Epilogue: Jewel of Light

— Minas Tirith, ten years later —

"Uncle! Uncle!"

Boromir, who had only just swung himself out of the saddle, nearly toppled over so quickly did he drop to the ground. Clutching at Fedranth for balance, he turned to face the onrushing boy. "Elboron?"

"Uncle, you must come at once!"

Alarm coursed through him, and he took an unwary step away from horse. "What's amiss? Is it Gil?"

"Aye." Elboron came to a panting halt in front of him. "Her pains started, oh, hours ago! The Queen sent me to fetch you, but you had already left, and Father said you had duties that could not be set aside…"

"Nay, they could not, but still I should have been here." Boromir looked helplessly between his mount and his nephew, knowing that he could not leave the animal standing in the street but unwilling to delay even for a moment reaching his wife. Aragorn, as usual, came to his rescue.

"Go. The grooms are coming even now, and I will see Fedranth into their care."

Boromir nodded his thanks and clasped Elboron's shoulder in a gesture long familiar to both boy and man. Elboron promptly started down the street toward the Citadel gate, trotting to keep up with his uncle's long, limping strides. Over the years, Boromir's leg had largely healed. He walked now without pain, mounted and dismounted his horse without assistance, and climbed the countless stairs to Aragorn's study without pausing to rest. The leg would never be truly sound, and he would never be rid of the limp, but he could move quickly when in a hurry, and today he was most definitely in a hurry.

They were past the guards and in the tunnel leading up to the Citadel when Boromir spoke again. "Who is with her?" he asked tersely.

"My mother and the Queen."

"Not Ioreth?"

"I went to fetch her, but she refused to come. She said—among a great many other things—that she cannot walk so far due to her aching joints and would be of no use in a birthing chamber, but she trusts the Lady Evenstar to care for her foundling child."

Boromir grunted at that, well pleased on his own account to be spared Ioreth's presence but sorry for Gil's sake. "We must send word to her when the child is born. She is an tiresome creature, I know, but her love for Gil is sincere, and she will be in a fret until she knows that all is well."

"I will see it done, Uncle."

Boromir gave his shoulder a squeeze in thanks, then turned at the sound of running feet in the tunnel behind. Aragorn caught them up just as they stepped out of the tunnel and into the sunshine of the Court. Together they crossed the Court of the Fountain, angling north and west toward the great library of Minas Tirith and the narrow lane that ran behind it.

There, at the end of the lane where the spur of rock on which the Citadel stood met the shoulder of Mindolluin, set into a curve of the Citadel wall, was the house that Boromir had shared with Gil since their marriage and where they had welcomed two—soon to be three, if all went well—children. It was not the palace of a Prince or a Steward. It was not even grand enough for a mere nobleman. But Boromir, soldier of Gondor, called it home and was content to have it so.

Boromir could easily have found the door without help. He knew every paving stone in the street, knew the number of paces from the turning at the library to the flight of shallow steps that led to his door, knew the height of the latch and of the stone sill he must step over without catching his toe. But he was grateful to have his friend and his nephew with him now, even if he did not need their guidance, for he was acutely aware of just how close he had come to facing this ordeal without them.

Aragorn was due to leave on the morrow, to take his family and, at Faramir's request, Elboron and head west to his kingdom of Arnor, perhaps to be gone for as long as two years. Boromir had meant to go with him—he had even written to Merry, promising to come—but Gil's condition had forced him to reconsider. He could neither abandon his pregnant wife nor drag her through the endless leagues of Eriador to camp out in a half-built city on the edge of the frozen North. So Boromir was destined to remain in Minas Tirith and rule in the King's stead, while the King himself explained to an irate halfling why his friend had broken faith with him yet again.

One day more, and Aragorn would have been leagues away. One day more, and Boromir would be walking up to this door alone.

He limped up the steps, grasped the latch, and swung the door open. No sooner had he crossed the threshold into the familiar cool, sweet-smelling interior than he heard a shriek of recognition and the patter of running feet.

"Merilin, do not!" Faramir protested from farther back in the room.

Boromir, knowing full well that his daughter would heed no warnings, dropped to one knee and opened his arms just in time to catch the small body that collided with his. Arms fastened about his neck and a shrill voice cried, "Ada! Ada!"

"You should not run at your father that way," Faramir scolded, sounding a bit frazzled to Boromir's ears. "He cannot see you coming!"

"Ada, Uncle is cross and Estellas is frightened and Mother will not come out! Why will she not come out?"

"Hush, little bird," Boromir soothed, then to Faramir, "Peace, Brother, there is no harm done."

"One of these days you will fail to catch her."

"Then we will both wear the bruises, and she will have learned her lesson. Merilin, you are choking me. Do not squeeze so hard. Where is Estellas?"

"Here, Father."

Boromir freed an arm to gather his older daughter into his side. She leaned trustingly against him and tilted her head up so he could drop a kiss on her brow. "Are you in truth frightened, my brave girl?"

"Not now that you are come."

He kissed her again, devoutly wishing that her faith in him were justified and that he could, by his mere presence, make all safe.

His two daughters were so different that Boromir often found it hard to believe they had come from the same parents. Where Merilin rushed in, Estellas hung back. Where Merilin demanded attention, Estellas was content to wait for a word or a smile to draw her out. Merilin possessed a bright, restless, joyful spirit, while Estellas possessed a quiet, almost queenly dignity that made her seem much older than her eight years. But in one thing the two sisters were fully united—their absolute belief in their father's omnipotence. If Father—or Ada, as Merilin preferred to call him, much to Gil's annoyance—was there, no ill could befall them.

"I thought to take them up to the Tower," Faramir said, breaking in on his rueful thoughts, "and put them in the care of the Queen's maids. It would relieve you of worry, and Eldarion would be glad of the company."

"He would indeed," Aragorn put in from his place in the doorway. "He is bored and restless with all the household too busy to pay him any mind."

"Aye, that is the best place for them," Boromir agreed.

"Ada!" Merilin wailed, once more tightening her grip until Boromir nearly choked.

"Must we go, Father?" Estellas asked. "May we not stay with you?"

"Nay, you will be more comfortable there, and the time will pass more quickly." Breaking Merilin's grip on his neck, he set the child on her feet. "Go with your uncle, both of you, and do as you are bid."

Both girls were too well acquainted with their father to argue with him when he gave a direct order. Merilin gave a doleful sniff but said nothing. Estellas stepped out of the protective circle of Boromir's arm and took her sister by the hand.

Elboron took Merilin's other hand, saying kindly, "Come, Cousin, we will to Eldarion together. Mayhap he has not yet packed his wooden swords, and we may have a sparring match."

