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Arwen's eyes narrowed. "Yrch." She backed toward her mount. "Orcs."
Boromir saw them among the trees, watching. Their dark eyes glinting with animal cunning. He drew his blade, expecting a rush. The air grew heavy with something he could not name, not until he noticed that the creatures' attention was focused on Arwen, not on him.
Only when Boromir stepped between them and their intended did they look to him. The charge when it began was fierce and sudden. "Run!" he called to Arwen, who had to have reached her horse. "Run!" Then they were on him.
Several rushed past, and though he hoped Arwen got away clean, he heard no hoofbeats to comfort him. Perhaps there were others in the trees behind them. He imagined them pulling Arwen from the horse before she had the chance to flee. He brought his shield up into the face of one orc, pushing it back as he drove his blade through the chest of another.
If he could just--a wide sweeping blow opened an orc's belly--finish off enough--another jarred loose an opponent's rusted sword--to let him help Arwen. Boromir brought his blade down at the point where neck and shoulder meet on the creature he had just disarmed.
He caught a downward blow that sent pain thrilling down his arm with his shield and stabbed into the gut of his attacker.
"Boromir!"
He turned at Arwen's shout, saw the orc whose blade was descending toward his unprotected side. Even as he began to bring up his own weapon to parry the blow, he knew it would be too late. Perhaps if he could deflect some of it, it would not kill him.
Suddenly the creature jerked, stiffened. The blade tumbled from its hand, its fingers clenching around empty air. He stepped aside as the creature tumbled to the ground. A knife hilt stuck out of the back of its neck.
Arwen stood surrounded by three corpses; black blood tarnished the silver of her curved blade that seemed to glow with its own light. His mouth opened. She hadn't run; hadn't even tried to. She'd fought. His gaze fell on the orc sprawled at his feet. And he'd be dead if she hadn't.
Squatting down, he pulled the knife free from the body. It was not the Elvish hunting blade he expected. No, this dagger was straight and clean. Unadorned except for the white tree stamped into the pommel. He rubbed it with his thumb even as he glanced at his bracers, which bore the same symbol of Gondor. The trees weren't identical; the style on Arwen's dagger was one that had fallen out of fashion centuries ago.
"Where did you get this blade?"
She took it from him, wiping it clean before sheathing it. "It was a gift."
"A gift. From who?" He reached for her arm, and that was when he saw the blood. The hand that was tensed to grip her relaxed. "You're injured."
Arwen glanced at her sleeve, pulling apart the torn fabric and examining the shallow wound beneath. "It's nothing."
Boromir bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I should have been faster," he drew a deep breath, forced himself to look at her. "You should not have come to harm while you were in my care."
Her eyes flashed. "In your care?" She raised her blade, set the sharp edge against the side of his neck. "Long ago, my ancestor Luthien rode to the dungeons of Sauron, who was in that Age Morgoth's lieutenant, and cast him down to free her mortal lover Beren. She did not take an army with her, no friends to keep her in their care. She rode alone save for her courage and the love that burned in her breast." She tapped him on the shoulder with her sword. "And this blade."
Boromir swallowed as the words he was going to speak turned to ash on his tongue. He couldn't say that only barbarians allowed their women to fight alongside them, only savages. Not with Arwen standing before him fearless and beautiful. Not when he wondered what it might be like to have her at his side in battle. And perhaps in bed.
No, those thoughts were too strange. Best to stick with what was more familiar. He glanced down at the sword. "Is...is it magic?"
She lifted the blade from his shoulder, wiped it clean on her cloak in a single practiced gesture. "It cannot grant its wielder victory in battle, nor heal wounds from the enemy. It does not shatter all blades that cross it. But it knows the creatures of the shadow, and it cuts them deep."
The blade and the lady seemed to glow. And for a moment he fancied a bright light, like a bit of fallen star sparkling at her brow. The light faded as she turned from him toward a shuddering sigh.
Boromir turned as well. "Oh, no."
His stallion held one front leg free of the ground. Blood stained the fur, dripped off the raised hoof. Boromir approached slowly, laid a hand on the beast's shoulder, and felt the tremors running through the flesh. He pulled his hunting knife. One stroke would do it, clean across the vessel that beat so wildly under his fingers.
A slender hand caught hold of his wrist as he raised the dagger. The strength in the grip surprised him.
"What are you doing?"
"I do what I must."
"You mean to kill him?"
"He has been a truer friend than many men. I will not see him suffer."
Arwen stepped between him and the horse, shoved him back with palms against his chest. If a man treated him so, there would be blows. But a lady.... His hands tightened into fists at his sides.
"You are too quick to lose hope, Boromir. Watch and learn." She knelt by the horse and took the torn leg between her hands. The beast trembled, snorted. When she spoke, the Elvish words were more music than speech. They made the air tingle and Boromir shiver.
When she finally released the stallion's leg, he limped but put some little weight on the foot. She wiped bloody hands on her jacket. "The bone was not shattered, only cracked. It will mend cleanly now, though he will need time and rest." Then she placed her hand on the horse's head, leaned in close to whisper in his ear. His ears twitched. She released him, gave him one gentle pat, and he began to limp away. "He will find his way back to my father's house. He will go slowly and rest as he needs."
Then her fingers, the same ones that had just soothed his horse, touched his cheek. "Even when your heart tells you all is lost, there is always hope." Her other hand found his hand and squeezed. "Always. It is the one thing that the Enemy and his servants will never understand, and so they try to destroy it."
Her grip on his hand tightened enough to make him wince. "But Sauron is deceived. For even with the Ring, he would not have the power to kill hope."
"No?" She did not have to face raids from Mordor, see its black mountains and fiery sky every day.
"No." Her voice was firm, steady, as her hand touched his cheek. "That is something that we must do ourselves."