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Chapter Text

Twilight in Imladris was a song of wind and water. Silvered leaves rustled in the canopy above the elven halls, and the river laughed quietly in its bed below. The valley was peaceful, suspended between sunset and starlight—until the stillness shifted.

Above the highest terrace, the sky shimmered.

It did not crack like thunder, nor roar like the call of fell things, but split with elegant silence—like a ribbon unraveling. A seam of pale light bloomed in the air, veined with hues not seen in Arda. The wind stirred sharply, as though exhaling after centuries of holding its breath.

And through that light, two figures descended.

They did not fall. They floated, as if borne gently upon a breath of divine power. When their feet touched stone, the light blinked out behind them, leaving only the fading whisper of strange magic and a few leaves spinning to the ground.

Bai Qian stood still, the sleeves of her flowing lavender robes billowing softly at her sides. Her bearing was graceful, sovereign—an immortal being who wore beauty the way others wore breath. Silver adorned her dark hair, and the faint shimmer of magic clung to her skin like moonlight. She blinked once, slowly, her eyes sharp and unhurried as she took in her new surroundings.

Beside her, Feng Jiu steadied herself, her crimson robes a vivid splash of color against the pale stone. Younger in presence and a touch more impulsive in movement, she brushed her sleeve down and looked up at the trees, her brow creased.

“Gou Gou?” she asked uncertainly, voice light and musical, “Where are we? This doesn’t feel like any realm I know.”

Bai Qian did not immediately answer. She turned her head, studying the air, the trees, the lack of qi. “The energy here is thin,” she murmured at last, frowning slightly. “Not mortal. Not divine. But not entirely dead, either.”

Feng Jiu sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like the Demon Realm. I don’t see any black fog or beast teeth.”

“Beast teeth wouldn’t dare approach us,” Bai Qian said dryly, folding her hands into her sleeves. She exhaled lightly. “Still... something tore a rift to bring us here. This isn’t a place we’re meant to be.”

Feng Jiu pouted. “We weren’t even doing anything. I was in the middle of a dream nap.”

Their words, though in an ancient dialect of their own world, seemed to linger in the air, causing ripples that brushed against the senses of those attuned to greater things.

From a high stone walkway above, two figures approached. One was tall and robed in grey, his staff tapping lightly as he walked. The other moved without sound, dark-haired and regal, the weight of ages in his eyes. Gandalf’s expression was that of a scholar intrigued but cautious. Elrond’s was harder to read.

“They are not of this world,” Elrond said softly to the wizard beside him. “And yet... they are not wholly foreign to it, either.”

“They shine like the stars, and yet carry the quiet of old mountains,” Gandalf replied. “This is not the work of the Enemy. But it is something powerful—and unexpected.”

They descended the steps toward the two women.

Bai Qian turned her head as they approached. Her expression remained unreadable—not cold, but careful. Feng Jiu tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. Neither moved, neither bowed.

It was Gandalf who broke the silence.

“Travelers,” he said, his voice low and kind but edged with caution, “you have crossed into the lands of Middle-earth, though I daresay not by your own choosing.”

Bai Qian raised one elegant brow. “Middle-earth,” she echoed, tasting the name. “So this realm has a name after all.”

Gandalf inclined his head. “I am Gandalf the Grey. And this is Lord Elrond of Rivendell. May I ask your names... and from where you came?”

For a moment, Bai Qian said nothing. Then, with the faintest smile—polite, enigmatic, impossible to decipher—she answered, “You may call me Bai Qian, of Qing Qiu.”

“And I’m Feng Jiu,” her niece added brightly, with less restraint. “We’re fox spirits. Well, she’s the Queen of Qing Qiu. I’m still in training. Sort of.”

Elrond’s brow lifted slightly.

“Fox spirits. A queen, and a princess,” Gandalf echoed, his curiosity growing. “That would explain... much. And also very little.”

Bai Qian’s gaze swept across the trees. “This land breathes war,” she murmured. “I can feel it. Something ancient stirring beneath the roots.”

“You are not wrong,” Gandalf said. “Darkness stirs. And strange things walk the earth once more. I would ask you to stay, at least until we understand more of what brought you here.”

Feng Jiu leaned closer to Bai Qian. “It’s not like we can leave anyway,” she whispered. “Unless you’re hiding a portal in your sleeve.”

Bai Qian sighed. “Very well,” she said aloud, her tone velvet over steel. “We will stay. For now.”

Elrond nodded gravely. “Then let Rivendell offer you its peace, while it lasts.”

And as the sky dimmed to starlight, the ancient valley held its breath—for it knew: the arrival of the two fox immortals had already altered the shape of fate.

The valley of Imladris was unlike anything in the Three Skies or the Mortal Realm.

Bai Qian stood on a balcony overlooking its shimmering waterfalls, hands folded neatly within the long sleeves of her robe. The soft light of morning painted the stone in hues of silver and honey, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and windflower. It had been three days since she and Feng Jiu arrived in Middle-earth, and already Bai Qian had learned much.

She now understood that this was the Third Age of this realm, and that the peace they felt in Rivendell was a quiet held tightly against an encroaching storm. There was a Dark Lord—Sauron—whose spirit was bound to a cursed ring. A ring that now lay hidden in the keeping of one of the smallest folk she'd ever heard of: hobbits.

It sounded absurd, until she saw the worry etched into Elrond’s ageless face.

Each morning, she joined Lord Elrond and Gandalf in the Hall of Fire or the library, poring over maps and texts with the same dedication she once gave to Qing Qiu’s statecraft. Her face remained serene as she absorbed names like Isildur, Numenor, and Mordor, but inside, her mind sharpened like a blade.

“I would know every enemy of this land,” she told Elrond one morning, her voice cool and composed. “If we are to remain, then I will not do so blind.”

Gandalf, watching nearby, puffed his pipe. “You are more than a guest, Lady Bai Qian. You are, I suspect, a force not even the Valar anticipated.”

She inclined her head politely but said nothing. She wasn’t yet sure whether that was a compliment or a warning.

Meanwhile, Feng Jiu had discovered the hidden staircases behind the east library and had, for reasons unknown, enchanted half the elf-maidens’ shoes to follow them like eager puppies.

The resulting chaos had been met with mild elven exasperation and a great deal of patience—until one unfortunate incident with the kitchens and a minor pie explosion.

When Bai Qian finally found her niece hiding behind a marble pillar with strawberry jam in her hair and no trace of remorse, she drew herself up with the weight of one hundred-thousand years.

“Feng Jiu,” she said calmly.

“...Yes, Gou Gou?” the younger fox said sweetly, peeking out from behind the pillar with widened eyes that had helped charm her father, and had gotten her out of many punishments.

Bai Qian stared at her. Then she lifted one sleeve and lightly flicked her fingers. A gust of wind blew through the courtyard, promptly flipping Feng Jiu upside down by her sash and dangling her midair like a red ribbon lantern.

“Hey!” Feng Jiu squeaked. “Gou Gou! The elves are watching!”

“Good. Let them see what happens when you enchant their bread to jump off the table.”

“It was one loaf! And it only bit two people!”

Bai Qian raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to hang there until dinner?”

“No,” Feng Jiu muttered, pouting. “I’ll apologize.”

“Properly.”

“With curtsy and everything. Ugh.”

With another flick, Bai Qian let her down gently, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. She turned on her heel with imperial elegance, already heading back toward the library. “And no more pies for two days.”

Feng Jiu groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a bench, only to find three elven children watching her with wide eyes.

She grinned.

“Want to learn a trick with pinecones?”

The children lit up.

Later that evening, Bai Qian returned to her quarters to find her niece asleep in a sunken couch, her hair a tangle of curls and petals, her cheek smudged with what looked suspiciously like ink.

Bai Qian paused at the door, watching her for a moment. A faint smile touched her lips, and for the first time since they arrived, her expression softened into something warm, something like home.

She crossed the room quietly, tucking a blanket around the younger fox, then turned back toward the window. Outside, the stars were beginning to wake.

Rivendell was still a haven—for now.

And Bai Qian was determined to learn all she could before the storm reached them.

Rivendell slumbered under the silver light of the stars, veiled in mist and the quiet song of water. Lanterns hung like fireflies from carved arches, casting amber halos over polished stone and ivy-covered walls.

In the gardens beyond the Hall of Fire, where moonflowers bloomed and the air carried the scent of night jasmine, two shapes wove through the trees—low to the ground, silent as smoke.

A red fox with nine long, flowing tails darted between the hedges, her steps almost dancing. Her fur shimmered like firelight, her bright eyes glittering with mischief.

The white one followed more slowly. Taller, sleeker, regal in every movement. Her nine tails rippled like silk behind her, trailing starlight with each step. Her eyes, golden and intelligent, held the weight of a thousand lifetimes.

Foxfire flickered around their paws.

From a shaded walkway above, Elrond stood observing with hands clasped loosely before him, his expression unreadable.

“…They are not beasts,” he said at last, as if confirming it aloud to himself.

“No,” Gandalf said beside him, his eyes bright beneath the brim of his hat. “They are divine spirits—fairies, perhaps—older than most of the histories we know. Not of Arda, yet bound by its threads for now.”

“They’ve taken on fox forms?” Arwen asked softly, stepping up beside her father. Her gown glimmered in the moonlight, pale as frost. She gazed at the two creatures below with a curious wonder.

“They are fox spirits, lady Arwen. And Lady Bai Qian said it calms her mind,” Gandalf explained. “And the younger, Lady Feng Jiu, I suspect, does it simply because it’s fun.”

Arwen smiled. “She’s beautiful,” she said, watching Feng Jiu tumble through a patch of wild violets and vanish in a puff of leaves.

“The elder one is her aunt,” Gandalf murmured. “She carries herself like a queen even with fur and paws.”

Below, Bai Qian paused. She lifted her head and looked directly toward them. There was a flick of acknowledgment in her eyes. One of her nine tails curled forward like a beckoning ribbon before she turned to follow the younger fox deeper into the glade.

Elrond exhaled slowly. “We have welcomed many strange guests over the ages. But none like this.”

“They are not here by chance,” Gandalf said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I feel it in my bones. Something brought them—just as something now stirs to change the fate of this age.”

“And do you believe they will fight beside us?”

Gandalf watched the pale fox as she stopped to nuzzle her niece, then sat beneath the moonlight with her tails curled gracefully around her.

“I believe,” Gandalf said quietly, “that they will choose to. And that will make all the difference.”

Arwen remained silent. Her gaze lingered on the white fox, regal and still beneath the trees. Something unspoken passed between them. Perhaps it was the bond shared by all women who bore ancient wisdom in a world ruled by men and swords. Or perhaps it was just the silent understanding of beauty and power wrapped in grace.

The red fox trilled, high and foxlike, then leapt onto a low stone wall and pranced across it like a ribbon in the wind. Her aunt sighed—yes, sighed—and followed.

“Should I prepare more apologies to the kitchen staff?” Elrond asked dryly.

Gandalf laughed.

Chapter Text

The thundering of hooves shattered the quietude of Rivendell’s eastern paths.

“Frodo!” Sam’s voice cracked as he sprinted ahead, leaves and pebbles scattering in his wake. Merry and Pippin were not far behind, their breaths ragged, eyes wide with fear.

The white horse galloped through the mist, her silver mane flying like silk. Arwen rode bareback, her arms around the slumped figure of Frodo Baggins. His face was pale as death, lips parted and blue, sweat glistening at his brow.

“Elrohir!” she called ahead. “Bring our father—now!”

From the high steps of Rivendell, Lord Elrond appeared at once, as if summoned by more than her voice. Beside him stood Gandalf, and flanking them in the twilight were two robed women—neither elf nor mortal.

One had the bearing of a queen and hair like raven silk, her gown a vision of moonlight and starlight woven together. The other, younger and radiant, wore robes tinged with the hues of dawn, her eyes wide with both awe and glee.

The hobbits skidded to a stop as Arwen dismounted, lifting Frodo carefully into her father’s arms.

“Elbereth,” Elrond whispered, feeling the cold in the halfling’s skin. “The Morgul blade.”

Frodo moaned weakly.

The woman beside him stepped forward. Her presence was both grounding and otherworldly. With a flick of her wrist, delicate symbols shimmered into existence—sigils of old, drawn in air and light.

“Allow me,” said Bai Qian, her voice low and elegant, every syllable refined by centuries. “I have studied poison and shadow curses. With your guidance, Lord Elrond, I may ease the venom’s hold.”

Elrond gave a single nod. “Come. There is little time.”

As they moved toward the healing chamber, Sam stepped forward, but a gentle hand touched his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” said the younger woman—Feng Jiu—smiling brightly. “My aunt is terribly clever, even with things not from our world.” She winked. “And Frodo is braver than he looks.”

Merry nudged Pippin. “Who—who are they?”

Pippin’s eyes were nearly popping. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “But I think I’m in love.”

Feng Jiu heard that. She laughed, hiding it behind a graceful hand.

At that moment, another pair arrived at the foot of the stairs—Aragorn, grim-faced and travel-worn, his eyes locked on Arwen.

She stepped to him quietly. “He’s still with us,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Because of you.”

Feng Jiu lingered at the edge of the stairs, watching with wide eyes as Arwen reached for Aragorn’s hand. She’d read of love like this in mortal stories and seen pieces of it between Bai Qian and Yehua, long ago. But this—this looked gentler, sadder. And terribly beautiful.

“A mortal man,” she murmured to herself, “and an elf maiden.” She sighed dreamily. “It’s like a song.”

Behind her, Gandalf joined Elrond at the doors of the healing hall.

“Strange days,” the wizard murmured. “Where mortals arrive with blades of shadow in their sides…and queens of other realms lend their power to heal them.”

“Strange,” Elrond agreed. “But not unwelcome.”

Inside the hall, Frodo lay still, his skin nearly translucent. Elrond’s hands worked swiftly, while Bai Qian knelt at the opposite side. She whispered in a tongue no elf knew, her fingers tracing ethereal light over the wound. A soft glow seeped into Frodo’s chest, countering the spreading dark that had crept toward his heart.

Elrond gave her a rare, approving glance. “Your magic is refined. Precise.”

“I have lived long,” Bai Qian murmured. “And lost many. I do not intend to add another to that list today.”

Frodo stirred. A shudder passed through him.

Outside, under the stars, the hobbits sat in restless silence. Feng Jiu watched the moon above the trees, then turned her gaze back to the doorway.

“I think,” she said with a smile, “your Frodo will live.”

Sunlight filtered gently through sheer curtains, casting golden ribbons across polished stone and soft linen. The room smelled faintly of herbs, ancient scrolls, and sweet pine from the woods outside. A breeze rustled the ivy just beyond the balcony.

On a large bed carved from pale wood, Frodo stirred. “Where am I?” he said, softly.

“You are in the House of Elrond,” A familiar voice answered. “It is ten o'clock in the morning on October the 24th, if you want to know.”

Frodo winced—then blinked, eyes fluttering open. His heart pounded in confusion for a moment before he realized he wasn’t in the Wild, nor lying beneath a Nazgûl’s blade. Warmth greeted him instead. Clean sheets. A soft pillow. And something small and fuzzy snoring softly at his side.

Frodo turned his head slowly.

A fox lay curled on the blankets beside him—no ordinary fox, though. Her fur was a vivid, silken red, and her body was adorned with nine long tails that rose and fell in rhythm with her breathing. One fluffy paw twitched as she slept.

He blinked. “Am I...dreaming?”

The fox opened one eye. Then, as if in answer, she yawned in a most unladylike fashion, stretched her body in a fluid arc—and leapt lightly off the bed.

“Wh—?” Frodo barely had time to gasp before she landed gracefully on the nearby armchair—where Gandalf the Grey sat, calmly smoking a long-stemmed pipe. “Gandalf!”

The fox daintily circled once on his lap, tails flicking in annoyance, and promptly settled there like she owned the wizard.

Gandalf gave her a long-suffering look. “You again.”

She chuffed softly, eyes gleaming with mischief.

The wizard looked back at Frodo with a warm smile. “Yes, I am here,” he said, drawing on his pipe, “and you're lucky to be here too. A few more hours and you would have been beyond our aid,  but you have some strength in you, my dear hobbit.”