"I should like to fight with swords," Merilin said, sounding hopeful.

"Father?" Estellas ventured.

Boromir rested a hand against her cheek, reading her worried expression with his touch.

"If aught happens… if Mother needs us…"

"I will fetch you home myself. You have my word. I will let no harm come to her while you are gone."

She nodded, her chin trembling very slightly, and Boromir could not resist pulling her into his arms for a final embrace before letting Faramir and Elboron lead her away. Both girls called farewells to Boromir and to Aragorn, and as they moved out of earshot, he had the satisfaction of hearing Merilin demand that her cousin side with her against Eldarion in combat.

"They will be fine," Aragorn said, echoing his own thoughts. "Once they have Eldarion and Elboron to distract them, they will not even remember what is happening here."

"Aye, so I hope."

Boromir accepted the hand Aragorn offered him and used it to haul himself to his feet, then immediately headed across the room toward the door behind which his wife labored. Aragorn called a protest, but it fell on deaf ears. Reaching the door, Boromir put a hand to the latch only to have it wrenched out of his grasp as the door swung open. A body blocked his path, and he caught the familiar scent of sunlight on woodland glades that always clung to his sister.

"Éowyn," he said brusquely, "let me by."

"Nay, Brother, this is no place for you."

"My place is with Gil."

Putting a hand on his chest, Éowyn propelled him back a step, then came through the door and shut it behind her. "Softly. You do not want to worry her."

"I want to speak to her, to tell her I am here."

"There is no need. She knows."

"Éowyn," he said sternly, "I will see my wife!"

"Hush." Laying a hand on his arm, she drew him a few steps from the door. "Do not be so absurd. You cannot order me about like one of your guardsmen, and you cannot simply barge in on a woman giving birth."

"She is not a woman, she is—" he began, but Éowyn did not allow him to finish.

"Boromir, you have been through this before and know perfectly well how it works."

He did know perfectly well, of course, but he was in no mood to admit it or to let this slip of a woman bully him into backing down. "If you think I will be offended by the sights and sounds of a birthing chamber, you do not know me, Sister."

"What I think is that you would be very much in the way. And Gil has more important things to worry about than your sensibilities."

"My what?"

"She is right," Aragorn said, speaking from just behind Boromir's shoulder. "Come and have a drink." He clasped his friend's arm and would have led him away, but Boromir refused to budge.

"You two are in league against me!"

"We all know how this works, my friend, and we all know that you are not getting into that room until the babe is born. So spare yourself a fruitless battle, and let the womenfolk get on with their work."

Boromir opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling against his baser impulses—such as the one that prompted him to move Éowyn bodily out of his path and barge into the other room—then surrendered. Up to a point. He still refused to move until Éowyn had reassured him. "How fares Gil?"

"She is holding up well."

"And the babe?"

"To all appearances healthy but not over-eager to be born," Éowyn admitted. "It will be some hours yet before it comes."

"Hours during which you will shut me out of my own bedchamber and deny me so much as a word with my wife?"

"Come, Boromir," Aragorn chided, "you cannot win this fight. Let us drink together. Have you any wine in the house?"

"I know not. In the kitchen, mayhap. Éowyn…"

"Patience, Brother," she said gently. "All will be well."

"I am not patient. Nor do I like waiting."

That drew a fond chuckle from her. "I know it well. And I am glad that Elessar is here to bear you company, or we would all suffer from your lack of patience." With that, she slipped back into the birthing chamber, leaving Boromir to Aragorn's expert care.

"Come." Aragorn led him over to the table that stood beneath an open window and pressed him into a chair. "Sit there and practice being patient, while I go in search of wine to dull your nerves. Do not move," he finished sternly.

Boromir slumped in the chair, his face turned to catch the breeze that wafted through the window and carried the many mingled scents of a crowded city at the wet, dirty, rather fetid end of winter to him. He could hear Aragorn clunking about in the kitchen and pantry, no doubt creating a mess for which Gil would blame him, but he could not muster concern for aught but what his wife was currently suffering on the other side of that closed door. A suffering he could ease, he was sure, if only the women who attended her could be made to believe that a man had any use other than to tramp mud through the house on his boots.

Aragorn returned to set a bottle and two goblets on the table with a faintly musical clunk. "'Tis only half a bottle, but 'twill serve for the present."

Boromir heard the gurgle of liquid being poured, then felt a metal cup being pressed into his hand. He closed his fingers around it but did not drink. Rather, he propped his elbows on the table and let his head droop tiredly between his hunched shoulders.

Aragorn poured himself a cup and leaned over to knock its foot against the rim of Boromir's. "To the birth of your child." When Boromir still did not drink, he added, "'Tis the height of discourtesy to ignore such a toast. And bad luck as well, no doubt."

Boromir obediently took a sip of wine and demanded, "How is it that our gentle, gracious, yielding helpmeets turn into tyrants the moment one of their number is in the straw?"

Aragorn chuckled at his crude turn of phrase. "Whether you like it or no, we are worse than useless in a birthing chamber."

"I had not thought to catch the babe as it came out," Boromir said sourly, "only to sit at Gil's side, to hold her hand, to lend her strength..."

"While she swallows her cries to spare you pain," Aragorn interjected.

"She does that anyway. Had you not noticed?" He paused to take another, longer swallow of wine, then went on, "Three births you have waited out with me, and not once have you heard her cry out. Not once has she made a sound loud enough to penetrate that door." Here he jabbed a finger in the direction of the bedchamber.

"She is a warrior, my Gil—fighting the wrong battles, for I would rather listen to her cries and help her to bear the pain than endure this endless silence—but as valiant as any champion upon the bloody field."

"Aye, she is that."

Boromir drank again, not tasting the wine or feeling the warmth of it in his belly, then set the near-empty goblet upon the table and clasped his hands around it. After a moment's brooding thought, he murmured, "You would think, by the third time, that this would be easier."

"I doubt it ever gets easier. Here." Aragorn filled his cup again and urged, "Drink."

"You are trying to addle my wits."

"I am. 'Tis the only way any of us will survive the waiting."

Boromir pondered this for a moment, then swallowed a mouthful of wine. "What if Gil should need me?"

"I will dunk your head in the nearest public fountain to sober you up."

He considered again, weighing his king's words and finding them satisfactory. Nodding, he lifted his cup. "What shall we drink to this time?"

Aragorn thought for a moment. "To our warrior women."

"To our warrior women."

Together they drank.

Faramir came in just as Aragorn was pouring the dregs of the bottle into Boromir's goblet, bringing with him a wineskin that sloshed invitingly when he laid it on the table. "I knew you would not have enough drink in the house to get you through this day, so I took it upon myself to plunder Elessar's wine cellar."

