Gandalf is eager to be away.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I love you, yes, I will marry you, yes, yes yes!” And she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him until his eyes bulged.

“Perhaps you should wait until he is fat and balding before you try to kill him, Dawn,” suggested Pippin from his perch before Gandalf, atop Shadowfax.

“Indeed,” agreed the Maia. “Keep him alive while he is still young and handsome.”

Dawn released her new fiancé with a slight blush and let him slip the ring on her finger before standing, accepting his kiss gladly and wrapping her arms around his waist before letting them fall lower.

“What are you doing, there?” Boromir gasped at the touch of her hand on his backside.

“Just brushing the dirt off,” she told him, eyes huge and innocent.

“But he was kneeling, not sitting,” Pippin mused, a little confused, and Dawn just grinned naughtily at Boromir.

“Oh? My mistake,” she said, and sauntered back to Timon.

*

“Wake, sweet,” Boromir said, urging Dawn awake when at last they began the approach to Minas Tirith.

“Whah? Huh?” she said sleepily, rubbing at her eyes like a child, and he chuckled at the sight.

“Look you ahead of us,” he told her, “for it will be your first glimpse of your new home, once we are wed.”

And she obediently turned in the direction he indicated, gasping at the sight of the tall city rising out of the side of a mountain. Seven tiers it had, all of the purest white stone, and a lone tower rising above it all from the highest tier. Dawn turned back to face Boromir, and saw that he was gazing upon his city with pride and affection.

“I am a Son of Gondor,” he said, a trifle sheepish, when he noticed her watching him with a faint smile. “And you, you shall be its Daughter.”

“A Daughter of Gondor,” she repeated. “I like the sound of that. Haven’t really had a permanent home, you know. Sunnydale’s not exactly a place to brag about, and when Buffy died, I was just shuffled back and forth between everyone.”

“Shuffled no longer,” he told her sternly. “For I lay claim to you here, and here you shall stay with me.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dawn replied, and snuggled deeper against him as they trotted on and the city grew larger before them.

When they neared the great gates of the Minas Tirith, the guards set up a cry of “Boromir! The Lord of Gondor has returned!” And when they recognized Gandalf, another shout was raised: “Mithrandir! Mithrandir!” They entered the city, and followed the winding street through six of the gates, Pippin and Dawn gawping all the while at the lovely buildings, the graceful gardens.

At the seventh gate, however, they had to dismount, and Boromir led them with great pleasure into the courtyard, in the centre of which was a beautiful fountain. In the middle of the fountain, however, was a great tree, quite obviously dead, and Dawn longed to ask Boromir why they’d leave a dead tree in the middle of an otherwise perfectly-kept city, but he was so eager to see his father again that she decided to wait until later.

Inside the hall, on a raised dais, was an empty throne. At the foot of the steps, level with the floor, was a chair of carved stone, and in it sat an old man, lined and grey from time and care. “Father!” exclaimed Boromir, striding eagerly forward.

“Boromir,” replied Denethor, and stood to embrace his son. His keen eyes did not miss the slight wince when he pounded Boromir enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Have you been wounded?”

“An arrow to the shoulder, naught serious,” Boromir assured him, reached back for Dawn’s hand. “Father, this is—“

“That you would be injured so,” Denethor lamented. “And on a fool’s errand such as this. Would that Faramir had gone instead…”

Boromir gritted his teeth. “I wanted to go, Father, and do not begrudge my blood to the Fellowship. It is a worthy cause, and an privilege to me to be one of its number.” He took a deep breath and tried again. “I would like you to meet—“

“Ah, ever are you the noble one,” Denethor said, smiling fondly at his eldest. “Were Faramir as fine as he purports to be, it would have been him on that quest, an arrow piercing his flesh, instead of you.”

“The Fellowship would have been greatly strengthened by his presence, my lord. Come, say hello to—“

“And here is Mithrandir, come to honour us with his presence.” Denethor’s words, while courteous, were marred by their sarcastic tone. Dawn was positive by this point that she strongly disliked Boromir’s father, and wondered how it were possible for her boyfriend—er, fiancé—to end up being so cool when his dad was such a jerk.

“Father!” Boromir roared, his patience fled at last. “Be you quiet, and listen to me!” Denethor blinked and obediently shut his mouth. “Yes, Mithrandir is come, and Pippin Took as well, but I am most eager for you to make the acquaintance of this fine lady, here.” And he took Dawn’s hand and led her forward. “This is Dawn Summers.”