Before Frodo could form more than a dazed smile, the door opened. A soft jingle of beads and trailing silks announced the entrance of Lord Elrond, serene as always.

At his side walked a woman Frodo had not seen before. She was not elf, yet held an ageless grace more profound than even the Lady Galadriel’s in his dreams. Her robes shimmered like moonlight on water, her long dark hair drawn back with silver pins that resembled plum blossoms. Her posture was straight and unshaken, and her gaze—though kind—held centuries behind it.

Frodo found himself speechless.

“My lady,” Elrond said to her with a slight nod. “He is awake.”

Bai Qian stepped forward, her voice soft and low. “Frodo Baggins. You’ve endured much.”

Frodo struggled to sit up, and Gandalf reached over to steady him. “You’re in Rivendell, Frodo. Safe. Thanks to many.”

“And thanks in part to Lady Bai Qian,” Elrond added. “She aided in removing the shadow from your wound. Her healing was...extraordinary.”

Frodo, still gaping a little, glanced between her and the fox in Gandalf’s lap.

“Ah,” Gandalf said dryly. “And that one is her niece.”

The red fox gave a tiny sneeze and rested her chin on his robe, utterly pleased with herself.

Just then, the door burst open behind Elrond.

“FRODO!” cried Sam.

The little gardener rushed in, tears already forming. Merry and Pippin followed, bright-eyed and babbling.

“You’re awake!” Merry shouted.

“I told you he’d wake up,” Pippin grinned, then did a double-take at the fox. “Is that—?”

Frodo couldn’t help laughing, and it turned into a cough. “It’s all right... I’m happy to see you too.”

Sam reached for his hand. “We were that scared, Mr. Frodo. But look at you—already sitting up!”

Frodo nodded, still watching the elegant woman across the room. “I owe more than I can say to you, Lady Bai Qian.”

“You owe nothing,” she said gently. “But perhaps... one day, you may return the favor.”

Gandalf raised a brow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

As the laughter and hugs resumed among the hobbits, Feng Jiu—still in fox form—tilted her head at the tender scene.

Then she leapt down from Gandalf’s lap, gave Frodo a once-over inspection, and padded toward the sunlit balcony.

Her nine tails shimmered in the golden light as she vanished into the gardens beyond, leaving behind the faint scent of plum blossoms... and mischief.

The air was fresh in Rivendell, and the valley's winding paths were bathed in the soft light of evening. A group of travelers approached the Last Homely House, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoing against the stone. The air hummed with anticipation as the fellowship gathered, bringing with them a sense of both foreboding and hope.

First came Boromir, son of Denethor, sitting tall and silent on his steed, his eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of Rivendell. A figure draped in the colors of Gondor, with a presence as commanding as his lineage. His face, weathered by hardship but proud, scanned the serene landscape with a quiet intensity.

Behind him rode Legolas, the elven prince of Mirkwood, moving with effortless grace, his strikingly fair features catching the light of dusk. His presence was effortless, his grace a quiet declaration of his elven nature.

As they approached the gates of Rivendell, the two travelers were greeted by the sights and sounds of the elven realm—where everything seemed touched by beauty, ancient wisdom, and a sense of ageless peace.

Boromir’s eyes narrowed as he observed the strange beauty of the land. It was unlike anything he had seen in Gondor, and yet... there was something unsettling about its perfection. The peaceful beauty of this place was foreign to him, its serenity unsettling in a way that only someone who had seen the ravages of war could understand.

Legolas, however, seemed more at ease. His eyes gleamed with recognition, and he allowed himself a small, appreciative smile at the lush gardens and peaceful harmony that surrounded them.

“Rivendell,” Legolas murmured. “It is good to be here.”

Boromir was silent for a moment, then muttered, “A place of elves... and magic.”

Just then, Feng Jiu, in her fox form, scampered across the courtyard, her nine tails flicking with a playful rhythm. She was inspecting the colorful flowers growing along the stone walls, seemingly oblivious to the grandeur around her. When she saw Legolas, her bright red fur practically shimmering in the fading light, she froze for a moment, and then, with a flash of mischief in her bright eyes, she leaped and landed on the stone beside him, her gaze fixed on the elf prince with innocent curiosity.

The elf’s gaze softened slightly as he knelt down, sensing her playful energy. "A fox, is it?" he murmured with a quiet smile, extending a hand. "And what are these... nine tails?" His tone was a mixture of curiosity and caution, as such creatures were not seen in Middle-earth.

Feng Jiu let out a soft trill of delight as she nuzzled his hand, her red fur a striking contrast against the greenery around her. She was used to the strange looks she often received when appearing in her fox form in other worlds, but the elf’s fascination seemed genuine.

Legolas smiled, his elven instincts recognizing the playful nature of the odd creature before him.

Meanwhile, Bai Qian, who had been walking silently behind, observed the scene raised brow. She didn’t say anything immediately, but her graceful step faltered as she saw her niece engage so openly with the elf. Approaching them, she finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying an edge of gentle reproach.

“Feng Jiu,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Do not be so familiar in your fox form. It is not proper to meet others like this.”

Feng Jiu blinked in surprise, ears flattening slightly as she turned her head to face her aunt. “I was just having a little fun, Gou Gou!” she said, communicating telepathically with her aunt, a playful twinkle in her eyes, though she noticed the serious expression on Bai Qian’s face.

“Change back,” Bai Qian insisted, her tone softening just a touch. “You are a guest here. And these are no ordinary guests.” Her eyes flickered to Boromir and Legolas, though her gaze was softer, more understanding toward them. “You must respect their world.”

Reluctantly, Feng Jiu sighed, and with a flick of her tail, she shifted back into her human form. Her red robes shimmered as she adjusted herself to stand in front of Legolas, now no longer a fox but a striking young woman with long, flowing dark hair. A small, but noticeable red birthmark, the shape almost like a flower petal, laid in the middle of her forehead.

Legolas stood and took a careful step back, regarding her with polite curiosity. “You are... different now, my lady,” he said, his voice measured, though his eyes were keenly observing the transformation. His posture was not unwelcoming, but there was an air of reserve to him. Elves, after all, valued both beauty and mystery, and Feng Jiu was a creature of both in abundance.

Feng Jiu smiled, her playful nature still very much present. “Thank you. I’m Feng Jiu, a princess of Qing Qiu. And you, my handsome elf friend, are Prince Legolas of the Greenwood, yes?”

Legolas, still intrigued, gave a polite bow of his head. “Indeed, I am Legolas of the Greenleaf, son of Thranduil King. But I must admit... I have never seen a fox with nine tails before. It is unlike anything in Middle-earth.” His voice betrayed genuine curiosity, though there was a subtle undertone of wariness.

Bai Qian, sensing her niece’s impish nature might draw out Legolas’s curiosity, stepped in, her tone gentle but firm. “Feng Jiu, you must learn the boundaries of courtesy. You are in a place of great honor.” She turned to Legolas, offering him a more respectful nod. “Forgive her, she’s young and playful, as most of the younglings of our kind are.”

Legolas nodded, still polite but with a certain air of formality that only an elven prince could command. “I do not mind her playfulness. But there is something about you both... that sets you apart. I would like to know more.”

Boromir, watching the exchange with his usual wariness, let out a low grunt. “More curiosity? Is that what we need now?” His voice was rough, his focus still elsewhere, but his eyes flicked over to Legolas and then back to the two mysterious visitors. His patience, already strained, seemed to grow thinner by the second.

Feng Jiu, clearly sensing the tension, raised an eyebrow and grinned mischievously at Boromir. “Oh, I think curiosity is exactly what this place needs. But it’s a different kind of curiosity, isn’t it, my lord Boromir?”

Boromir stared at her but said nothing further, his gaze firmly fixed on the path ahead.

Bai Qian, sensing the rising tension between her niece and Boromir, softened the atmosphere with a quiet sigh. “Forgive her, Captain Boromir. She means no harm. But I suspect we will all find much to learn from each other in the days to come.”

Legolas, now standing in silence, exchanged a look with his fellow elf, Lady Arwen, who had come to greet the newcomers. The two shared a subtle, knowing glance, a silent acknowledgment of the oddity of these new guests, and yet there was something strangely familiar about them—something that resonated deep within.

The chamber was quiet, the only sound the soft flutter of parchment and the distant song of waterfalls beyond the open windows. Aragorn sat in a chair near the long stone table, a leather-bound book open in his hands, the Elvish script flowing like water across the pages. His brows were knit in thought, the firelight casting a warm glow over his weathered features.

Beside him, Bai Qian stood tall and still, a vision in flowing silver and white robes, the fabric embroidered with the ancient motifs of the Heavens. Scrolls lay unfurled before her, their script ancient and worn, written in flowing characters that seemed to carry the weight of Middle-earth’s history, unknown to any living being in this world save for a few.

“You read of the kings who came before you,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. She did not look up from her scroll. “Do you seek to understand them… or to escape their shadow?”

Aragorn looked up from his book, meeting her eyes. “Perhaps both,” he admitted. “It is a long shadow they cast.”

Bai Qian’s expression was calm, but not cold. “You bear their blood. The blade was broken, but not the line.”

Aragorn turned the page slowly. “The blood of kings flows through me, but I have no desire for thrones.”

“No,” Bai Qian said, finally looking up at him, her dark eyes measuring. “But wishing and destiny are rarely aligned. You walk in the footsteps of kings whether you acknowledge them or not.”

He looked at her then, her face calm and timeless. “You know who I am.”

“I know what you are,” she replied gently. “And I see how heavily it weighs on you.” She paused, drinking daintily from a cup. “I’ve listened,” she continued, “to the elves, to the whispers of this place. And I’ve watched.” She stepped closer, just enough that her voice could drop a touch. “You are not easy to miss, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Even hidden in the garb of a ranger, a crown clings to your soul.”

Before he could respond, the tall doors creaked open. Boromir, dressed in the dark, ornate garb of Gondor, strode into the room with the confident bearing of a man used to command. He paused as his grey eyes swept the room, noting the woman beside the ranger. His gaze lingered on Bai Qian only a second longer than courtesy allowed—she was otherworldly, even among elves.

"You are no Elf," he said after a beat, unable to place the divine stillness in her presence.

Bai Qian gave a small incline of her head, inscrutable. “Nor do I claim to be.”

Aragorn rose to his feet, calmly inserting himself into the space between them. “Men of the South are welcome here.”

Boromir nodded once, respectfully. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Gandalf the Grey.”

Boromir seemed to accept that, his tone easing. “Then we are here on a common purpose… friend.”

Aragorn met his gaze but said nothing. The silence hung for a moment, and Boromir, a touch puzzled, turned away.

His eyes landed on the statue of an Elven maiden, her hands cradling a broken blade.

“The Shards of Narsil…” he murmured, stepping closer. He lifted the hilt with reverence. “The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand.” Running a callused finger along the jagged edge, he hissed as it sliced his skin. “Ah!” He looked at the blood with faint wonder. “It’s still sharp.”

Behind him, Aragorn said nothing—but his gaze had darkened.

Boromir turned, meeting the ranger’s stare. “But no more than a broken heirloom.” With a casual motion, he let the blade fall. The metal clattered sharply on the stone floor.

He began to walk away—but a presence moved toward him like the stirring of wind through ancient trees.

Bai Qian reached him in a single step, her expression cool. Without a word, she took his hand in hers. Boromir stiffened in surprise, but before he could object, a faint silver light shimmered across her fingers. The cut vanished beneath its glow.

Boromir blinked. “That is not Elven healing.”

“No,” she replied. “It’s older.”

He studied her again, more carefully now. “What are you?”

“I am the Queen of Qing Qiu,” Bai Qian said softly. “Though perhaps that title means little in this land. You may call me Bai Qian.”

Boromir stared at her a moment longer, caught between wariness and respect. He gave a shallow nod.

Aragorn, still by the sword fragments, quietly bent to retrieve the blade and return it to its resting place.

Boromir didn’t look back as he walked away, but the weight of the encounter lingered in the air.

Bai Qian remained still beside the statue, her gaze falling briefly on Aragorn. “That man carries a different burden than you,” she said. “But pride can be as heavy as prophecy.”

Rivendell’s late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the Hall of Fire, washing the marble floors in gold. Outside, fountains sang and leaves rustled in the wind, but inside all was still—quiet, save for the soft creak of ancient wood as Elrond stepped into the chamber, flanked by Gandalf.

Awaiting them were two figures who did not belong to Middle-earth—and yet, carried the weight of ageless realms within them.

Bai Qian stood near the hearth, her robes shimmering faintly in the light. Regal without effort, her bearing was that of one long accustomed to courts and thrones. Feng Jiu, seated cross-legged on a carved bench, was in her human form but unmistakably youthful by comparison. She nibbled a honey cake she had pilfered from the kitchens, bright eyes flicking toward the approaching figures with curiosity.

“Lord Elrond. Mithrandir,” Bai Qian greeted, bowing her head. She had grown fond of the name the elves had used to address the wizard. “You asked for us.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled behind his brows. “Indeed we did. And thank you for answering. We have... questions.”

Feng Jiu swallowed her bite and hopped to her feet, brushing crumbs off her red sleeves. “Is this about the stables? I only meant to enchant the apples a little. It was funny!”

Elrond allowed a faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “That... will be discussed another time.”

Bai Qian gave her niece a sidelong look that silenced further mischief.

Elrond gestured for them to sit, and the four settled into quiet. The moment held a reverent hush, as though the room itself recognized the power that flowed through its guests.

Gandalf spoke first. “You are not of the world we know. That much is clear. Yet you arrived not by malice, nor with ambition, but with presence. Dignity. And mystery.”

“We would know how you came here,” Elrond added gently, “and what you intend in the days to come.”

Bai Qian regarded them both for a moment before answering. “We hail from realms far beyond the knowing of this world—realms of gods, of immortals, of war and peace alike. A rift tore through the fabric of space and spirit... and we fell through.”

Feng Jiu added brightly, “It was like getting swept up in a windstorm made of silk and stars.”

Bai Qian smiled faintly. “She exaggerates only slightly.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Well, I’ve heard stranger tales—though not many.”

“I have made it my task,” Bai Qian continued, “to learn this world. To understand its peoples, its histories, and this war that darkens your horizon.”

“And will you aid us?” Elrond asked carefully. “When the shadows move again, and the Ring draws evil to it like moths to flame?”

Bai Qian’s expression was unreadable. “I do not make oaths lightly, Lord Elrond. But I have seen the strength in your kind—and the peril you face. I will not stand idle.”

Feng Jiu nodded eagerly. “We’re good at fighting. Very good. And we like your trees.”

Elrond inclined his head, absorbing the answer.

“You are welcome here,” he said finally. “And your wisdom—your presence—may tip the scales in battles yet to come.”

Gandalf added, with a glance at Feng Jiu, “If you can keep her from turning all the fountains into wine.”

“That was one time,” she muttered.

Bai Qian exhaled slowly, though her tone was wry. “We will be... discreet.”

The four shared a rare moment of lightness, though the shadow of what was to come still lingered in the air.

Outside, a horn sounded faintly.

“More guests arrive,” Elrond murmured, rising. “And soon, the Council will begin.”

He looked again to Bai Qian and Feng Jiu—one serene, the other brimming with untamed light.

“And you will have your part to play.”

In the golden morning light of Rivendell, the courtyard beneath the open dome brimmed with stillness and weight. The wind whispered through columns etched with Elvish script. Seated in a half-circle were Men, Elves, Dwarves, a Wizard, and Hobbits—summoned not by chance, but by fate.

At the center of it all, on a high-backed chair carved with ancient sigils, sat Elrond, Lord of Rivendell. To his right stood Gandalf, his eyes keen beneath his weathered brows. And to his left, serene as the moon upon still waters, was Bai Qian—Queen of Qing Qiu.

She was robed in flowing pale silks embroidered with silver starlight. Her dark eyes held the weight of ages, though her face appeared young. To those unfamiliar, she could be mistaken for an elven queen. Yet she radiated something other, as if the wind and moon obeyed her will. As they waited for everyone to gather, she let out a lazy sigh.