"Am I truly so bad at waiting that the pair of you must soak me in wine to bear my company?" Boromir demanded.

"Aye!" both other men answered at once. Then Aragorn added, "Get yourself a cup, Faramir, and join us."

As Faramir headed for the back passage that lead to the kitchens, Boromir called after him, "And why do you persist in calling him Elessar? Have you not yet learned to look upon him as a friend, as well as a king?"

"I call him Elessar," Faramir called back over his shoulder, "because that is how I came to know him! And may Elessar not be a friend, though he be a king?"

"It confuses me," Boromir grumbled into his cup.

"Nonsense." Aragorn uncorked the wineskin and filled his own goblet from it. "I have many names, and you use them all as it suits you without ever forgetting who you are talking to. 'Tis only that wine makes you quarrelsome."

"Then why do you keep pressing it on me?"

"Quarrelsome is better than frantic."

"You are in no position to criticize, in any case," Faramir informed him, as he approached the table once more. "Your own children cannot agree on what to call you. You are Father to Estellas and Ada to Merilin. What will this new one come up with, think you?"

Boromir considered this, then offered, "'T Gaffer."

This set both Aragorn and Faramir off laughing.

"Master Samwise would approve," Faramir chuckled.

"But Gil most definitely would not," Aragorn warned. "She would find that even more objectionable than Ada."

"Why does she object to Ada?" Faramir wanted to know.

"She thinks it presumptuous," Boromir said.

"Because it is Elvish?"

"Because Merilin learned it from Eldarion, and Eldarion is the son of a king. Gil does not think it seemly that her daughter ape the manners of royalty."

Faramir snorted at that. "Better to ape the manners of royalty than of the street urchins and cutpurses who claim Gil as one of their own!"

"Aye." Boromir drank deeply and slumped back in his chair. "So I think. But I have not Gil's fine scruples, and I care not what my little ones call me, so long as there is no constraint in their voices when they do it."

"You need have no fear on that score, Brother."

"Nay, you need not," Aragorn agreed.

All three men fell quiet, sipping at their wine, while Boromir strained to catch any sound from the other room.

"I suppose Gil will be pleased to have Eldarion a thousand leagues away in Annúminas," Faramir mused, breaking the companionable silence. "Mayhap she can wean Merilin off him, given enough time."

"That's hardly likely," Aragorn retorted. "They are boon companions. Partners in every crime. Even now they are likely plotting some way to hide her in his luggage and smuggle her out of the city with him."

"Well, Elboron will at least keep her from crawling into one of the carts."

"Speaking of carts and luggage," Boromir said, turning his bandaged eyes on Aragorn, "should you not be about your own packing, now that Faramir is here to play nursemaid in your stead?"

"Nay, you'll not be rid of me that easily, Boromir."

"I do not wish to be rid of you, but neither do I wish to keep you from your lists. Surely you have one at least that still needs checking!"

"Nay!" Aragorn said again, laughing. "The lists can wait!"

"Not if you hope to depart on the morrow."

"There is little hope of that now. There is no telling how long this birth will take, and Arwen cannot leave until she knows that both Gil and the babe are safe."

"I have already put the preparations for departure on hold," Faramir interjected. "Lady Evenstar sent me with the orders as soon as Gil's pains began."

"So…" Boromir looked from one man to the other, as if he could read their expressions, "you are not going?"

"Not for another day at least," Faramir assured him.

There came a long pause, then Aragorn added, in a tone both hopeful and wistful, "Or mayhap not at all."

Boromir's head snapped around and his shrouded gaze fixed on the King's face. "What say you?"

"Mayhap we should not go at all. I have been wondering since first you told me of Gil's pregnancy if this trip were not ill-conceived and ill-timed. I was loath to give it up but equally loath to leave you behind. Now Gil is giving birth on the very eve of my departure, with Arwen in attendance, and all my plans are once again thrown into chaos. Mayhap it is a sign that the Powers are against me and I should abandon the trip all together."

"You cannot be in earnest."

"Why not? The North Kingdom needs my attention, 'tis true, but there is naught to say that I must go now…"

"Naught but nigh on a year of planning," Boromir retorted, cutting him off, "your household packed and ready, a son near frenzied with excitement, and three halflings waiting for you at the Brandywine Bridge! Not to mention your own eagerness to see this fine, new city of yours!"

"All of that can be dealt with." Aragorn poured wine into Boromir's goblet, then leaned forward, bringing his voice and presence closer to his friend. "I will delay my journey 'til next spring, when this new babe is old enough to travel, then you and Gil and all your growing brood can come with me."

Warmth filled Boromir at his words—the warmth of love and gratitude—but he knew what answer he had to give. "Nay, Aragorn. You have longed to see Annúminas reborn since the Dúnedain laid the first stone of its foundations. I would not deny you that joy. Go as you have so long planned, and next spring, if you still linger in the North, I will join you there."

"Some crisis will arise to prevent you. There will be orcs upon our borders or squabbling amongst the vassal lords or a blight upon the crops of the Pelennor. Or, most likely, Gil will fall pregnant again."

"Faramir can handle orcs, lords and blights. And if Gil should fall pregnant again, I will bundle her into a cart and hie her to Annúminas in time for Arwen to act as midwife for her."

"You will not want to risk a son of yours being born anywhere but the White City."

"Gondor and Arnor are united under Elessar's rule. A son born in Annúminas would be a son of Gondor still."

"And what of Merry? Will you send me to face his wrath alone?"

A gleaming smile lit Boromir's face. "Ah! Thatis why you do not wish to go! You are afraid of the halfling!"

"He has a very sharp sword," Aragorn pointed out, "and thanks to you, he knows how to use it."

Boromir chuckled. "I will write to him and beg him to spare you for my sake."

"You make light of it, but he is quite the most fearsome hobbit ever to don armor and strap a sword to his belt."

"He is the only hobbit ever to don armor and strap a sword to his belt. Other than Pippin, that is, but Merry was ever the larger and stronger of the two. He is also the better fighter, for he keeps a level head, whereas Pippin is too eager to go haring off after adventure and glory."

"We are getting off the subject," Aragorn said, sternly, "which is the damage your well-armed, level-headed friend might do to me, should I turn up at the gates of Buckland without you. Again."

"He will forgive us both when he knows my reasons."

Aragorn slumped back in his chair with a sigh. "Aye, he will. And you are determined to send me off to Arnor without you?"

"Quite determined."