Dawn stepped forward, uncertain if she should curtsey or something. “Hello,” she said and settled for bobbing her head. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her death-grip on Boromir’s hand did not go unnoticed by his father. “Dawn Summers,” he repeated, gnarled hand moving to stroke his chin in conjecture. “A time of day, and a season. Tis a lighthearted name, a fanciful name.” His gaze raked over her slowly, almost insultingly, before returning to hers. His eyes were flat and black, like a serpent’s, and Dawn found herself taking a tiny step closer to Boromir. Denethor turned his snake’s gaze to his son. “And why would you be eager for me to meet this… lady, my son?”

Boromir straightened his back and squared his shoulders, looking most impressively tall and strong, much to Dawn’s admiration. Got myself a hottie, she thought happily. “Because I love her, and she me, and we are to be wed when this war is over,” he told his father firmly.

“Is that so?” Denethor asked mildly. “And what has she to recommend her? She is beautiful enough, I suppose…” his tone was insulting enough to make even Gandalf bristle in offense. “But what else? A fine lineage? A hefty fortune? Would this be a politic match?”

“I care nothing for any of these things,” Boromir declared. “Not even of her beauty, though I love to look up on her, for it is her heart that has captured mine, not her face. We Stewards of Gondor have fortune aplenty, and need not marry more. As for lineage, her sister is none other than the Dagnir herself, the Ranger of legend and a finer, more stalwart ally is not to be found in Middle-Earth, nor on Valinor itself.”

Wow, Dawn thought. No worries about the in-laws getting along there. Boromir seemed to really like and admire Buffy. She was basking in the afterglow of the other things he’d said about her when Denethor shifted in his vastly uncomfortable-looking stone chair and turned his speculative gaze upon her.

“Yesss,” he said at last, “We Stewards of Gondor do indeed have fortune aplenty. Perhaps that is why one such as she would be interested in a rough warrior such as yourself?”

The slur to herself didn’t even register to Dawn; all she could feel was fury that the man would insult his own son so horribly. “I violently dislike you,” she said by way of introduction. “Are you actually saying that only a gold-digger would be interested in Boromir?” she demanded, pulling free of Boromir’s loose embrace to confront his father. Standing just a few paces from Denethor, she jammed her hands on her hips and glared, so strongly resembling Buffy that even in this tense moment, the Fellows behind her were hard-pressed to keep from laughing. “Because if you are, I gotta say, you’re dead wrong about that.”

She returned to his side then, tucking herself snugly against him. “First of all, he’s gorgeous. I’d bet there are women lined up around Minas Tirith right now hoping for a shot at him. But, hah! He’s taken. By me, and I’m not letting him go any century soon.” She felt a vibration go through Boromir then, and knew he was struggling with both anger and amusement at the same time. “Secondly, he’s a wonderful man, a truly amazing person. Even if he looked—and smelled—like an orc, I’d love him.” Then Dawn frowned. “Though I will admit, it would be harder.”

Her fury wound down then, and she sagged a little against Boromir’s side. “Don’t you dare say anything against him again,” she finished tiredly, the stress and fatigue of the past few days seemed to return to her in full force. He curled an arm around her waist and held her tightly to him.

“Well, my son?” prompted Denethor silkily. “What say you to your strumpet’s outburst?”

Gandalf and Pippin leapt to their feet at that, and joined their voices to Boromir’s in his fuming. He easily out-shouted them, however, so angry was he. “Long have I endured your abuse, Father,” he said, his voice low-pitched and menacing. “Long has Faramir borne your displeasure, your mocking tirades. Ever have we withstood it, for love of you. I see now how misguided we were.”

Denethor made as to speak; Boromir held up his hand for silence in a manner most lordly. “I will not hear more of your venom,” he declared. “If you do not accept Dawn as my betrothed, then you do not accept me as your son and heir. If you cannot refrain from your offense of her, then know that you offend me as well with every slight against her.” He lifted Dawn’s hand to his lips the, and kissed it showily, the better to display the mithril ring of his mother’s that she wore.

Denethor’s eyes widened at that. “Your mother’s ring--?” he stammered in shock.

“My mother is dead,” Boromir said coldly. “As, it would seem, is my father.” He turned then, and began to stride from the hall. Dawn hurried to keep up with his agitated stride, only too glad to leave this horrible chamber with its equally horrible lord.

“You desert your duties to Gondor, then, do you, my son?” The last two words were stressed apurpose, and rang out against the stone walls. “For if you leave this hall with her, you are stripped of your title, your home in the citadel, your sire, your livelihood, your family, your very birthright.”

Boromir did not turn around when he answered, but his voice sounded clearly enough that Dawn imagined Eowyn might be able to hear it back in Edoras. “None of those things hold the slightest appeal for me, Denethor.” He paused for effect. “Especially my sire."

 

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