Feng Jiu was nowhere to be scene.

The circle had just begun to quiet, murmurs dying down as Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, and the hobbits took their places.

Elrond stood. "Strangers from distant lands, you have been summoned to answer the threat of Mordor," he began, his voice even and measured. "Never before has such a company been gathered in Rivendell—"

Before he could continue, a flash of red fur darted past Gimli’s boots, followed by a small blur of fluttering gold. A red nine-tailed fox chased a butterfly across the marble, tails sweeping in joyful arcs. The gathered company blinked in confusion.

Gandalf gave a low chuckle.

"Ah, Lady Feng Jiu. How wonderful for you to join us," murmured Elrond, eyes lifting heavenward for a beat.

From her seat, Bai Qian sighed quietly, bringing a hand to her face. “Feng Jiu.”

The fox skidded to a halt near Legolas, who had just leaned forward, hand on one knee. He looked down, eyebrows rising slightly in bemusement. The fox sat, blinking up at him, ears twitching.

"Hello again, my lady," Legolas murmured.

In a ripple of light, Feng Jiu appeared in her human form—robes the color of flame and rose blossoms, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, or perhaps just effort. She grinned sheepishly and bowed.

“A thousand pardons, Lord Elrond,” she said sweetly. “The butterfly was very fast.”

Bai Qian turned her head slightly. “Feng Jiu,” she said coolly. Her niece met her gaze. Bai Qian's eyes flicked to the seat beside her. Feng Jiu scurried quickly to sit beside her aunt, muttering under her breath.

Elrond’s lips twitched, but he continued without comment. “Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.” He turned to Frodo. “Bring forth the ring, Frodo.”

Frodo stepped forward, placing the Ring upon the pedestal at the center. Its gold shimmered with an unnatural luster. The weight of it pressed against the minds of those present like a rising storm.

The One Ring lay in the center, humming with quiet malice, its gold surface gleaming as if alive. Frodo sat back, weary and dazed. He closed his eyes and let out a breath as if some enormous weight had left his chest—only for another, deeper burden to settle.

Boromir of Gondor stood. Clad in dark armor, proud and tense, he stepped forward with slow deliberation. His eyes gleamed as they fixed on the Ring. “So this is Isildur’s Bane…” he murmured. His tone changed, becoming urgent. “It is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

A ripple of discomfort passed through the council.

Bai Qian spoke then, her voice quiet but clear, like a bell ringing through mist. “And if you wield poison to slay your foe, what becomes of the hand that grips the vial?”

Boromir turned, startled. The voice was calm, distant—yet it struck like an echo in his chest. His tone edged with suspicion. “And who speaks with such certainty?” His gaze flicked over her garments, the calm in her expression that defied the urgency burning in his own chest. “The lady who claims not to be an elf?”

“She is no elf,” Aragorn said evenly from his place at the edge of the circle. “Nor is she bound to our world. But her wisdom outweighs many here.”

She sat across from him, composed and serene, her pale robes pooled like mist around her feet. The same woman. He remembered the chamber of Narsil’s shards, how he had reached for the blade, how it had nicked his skin—and how she had been there, suddenly, without sound or announcement. Her fingers had brushed his hand. The cut vanished. He hadn’t asked who she was. He hadn’t needed to.

Now, his tone shifted—less forceful, edged with something like caution. “You,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You were in the hall of kings. With the sword.”

Her gaze met his. Steady. Unblinking. Something ancient moved behind her stillness, though her voice remained soft.

“You sought to grasp what was broken.”

Boromir’s brow furrowed. “Not an elf, then. But still a woman nonetheless.” He turned to face Elrond. “And yet we are asked to believe women—and strangers—should sit in council and speak of war?”

Feng Jiu opened her mouth, her expression flaring with indignation, but Bai Qian raised a hand gently.

“Elves, dwarves, men… It seems all of you bleed alike,” she said, cool and aloof. She sat back in her seat, propping an elegant elbow on the arm rest and leaned her face against the back of her hand. “And bleed you will, should you ignore what the Ring truly is.”

Gimli rose abruptly. “You have no right to speak so, Lady or no. Dwarves have fought the darkness before you were born.”

Feng Jiu crossed her arms. “Actually, I’m over thirty-five thousand years old,” she said lightly. “But do go on.”

Several looked at her in astonishment. Gandalf chuckled behind his hand. Elrond leaned slightly toward Bai Qian. “You warned me your niece had little restraint,” he murmured.

“She is young,” Bai Qian replied with a faint sigh. “And occasionally correct.”

Tension hung in the air like smoke. The Ring gleamed from its pedestal, whispering, watching.

“You cannot wield the One Ring,” Aragorn said firmly, stepping forward. “None of us can.”

Boromir turned on him, eyes flashing. “And what would a ranger know of this matter?” he said, scathingly.

Before Aragorn could speak, Legolas stood abruptly. “This is no mere ranger,” he said with pride. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

Boromir blinked. “Aragorn…? This is Isildur’s heir?” His voice was thick with disbelief as his gaze swept over Aragorn, as if trying to reconcile a legend with the man standing before him.

Legolas did not falter. “And heir to the throne of Gondor.”

Frodo looked at Aragorn with wide eyes. Aragorn, uncomfortable under the attention, lifted his hand gently. “Havo dad, Legolas.”

Boromir turned to the elf. “Gondor has no king.” His voice had hardened to granite. He returned to his seat but stared at Aragorn, disdain etched across his face. “Gondor needs no king.”

A pause.

Gandalf rose slightly. “Aragorn is right. We cannot use it.”

Elrond’s voice followed swiftly. “You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed.”

Another pause.

“Then what are we waiting for?” barked Gimli. He stood and raised his axe with a dwarvish cry—and brought it down. The blade struck the Ring with a blinding flash. A screech echoed through the minds of all present—Frodo gasped, clutching his head, eyes wide in pain and panic.

Gimli was thrown back. His axe shattered, the Ring untouched but whispers hissed from it.

Elrond’s face had gone pale. “The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. It was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.”

A heavy silence followed—until Boromir rose once more, full of defiant fire. “One does not simply walk into Mordor.” His voice rang over the courtyard. “Its Black Gate is guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the Great Eye is ever watchful.” He looked around grimly. “It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.”

Legolas leapt to his feet. “Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!”

Gimli growled. “And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?”

Arguments began to break out.

Boromir stepped forward, his voice rising. “And if we fail? What then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!” Gimli roared, drawing steel.

Elves stood in response, eyes flashing. Men rose in turn. Accusations flew. Honor was questioned. The Ring gleamed brighter, as if drinking in the discord. Feng Jiu, startled by the sudden eruption of shouting, shifted uncomfortably. Her fingers curled into the silk of her robes, her wide eyes flitting between raised voices and clashing stares. She shrank slightly beside her aunt.

“Why are they yelling?” she whispered.

But Bai Qian did not move. Still seated, she remained the image of poise.

Boromir noticed her then—still, poised, untouched by the heat of argument. Distant. Cold. Mocking, perhaps? His gaze tightened. What was she, to sit in silence while the rest of them shouted their hearts raw?

Her face was an exquisite mask of calm, but within her, wind churned. Her fingers brushed her sleeve—summoning the object hidden within. The Jade Purity Fan of Kunlun appeared in her hand with a shimmer of light. She stood. In one smooth motion, a flick of her wrist, the fan snapped opened.

And the wind answered.

A great gust burst forth. It howled across the courtyard, scattering parchments and ruffling cloaks, blowing back hair and tempers alike. It silenced every voice, snatching words from lips before they could form. Scrolls fluttered. Voices died. Weapons stilled. The Ring pulsed once, then went quiet.

All turned to her.

Bai Qian stood like a vision carved from moonlight, the fan spread before her, her robes rippling gently around her like water stirred by divinity. She stood tall, the fan still open, her expression composed but regal, the calm center of the storm.

“I have walked through empires broken by pride,” she said, her voice ringing clear. “I have watched gods fall not to blades, but to the clamor of their own ambition. If this is how you mean to face the darkness—by shouting over one another—then you need not wait for Sauron.” Her gaze swept across the council. Men flinched beneath it.

“You’ll destroy yourselves before the Ring even reaches Mordor.”

Silence.

She continued, gently fanning her self. Regal. Poised. Elegant.

“You speak of kings and heirs, blades and vengeance,” she said, her voice distant and cool, ringing through the silence. “Of pride. Of fear. Of who will carry the Ring and who deserves the right.” The fan halted in her hand, as her gaze swept around in the circle. “Yet none of you consider this: the Ring is watching you. Listening. Feeding.”

She let her fan fall closed with a sharp snap.

“You would hand your enemy victory not with swords—but with words.”

Her gaze brushed Boromir, cool as ice water. “Some of you mistake anger for strength. That mistake has slain kings.”

Boromir's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He looked at her with narrowed eyes—not awed, but wary. He saw the power, but he also saw danger. She was too composed. Too elegant. Too other. To him, she seemed almost mocking.

And she, in turn, glanced at him for the briefest moment. Overly emotional, she thought. Too eager to carry a kingdom on his shoulders. But she did not speak her judgment aloud.

She turned slightly. “And some of you,” she added, her voice softening just a touch, “have more courage than the rest combined.” Her eyes fell on Frodo, still silent, still trembling.

The courtyard remained hushed. Then, quietly, Frodo stood.

“I will take it,” he said, voice shaking.

Bai Qian stepped back, placing her fan back into the sleeves of her robes. Her expression eased, and she walked back to her seat beside Elrond.

A heavy silence hung over the courtyard after Frodo spoke. His voice had trembled, but his courage had been clear. “I will take the Ring to Mordor,” he had said, though fear still lingered in his eyes. “Though, I do not know the way.”

It was Gandalf who moved first. The old wizard rose with quiet dignity, walking to Frodo’s side and placing a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins,” he said solemnly, “for as long as it is yours to bear.”

Then came another. Aragorn, who had stood silently through the Council’s discord, now stepped forward. He knelt before the hobbit, his sword at his side, his voice steady as stone. “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”

A faint smile touched Gandalf’s face as he looked toward Elrond, who gave a quiet nod.

From the elven gathering, Legolas strode forward with grace as smooth as falling water. “And you have my bow,” he said simply, his eyes gleaming with the fire of his people.

The next figure came forward with less elegance but no less conviction. Gimli, son of Glóin, stomped to the group, glancing sidelong at Legolas with a grunt. “And my axe,” he growled.

Legolas’s lip curled almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing. Gimli joined the growing circle, arms crossed.

Then, Boromir stepped forward. His expression was conflicted, pride and humility warring in his eyes. He approached Frodo with measured steps and placed a hand over his heart. “You carry the fate of us all, little one,” he said, his tone gentle, “If this is indeed the will of the Council… then Gondor will see it done.”

A stillness followed his words—quiet, but not yet complete.

A sudden rustle of bushes interrupted the solemn moment. Samwise Gamgee stumbled forward, cheeks red, fists clenched. “Mr. Frodo’s not goin’ anywhere without me!”

Feng Jiu giggled, while an amused smile graced Bai Qian’s face.

Elrond’s brow lifted faintly. “No indeed,” he said. “It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret Council… and you are not.”

Before anyone could respond, a pair of voices rang out from behind a stone pillar.

“Oi! We’re coming too!” cried Merry, followed by Pippin.

They bolted across the courtyard and stopped beside Frodo, breathless but determined.

“You’ll have to tie us up in a sack to stop us,” said Merry, chin lifted defiantly.

Pippin added, “Anyway, you’ll need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing.”

Merry shot Pippin a look. “Well, that rules you out, Pip.”

Elrond surveyed the small gathering with a mix of astonishment and reluctant amusement. His eyes scanned the group: elf, dwarf, men, hobbits… and wizard. Gandalf turned then, his gaze shifting to the tall, pale figure who had watched everything in silence, her expression unreadable as a snow-covered peak.

“Lady Bai Qian,” he said with deference, “your wisdom and power are known to those who have studied the older tongues. I would ask that you join us on this journey. Your presence would be… invaluable.”

All eyes turned to her.

Bai Qian did not answer right away. She considered Gandalf first, then Elrond, then each of the pledges gathered around Frodo. Her gaze came last to Boromir, lingering just long enough to suggest challenge—and the memory of tension.

“I offer more than strength,” she replied, looking at the wizard. “But I will not go where I am not wanted.”

Her eyes drifted deliberately to Boromir, the weight of her gaze like frost on steel.

“Well?” she said coolly. “Does anyone object?”

To his credit, Boromir did not flinch. He met her eyes with a short, respectful nod. He inclined his head. “I do not.”

A faint quirk touched the edge of her mouth. Not quite a smile—more the glint of a blade catching sunlight. “Very well,” she said. “I will go.” She turned slightly, and from the edge of the gathering, Feng Jiu perked up, eyes wide. “My niece will accompany us,” she added. “She is young, but she will learn. One day, Qing Qiu will be hers. This journey will carry weight. Danger. Consequence. She must learn these things if she is to one day rule our people.” She extended a hand, graceful and commanding. “Feng Jiu.”

The young celestial bounded forward with barely concealed glee, bowing low. “Yes, Gou Gou?”

“You will join us.”

Feng Jiu’s face lit like dawn. “Yes, Gou Gou!” she chirped—before recovering herself with a quick, awkward attempt at dignity. “I mean… I would be honored.”

A soft snort came from Gimli. Legolas arched a brow. Beside them, Merry and Pippin exchanged awestruck glances.

“She’s a queen,” Merry whispered.

“And the other one’s a princess,” Pippin replied, eyes wide.

“I think I’m in love,” Merry muttered.

“Me too,” Pippin sighed.

Feng Jiu gave them both a cheerful little wave, and they practically melted where they stood.

Elrond looked between them all—the elf, the dwarf, the men of different worlds, the wizard, the celestial women, and now the four halflings—and shook his head in weary disbelief.

“Eleven companions…” he murmured. “So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

“Great!” Pippin beamed. “Where are we going?”

The moon had risen high over Rivendell, casting silver light across the polished stone walkways and whispering trees. Most of the Council had retired, preparing for the days ahead. But Bai Qian stood alone on a terrace near the Hall of Fire, her white robes catching the light as if woven from moonbeams themselves. The Jade Purity Fan tucked away in her sleeves, quiet now—its earlier storm just a memory.

She didn’t turn when she heard the footsteps.

“I thought you might come,” she said, her voice like a breeze—cool, but not unkind.

Boromir stopped a few paces behind her, the weight of silence clinging to his shoulders. “Then you’re wiser than I.”

She turned, finally meeting his gaze. He looked tired—not just from travel or tension, but from carrying something deeper. Guilt, perhaps. Or pride beginning to give way.

“I came to apologize,” he said. “For my words earlier. I was… rash. Dismissive.” He exhaled slowly. “I’ve never seen anyone silence a room like that. Not even my father.”

A flicker of amusement touched her lips. “You’re forgiven. Though if you ever compare me to your father again, I may reconsider.”

That earned a huffed chuckle, low and genuine. “Fair enough.”

Bai Qian tilted her head slightly, studying him the way one might study a soldier who walks into a dragon’s den with a torch. “You carry many burdens.”

Boromir looked out toward the trees. “More than I know how to bear some days. My people… Gondor… it falls to us to hold the line. And yet I came here only to find I am not even worthy of trust.” He paused. “And I made that worse, with you.”

She let the silence stretch before responding. “Do you always assume the worst of others first?”

“Only when I’m afraid,” he admitted quietly.

A breeze stirred the trees behind her. “You hide your fear with anger,” she said gently. “I hide mine with detachment. It is no less a flaw.”

Boromir blinked, caught off guard by her honesty.

She turned back to the moonlight, her face bathed in serenity. “We all carry wounds. Some are merely… older than others.”

He hesitated, then took a small step closer. “Speaking of older…” His voice carried a faint grin now, wary but curious. “Your niece mentioned something at the Council. About her age.”

“She did,” Bai Qian replied, knowing exactly what he was getting at.

“And you’re older than?”

She gave him a sideways glance, brow raised. “Considerably.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “So. That would make you…”

“A little over one hundred and forty thousand years,” she answered calmly, eyes twinkling.