"Then there is no more to be said." He lifted the wineskin with a slosh and a gurgle, and reached across the table to fill Faramir's cup. "I shall just have to take Faramir with me instead. No doubt he would welcome the chance to look upon the glory of Elendil's city reborn…"

By dint of plying him with wine, holding him in conversation, and occasionally letting him loose to prowl the room, Aragorn and Faramir managed to keep Boromir mostly sane through the long, anxious afternoon. They could not make him other than he was—a man sorely lacking in patience who could not abide waiting. He growled and snapped when their calm voices scraped his nerves raw. He stood at the door that separated him from his Gil, straining to catch sounds that did not come. He barked fruitless demands at the maids who scurried about to fetch water or clean linens. And once he demanded that Aragorn escort him to the nearest fountain so he could douse his head in cold water. The dunking cleared some of the cobwebs from his brain and cooled his temper, but it did not make the time pass more quickly.

Finally, when a second wineskin was nearly drained, the shadows were lengthening across the Pelennor, and the breeze coming in the window had stiffened to a chill wind, the door to the bedchamber opened and Arwen came out. Boromir heard her familiar step and was up out of his chair, halfway across the room before she could speak. Aragorn and Faramir, slower to react, where still only half out of their seats when she said, in her soft, musical voice,

"It is done, Boromir, and all is well. You have a son."

Boromir stopped dead in his tracks. "A son," he said dazedly. His blind gaze instinctively sought Aragorn, who crossed swiftly to him. "I have a son."

With a soft, triumphant laugh, Aragorn pulled him into his arms. "A son of Gondor. A jewel beyond price. Ah, Boromir, I am happy for you!"

"I did not think… I just assumed…" Stepping back but still clasping Aragorn's arms, he demanded, "I have a son?"

Faramir put a hand on his shoulder, gripping it hard. "You will more readily believe it when he starts crying for his supper."

With a ragged, tearful laugh, Boromir turned to embrace his brother. "I will believe it when I see him with my own… hands."

Faramir laughed with him, and Boromir could hear the tears in his throat.

"Éowyn has him in the nursery, seeing him washed and dressed," Arwen said, "but Gil is waiting for you."

"Gil!" Breaking away from Faramir, he started again for the bedchamber, only to halt and stretch out his hand toward Arwen. "My lady. My Queen. How can I…"

"Never mind that now," Arwen chided, catching and squeezing his hand. "Go comfort your wife and meet your son."

"Aye."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it, then headed for the open door, following the sound of swishing skirts and low voices.

"Gil?" he called as he stepped into the room.

His answer came from the direction of the bed, drawing him like a cord wrapped round his heart. "My lord."

He started toward her at once, heedless of what might lay in his path. Normally this room was kept scrupulously neat, with naught out of place to trip him up, but birth, he well knew, was a messy business and those who did not have to live with a blind man often careless about where they put things. Still, he would not let such minor obstacles as basins or dirty linens keep him from his goal. He had trodden upon much worse on a battlefield, or even an ill-tended street.

"Come, ladies," Arwen called from the doorway, "give the Steward some privacy."

Boromir half expected the women to object, so fiercely had they guarded Gil from him throughout the day, but they turned at once to leave, murmuring courtesies to him as they passed. He reached the bed and halted, just as he heard the door shut softly on their heels.

Smiling down at his wife, he chided, "What did you call me?"

Gil caught his hand and drew him down to a seat beside her, saying in a voice made rough with weariness yet still full of warmth, "Boromir."

"We are alone, then, I deem," he teased gently.

"Aye."

"That is well, for it means I may safely do this."

Clasping her head between his palms, he found the corner of her mouth with his thumb and stooped to bring his lips to hers. She gave a little choke—not quite a sob, for that would have been undignified—and clung to him. When he broke the lingering kiss, she slipped her hands around his head and guided it down beside her own so she could whisper in his ear.

"I am so glad to see you."

"I am glad to hear your voice and feel your touch. The waiting has been a torment."

She made that little choking sound again and twined her fingers in his hair, holding onto him tightly. "I am sorry. I wanted you here but Arwen forbade it, and with all the women rushing about… the noise and bother and bloody clouts on the floor…"

"Nay, do not fret on my account." He kissed her temple then gently broke her grip on him and sat up, keeping her hands clasped in his. "This was your battle to fight, not mine, and I would only have been a trouble to you."

She freed a hand to touch his cheek, then to run her thumb along the upper edge of the bandage that covered his eyes in a familiar caress. "You are never a trouble to me, Boromir. I listened for your voice every minute, taking courage from it."

"You need no one to lend you courage, my warrior wife."

"I do. I did." Clasping his hand, she lifted it to her own cheek and held it there, his palm open so he could feel the shifting muscles of her face as she spoke. "When the pains started and you were not here, I was frightened. I sent Elboron to find you, but you had left the city."

"On the King's business. I told you…"

She quieted him with a small shake of her head. "It was foolish of me, I know, but as the hours passed and the pains worsened and still you did not come, I had the oddest fancy…"

"You? A fancy?"

"I began to think that you had… had left me. That you had changed your mind and gone off to tramp the wilds of Eriador with Aragorn."

"Nay!"

"It was only my mind playing tricks on me. But I so needed to hear your voice, and when I could not, I became more and more certain that you were gone."

"My poor girl." Slipping a hand behind her neck, he lifted her up and into his arms. She settled gratefully against him, wrapped her arms round his waist, and burrowed her face into the velvet of his tunic. "You know that I would never leave you, Gil. Never."

"Aye. 'Twas but a passing fancy."

"'Twas completely absurd. I to go wandering without my Gil? My constant star? I might as well knock at the gates of Moria and invite the orcs to supper."

"Do not, Boromir, please."

"I am sorry." He cradled her head to his shoulder, dropped a kiss on it, then began rocking her gently. "I am sorry. No more orc jests."

"You are incorrigible."

"Aye."

She lay against him while he held her and rocked her for a quiet moment, then she lifted her head to gaze curiously up at him. "Tell me truly, Boromir. Have you never, in all the months of planning and preparation, been tempted to change your mind and go with the King?"

"Never."

"For love of me and of our unborn child?"

"For that, and for the certain knowledge of what you would have done, should I take it into my head to leave."

"I would have followed you."

"Aye, I know it, and likely given birth to our child in a ditch by the road."

"I had rather give birth in a ditch by the road than let you go without me."

"I know that, too." He clasped her face and kissed her, then pulled slightly away to say, with a doting smile, "You are so very predictable, my stubborn love."

Gil was spared the trouble of answering this by a soft knock on the inner door that let onto the nursery. The door opened, and Boromir heard the rustle of long skirts as someone approached the bed. The scent of Ithilien's sunlit glades told him who it was.

"I am sorry to disturb you," Éowyn said in hushed tones, "but your son is most desirous of making your acquaintance, my Lord Steward."

Gil promptly disentangled herself from Boromir, leaving him free to reach for his son.