Boromir coughed, choking on nothing in particular. “Right.”

“Does that unsettle you?” she asked, the trace of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“No,” he said—too quickly. Then, “Maybe a little.”

She laughed softly, not unkindly. “Don’t worry. I don’t feel a day over a thousand.”

He shook his head with a grin, clearly overwhelmed but oddly charmed. “You… confound me, Lady Bai Qian.”

“Good,” she said lightly. “You could stand to be confounded now and then.”

Boromir met her gaze again—warily respectful, but softer now. “I hope this… journey… allows me to earn more of your trust. And perhaps learn from you.”

Bai Qian inclined her head with quiet dignity. “And I from you. Strength without wisdom is dangerous. But wisdom without strength can be cowardice. Let us find the balance together.”

He bowed slightly. “Then we begin with peace.”

She returned it. “Peace, son of Gondor.”

They stood in quiet companionship, no longer strangers, as the stars stretched across the sky.

Night had settled over Rivendell, draping the valley in velvet shadows and soft starlight. Elves moved like whispers through the trees, while the distant sound of harpsong floated from the Hall of Fire. But not all was serene.

From behind a carefully trimmed hedge near the guest quarters, Feng Jiu crouched in wait, a glint of mischief in her bright eyes. Her tails—carefully hidden—twitched in anticipation as she watched the path. In her hands she held a small enchantment: a puff of illusionary wind that would ruffle cloaks, tangle hair, and startle the proud.

And her target?

Legolas Greenleaf.

He came into view just as she hoped—silent, graceful, with the moonlight turning his blond hair into spun gold. Exactly on cue, Feng Jiu released the enchantment. A gust of wind swirled down the path, lifting the edges of Legolas’s cloak and thoroughly tossing his meticulously braided hair. A few golden strands whipped into his eyes.

Legolas stopped mid-step.

He turned slowly, his gaze scanning the trees.

Nothing.

Then a soft giggle broke the silence. Feng Jiu tried to stifle it, hand over her mouth, but she was already sliding down the hedge, laughing quietly.

“I knew it,” Legolas said dryly. “Only one creature in all of Imladris would dare.” He stepped lightly off the path and came to stand just beyond her hiding place.

“You've been watching me?” Feng Jiu said, sitting up with mock offense, her head peeking over the hedge. “I'm flattered.”

He arched an elegant brow. “You aren't exactly subtle.”

“I could be,” she said, hopping over the hedge with an impish grin. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Legolas studied her with bemused suspicion. “Do you often harass Elves you’ve only just met?”

“Only the interesting ones,” she said, then narrowed her eyes at his slightly tousled hair. “Actually, I was testing something.”

“Oh?” he said, brushing a lock behind his ear. “Testing what?”

“How vain you are.”

That drew a breath of laughter from him—short, surprised. “And your conclusion?”

Feng Jiu circled him, hands behind her back, smiling like a cat with a canary. “You passed. Barely.”

He chuckled again, then grew more thoughtful. “Your aunt… Bai Qian. She is extraordinary. When she spoke, it was like the wind obeyed her. And the very air held still.”

Feng Jiu’s smile softened. “She’s had millennia to learn that trick. Trained under the God of War himself. Most of her power comes from discipline, control… and heartbreak.”

Legolas nodded slowly, watching her. “Are your abilities similar?”

She twirled a strand of hair thoughtfully. “Some. I’m a fox spirit too, just younger. Much younger. My illusions are stronger than hers, but she’s… she’s like a storm that’s learned to be still. I’m still… lightning looking for a place to strike.”

Legolas tilted his head, watching her with interest. “You speak of age like time no longer holds weight. How old are you, exactly?”

Feng Jiu smirked. “I said I’m younger, not young. Just over thirty-five thousand.”

There was a pause, but rather than shock, Legolas simply nodded—eyes sharp with new understanding.

“That explains much,” he said. “Your strength… and your mischief.”

She laughed. “You’re not surprised.”

“I’ve lived long enough to know that years do not always equal wisdom—or folly,” he said. “But you carry both in equal measure.”

“Aww,” Feng Jiu said with exaggerated sweetness. “Was that a compliment?”

“It was an observation,” he replied, though the faintest smile played on his lips.

“So, how old are you?” she said, grinning.

“Close to three thousand.”

“Ohh? Seems as though you need to respect your elders more,” she said with a teasing laugh.

They stood in quiet for a moment, the stars overhead glittering like frost. Then, with a spark of amusement, Feng Jiu stepped closer and peered at his hair again.

“You know,” she said, voice innocent, “your hair reminds me of someone.”

“Oh?”

She nodded solemnly. “Dijun. Dong Hua. The former Emperor of the Heavens. His hair was silver, not gold, but he wore it long like yours. All noble and broody.”

Legolas tried to hide his confusion behind calm reserve. “This is a compliment?”

“Not sure yet,” she said. “I’m still deciding.”

He exhaled through a faint laugh, not used to being so thoroughly disarmed. “I see I will need to be on my guard around you.”

Feng Jiu beamed. “Good. That means we’re becoming friends.”

He gave her a long, level look. “You’re not what I expected from a fox spirit.”

“Neither are you, from an Elf,” she countered. And with a wink and a shimmer she vanished back into the night, her laughter lingering like bells in the breeze.

Legolas watched the empty path for a long moment, then turned and walked on, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through Rivendell’s archways like misted gold, illuminating the gathered Fellowship as they stood before Elrond. Cloaked in silence and purpose, they formed a line—hobbits and men, dwarf and elf, wizard and fox spirits alike.

“The Ringbearer is setting out on the quest of Mount Doom,” Elrond said, his voice ringing clear in the cold air. “And you who travel with him—no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will.” He paused, eyes sweeping over each face.

Aragorn inclined his head with quiet solemnity, then cast a glance toward Arwen. She stood slightly apart, sorrow etched into the calm grace of her features. Their eyes met, and she lowered her gaze, lips parted in unspoken farewell.

“Farewell,” Elrond continued, his gaze steady. “Hold to your purpose. And may the blessings of Elves”—his eyes fell on Legolas—“and Men”—he looked to Boromir—“and all Free Folk”—a subtle nod to Gimli—“go with you.” He raised his hand in benediction and stepped aside.

“The Fellowship awaits the Ringbearer,” Gandalf intoned beside him.

Frodo hesitated, burdened by the weight of what lay ahead. “Mordor, Gandalf…” he asked, voice small. “…is it left or right?”

Gandalf placed a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder. “Left.”

Frodo stepped forward, passing beneath Rivendell’s arches and into legend. One by one, the others followed: Gandalf, steady and resolute; Gimli, eyes forward beneath his helm; Boromir, solemn and proud; Merry and Pippin, trying to look brave; Legolas, quiet as moonlight on snow; Sam, determined; and Aragorn, who paused at the edge.

He turned to look back at Arwen. They exchanged a final, silent glance. He smiled—soft, sad—and nodded. Arwen bowed her head.

Then he turned and followed.

Trailing them were two other figures not so easily forgotten. Bai Qian, serene in pale robes that shimmered like mist, walked with an ageless calm. Feng Jiu strode at her side, more visibly curious, eyes bright and tails of her pink robes bouncing with her step. Her gaze flicked from tree to tree, sharp ears catching every rustle.

None questioned their place now. Their powers had been witnessed. Their hearts, too.

The company began their march in silence, the Ringbearer leading them with determination beyond his years. Sam followed close behind, ever vigilant. Aragorn walked beside Gandalf, the two deep in quiet discussion. Legolas kept a fluid pace just behind them, his senses tuned to the forest’s murmur. Gimli grumbled now and then about the cold or the route, but his eyes were sharp and alert.

Boromir lingered a few steps behind the group, glancing once over his shoulder at Rivendell. He caught Bai Qian’s gaze as she passed him. She inclined her head ever so slightly, regal and inscrutable.

Then, as they reached the edge of the valley’s trees, Bai Qian spoke softly, “It would be faster for us to travel in our true forms. Less tiring. And… more inconspicuous, if we remain silent.”

Frodo looked up, startled. “True forms?”

Before anyone could ask more, Bai Qian and Feng Jiu stepped forward, walking toward a mossy clearing. The wind stirred, golden light breaking through the trees, and for a breathless moment, everything stilled. In a shimmer of silver and soft pink light, the air around them warped—no flash, no dramatic thunder—just a wave of energy that smelled faintly of plum blossoms. Their forms blurred, like wind bending the reflection on a pond.

Where two women had stood now paced two foxes—one snow-white with a gaze calm as winter moonlight, the other a deep red, tails flaring behind her like silk ribbons caught in flame—both bearing nine tails.

“Are you seeing this?” Sam whispered, eyes wide as saucers. “Mr. Frodo—are you seeing this?”

Gimli made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a cough. “Blasted elves and now fox spirits. Next we’ll be flying.”

Feng Jiu trotted past him, tails deliberately brushing his boots as she passed.

“Oi!” he barked, hopping back. “That was deliberate!”

Legolas tilted his head, fascinated by the transformation, though not wholly surprised. “They are not bound by the ways of our world,” he said softly.

“They are ancient,” Gandalf agreed, watching them with quiet interest. “And not to be underestimated.”

Boromir had frozen, staring at Bai Qian’s form with a mixture of awe and humility. Then, remembering her earlier warning and the power she’d shown, he bowed slightly—even if the fox wasn’t watching. Respect came more easily now.

The twin foxes trotted alongside the Fellowship, silent and fleet-footed, a shimmering contrast to the mortal forms around them. In this form, they would move more swiftly and with less fatigue, their senses sharpened and attuned to every whisper of the land.

“Well,” said Pippin, clapping his hands together. “If we get lost, we can just follow the pretty tails.”

“Pippin,” Merry groaned.

And so, the Fellowship departed from Rivendell, with a Ringbearer, two wizards, two princes, a dwarf, four hobbits, a steward’s son… and two celestial fox spirits.

Night had draped itself across the ancient plains of Hollin. The moon rode high and pale, casting silver shadows between sleeping stones. A fire crackled low in the center of the camp, its warmth drawing the Fellowship into a loose circle. Some sat, others stood on silent watch, but all were listening in some way—to the night, to each other, or to their own thoughts.

Bai Qian sat with quiet poise by the fire, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended with effortless grace. The folds of her celestial blue robe shimmered like riverlight, pooling around her in soft ripples. Her sleeves hung loosely from her wrists, her hands resting still, as if holding the silence between breaths. Firelight danced across her features, casting delicate shadows—her gaze distant, yet untroubled, as though listening to something only she could hear.

Aragorn had settled beside her without a word, his presence calm and grounding. Whatever passed between them was unspoken—an understanding forged not in conversation, but in the shared weight of the road ahead.

A little ways off, Boromir sat with a knife and a half-whittled piece of wood. But the carving had long been forgotten. His gaze kept returning to Bai Qian—not intrusive, but curious, searching. There was something about her quiet that beckoned, something in the way she carried herself—as if she did not quite belong to this world, and yet had claimed a place in it anyway. He didn’t know what to make of her. Only that he wanted to understand what lay behind that stillness… and why it lingered with him long after he looked away.

“You spoke once,” Aragorn said, his voice low, “of a realm beyond this one. Qing Qiu.”

Bai Qian inclined her head slightly. “Yes. It lies outside your stars, hidden from mortal eyes.”

Boromir, seated just beyond the fire’s reach, glanced up from the wood in his hands. “An immortal land…” he said, watching her. “What is it like?”

She was quiet for a breath, her gaze fixed on the flames. “Mist over the mountains,” she answered at last. “Peach blossoms in every season. Time moves slowly there.”

Boromir set the blade aside. “And do you long for it?”

A pause.

“I miss its stillness,” she said. “Its silences. And those I once called mine.” There was something in her voice—light as wind across silk, but not untouched by sorrow.

“Family?” Boromir asked gently.

“Yes.” Her voice softened further. “My father and mother. My brothers. The old phoenix. My teacher. And… Ye Hua.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

Boromir nodded slowly. “Your niece said you’re a queen.”

“I am.”

“And Feng Jiu will be one as well?”

“When she’s ready.”

“She seems to carry your strength,” he said, half-smiling.

Bai Qian’s eyes lifted to him—quiet, unreadable. “She carries her own.”

Aragorn looked between them, then said, “It humbles me, that one who has ruled so long still walks at our side.”

“Even gods learn,” Bai Qian said, her tone unreadable. “The heavens are no teachers of humility.”

Boromir, after a moment, leaned forward. His voice lowered, not in command—but in quiet conviction.

“And yet you stay.”

She met his eyes now.

“I do.”

“Why?” he asked.

Her eyes didn’t waver. But when she spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Because some things,” she said, “are worth choosing. Even twice.”

Feng Jiu was stretched out beside Pippin and Merry, her legs kicked up like a lounging fox. Her pink robes shimmered in the firelight, catching gold and rose in their folds. She tossed a piece of apple into the air and caught it with a grin.

“Ooh!” Pippin exclaimed. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

She chewed, then said brightly, “Climbing trees. If you drop it, someone else eats it.”

Merry raised a brow. “Someone like you?”

She gave an exaggerated gasp. “Are you calling me a thief?”

“Only if you say yes,” he said, grinning.

From nearby, Gimli grunted, arms crossed over his chest. “So your folk climb trees for apples like squirrels?”

Feng Jiu turned lazily toward him, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Only the clever ones.”

“And what does that make you, lass?” Gimli asked, voice rough with amusement.

“Today?” she said, sitting up and flipping her hair. “Royal. Dignified.” She raised her chin haughtily—then immediately flicked a bit of apple peel at Merry, who yelped.

“Oi!”

“I said dignified, not boring,” she replied smugly.

Legolas, who had been silent while polishing his arrows, lifted his head. “You’ve the attention span of a magpie and the mischief of a mountain cat.”

Feng Jiu pointed an accusing finger at him. “And you’ve got the exact same face as Dong Hua Dijun.”

Gimli perked up. “The silver-haired one, aye? The broody one?”

Merry added, “Wasn’t he the one you called the Lord of Something-or-Other?”

“Lord of the Eastern Heaven,” Feng Jiu replied, twirling her apple core. “He’s colder than ice, and twice as smug.” Her eyes narrowed at Legolas. “Same blank face. Same long hair. Though you do smile more. Barely.”

Legolas didn’t blink. “Elves do not brood. We endure.”

She snorted. “Call it whatever you want. You'd get along with him.”

Merry and Pippin burst out laughing, and even Gimli let out a wheezing chuckle. “By Durin’s beard, she’s got you pegged, elf!”

Legolas gave a soft, beleaguered sigh. “Alas. I cannot send her back to her realm.”

Feng Jiu beamed. “You’d miss me.”

Legolas didn’t answer—but his mouth twitched just enough to betray the truth.

From his spot on a rock beyond the firelight, Gandalf puffed on his pipe. Smoke curled skyward like starlight.

“They are bonding,” he murmured.

As the fire burned low, Feng Jiu curled beside Pippin and Merry, chatting idly about fox dens and wild mountain winds. Bai Qian leaned against a stone, letting her eyes close for a moment of rest. And beside her, Boromir stood his watch, silent but no longer tense.

The Fellowship, for all its strange collection of folk, was beginning to settle into something resembling trust.

They trudged through the rugged terrain of the Misty Mountains, the weight of their mission hanging over them like the endless, dark clouds. The air was crisp, and the ancient ruins that dotted the landscape seemed to whisper secrets of a time long past. In the distance, dark specks against the gray sky signaled something amiss.

Gandalf’s voice broke the silence. “We must hold this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us, and there are roads turning east to Mordor.”

Sam, his arms laden with sausages from the fire, ambled over to Frodo, who sat with his eyes fixed on Merry and Pippin, the two hobbits playfully sparring with Boromir. The scene was light, yet the tension of their journey still hung thick in the air.

“Here you go, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, handing him a plate.

Frodo smiled gratefully, taking a sausage. “Thanks, Sam.”

Boromir continued to demonstrate swordplay with Pippin, his heavy sword clashing against the smaller hobbit's as they danced around each other.

“Good! Very good,” he praised, his grin wide. Then, they went another round.

Aragorn leaned against a rock, smoking his pipe, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. “Move your feet,” he called out.

“You look good, Pippin,” Merry offered from the sidelines.

Pippin grinned as he dodged Boromir’s sword, turning to give Merry a thumbs-up. “Thanks!”

Nearby, Gimli sat against a boulder, his axe resting beside him as he watched the sparring with a frown. “If anyone were to ask my opinion—which I know they’re not—I’d say we were taking the long way round.” He looked over at the wizard. “Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome.”

Gandalf’s eyes were narrowed as he considered the Dwarf’s words. “No, Gimli. I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice.”

Legolas stood a little off to the side, his keen elven eyes scanning the horizon. He was still, alert, as his sharp elven senses honed in on the movement in the sky. A grey cloud. Gandalf noticed Legolas’s posture and followed his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Meanwhile, Boromir’s sword slipped in his sparring with Pippin, and he accidentally cut the hobbit’s hand.

“ARGH!” Pippin yelped, clutching his hand in pain.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Boromir hurriedly stepped forward, his voice full of concern.

But Pippin, despite his pain, kicked Boromir in the leg. “Watch where you’re swinging that thing!”

“Get him!” Merry shouted, throwing himself at Boromir.

The hobbits wrestled Boromir to the ground, their antics so lighthearted that even Aragorn chuckled at the sight.

“For the Shire! Hold him down, Merry!” Pippin laughed, struggling to pin the soldier.

Aragorn rose from his seat and moved to pull the hobbits off. “Gentlemen, that’s enough!” he said, but in an instant, Merry and Pippin had grabbed his legs, throwing him backward onto the ground.

The entire group erupted in laughter.

But their playful moment was cut short as Sam, sitting nearby, noticed something. He squinted at the sky where Legolas had been watching, his eyes narrowing. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at a strange, moving dark cloud.

“Nothing,” Gimli replied, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “It’s just a wisp of cloud.”

But Boromir, his trained eyes catching the movement, paused. “It’s moving fast... against the wind.”

Legolas’ eyes widened.“Crebain! From Dunland!” he shouted, his voice sharp with warning.

“Hide! Quickly!”

The Fellowship quickly gathered their belongings, dousing the fire and scrambling to hide behind the rocks and under the brush. They remained still, their hearts racing as the flock of dark, cawing crows swooped overhead, circling like vultures.

Bai Qian and Feng Jiu had moved swiftly, too. Bai Qian, with her centuries of wisdom, had already cast a subtle veil over herself and Feng Jiu, blending their presence into the surroundings. Her power, though immense, was restrained—she knew it was not yet time to reveal their true nature to the Fellowship. This moment called for discretion.

Feng Jiu, ever playful, crouched low beside Bai Qian, her eyes flicking with a nervous energy. The mischievous gleam in her eyes vanished, however, as they heard the crows’ cries above. She, too, understood the gravity of the situation. She glanced up at Bai Qian, who met her gaze with a soft but steady smile. They remained silent, hidden, as the Crebain passed by.

Once the crows had disappeared into the distance, Bai Qian allowed herself a small sigh, her regal composure never faltering. Feng Jiu, unable to contain herself, leaned toward Bai Qian and whispered in her lilting voice, “That was close. They’ll never know we were here, will they, Gou Gou?”

Bai Qian gave her a quiet nod, her voice calm but firm. “No, little fox. Stay close. The path ahead is fraught with danger, but we must continue onward.”

Feng Jiu chuckled softly, her playful spirit momentarily returning as she peered at the others, now emerging from their hiding spots. “I’d say we were pretty good at this whole sneaking thing,” she teased, her gaze lingering on the hobbits, who were already scrambling to their feet.

Bai Qian gave a soft, approving smile but said nothing, her attention focused on the Fellowship as they regrouped. The group had learned to depend on their discretion, but their true power—hidden for now—was ready to emerge when needed.

“Spies of Saruman,” Gandalf muttered, his tone grim. “The passage south is being watched.” He closed his eyes. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras.”

The group looked up at the snow-covered peaks ahead, their next dangerous step now unavoidable.

The wind howled as the Fellowship trudged up the treacherous slopes of Caradhras. The cold was unbearable, and the snowstorm seemed to intensify with every step. Snowflakes whipped around them, sharp and biting. But amidst the chaos of the mountain’s wrath, Bai Qian and Feng Jiu, in their fox forms, moved with an ethereal grace. Their coats, a brilliant blend of white, and red, shimmered against the backdrop of the snow, giving them the appearance of spirits from another world.

In their fox forms, the two women communicated telepathically, their minds linking in a silent dance. Bai Qian’s calm thoughts resonated clearly in Feng Jiu’s mind as they walked side by side, their paws leaving no tracks in the snow, as if they were walking on air. They moved lightly, with the ease of creatures meant to glide across the earth rather than struggle against it.

Bai Qian’s thoughts reached out to Feng Jiu as they walked, The mountain is testing us, but it will not break us. The path ahead is treacherous, but I sense the others are not yet at their limit.

Hmm, Feng Jiu’s voice echoed back in Bai Qian’s mind, Gou Gou, if Saruman thinks he can break us with snow and ice, he’s sorely mistaken. If nothing else, we shall warm their spirits with our beauty.

Bai Qian’s thoughts were steady, but Feng Jiu could sense the brief flicker of amusement that crossed her mind, though her form remained as composed as ever.

The Fellowship trudged forward, boots sinking into the deepening snow. The wind howled like a living thing, its breath sharp and relentless. Feng Jiu moved lightly beside Legolas, her red paws barely disturbing the snow. Her nine tails flicked and shimmered like fire against the white, dancing in the wind with teasing elegance.

Legolas cast a sidelong glance at her. For a moment, the bitter cold faded beneath something far warmer.

"You walk the snow as though it were air," he murmured, voice quiet and even. “Is it always so with you?”

The fox turned her head, golden eyes gleaming. One tail curled upward with playful pride, and she gave a soft chuff through her nose—half scoff, half laugh. She bounded a few steps ahead, graceful and smug, then looked back at him with ears perked and a swish of tails.

A faint curve touched the elf’s mouth, the beginning of a smile he did not let fully bloom. But his eyes lingered a moment longer before returning to the jagged ridge above.

Not far ahead, Bai Qian—her coat white as untouched snow—paced beside Gandalf. Her steps were measured, silent, like drifting cloud. Her tails flowed behind her in perfect balance, her breath unfogged by cold, her coat unruffled by wind. While the others labored through knee-deep drifts, she seemed to glide—not above the storm, but apart from it, untouched and unhurried.

Gandalf’s eyes flicked toward her, pipe gripped tight between gloved fingers. The way the snow swept around her, bending but never breaking her pace, made even the old wizard pause. “The mountain pays you little mind, Lady Bai,” he said, over the wind. “I wonder if it senses your power—or your patience.”

The fox glanced sideways, her silver eyes catching his with something unreadable. She gave a quiet, breathy sound—not quite a bark, not quite a sigh.

Perhaps agreement. Perhaps warning.

Then she turned her head forward again, unconcerned by the gathering fury of the mountain.

Behind them, Aragorn pushed through the snow, cloak heavy with frost. He turned to Gandalf, his voice strained but firm. “They can’t go on,” he said, nodding to the halflings. “Frodo’s barely upright, and Sam’s near frozen. This mountain will bury them if we press on.”

Boromir strode forward, Pippin and Merry cradled in his arms. His tone sharpened with frustration. “We must turn back. This isn’t a storm—it’s sorcery. And no fire of ours can fight it.”

Gandalf leaned on his staff, staring into the churning sky. His voice was low, but certain. “There is no other way. Caradhras is the only pass.”

Boromir’s jaw tensed. “Then it is no pass at all. Even if we escape the snow, Saruman will crush the mountain down upon us.”

A deep groan split the air. The wind fell still for half a breath… and then the world above them cracked. A low groan echoed across the cliffs—deep and dreadful. Then came the roar.

Above them, a shelf of snow cracked with thunderous force.

“GET DOWN!” Aragorn shouted.

But Bai Qian had already moved.

In a pulse of light, her fox form dissolved into rising wisps of silver mist. She landed with quiet grace in her human shape, feet unburdened by the snow, long celestial robes fluttering around her like banners caught in wind. Her stillness cut through the panic—not frozen, but centered, like the eye of a storm. She lifted one hand, elegant and precise, and withdrew from her sleeve the Jade Purity Fan.

It unfurled with a snap. The glow that poured from it was not blinding—but deep, resonant, as though the very world knew its name. Gandalf turned toward her, his brows lifting beneath his hood—not in alarm, but in reverence.

Then she moved. One deliberate sweep of the fan.

The air howled. Wind surged—not from above, but from her. A storm born of ancient power swept upward, meeting the avalanche with ferocity. Snow shattered. Ice splintered. The crushing force descending upon them was torn apart mid-fall—shredded into harmless flurries and carried backward in a spiraling gust.

The gale howled one last time, then vanished. Silence fell like a held breath. Drifts of powder floated gently down. The weight pressing on the Fellowship lifted. They stared—some kneeling, some frozen mid-crouch. Pippin clutched at Boromir’s leg, his face white as the snow. Legolas, even with centuries behind his eyes, blinked in stillness.

Feng Jiu, still in fox form, padded through the soft drifts and brushed her tail against Bai Qian’s robe. A soft huff escaped her—amused, teasing.

Bai Qian exhaled slowly, her voice soft but steady. “It was necessary.”

The fan folded shut with a whisper.

Gandalf stepped forward, his eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. Snowflakes clung to his beard, but he paid them no mind. “You turned Saruman’s wind,” he said, not accusing—marveling. “That was no simple parlor trick.”

“I returned it to its source,” Bai Qian answered, her tone distant, but not cold. “But it was not undone. Only... delayed.”

She glanced skyward.

“He will try again.”

Gandalf nodded gravely. “Yes. He will.”

They returned to the path in silence, but the storm resumed—not as fierce as before, yet still unnatural. Still watchful. Indeed, though the avalanche was broken, the storm howled harder than before—wind and snow renewed with biting rage. It no longer sought to crush them with a single blow. It meant to bleed them slowly.

Boromir’s voice cut through the cold, urgent and furious. “We cannot stay here!” he shouted. Merry and Pippin huddled against him, their faces pale and frightened, cloaks already stiff with frost. “This will be the death of the hobbits!”

Aragorn stepped forward, his face drawn tight beneath the snow. “The mountain defeats us. We must find another way.”

Gandalf stood unmoving, his staff planted deep in the snow. His eyes stared into the storm, as if searching for some answer in the swirling sky. But when he turned, he looked not to Aragorn, nor to Boromir—but to Frodo.

The youngest hobbit blinked under the scrutiny.

“Let the Ringbearer decide,” Gandalf said quietly. "Frodo?"

Frodo’s eyes went wide, caught between disbelief and fear. “Me?” he breathed.

Sam leaned in, lips blue with cold, eyes burning with loyalty. He didn’t speak—but he didn’t pull away either. Merry and Pippin shivered behind him, nodding mutely.

Gandalf repeated gently, “Frodo?”

Frodo looked around him. His friends were freezing. The storm was relentless. Bai Qian’s display of power had bought them time, not safety. His heart pounded with the weight of the decision. Then, with visible effort, Frodo gave a small, solemn nod.

“We will go through the mines,” he said.

Gandalf closed his eyes briefly, as though receiving a burden he had hoped to avoid.

“So be it,” he murmured.

And so the Fellowship turned from the cruel heights of Caradhras and began their descent, following a new, darker road that led beneath the mountain.

Toward the Mines of Moria.

Snow still fell from the grey sky as the Fellowship made their way down from Caradhras. Though Bai Qian had deflected the worst of the avalanche, Saruman’s storm had not yet relented, and the path remained treacherous.

The hobbits trudged slowly, shivering despite the cloaks wrapped tightly around them. Pippin’s teeth chattered, and Merry was pale beneath his scarf. Sam held onto Frodo’s arm, his face tight with worry. At the rear of the company, a flash of light shimmered in the snow.

Feng Jiu, her fox form vanishing in a blur of flame-touched silver, landed softly beside Pippin. Without a word, she knelt in the snow, her sleeves pooling like petals around her, and raised her hands. A warm glow—soft orange edged in flickers of gold—rose between her palms, casting a cocoon of heat around the hobbits.

The snow melted in a circle around her, revealing patches of earth. Color rushed back to Pippin’s cheeks. Merry exhaled with relief.

Frodo blinked. “How… are you doing that?”

She tilted her head. “Let’s just say, it runs in the family.”

From a perch above, Legolas watched her, his gaze piercing but thoughtful. “That is no common fire.”

“No,” she agreed easily, “this one doesn’t burn unless I want it to.” Her eyes gleamed as she added, “Not bad for a ‘strange kind of fox,’ right?”

The faintest trace of a smile curved the elf’s lips.

“What kind of fox are you?” Sam asked, baffled.

“She’s a celestial,” Legolas replied, his voice even. “One of two.”

“Gou Gou would say it’s still unrefined,” Feng Jiu added, tossing a glance toward the front of the line.

“Gou Gou?” Sam repeated, puzzled.

“She means the Lady Bai Qian,” Legolas supplied, catching the name.

Feng Jiu’s expression softened, her voice turning quiet. “She teaches me more than I want to learn most days. But always what I need.”

Farther ahead, Boromir had slowed his steps to fall into place beside Bai Qian, who now walked once more in her human form. Her white robes trailed behind her, delicate embroidery peeking through where the snowflakes hadn’t clung. She moved with the ease of someone to whom the cold meant nothing.

“You shielded us back there,” Boromir said. “With the fan.”

Bai Qian didn’t look at him at first. “You would’ve been buried,” she said simply. “The storm is not your doing. Your white wizard grows bold in his desperation.”

Boromir studied her for a moment. “You are… powerful,” he said. “Even Gandalf defers to you.”

At that, she turned her head slightly, her profile half-lit by the cold light. “You thought me only a peculiar woman who speaks in riddles and hides behind a fan.”

“I still think you speak in riddles,” Boromir said, a corner of his mouth lifting. “But I no longer think you harmless.”

A soft, melodic chuckle escaped her lips. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint.”

They walked together in silence, snow crunching softly beneath their feet. Then, after a moment, Bai Qian said, almost to the air, “But power and strength are not always the same, Boromir.”

He looked at her, surprised. But she was already facing forward again, her expression unreadable in the stormlight.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship stood before a sheer cliff wall draped in shadow, the lake behind them dark and unnervingly still. Its surface, black as obsidian, reflected the moonlight too perfectly—like a mirror held over a restless sleeper. The chill in the air was not the cold of night, but the hush before something ancient stirred.

Gandalf stepped forward, staff raised. A glow lit the tip, pale and clean, casting long shadows across the bare rock. At its touch, silver lines flared to life—curling into elegant Elvish script that shimmered faintly across the surface.

The Fellowship gathered close behind him. The hobbits sagged with exhaustion, their cloaks heavy from days of snow and wind. Merry and Pippin drifted toward the lake’s edge, stones clenched in idle fingers. Aragorn was helping Sam remove the baggage from Bill, the pony.

"The Mines are no place for a pony," Aragorn told Sam, as he removed the last of their items. "Even one so brave as Bill."

Sam gently stroked the pony's forelocks and nose. "Buh-bye, Bill," he said, sadly.

With that, Aragorn removed the pony's halter, the last thing tethering him to the Fellowship. "Go on," he said to Bill, giving him a push. "Go on."

Sam watched, his face etched with sadness and concerned as he watched Bill slowly lumber away and into the darkness.

"Don't worry, Sam," Aragorn said, "He knows the way home."

Feng Jiu lingered back from the group, her arms folded neatly within her sleeves. Her gaze never left the water. “There’s something beneath,” she muttered under her breath, her tone low and sharp. “And it’s not asleep.”

Bai Qian stood just behind her, still as the lake itself. “It waits,” she said, her voice serene but edged with caution. “Watching.”

Feng Jiu shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Should we warn them?”

Bai Qian’s reply was quiet. “No. Not yet.”