"He is real, then," Boromir said. "I was beginning to doubt his existence."

Éowyn chuckled as she laid a small, warm, slightly squirming bundle in his hands. "Here is proof for you."

"Ah," Boromir exclaimed softly, a smile lighting his face. With an ease born of experience, he cradled a swaddled bum in one hand and a tiny, down-covered head in the other, and lifted his son to drop a kiss upon his brow. "Welcome, little one."

His son, not at all pleased by this greeting or by the tickling of his father's beard, responded with a plaintive cry and a flailing of his arms. Both Éowyn and Gil heard the distress in the baby's cry, but neither woman made the mistake of thinking that Boromir needed their assistance or moved to interfere. He had been soothing his children's upsets since the day that each was born, and no one—for all that he was male, blind, and a soldier by trade, more used to cleaving helms than drying tears—had a defter touch with them.

Boromir promptly tucked the infant into the crook of his elbow and settled him against his ribs. The blanket in which Éowyn had wrapped the boy had fallen open, so Boromir folded it more securely about him. Then he trailed the fingers of his free hand over one round cheek in an infinitely gentle caress. The baby grunted, yawned, and curled trustingly into his father's protective warmth.

"He is healthy?" Boromir asked, without lifting his shrouded gaze from the treasure in his arms. "He is whole?"

"Aye, he is whole and strong and beautiful. A princeling worthy of Gondor's greatest son." Stooping to kiss Boromir's cheek—a rare show of affection from the cool and reserved White Lady of Rohan—Éowyn said, "I rejoice for you, Brother."

"And I thank you, Sister, for all you have done."

"I will leave you to dote upon your son in peace, but if you should need aught, you need only call. Either Arwen or I will be within earshot." With that, she whisked herself out of the room and shut the door behind her, leaving Boromir, as promised, to dote upon the newest addition to his family in peace.

He was tracing his son's tiny, flawless features with a light fingertip when Gil spoke.

"Boromir." The gravity of her tone brought his head up sharply and his brows together in a frown. "'Tis not fitting that the Lady Éowyn call him a prince."

His face relaxed into a teasing smile. "I was wondering how long it would take you to mention that."

"'Tis not fitting," she repeated stubbornly. "He is no prince and cannot be allowed to grow up thinking himself one."

"He will not. Content yourself, Wife," he chided, even as he slipped a hand behind her neck and pulled her into a quick, firm kiss. "I will set my sister straight, along with all the other well-wishers who forget themselves in their joy, but you must make allowances for the emotion of the day. The excitement will die, the novelty will wear off, and he will become just another child underfoot, unworthy of comment."

She laid a hand on his arm and spoke in a low, worried tone that only Boromir ever heard from her, for he was the only creature in Middle-earth for whom she would drop her guard and voice her fears, without retreating behind her mask of wooden impassivity. "And what of you, Husband? Can you remember what he is not, even in your joy, and be content with what he is?"

"That is the bargain I made when I married you."

"Aye, but you had no son then." She let those words lie for a moment, let him absorb them, then went on in the same low, solemn tone, "Make no mistake, I am not doubting you. Not once in all the years of our marriage have you broken your word to me or shown the smallest symptom of regret. When our daughters were born, you rejoiced in their beauty and their wit, in the happiness they brought to us, and never bemoaned their lowly rank. When I watch you touch their faces to see them laugh and then laugh with them, it fills my heart to bursting, for I know myself the very luckiest of women. But those are daughters, Boromir. They would never have inherited your titles or your honors, no matter their birth and blood. Everything is different now."

"Nay, 'tis not," he chided softly.

"Can you hold your firstborn son in your arms and tell me that? Truly?"

Gazing down at the tiny creature cradled in his arms, Boromir murmured, "Aye." Then he lifted his bandaged eyes to Gil's face again and said, with absolute sincerity, "I can remember only twice in my life when I have been perfectly happy. When I forgot to mourn all I had lost in sheer joy at what I had gained. This is one of those moments."

There came a long pause, then he felt her fingers slide into the hair at his nape and her lips touch his. "Then there is no more to be said."

Looping his free arm around her, he drew her close and kissed her more deeply. She returned the kiss with much of her usual abandon but made no protest when he did not prolong it, for which he was grateful. His passion for Gil knew no bounds, but this was hardly the time to indulge it.

When he loosened his hold on her, she settled into the curve of his arm, leaned against him, and tilted her head back to gaze up at him. "What was the other?" she asked, with feigned innocence.

"The other?"

"Moment that you were perfectly happy."

"Ah." He favored her with his widest, most suggestive smile. "I'll not pander to your vanity by answering that."

Gil laughed low in her throat—another of those unguarded sounds that only her husband ever heard from her—and tucked her head into the curve of his neck. With one hand she reached over to adjust the baby's blanket, reminding Boromir of the frustrating fact that he could not have a proper look at his son without leaving hold of his wife, something he was not prepared to do. So he would have to content himself with seeing the boy through her eyes.

"Tell me what he looks like," he said softly. "Is he as beautiful as Éowyn would have me believe?"

"If I say that he is the most beautiful child to be born within these city walls in half a hundred years," she replied in the same low, caressing tone, "you will think me indulging in romantic fancies."

"You? Never. But why half a hundred years?" Boromir asked curiously.

"Because he is the very image of his father." She lifted her head and raised her eyes to his face. "So I must assume that you were at least as beautiful as this at your birth."

Boromir snorted at that and would have rolled his eyes, had he still eyes to roll. As it was, he had to content himself with remarking, sourly, "Do not tease me, Gil. If he looks like a grub with legs, just say so."

"Nay, my lord…"

"Now I know you are teasing me!"

"Boromir." She said the name with a wealth of love and tenderness in it that silenced his own jests. "I speak naught but the truth, which you will see for yourself in time."

His answer was to tighten his arm around her and tuck her head back into his neck. She gave a contented sigh and slipped her arms round his waist. They sat together in silence for some minutes, until Gil spoke again.

"What shall we call him?" she asked, once more fingering the baby's blanket. "Aragorn, mayhap? Or Denethor?"

"Nay!" Boromir protested. "Much as I loved my father, I have no desire to revive his memory every time I speak my son's name! And we have already named one child after Aragorn."

"Meriadoc, then. Memories of the halfling would always be welcome, and he has done you the honor of naming his son Boromir. Would not it be fitting to show him the same love and respect?"

"Aye, but only think of the chaos when our families meet, with Merry's Boromir, Pippin's Faramir, Sam's Frodo and Merry and Pippin and whatever else he may have by then! All it needs is for one of them to call a child Strider, and I will not know who I am talking to from one moment to the next!"