Merry skipped a small stone across the surface. It clacked once, twice, then sank. Pippin picked up a rock, intending to join in, when his hand was stopped by Aragorn.

“Do not disturb the water,” he said sharply, his voice like flint. “There are older things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

Pippin muttered a sheepish, “Sorry,” but his eyes stayed on the ripples. They vanished quickly, swallowed by stillness.

Gandalf had begun muttering phrases in different tongues. “Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen…” Each word faded uselessly into the air.

Boromir crossed his arms, exhaling impatiently. “How long are we meant to wait for an open door?”

“As long as it takes,” Aragorn replied quietly, keeping his gaze on the cliffs.

“Riddles in the dark,” Boromir muttered.

Frodo stood near Sam, arms wrapped around himself. “It doesn’t seem to make sense,” he murmured. “If it says ‘speak, friend, and enter,’ then…” His voice trailed off, but Gandalf didn’t respond.

Nearby, Feng Jiu knelt beside the hobbits and called a small orb of fire to her palm. It cast golden light over their cold faces, and they clustered gratefully near it. She didn’t speak, but her warmth drew a rare smile from Sam.

Gandalf paced again, frowning. “I do not have the strength for this tonight…”

“Wait,” Frodo said suddenly. “It’s a riddle! What’s the word ‘friend’ in elvish?”

Gandalf turned slowly, realization dawning in his eyes. “Of course…” He stepped forward and spoke with calm authority to the doors. “Mellon.”

With a deep, echoing groan, the stone parted down the middle. Cold, stagnant air drifted out as the doors of Moria creaked open, revealing the pitch-dark mouth of the mountain.

“Soon, Mister Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves,” Gimli declared with pride. “Roaring fires! Malt beer! Red meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin—and they call it a mine! A mine!”

The moment his words faded, an eerie silence settled.

Boromir stepped forward, eyes narrowed. He knelt near the stone threshold, frowning. “This is no mine,” he muttered grimly. “It’s a tomb.”

A faint ripple touched the lake.

Bai Qian stiffened. In her pale robes, she turned her gaze to the still water behind them. Her fan had not yet appeared—but her posture shifted, poised, alert.

Feng Jiu, beside her, tilted her head, listening. “It’s moving,” she whispered. The others didn’t hear. They were already drifting toward the entrance, blades lowered, shoulders sagging with fatigue.

Then the lake erupted. Water exploded upward as a massive tentacle coiled from the depths, flinging Frodo through the air. He crashed against stone, dazed.

“Frodo!” Sam screamed, bolting forward.

More limbs shot skyward. The Fellowship drew weapons. Aragorn and Boromir charged, blades flashing. Legolas’s arrows flew with deadly precision—but the creature did not stop.

Feng Jiu moved first. In a flicker of foxfire, she leapt forward, flames curling from her palms. They were not of this world—white-hot and edged with blue, like the breath of a star. She hurled them in twin arcs toward the tentacles closing in on the hobbits. The Watcher screamed as celestial fire burned through its flesh.

Bai Qian, already stepping forward, reaching into her sleeves. Her expression remained composed—even elegant—but her dark eyes blazed with purpose.

She withdrew the Jade Purity Fan and snapped it open. With a fluid motion, she swept it wide. Wind—not ordinary air, but one laced with divine cultivation—sliced through the storm of limbs. One tentacle, half-burned, was severed cleanly. The Watcher shrieked in fury, convulsing in the shallows.

“Quick, into the mines!” Gandalf shouted, urgency in every syllable.

Aragorn reached Frodo, hauling him to his feet. Another limb whipped toward them.

Boromir met it with a roar, slashing it aside. “Legolas!” he called to the elf, "Aim for the eye!"

Legolas covered their retreat with arrows, his focus unblinking, while Gimli ushered the hobbits through the door. Bai Qian stepped between the Fellowship and the lake. One last sweep of her fan called forth a slicing gale that battered the creature back, air rippling with spiritual force. Feng Jiu flanked her, hurling a final burst of phoenix fire—less for harm, more for warning. Only when the last of them was inside did Bai Qian and Feng Jiu retreat, robes soaked with mist and power lingering in the air.

Then rock—tons of it—collapsed over the entrance as the cliff face came down, burying the doors and the Watcher’s wrath with it.

They were sealed in darkness.

For a moment, there was only silence—the kind that settled after chaos. Heavy breathing echoed faintly off stone, and the muffled groan of collapsing rock rumbled behind them like a fading heartbeat. Then Gandalf lifted his staff, and a pale, steady light flared into being. It cast long shadows down the stone corridor, revealing the damp sheen on everyone’s skin, the fine dust clinging to their cloaks, the tension still etched in every face. Gandalf turned away from the sealed door and raised his staff higher.

“We now have but one choice,” he said, his voice echoing through the stone. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard, there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world”

Frodo, drenched and shaken, leaned heavily on Sam as he caught his breath. Aragorn moved through the Fellowship with quiet efficiency, eyes sweeping over each of them for wounds. Boromir kept his back to the sealed door, hand on the hilt of his sword—but his gaze shifted to Bai Qian. She stood nearby, her white robes soaked through and clinging to her frame like moonlight trapped in silk. Wet strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and water dripped slowly from her sleeves. But her posture remained composed, her expression unreadable. Her fan was once again tucked away, and though her fingers were still damp, they betrayed no tremble. Boromir stared a moment longer than he meant to. Not in alarm—but something gentler. The same awe he'd felt at the foot of the mountain returned now, tempered by a new understanding: that beneath all that grace, there was iron.

Bai Qian noticed. She gave a small incline of the head—quiet, steady—and he returned it without words.

Feng Jiu was wringing out her sleeves with a visible shiver. “Ugh. Did you see that thing?” she groaned, water dripping from her braid. “It looked like a drowned centipede got into a bar brawl with a squid. And it smelled like someone bottled regret and left it to ferment.”

Gimli snorted. “Aye. And that was before we chopped off its tentacles.”

Bai Qian’s voice came gently from the shadows. “It was unlike the water beasts of our realms. Cruder. As though it had forgotten what it once was.” There was something distant in her tone—not fear, but analysis. As if she were still cataloguing the thing’s nature in her mind.

Legolas had been quiet, his bow still in hand. His keen eyes passed from Bai Qian to Feng Jiu. Neither bore a scratch. Neither had hesitated. They had fought not with panic, but with practiced clarity—and neither seemed shaken by what they had faced. His gaze lingered on Feng Jiu, longer than he meant to. Her hair was a little mussed, her sleeves flecked with soot, but she looked almost annoyingly pleased with herself.

“You are unharmed,” he said in his quiet, lilting way. It was not a question.

Feng Jiu arched an eyebrow, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “Please. I don’t let lake monsters get the best of me. Even when they’re ugly.”

Legolas didn’t respond. But the faintest twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Behind them, the deep halls of Moria waited—dark, vast, and full of echo. Gandalf’s light reached forward into the gloom.

“Come,” he said. “There is a long road ahead. And the dark is watching.”

And so they moved forward, wet and wary—but still whole. The path wound deeper into the mountain, twisting through echoing caverns and beneath low-hanging stone arches. The sound of boots on rock was muted, as if even the walls of Khazad-dûm remembered how to hold their breath. At times the passage opened into vast chambers with vaulted ceilings lost to shadow, where the remnants of ancient Dwarven industry lay undisturbed: shattered ladders, broken carts, rusted chains curled like serpents upon the floor. Abandoned tools clung to walls like the ghosts of labor past. In one such chamber, Gandalf came to a slow halt.

“Hold,” he murmured, raising his staff. Its light flared slightly, casting a cool, pearly sheen across the walls. Feng Jiu, walking beside Legolas again, tilted her head curiously. Bai Qian moved closer to Gandalf, her steps quiet, her expression focused. Thin, silvery-white veins ran like delicate threads through the dark stone. Gandalf reached out and touched one gently, reverently.

“The wealth of Moria,” he said softly, “was not in gold, or jewels... but mithril.”

Gasps of quiet awe rippled through the Fellowship as Gandalf lifted his staff and let its light spill into the abyss below. A great mining shaft yawned beneath them, ringed by distant walkways and scaffolds that clung to its edges like cobwebs. Shafts of mithril shimmered faintly in the walls.

“Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings,” Gandalf continued, his voice tinged with both pride and regret. “A gift from Thorin Oakenshield.”

Gimli let out a breath, eyes wide. “That was a kingly gift.”

Gandalf nodded. “Yes. I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the Shire.”

Frodo turned toward him, wide-eyed with astonishment.

They pressed on, climbing steep, crumbling stairs carved into the rock. The footing was treacherous, and more than once the hobbits stumbled. Pippin slipped suddenly with a yelp.

“Pippin!” Merry caught his arm just in time, steadying him.

Bai Qian, who had been walking nearby, extended a hand briefly to support them, her touch light but sure. She said nothing, only gave a faint nod before continuing.

Eventually, they reached a junction: three tall doorways carved with faded Dwarven runes, each one leading into shadow. Gandalf stopped. He turned in a slow circle, his brow furrowed, staff lowering just slightly. His gaze passed over each doorway in turn, as if expecting memory to rise from the stone itself.

“I have no memory of this place,” he admitted.

The Fellowship exchanged glances, unease creeping into their posture. Gandalf sat down with a weary sigh upon a stone, drawing his pipe from the depths of his robe. With a quiet word and a flick of his fingers, a flame kindled, setting the pipeweed smoldering. Smoke curled through the still air, pale tendrils drifting toward the vaulted dark.

The others found places to rest. Gimli muttered to himself in Khuzdul. Aragorn sat sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The hobbits clustered together, grateful for the moment’s reprieve. Feng Jiu settled cross-legged near a stone pillar, her fingers weaving flickers of warmth between them—small sparks of foxfire, not yet full flame. The glow cast a gentle shimmer, soothing the hobbits who had instinctively drawn closer to her again. She glanced toward Bai Qian, who stood quietly near Gandalf. Her aunt’s poise was unshaken, still as carved jade, her gaze resting ahead—patient, watchful, waiting. The mountain slumbered around them. Time slowed, suspended between crumbled memories and shadowed steps yet to come.

Feng Jiu, however, was not one for stillness. Perched atop a nearby boulder, she eyed Legolas, who stood silent beside a darkened corridor. He could have passed for a statue, unmoving, ageless—save for the faint rise and fall of breath and the subtle flick of his eyes toward every sound in the deep.

Which, of course, made him a tempting target.

With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a wisp of heat—barely more than a shimmer of foxfire. She shaped it into a moth: glowing gold at the edges, delicate, harmless. It flitted upward on invisible threads and landed—precisely—atop the elf’s head. She waited.

Legolas stilled. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and touched his hair. His fingers brushed the warmth, and his eyes narrowed. He turned his head slightly, his voice cool and low. “Do the spirits of your realm often take such liberties with elven hair?”

Feng Jiu blinked, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. “Spirits? Elves? Fires? I see nothing strange here.”

The moth disappeared in a tiny puff of sparks.

Legolas arched a single pale brow. “You jest. But I assure you—my senses do not deceive me.”

“And yet,” she said, reclining back on her elbows with a grin, “you didn’t notice me sneak it up there. Maybe your hair needed the company.”

“You risk waking darker things with such mischief.”

“And you risk turning to stone with how serious you are.” That earned her a sidelong glance—measured, mildly exasperated, but not unkind. Feng Jiu twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’ve been traveling with mortals too long. A jest is not a sin, Prince of the Woodland Realm. Besides, laughter is armor. Lighter than steel, easier to carry.”

Legolas studied her in silence. The soft light from Gandalf’s staff danced in her eyes. Her presence was unlike anything he knew—warm, strange, flickering at the edges of his understanding.

“Your flame is unusual,” he said at last. “It dances, yet does not consume.”

She smiled, not teasing now, but simply sincere. “Then it’s learning restraint. Progress, don’t you think?”

He gave the faintest nod, the corners of his mouth barely moving. “And here I thought it was Elvish for ‘stop setting my head alight.’”

Feng Jiu chuckled, low and foxlike. “Close enough.”

She folded her arms and leaned back against the stone, pleased. And Legolas, though he did not show it, found his gaze lingering just a moment longer.

Boromir paced the edge of the stone chamber, his steps measured, the grip of his hand loose but ready at the hilt of his sword. He scanned the shadows out of habit—but his gaze kept drifting back to Bai Qian. She sat near one of the ancient columns, legs folded beneath her in perfect formality, her posture straight, her eyes closed. The folds of her white robes gathered like still water around her. In the dim light, she looked less like a woman than a carving wrought from moonlight and will.

He came to a stop a few paces away, brow creased. “Are you asleep?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

Her eyes opened. Clear. Unstartled. “No,” she said gently. “Only meditating.”

Boromir let out a quiet exhale, more breath than laugh. “You do that often.”

“It is a method of cultivation,” she replied, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. “To still the mind. Strengthen the spirit. Find balance, even in dark places.”

His mouth quirked, tired. “You’d be the first to manage balance in Moria.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You cannot rest?”

He shook his head, casting a glance toward the roof of stone above them. “Not here. There’s no sky. No air. Feels like the mountain’s sitting on my chest.” There was no self-pity in the way he said it—just the quiet honesty of a man used to bearing weight.

“You are mortal,” she said, her voice thoughtful, not unkind. “You feel the press of the world in ways I do not.”

Boromir looked at her—really looked—and something shifted behind his eyes. “Is that pity?”

“No.” Her gaze held steady. “Merely truth.”

A faint chuckle escaped him. He dropped down beside her—not with her elegance, but with the heavy sigh of a man used to armor and stone floors. He leaned his shoulders against the cold wall, legs stretching out before him.

“Then here’s another truth,” he muttered. “I envy your stillness. You sit there like the mountain couldn’t touch you. If I tried that, I’d cramp in both legs or fall asleep on my sword.”

The corner of her mouth curved, just slightly. “Perhaps your people value action over stillness.”

“We do,” he said, glancing at the worn leather of his bracers. “We fight. We guard. But sometimes... I wonder if we’ve forgotten what peace even looks like.”

She turned to study him then, her voice softer when it came. “Stillness is not peace. Sometimes, it is where the storm waits.”

He met her gaze. There was something in it—familiar and foreign all at once. “And what storm do you carry, Lady Bai Qian?”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. When she did, her voice was low.

“Old ones.”

Their eyes held, and the silence stretched between them—not empty, but full of something unnamed. She was the one to look away first. Her hands returned to her lap, her breath even once more. But her shoulders had eased, and something in her stillness had changed.

Boromir didn’t push her. He only leaned back against the wall, head tipped back toward the stone. He didn’t sleep. But for the first time in days, he rested.

The Fellowship rested in uneasy quiet. Each member was wrapped in their own thoughts, the cold stone air pressing in like an unspoken weight. Shadows curled at the edges of the chamber, and the faint flicker of Gandalf’s staff cast long, wavering shapes across the floor. The wizard sat alone near the three tunnel mouths ahead, puffing at his pipe, brows drawn in thought. Smoke curled lazily around him as his eyes moved from one shadowed archway to the next. From further back, a small voice broke the silence.

“Are we lost?” Pippin asked uncertainly.

“No,” Merry answered, too quickly.

“I think we are.”

“Shh!” hissed Sam. “Gandalf’s thinking!”

A pause.

“Merry!”

“What?”

“I’m hungry,” Pippin mumbled miserably.

Despite the gloom, a few smiles cracked through the group. Even Boromir gave a faint exhale, as if the absurdity grounded them.

Seated apart, Frodo stiffened. His eyes darted to the deep stairwell behind them. Slowly, he stood and climbed toward Gandalf. “There’s something down there,” he said in a hushed voice. “Following us.”

Bai Qian stirred from where she sat near one of the columns. Her eyes opened, keen and still. “I have felt it too,” she said softly. “A presence—slithering along the edge of thought. Hungry.”

Legolas’s gaze did not waver from the dark beyond. “It watches,” he murmured. “Yet flees when we turn our eyes.”

Gandalf did not look away from the shadows. “It’s Gollum,” he said at last.

Frodo froze. “Gollum?”

“He’s been following us for three days,” Gandalf said grimly. “He escaped the dungeons of Barad-dûr.”

“Escaped?” Frodo repeated. “Or was he released?”

The wizard turned to face him fully now. “He was drawn to the Ring. He will never be free of it. He hates and loves the thing—as he hates and loves himself.” Gandalf’s eyes grew distant. “Smeagol was his name, once. Before the Ring found him. Before it consumed him.”

Frodo’s voice was tight. “It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”

“Pity?” Gandalf turned, and his voice grew firmer. “It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo?”

Frodo lowered his gaze, chastened.

“Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment,” Gandalf went on more gently. “Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me Gollum still has a part to play… for good or ill… before this is over.”

Far below, pale fingers curled around the stone like a whisper. Wide eyes glinted in the dark—and then vanished into shadow.

“The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many,” Gandalf said, more to himself now.

From nearby, Bai Qian rose fluidly to her feet. Her gaze lingered on Gandalf, her tone measured. “Your words echo those of my elders,” she said. “Heavy with time… yet impossible to deny. You wield wisdom as a sword, Mithrandir. Quiet—but sharp.”

Gandalf turned to her with a slight incline of his head, the pipe forgotten for the moment. “The sword grows sharper with age, Lady Bai. Though sometimes heavier to bear.”

A thump came from behind them as Feng Jiu flopped dramatically back onto the stone floor, arms stretched over her head. “He talks so much,” she groaned, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear. “And not one person is bleeding. When the lake monster attacked, that was interesting.”

Bai Qian’s eyes cut toward her, dry as bone. “Perhaps if you listened, you wouldn’t find yourself so often bored.”

Feng Jiu blew a raspberry and flicked her wrist, summoning a small flame that danced over her fingers.

Silence fell again—until Frodo, still beside Gandalf, whispered, his voice trembling, “I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.”

Gandalf’s eyes softened, lined with quiet sorrow. “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide.” He looked to the others then, to all of them. “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

A stillness settled over the company. Even the usual clink of armor quieted. Feng Jiu said nothing. But her flame stilled in her palm, flickering low and quiet.

Bai Qian bowed her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Spoken as one who has seen many seasons rise and fall.”

Gandalf gave a faint, knowing smile. “More than I would care to count.”

Then he paused. His brow lifted as he sniffed the air. “Oh!” he said suddenly, brightening. “It’s that way.”

Merry looked up, blinking. “He’s remembered!”

Gandalf turned toward the leftmost passage with a small smile. “No. But the air doesn’t smell so foul down here.” His tone softened with a glimmer of amusement. “If in doubt, Meriadoc… always follow your nose.”

The Fellowship stirred, the moment of levity breaking their stillness. They rose, gathering their packs and weapons. One by one, they followed Gandalf into the tunnel on the left.

Chapter Text

As the narrow path gave way to a massive arch, the air changed. It grew cooler, laced with dust and silence—not the silence of emptiness, but the kind that remembers. Gandalf stepped through the threshold and paused, just within the vast dark.

“Let me risk a little more light,” he murmured. He raised his staff. White brilliance flared, illuminating the cavern before them. The shadows recoiled, revealing towering stone columns stretching from the floor to unseen heights above. They rose like the trunks of ancient trees, their surfaces carved with intricate dwarven runes, each telling stories of kings, triumphs, and the long, slow passage of time.

A city hollowed from the bones of the mountain.

Gandalf’s voice echoed low: “Behold the great realm and dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf.”

The Fellowship stood in silent awe. The light of the staff glinted off silver inlay and fading murals. Even Legolas, whose eyes rarely lingered long in darkened places, gazed upward, subdued. Sam’s voice broke the hush, hushed but wide-eyed.

“There’s an eye-opener… and no mistake.”

The company moved forward slowly, their footfalls muffled on ancient stone. The immensity of the place wrapped around them, humbling even the most seasoned traveler. Bai Qian walked a little behind the group, her pace unhurried, her expression contemplative. She looked up as they passed beneath a massive archway, the light of Gandalf’s staff catching on the silver threads of her robe.

“This,” she murmured, almost to herself, “was carved by mortal hands?”

“It was,” Aragorn replied softly, just behind her.

She glanced at him, not disbelieving, but thoughtful. “In my world, we have palaces carved into floating peaks, halls of jade suspended in clouds… But this… this is different. Heavier. Grieving. The grief lives in the stone.”

Gimli, who had remained quiet until now, turned to her, his voice low and reverent. “Aye. Dwarves built this place with fire and will. Stone remembers, Lady Bai Qian. Even when the voices have gone quiet.”

She inclined her head with solemn grace. “It remembers them well.”

Feng Jiu trailed a hand along the wall as she walked, unusually quiet. Her wide dark eyes took in the vast chamber with wonder, brows furrowed in something like reverence. “They built all of this… under a mountain,” she whispered. “No sky. No wind. Just stone and firelight…”

Legolas walked beside her, eyes sharp and watchful even in the stillness. “It is not the kind of beauty you are used to.”

“No,” she admitted, glancing at him. “It’s beautiful like a deep river. But I wouldn’t want to swim in it for long.”

Bai Qian’s voice was a soft hum beside her. “There is no qi here. No spiritual breath of the world. Only the memory of hands—mortal hands. This place was shaped by will alone. No heaven touched it.”

Feng Jiu looked up at the dark arches above. “Beautiful,” she murmured, “but lonely.”

“Dwarves favor permanence,” Legolas said. “Their art does not shift with wind or season. It endures.”

Feng Jiu let out a quiet whistle. “No wonder your people are so stubborn.”

“I heard that,” Gimli grumbled ahead of them.

She gave a brief grin but quickly quieted again as the group stepped beneath another massive arch, their steps echoing into unseen reaches.

“It was built to last,” Bai Qian said softly. “But even stone cannot defy time forever.”

Boromir, who had been walking just ahead, slowed. He turned slightly, his voice calm but edged with pride. “The dwarves built to outlast time. They delved deep. Few could rival them.”

“There is strength in that,” Bai Qian agreed. Then added, gently, “But pride has its price.”

He didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t disagree either.

As they walked deeper into the great dwarven city, the air grew heavier, the silence more profound. Ruined statues lined the edges of the hall—faces cracked, arms broken, eyes blind to the ages. Shattered lanterns and overturned benches littered the once-proud causeways. The towering columns marched endlessly forward into the dark, solemn as sentinels who had long failed in their watch.

Feng Jiu tilted her head back, gazing up at the shadows clinging to the vaulting heights. “I never thought mortals could build anything like this,” she whispered.

“Middle-earth has its own kind of wonder,” Bai Qian replied softly. “And its own scars.”

They pressed onward. The ceiling seemed to lower as the walls tightened, the weight of the mountain pressing in. The Fellowship entered a smaller hall beyond the vast colonnade—its archway stooped like a back grown old beneath centuries of burden.

Gimli broke away from the group suddenly, his breath catching as he hurried toward the crumbling entrance at the far end. “No…” he muttered under his breath, pushing past the old doors with a force that came from hope rather than strength. The rest of the Fellowship followed after him into a chamber dimly lit by shafts of grey light falling through cracks in the stone above.

Stone slabs filled the room, once sacred, now choked with dust and broken weapons. Skeletons lay slumped in shadowed corners, their armor corroded and axes still clutched in bony fingers. Cobwebs hung from the corners like veils. In the center of the room stood a sarcophagus, and Gimli collapsed against it, falling to his knees. His head bowed against the cold stone.

“No!...No…” he howled.

Gandalf approached solemnly and brushed aside the grime that obscured the carved inscription.

Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.

Gandalf let out a sorrowful sigh. “He is dead, then,” he said softly. “It is as I feared.”

A sorrowful hush fell over them. Bai Qian stood at the far edge of the chamber, her sleeves drawn over folded arms. Her eyes scanned the carnage—not in fear, but in solemn understanding. She had seen death before. But this was the silence of valor turned to dust. Her gaze lingered on one fallen warrior whose axe still gleamed faintly in the light.

“They died fighting,” she said, barely above a whisper. “To the last breath.”

Feng Jiu stayed close, her eyes flicking upward toward the ceiling. She didn’t enter the chamber fully. “Something’s wrong,” she murmured, low enough for only Bai Qian to hear. “It’s too quiet. Like the air is holding its breath.”

“It isn’t just memory that lingers,” Bai Qian replied. “There’s something beneath it. Foul. Hungry. The stone tries to keep it buried, but it writhes all the same.”

At the far side of the room, Legolas turned toward a dark corridor, his hand shifting slightly on his bowstring. He had not heard their words, but he too had sensed something. Aragorn stilled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Gandalf reached down and picked up a decaying leather-bound book that lay beside the tomb. He opened it carefully, the brittle pages crackling. He read aloud in a grim voice:

"We have barred the gates... but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums... drums in the deep."

Boromir stepped back uneasily.

"We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out... They are coming."

He shut the book with a heavy finality.

No one spoke.

Then—

Clatter.

A skeleton perched near the well toppled into the abyss, bones and metal crashing down into the black. Pippin stood above it, frozen, having merely nudged a loose arrow. The sound echoed down, down, impossibly loud in the silence. He grimaced, and went pale.

For a breathless moment, nothing followed. Just silence. Aragorn and Boromir exhaled.

Gandalf turned on him, fury writ across his face. “Fool of a Took!” he barked. He stormed toward Pippin and snatched his staff. “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!”

Pippin looked thoroughly chastened, shrinking beside Merry.

The echoes faded slowly.

Feng Jiu had drawn back from the well, her jaw tight. “I forget how reckless mortals can be,” she muttered under her breath. The warmth that usually danced in her eyes was gone, replaced with unease.

But Bai Qian had turned again toward the corridor beyond the tomb, her posture taut. One hand drifted toward her sleeve, fingers brushing the hilt of her folded fan. “There’s a presence,” she said quietly, her voice a whisper of wind. “It stirs now. Woken by foolishness and drawn by fate.”

Then it came. A sound rolled in from the shadows—low and deep, like a heartbeat echoing through stone. A deep rumble. Like stone exhaling. Like something ancient turning over in sleep.

A distant drumbeat.

Boom.

Then again.

Boom.

Panic crackled in the air like the first spark before a storm.

“Frodo,” Sam said, staring at the sword at Frodo’s side—Sting, glowing cold and blue.

Frodo drew it.

A shriek split the dark—thin and sharp, like knives across glass.

“Orcs,” Legolas muttered, already nocking an arrow.

Boromir dashed for the doors just as two black-feathered arrows shot through the shadows, missing his face by inches and thudding into the door behind him. He slammed the door shut, and Aragorn rushed forward to help him brace it.

“They have a cave troll,” Boromir growled, forcing the heavy bar across the handles.

Legolas moved quickly, tossing extra axes toward them to reinforce the blockade. Gandalf stepped forward, drawing Glamdring with practiced ease. The sword shimmered faintly, glowing blue like Sting. The hobbits, though trembling, followed suit—unsure hands drawing blades.

The tomb trembled with each slam against the wooden doors. The iron hinges strained, the beams groaning in protest under the weight of whatever hurled itself against them. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Gimli grunted and climbed atop Balin’s stone tomb, planting his boots firmly as he hefted his axe. “Let them come!” he bellowed, voice echoing through the chamber. “There’s one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!”

As the Fellowship braced, Bai Qian lingered near the rear—poised, calm. Her eyes flicked upward, sensing movement above. Dozens of figures, perhaps more. Watching.

Feng Jiu came to stand beside her, close enough to mutter, “I hate dwarven tombs. Everything smells like rust and ghosts.”

“This is not a place for the living… or the divine,” Bai Qian replied, her voice cool and clear. “But we will not fall here.”

“You say that now,” Feng Jiu muttered. “So much for staying subtle.”

From behind the doors, the drumming quickened. Screeches came closer. Something immense scraped against the stone. Another slam—and a crack appeared in the door. A gnarled orc hand shoved through a hole in the wood. Legolas loosed an arrow with clinical precision. A shriek rang out as the orc fell back. Aragorn fired as well, striking the next that dared peer through the splintering gap.

Then, the door exploded inward. Wood shattered, and black shapes surged through the opening—grotesque orcs with yellow eyes, snarling and brandishing crude weapons.

The Fellowship met them head-on.

Legolas moved with elven grace, his bow singing. Aragorn cut down the first that breached the threshold. Boromir’s shield clanged against an orc blade as he drove his sword into another. Gimli bellowed atop the tomb, each swing of his axe felling another.

Bai Qian stood still as a statue. Her eyes half-lidded, her sleeves loose. An orc raised its sword at Aragorn from behind—but tripped on a stone that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Aragorn turned and cut it down without missing a beat.

Feng Jiu, off to Legolas’ flank, watched with bored detachment—until an orc drew aim behind him.

Snap.

The bowstring coiled and whipped back. The orc yelped, knocked flat. Legolas turned slightly, catching the unnatural distortion in the air between them. His sharp eyes narrowed.

“Getting slow, aren’t you?” Feng Jiu teased.

“I noticed,” he said coolly, loosing another arrow.

“So did I,” she muttered, flicking her fingers again.

Nearby, Boromir cut down an orc and turned—just as another lunged for his side. Its blade twisted midair, veering wide as if struck by wind. He dispatched it quickly, frowning toward Bai Qian. She stood a short distance away, untouched by the chaos.

Another orc came for her.

Boromir lunged. “Behind me!”

But the creature didn’t reach her. It flew backward—slammed into a pillar by unseen force.

Boromir blinked. He turned his gaze to Bai Qian, his breath heavy. “Are you hurt?”

Her voice was soft. “No.”

His brow furrowed, unsettled by the lack of fear in her gaze—but he turned back to the fray.

Meanwhilw, Feng Jiu skipped a step closer to Legolas, keeping well out of the fray. Another orc charged him from the side. He turned his bow, but the creature suddenly yelped and staggered backward, clutching its leg—tripped by an unseen snag in the ground.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “You’re doing it again,” he muttered without looking at her.

“What?” she asked innocently.

“You’re interfering.”

“I prefer assisting.”

He didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched. She grinned.

“Oh, was that a smile, Prince of Mirkwood?”

“A breath,” he replied flatly.

“Seemed very… appreciative.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“No,” she said, dodging an arrow by inches, “but you needed it.”

A deep, shuddering growl rolled through the ruined chamber like a wave. The orcs paused for a breath—just long enough for Aragorn to glance toward the shattered doorway. A monstrous figure filled the arch. The cave troll lumbered into view, dragging a length of broken chain behind it, its shoulders scraping the stone. It roared, bashing its fists against the wall, dislodging pebbles and dust from the ceiling.

Legolas didn’t hesitate. He loosed an arrow that struck the creature in the chest, but the troll barely flinched. Its attention locked on Sam, who froze for half a heartbeat before diving between the troll’s legs. The massive creature spun, confused, swiping behind itself.

“Pull!” Aragorn shouted as he and Boromir each grabbed a length of the chain still looped around the troll’s neck.

They heaved together. The troll stumbled, bellowing, but found its footing and yanked the chain with one great arm. Boromir, caught off guard, crashed hard against the stone wall with a grunt, his shield clattering to the ground beside him. He groaned, dazed, his sword slipping from his grasp. From the corner of his blurred vision, he saw movement—fast, low, and vicious.

An orc. It charged him, jagged blade raised, a snarl tearing from its throat.

Across the tomb, Bai Qian’s eyes flicked toward him. Her hand moved—a whisper of silk and wind. No words, no grand gesture. Just a shift in the air.

The orc stumbled. Its foot caught on nothing visible, its body twisting mid-lunge as if yanked by an unseen thread. It crashed into a broken pillar with a bark of confusion, disoriented just long enough—

—for Aragorn to be there.

Steel flashed. Aragorn's sword plunged through the orc’s side in a clean, efficient stroke. The creature dropped, lifeless, before it could rise again.

“Boromir,” Aragorn said sharply, reaching down and hauling him up by the arm.

Boromir shook his head to clear it. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his eyes were already scanning the tomb—not for more orcs, but for her.

Bai Qian stood where she had been, untouched, her gaze already elsewhere—as if the incident had meant nothing.