Gil chuckled. "You have done away with all the names that I can offer, unless you want to call him Durstan."

"Durstan?"

"The cutpurse who finally brought Taleris to justice."

"Ah. Tempting, I must admit, but not quite the legacy I would bequeath to my firstborn son."

"What, then? Have you aught to suggest?"

"I have."

Boromir gently disentangled himself from Gil, freeing his hand so he could touch the baby. She sat up straight to watch as he clasped the down-covered head, stroked a round cheek, and finally spread his palm flat over the fragile cage of bone that rose and fell with every breath. At the feel of that tiny life nestled so trustingly against him, his throat swelled with tears he could not shed.

"It must be a name worthy of a true son of Gondor, of the line of Ruling Stewards, with the blood of ancient Númenor flowing in his veins. But it must be all his own, not shared with anyone or borrowing fame from those who have gone before."

"That is much to expect from one name."

"Aye."

"What is it, Boromir? What name have you chosen for our son of Gondor?"

He spoke without lifting his blind gaze from the child in his arms. "Caladmir."

"Caladmir," Gil repeated, thoughtfully. "What does it mean?"

"Jewel of light."

He heard her breath hitch, and for a dizzying moment, Boromir imagined that his Gil might actually be crying. Then she laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to press a kiss to his brow, just above the bandage that covered his eyes. When she turned her head to rest her cheek in the same spot, he could feel that it was dry.

"'Tis perfect," she whispered.

The night was chill, with a wind coming off the mountains to the west that smelled of snow, reminding the man seated on the stone terrace that winter had only just released its grip on the plains below. Boromir did not mind the cold. Exhausted from the day's events, he was grateful to have this time to himself. He lay back in his chair, his legs stretched out before him, his fur-lined cloak wrapped close around him, a tiny infant lying peacefully on his breast within the shelter of his cloak, listening to the stars sing.

He needed no eyes this night to know that the heavens were ablaze with them. Behind him the house was quiet. Below him the city slept. And all about him the night was full of music, telling him that every star ever created by Elbereth, Queen of the Valar, had come out to greet his son.

Faramir would say that it was vanity to think the distant stars cared aught for the birth of one mortal child. Gil would grunt and call him fanciful. But they could not hear the stars, so they could not know, as Boromir did, that their song was a celebration.

Bending to bring his voice close to the child who slept on, oblivious to the honor done him, he murmured, "They are singing for you, little one. Do you hear them?" The child did not answer, of course, but he went on in a low, soothing voice that rumbled in his chest where the small head lay, "I pray to all the Valar that you do, for this, I deem, is your true birthright. Not a princedom or a stewardship or a place at the head of Gondor's armies, but this. The music of the stars."

The babe yawned and smacked his lips, then burrowed his face into the velvet of Boromir's tunic, drawing a soft chuckle from his father.

"Aye, the stars are naught to you now," he bent to feather a kiss to the head resting so trustingly over his heart, "but the time will come, my little one, when you look up and see them strewn across the heavens, like jewels cast from the hand of Elbereth herself…"

He broke off, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat and turning his bandaged gaze up to the stars he could not see.

"When you hear a song in the night more beautiful that mortal heart can bear…"

Again he paused, listening.

"Then will you be proud to name yourself Caladmir, son of Boromir, who can summon the stars at will."

— The Shire, sixteen months later —

Merry bounced out of bed the moment there was light enough in the room for him to see where he was putting his feet. He had lain awake for most of the night, staring at the walls and the ceiling and the dark windows, too keyed up to sleep, so the morning came as a welcome release. His wife, awakened by his abrupt departure, rolled over and grumbled something rude before pulling a pillow over her head. Merry grinned at her but kept moving. He had washed his face and hands, changed his nightshirt for his best traveling clothes, and unlocked the battered, old trunk that stood at the foot of the bed when Estella finally gave in and sat up.

"Must you make all that racket?" she asked, yawning. "The sun is barely up."

Straightening up with a bundle of soft, grey-green fabric in his hands, Merry allowed himself a moment to admire the picture she presented, sitting there amongst the bedclothes, with her auburn curls tumbled down her back and her brown eyes clouded with sleep. After five years of marriage and three years of parenthood, Merry still considered Estella the loveliest hobbit lass that he had ever laid eyes on and the stable, loving center of his life.

Today, however, Merry's life was decidedly off-kilter, and even Estella could not hold his attention for long. Stooping once more over the trunk, he said, "I'm almost done. You can go back to sleep, if you like."

"And have you fretting because I'm late for breakfast? No thank you." She yawned again, then threw back the covers and crawled to the edge of the bed. "I expect Boromir is awake by now, anyway, not to mention the little Tooks and Gamgees, all hungry and more excited than is good for them."

"Probably." Merry lifted a mail corselet from the trunk and regarded it thoughtfully.

"Are you planning to wear that?" Estella asked in some surprise.

Merry gazed at the shining corselet for another moment, then shook his head and returned it to it's place in the trunk. "I did last year, but that was a more formal event. Welcoming the King to Arnor, being invested as Royal counselors, and all that. This is just a meeting of friends." Or so I hope, he finished to himself.

Pushing aside a grass-green tunic with a white horse blazoned across it and a scabbard that held a long, graceful Elvish blade, he lifted a small, silver-chased horn on a rich baldric from the trunk. He set the cloak and the horn on the bed, then closed and locked the trunk again.

"I notice that Rose and Diamond had the good sense to skip this meeting of friends," Estella remarked dryly, as she began combing the tangles from her hair.

"Rosie's child is due in another month. Sam wouldn't let her ride so far in her condition. And Diamond is away visiting her relations in the Northfarthing." Merry tucked the trunk key in the pocket of his waistcoat and headed out the door, adding, "Otherwise they would both be here."

No sooner had Merry entered the parlor through one doorway than his son came scampering into it through another. The boy was still dressed in his nightshirt and clutching a wooden Mûmak on wheels. He bounced over to Merry, his auburn curls falling into his sparkling brown eyes, and held up the toy triumphantly.

"Da-da, say hullo to Mûmak!"

Mûmak was little Boromir's most treasured possession (and, not coincidentally, the first intelligible word he had ever spoken). A gift from his namesake, it had been fashioned by Gimli at Boromir's request and brought all the way from Minas Tirith in Aragorn's saddlebag. It now rarely left the boy's hands. He carried it with him everywhere, subjected it to every form of abuse that a three-year-old could contrive, and made Merry infinitely glad that dwarves knew how to build things to last.

"Hullo, Mûmak," Merry said agreeably. "If you're planning to come with us today, you'd best get some clothes on."

"Mûmak doesn't wear clothes," Boromir said gleefully.

"No? Then he can wait out here while you get dressed. Come along, my lad, you don't want to miss breakfast. Faramir and the Gamgees will be there."

"Pippin?" he asked brightly.

"Yes, both of them."

Boromir giggled at that, set his treasured Mûmak carefully on a table, and followed his father from the room. Some minutes later they returned to the parlor, the boy's nightshirt traded for clothing more suited to a ride in the country, to find Estella bustling about, collecting things they would need for the day's outing. Boromir went straight to where he'd left his toy and scooped it up in his arms.

"Must we have Mûmak at the breakfast table?" his mother sighed.

"I want to show him to Lord Bor'mir," the boy informed her.

"Lord Boromir is not going to be at breakfast," she objected. "He's not coming 'til later." Then, under her breath she added, "If he comes at all."

Merry heard this and gave her a pained look. "He's coming, Stel. I know he is."

"That's what you said the last time," Estella retorted.

"Yes, but this time I'm sure."

"Merry…" she began, but he rolled over her.

"Aragorn is meeting him at the crossroads near Bree, and he would have told me if Boromir wasn't coming!"

"Bor'mir's coming!" the boy asserted.

Estella reached down to ruffle his hair and threw a resigned look at her husband. "I just don't want to see you disappointed again, Merry. That's all."

"I won't be," Merry said staunchly.

Estella accepted this without comment and scooped her son up in her arms, Mûmak and all. Together, they left the Master's private quarters and made their way through the many branching tunnels of Brandy Hall toward the dining room. Merry did not often eat in the communal dining room. His hole—the largest and most richly furnished in the Hall, as befit the dignity of the Master—was completely self-contained and had its own kitchen, so he and Estella did not have to venture out into the bustle of the Hall unless they chose to, even to eat. But today they had several hungry young hobbits to feed, and Merry had wisely opted to let someone else do the feeding.

Sam and Pippin were in the dining room already, with little Faramir and Sam's four boys. The Gamgee girls were otherwise occupied—Elanor in Annúminas, serving as Maid to the Queen, and her little sisters helping out their mother in the last weeks before she gave birth to yet another of Sam's growing brood—so, aside from Estella, it was an entirely male party that sat down to a hearty breakfast. Thanks to the early hour they had the place largely to themselves, but Brandy Hall was justly renowned for its hospitality, and the kitchen staff kept the table loaded with enough food to satisfy twice their number.

No sooner had Estella put little Boromir in his place than he plunked his toy down on the table and proclaimed, loudly, "I have a Mûmak!"

"Seems to me we've been told that before," Sam remarked into his plate.

"It's not a Mûmak, it's an Oliphaunt," Faramir informed his younger cousin, with all the authority of his five years.

"My dad's seen one," young Merry Gamgee offered, "an' he says it's an Oliphaunt."

Undaunted, Boromir favored him with a fearsome scowl and retorted, "My da-da says it's a Mûmak, and he's seen lots of them!"

"Well, so's my dad!" Faramir shot back.

"Oliphaunt or Mûmak, it's the same thing," Pippin cut in cheerfully, "and it's not worth squabbling over. Eat your tomatoes, Faramir-lad."

"Mine," Boromir declared emphatically, "is a Mûmak, and it's nose goes up!" To prove his point, he lifted the long, beautifully-carved and painted trunk above the creature's head.

"Stop playing and eat your breakfast," Estella scolded.

Boromir promptly shoved an entire sausage into his mouth and said, a bit thickly, "I am eating."

Under cover of the general noise, Pippin leaned close to Merry and asked, "Have you noticed how my Faramir always thinks he knows better than everyone else and your Boromir can scowl fiercely enough to stop an orc in its tracks?"

Merry, who was working his way through a plateful of food, laughed and accidentally inhaled his scrambled eggs. He began to cough and splutter, while Pippin whacked him helpfully on the back.

"I sometimes think we made a mistake in picking their names," Pippin remarked.

"If Boromir's scowl is the worst thing the lad picks up, he'll be all right," Sam said. Then, dropping his voice so as not to attract the attention of their clamoring offspring, he added, "Will he come, do you reckon? The other Boromir?"

"Of course he will!" Merry exclaimed, not caring who overheard. "He promised!"

"He promised the last time, too."

"That was different. Look, Sam, I know you always think the worst of Boromir…"

"Not true," Sam said, firmly. "I never said a word against him last year. I thought he did just as he ought, staying in Gondor with his family. But he does make rather a habit of not showing up."

Pippin laughed. "He's got you there, old fellow."

Merry merely frowned and took another bite of eggs. Pippin and Sam did not mean to be cruel with their jokes, he was sure, but they did not seem to grasp that he could find no humor in this situation. He had lived in a state of nervous anticipation for months, telling himself over and over again that Boromir was absolutely coming this time. Now the day was here, the longed-for meeting only hours away, and even the suggestion that it might not happen was enough to make him want to weep. Yet he had to sit here, gritting his teeth, trying to smile, while first his wife then his friends poked fun at him, oblivious to the pain they were causing.

Sam, who beneath his caustic manner was a very kind-hearted hobbit, took one look at Merry's face and said, gruffly, "I expect Strider would've told you if he wasn't coming."

"If Strider even knows," Pippin chirped.

That was it. Merry could take no more. He slammed down his fork, pushed back his plate, and snapped, "I'm going to see about the ponies."

"We haven't finished breakfast!" Pippin protested.

"I have." Merry climbed over the bench and started for the door. "The rest of you can catch me up when you're done stuffing your faces."

Merry did not follow through on his threat and leave without the others, but he did busy himself with the ponies and the baggage, and consequently was in a much better frame of mind by the time they joined him. With little Boromir perched in front of Merry in Strider's saddle, Hamfast riding with his father, and Pippin leading a heavily-laden pack pony, the party left Brandy Hall before mid-morning and set off along the road at a leisurely pace. The North-gate was only ten miles away, an easy ride for such experienced travelers, but any journey that included youngsters must perforce include stops for food, so it was approaching mid-day by the time they rode up to the northern border of Buckland.

Here the Hedge curved down to the banks of the Brandywine, where it was cut by a large, many-barred gate. On the far side of the gate, the road from Buckland met the Great East Road. A left turn would take travelers across Brandywine Bridge and into the Shire proper. A right turn would take them into the empty lands between the Shire and Bree.

It was from these empty lands that the hobbits looked to see their friends coming. Boromir had purposed to travel up the Greenway, passing the Old Forest and the Barrow-downs on their eastern side, then meeting Aragorn at the crossroads just outside of Bree. If he had held to this purpose, then he and Aragorn would ride together out of the East and up to the Brandywine Bridge where the hobbits waited.

How long they would have to wait Merry had no idea, so he set everyone to work unsaddling and tethering the ponies along the grassy riverbank, unloading hampers of food, and distracting the youngest children with games. Soon, they all settled down to a picnic lunch, and even little Boromir forgot to chatter about his beloved Mûmak when faced with the serious business of eating.

Merry was halfway through his second helping of cold game pie when he heard the sound he had been straining to catch: the cry of a silver trumpet. He was on his feet in a flash, pie forgotten, racing toward the gate. Pippin and Sam were right behind him, and while Estella kept the children inside the gate, the three friends stepped out onto the packed surface of the Road.

Merry felt the ground tremble beneath the weight of many hooves and turned eagerly to see a great company of mounted men approaching from the East. They spread across the road and onto the grass verge to either side, caparisons blazing with color, mail flashing in the sunlight, and banners snapping in the breeze. His heart abruptly soared, for right at the front, beside Aragorn's black and silver standard, flew one of pristine white. The Steward's banner, proving at last that his faith had been rewarded and his friend had come.

At the appearance of the three hobbits, the trumpet sounded again, and the horses broke into a canter. In the same moment, Merry began to run. Heedless of his dignity and all the eyes upon him, he tore down the road, calling, "Boromir! Boromir!" in his high, carrying voice.

His cry seemed to be some kind of signal. The company halted as one, leaving a single horse to continue on alone. Merry recognized the beast at a glance as Fedranth, the great, grey steed of Rohan who had once carried a blind soldier and a fugitive hobbit to war beneath the Shadow in the East. On his back were two figures—a girl with a long, reddish plait hanging over her shoulder, and a Man, tall and proud and fair, with a black bandage bound across his eyes and a white cloak thrown back from his shoulders. Had Merry spared a thought for the girl he might have guessed that she was one of Boromir's daughters, but he did not. He had no attention to spare for anyone but his friend.

"Boromir!" he cried again, and saw a wide, white grin split the Man's face.

"Merry!"

Boromir abruptly reined in and swung himself out of the saddle. Letting go of the horse, he took a step forward, then dropped down to kneel in the road just as Merry reached him.

"You came!" Merry cried, as he hurled himself into Boromir's arms. "You came!"

Boromir caught the hobbit up, laughing in delight. Then, in a voice rough with unshed tears, he said, "I am sorry I made you wait so long, my dear Merry."

"It doesn't matter," Merry said, thickly, letting go of Boromir and mopping at his face with his sleeve. "Nothing matters, now that you're here. I have so much to tell you and so many people I want you to meet…"

"As do I, but let that wait. Give me a moment just to listen to your voice and be glad."

As he said it, Boromir lifted a hand to rest against Merry's cheek, telling him exactly where the hobbit was, and smiled at him. The sight of that familiar, crooked smile—the one that made him look both fond and sorrowful at the same time—filled Merry with a love and joy so fierce that they hurt. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he flung his arms round the Man's neck again, crying,

"Oh, Boromir, how I've missed you!"

Boromir's arms tightened around him. "And I have missed you, Little One."

Merry gave himself a few minutes just to stand there in the road, holding onto the friend he had waited so long to see again, weeping with happiness, and Boromir did nothing to hurry him. In truth, Merry suspected by the ragged sound of his breathing that he, too, was weeping in his own way.

Finally, Merry collected himself enough to step back, wipe his eyes on his sleeve, and speak with barely a sniffle. "Are Gil and your children with you? Is that one of them up on Fedranth?"

"Aye, that is Merilin."

"I thought she must be one of yours. She has your hair."

"I regret to say that she also has my temper."

Merry gave a watery chuckle. "I've brought my little Boromir along, too. He's anxious to tell you all about his Mûmak, but I warn you, he's as bad as ever Borlas was about the Ents!" Then, sobering, "It's hard to believe it's been eleven years since I last saw you. So much has happened… so much I would have liked to share with you. How long do you mean to stay in the West?"

"As long as Aragorn does. Another year at least, I deem."

A sudden rush of relief brought fresh tears to Merry's eyes. "How wonderful! I can ride up to Annúminas to see you any time I like! I wish…" The tears quickened. "Oh, Boromir, I wish you could come visit me, too, but…"

"The King's law forbids it. I know." His expression turned suddenly mischievous. "But mayhap, if I throw away my boots, agree to eat six meals a day, and learn to blow smoke rings, your kinfolk will mistake me for a hobbit and let me through the gate."

Laughing and crying together, Merry protested, "You will never be a hobbit, Boromir!" Then, catching his hand and kissing it, he added, "What you are, what you will always be is the greatest man and the truest friend that I have ever known!"

"Ah, Merry," Boromir began.

But Merry cut him off with a determined sniff and a gruff, "Now, stop talking nonsense and come meet my family."

Boromir lifted Merry's hand and kissed it, then caught his head between his hands and pulled him close so he could kiss his brow, as well. Getting to his feet, he placed a hand on Merry's head. Merry instinctively straightened up and squared his shoulders, proud and happy to feel the weight of that hand again.

"Come, Little One. Show me the way."

Finis

Technical Notes:

For those of you who like to keep dates straight:

Caladmir is born in the year S.R. 1434 (or 13 F.A.). Boromir is 56, Estellas is 8 and Merilin is 5. Gil's age is not known. When Boromir dies in S.R. 1451 (30 F.A.), Caladmir will be 17.

As for the hobbits:

The ages of Faramir Took and the various Gamgees are all according to canon. In the final scene of the epilogue, which takes place in the summer of S.R. 1435, Faramir is 5, Frodo 12, Merry 8, Pippin 6 and Hamfast 3. Rose Gamgee is currently pregnant with her ninth child, Primrose.

Tolkien gives us no date for Merry's marriage to Estella Bolger and no information about his children, so I have placed his marriage in S.R. 1430 and his son's birth in S.R. 1432. When Boromir finally makes it to Buckland, little Boromir Brandybuck is 3.

Author's Note:

Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me so long and seeing this story through to the end! I sincerely hope you found the epilogue enjoyable and satisfying. Trust me when I say that trying to find a way to wrap up such an epic tale is not easy, especially when the first half ended so tragically and dramatically.

I am extremely glad and extremely proud to have finally finished The Steward's Tale after having let it lie fallow for so many years. It feels good to know that Boromir, Gil, Merry and the rest are finally settled down and happy. If inspiration strikes (and if Boromir gets into trouble again which, knowing him, is quite likely), I may well have to write another story. I make no promises, but it may happen. If you would like to be notified of future works, please subscribe to the The Captain and the King series.

Until then, thank you again for reading and for all your lovely, inspirational feedback! It as been a joy and a privilege to share this with you!

—plasticChevy