But Boromir knew better. He stared for half a second longer than he should have, chest rising with shallow breath, then turned back to the fray.

The troll, enraged, slammed its club into Balin’s tomb, splintering stone. Gimli tumbled to the floor, stunned. Sam, Merry, and Pippin scrambled behind a pillar, eyes wide.

Bai Qian, standing behind the chaos, raised two fingers subtly. An orc’s blade aimed for Legolas was deflected mid-swing, glancing off thin air. Another orc suddenly tripped over nothing, crashing headfirst into a wall. A breeze that shouldn’t have existed flickered past Boromir as another incoming arrow veered slightly, missing him by inches.

Feng Jiu flicked her wrist—three orcs collided like dominos. She smirked at Legolas as he landed in a crouch.

“You’re welcome, again.”

“You’re meddling, again.”

She tilted her head. “Evening the odds.”

This time, Legolas didn’t argue. But he did look at her a moment longer than necessary—then turned, bow raised, as the battle raged on. The troll’s club swept wide again, scattering orcs and sending Gimli skidding. Legolas fired twin arrows into its chest, forcing it back a step. He leapt up onto a platform, eyes locked, drawing another arrow. The troll roared and lunged for him, swinging its chain like a whip. The chain wrapped around a pillar. Legolas seized the chance—he leapt onto the chain, then raced up its length with impossible agility. He vaulted to the troll’s shoulders and fired point-blank into its head. The troll shrieked, flailing, and Legolas launched himself clear just as the chain snapped, leaving the creature with a collar but no restraint.

Sam was now battering an orc with his frying pan, panting hard.

BONK!

“Think I’m getting the hang of this!” he huffed, knocking the creature senseless.

The troll surged forward, spotting its next targets—Merry, Pippin, and Frodo. The cousins scrambled in opposite directions as the club smashed into the floor between them, sending stone chips flying.

“Frodo!” Aragorn shouted across the chaos.

Frodo darted behind a pillar, trying to make himself small. The troll sniffed and rounded the pillar. Frodo shifted around to keep it between them, breath held. He exhaled shakily as the troll’s face disappeared—only for it to appear again on the other side, snarling. Frodo cried out, stumbling backward. The troll grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him like a doll across the stone.

“Aragorn!” he shouted, clutching for a pillar. “Aragorn!”

The ranger was already moving, cutting through two orcs as he rushed toward them. The troll lifted Frodo high, preparing to smash him. Aragorn leapt, driving a thick iron stake into its chest. The creature howled, dropping Frodo. Aragorn landed between them, but the troll swung wildly, hurling him aside. He crashed into the far wall, unmoving.

Frodo crawled to him. “Strider!”

The troll ripped the stake from its chest and roared. It lunged—Frodo ducked, the stake embedding itself in the stone wall behind him. He turned to run, but the creature blocked his path. He stumbled back. The troll struck—driving the stake into Frodo’s chest.

“Frodo!” Gandalf shouted.

Merry and Pippin didn’t hesitate. They screamed and rushed the beast, climbing its back and stabbing furiously with small swords. The troll bellowed in confusion.

“Frodo!” Sam cried.

Gandalf and Boromir fought their way over, eyes locked on the crumpled figure of the hobbit.

Feng Jiu’s playful demeanor vanished. Both hands lifted, her sleeves flaring with a burst of golden light. Any orc that came near Frodo was hurled backward—spun or flung by surges of unseen force. Bai Qian moved like moonlight—gliding through the chaos. Her robes shimmered with silver light, untouched by blade or blood. She knelt beside Frodo, two fingers lifting gently to his brow. A jade-toned glow shimmered to life around them—A barrier, crystalline and calm. A silent sanctuary in the midst of fury.

Bai Qian’s touch hovered over Frodo’s chest. Her gaze deepened with quiet recognition. She felt it: a pulse of ancient magic, slumbering beneath flesh and bone.

“Sleep a little longer,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his damp brow. “They must believe you near death. They must understand what you carry.”

Feng Jiu stood guard, her expression now fierce. She hurled silver light in every direction—her veil of pretense gone. An orc bolted toward her and was launched skyward by a flash of force. “This thing gets uglier every second,” she muttered as the troll staggered their way. She conjured a snare of golden light beneath an orc near Legolas. The creature stumbled, crashing into two others. Legolas looked her way—sharp-eyed, amused.

“You’re cheating again,” he called over the din.

“I’m adapting,” she called back, tails flicking briefly into view. “You’re welcome.”

The troll, enraged, reached for them—But Feng Jiu raised her hands, and a gale of energy blasted it back, shrieking in frustration.

Gimli rose, swinging his axe. The troll knocked him flat again. Gandalf leapt forward, striking with sword and staff. Above them, Legolas drew a final arrow and fired straight into the troll’s open mouth. The arrow disappeared. The troll groaned, stumbled backward.

Pippin clung desperately to its shoulder as it collapsed with a thunderous crash. He was thrown to the floor with a pained grunt.

Silence, heavy and terrible, followed.

Gandalf rushed to Frodo’s side. Aragorn, bruised and bloodied, crawled to him.

“Oh no…” he breathed

Bai Qian stepped back. Her barrier dissolved into shimmering mist. “He is not lost,” she said quietly, without looking back.

Aragorn looked to her—then gently turned Frodo over. The ring bearer gasped, and Sam sagged with relief and ran to him.

“He’s alive!” Sam cried.

Bai Qian offered Frodo a soft smile—fleeting, but full of something ancient and proud.

“I’m alright,” Frodo said weakly. “I’m not hurt.”

“You should be dead,” Aragorn muttered, dazed. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.”

Gandalf’s brow lifted. “There’s more to this hobbit than meets the eye.”

Frodo parted his shirt, revealing the glint of mithril beneath. Sam stared.

Gimli let out a low whistle. “Mithril. You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.”

Shadows danced along the broken hallway, and a rising chorus of shrieks echoed toward them.

“To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm!” Gandalf commanded, his voice cutting through the noise like a sword.

The Fellowship fled.

They sprinted through the shadowed halls of Moria, the sound of their footfalls swallowed by the shrieking tide behind them. Orcs poured from every crevice—clambering down pillars, scuttling across ceilings, leaping from broken ledges like insects erupting from a hive. Torchlight flickered wildly, casting them all in distorted silhouette. Every stride was a race against fear.

Bai Qian ran beside Boromir, her robes billowing like pale fire in the wind. She kept pace easily, eyes darting to him between strides. Blood streaked one cheek. His shoulder was torn.

“You’re injured,” she said, voice calm and level even as the thunder of pursuit drew nearer.

“It’s nothing,” Boromir growled, tightening his grip on his sword. “Keep moving.”

But she didn’t. With a movement so fluid it seemed effortless, Bai Qian caught his arm mid-run. Her fingers brushed lightly across the bloodied tear in his shoulder. A cool pulse of silvery light spread from her touch. The worst of the wound closed instantly, leaving only a clean gash in the fabric.

“Better,” she said, already releasing him.

Boromir stared after her in disbelief—but she was gone, already surging ahead, her robes streaming like storm-born mist.

They burst into a wide causeway—and stopped short.

A vast chasm opened before them, stairs plummeting into the black. Behind them and all around, orcs swarmed like a flood. They dropped from ledges, skittered across the pillars, their weapons clattering in anticipation. The Fellowship turned inward—blades out, backs together, surrounded.

Feng Jiu spun in place, her eyes wide. “There are too many—”

BOOM.

A tremor shook the stone beneath their feet. Far down the hall behind the orcs, a red light ignited—deep, molten, and ancient. The orcs froze mid-charge, snarls fading into choked silence.

Then came the second roar. Low. Titanic. Pure rage made sound.

The orcs screamed. They bolted—falling over one another, scrabbling into holes, leaping off ledges to escape. The tide that had nearly crushed the Fellowship turned to panic in an instant. Even the fiercest of them fled.

Gimli’s teeth flashed in a savage grin. “Now that’s more like it.”

Bai Qian stood completely still, her head slowly turning toward the light. “What is that?” she murmured. Her voice was quiet—but not calm. Her chest rose with a breath that did not settle. Her eyes, unblinking, fixed on the corridor ahead.

A wrongness filled the air. Heavier than the darkness. Older than even she.

Feng Jiu’s face had gone pale. She instinctively drifted closer to Legolas, her voice hushed and uncertain. “I don’t know... but it doesn’t feel like anything from this world.”

Boromir turned to Gandalf, sword still drawn, jaw clenched.

“What is this new devilry?”

Gandalf didn’t answer right away. He stood like granite, his gaze locked on the growing inferno ahead. Fire bled into the shadows. Heat rolled toward them like a beast’s breath. At last, he spoke:

“A Balrog,” he said grimly. “A demon of the ancient world. This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. They raced toward the stairs—Boromir leading—but as he turned a corner, the floor suddenly vanished beneath him. He stumbled at the crumbling edge of the broken stairway.

“Boromir,” Bai Qian said sharply—her voice like a bell cutting through storm. Before he could fall, she raised a hand. Her sleeve whispered in the air as an invisible force pulled him backward. He landed hard on solid stone, breathless. She reached his side in an instant, catching his arm. “Mind your footing,” she said coolly. “I’d rather not fish you out of a bottomless chasm.”

Boromir exhaled, half-winded. “I’ll endeavor to stay upright, my lady.”

Gandalf caught up, his staff clutched tightly. Aragorn’s eyes found him.

“Gandalf—”

“The Bridge is near,” the wizard panted. “Lead them on, Aragorn.”

Aragorn hesitated. Gandalf shoved him forward. “Do as I say! Swords are no more use here.”

They continued down the spiraling steps, only to stop at a sudden gap too wide to cross. Legolas sprang over with the grace of a hawk, landing light. He motioned to the wizard.

“Gandalf!”

The wizard jumped next, landing beside him. Arrows sliced the air—one nearly struck Pippin. Legolas shot down the orc who’d loosed it.

Boromir called, “Merry! Pippin!” He grabbed the hobbits, one under each arm, and leapt the gap. As he landed, he turned—just in time to see a sweep of silver descend beside him.

Bai Qian floated down like a falling blossom, her robes unfurling in the air. She slowed her descent with a faint shimmer of energy, then touched down lightly. Boromir caught her reflexively. For a moment, his hands met no weight at all. “You… don’t weigh anything,” he murmured, baffled.

“Celestials seldom do,” she said, stepping out of his arms as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Meanwhile, Aragorn grabbed Sam and tossed him across into Boromir’s arms. Then he looked at Gimli, who held up a hand..

“Nobody tosses a dwarf!” the Dwarf grumbled, then launched himself into the air with a grunt. He landed, wobbling. Legolas caught him by the beard. “Mind the beard!” he snapped as he staggered upright

Aragorn stayed back, eyes on Frodo. The next step crumbled with a groan. Frodo stumbled—and Aragorn caught him just as the platform gave way.

“Frodo!” Bai Qian called.

They teetered on a fractured column, the void beneath them.

“Hang on,” Aragorn growled, steadying Frodo as the platform rocked like a ship in a gale.

Bai Qian stepped forward—but Feng Jiu held up a hand. “Gou Gou, I’ve got them.” She flicked her fingers, conjuring threads of foxfire—soft and gold, like woven starlight. The stone beneath Aragorn and Frodo shifted subtly, pulled by a gentle but firm tug of divine power. The broken platform edged forward—just enough.

“Now!” Aragorn shouted.

They jumped. Legolas caught Aragorn. Boromir reached and seized Frodo, pulling him to safety. Behind them, the stair collapsed into ruin. Feng Jiu exhaled, drawing her magic back into her palms. Legolas looked at her, astonished.

“You moved the stone,” he said.

“Only a nudge,” she replied, lips curling in satisfaction. “We don’t fold easily in the Nine Heavens.”

As they dashed across the final steps, orc archers emerged above, loosing volleys from ledges and balconies. Arrows whistled in a deadly hail. Legolas and Aragorn shot back with sharp precision, but it wasn’t enough.

Bai Qian halted mid-stride. She looked up—calculating. Her expression shifted, a faint line forming between her brows. “Enough of this,” she murmured. Her hand slipped into her sleeve. When it emerged, it held the Jade Purity Fan of Kunlun. She unfolded it with a crisp flick. The lacquer shimmered with pearlescent green light, soft as moonlight, dense with divine presence.

With a single sweep, she raised the fan and arced it through the air. Wind spiraled upward—not harsh, but immense—a silent tide that gathered and rose in a helix of invisible power. It swept across the ledges, catching the orc archers like fallen leaves. Shrieking, they tumbled from the heights.

The Fellowship paused, stunned.

Legolas lowered his bow. “So it does have bite,” he murmured.

Aragorn’s eyes tracked the last tumbling orc. “Remind me not to anger her.”

Boromir, still beside her, let out a slow breath. He said nothing, but his eyes remained fixed on her for a beat too long.

Bai Qian snapped the fan shut and slipped it back into her sleeve. “Let’s move.”

Feng Jiu fell into step beside her, voice lilting. “You could have used that ages ago.”

“I prefer restraint,” Bai Qian replied. “But restraint has its limits.”

Then—another roar. Not the shriek of an orc. Something deeper. Heavier. As if the mountain itself had drawn breath.

Bai Qian stopped, her spine stiffening. She turned to the glow swelling behind them, her expression hardening. “It’s coming,” she murmured. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And it isn’t from this world.” Not from hers. Not from any realm she had known. Whatever it was… it had awakened. And it was hungry.

They burst into a vast chamber where heat shimmered in waves across cracked marble. Smoke choked the high vaults, and flames licked the pillars, painting white stone in hues of blood and gold. Cracks veined the floor beneath them—deep, jagged, and glowing faintly from within.

“Over the bridge!” Gandalf barked, voice sharp as steel. “Fly!”

The Fellowship ran for the narrow arch of stone that spanned a chasm without bottom. Legolas was first—light as air. Boromir followed, guiding Merry and Pippin ahead as arrows hissed from behind. Feng Jiu hesitated at the edge of the bridge, casting a glance back into the firelit dark.

Something stirred.

It was not the sound of flame. Not the groan of stone. It was coming. A gust of searing wind swept through the hall, carrying embers like fireflies. Then the roar began—low, guttural, ancient. Out of the smoke and ruin stepped a shadow ten times the height of a man, wreathed in flame, its horns jagged like obsidian. Molten wings unfolded into smoke, and its eyes burned like coals. Fire clung to its body like a second skin. The very air recoiled.

Feng Jiu’s hand glowed with celestial magic. “What is that?” she whispered, breath catching.

Bai Qian did not reply. She stepped forward. With a silken whisper, the Jade Purity Fan unfurled in her hand—light gathering at its edge like moonlight on water. Her eyes narrowed.

Boromir glanced back, stunned. “She’s not—”

“She is,” said Aragorn quietly, unable to look away.

But before Bai Qian could raise the fan, a staff struck the stone before her. Gandalf stood in her path, his face grave, eyes fixed on hers.

“No,” he said, not unkindly.

Bai Qian’s gaze was sharp as a drawn blade. “If I face it, I will live.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf answered. “But you are not meant to.”

Feng Jiu moved behind her aunt, voice strained. “Gou Gou, that thing—it's not of this world. But neither are you. You can fight it. You should fight it.”

Bai Qian said nothing, her fan still raised—but unmoving. Gandalf continued, his voice was low, steady. “There are powers in this world that bind more than flesh. That creature is bound to me. To my order. To fate older than time.”

Bai Qian’s fan trembled, but did not fall. “I do not fear death,” she said.

“No,” Gandalf said. “But I do not yet give you to it.”

A pause stretched, deep as the chasm.

Then Bai Qian bowed her head once—graceful, slow, with the reverence of one sovereign meeting another. She stepped aside.

Feng Jiu stared, disbelieving. Her voice was small. “But—”

“We do not steal another’s doom,” Bai Qian said softly.

Gandalf passed them, walking toward the bridge. Flames surged behind him, the Balrog’s roar shaking the very stone. He did not flinch. The others were waiting on the far side. Only Gandalf stood now between them and the fireborn terror. And as he walked, Bai Qian folded her fan in silence.

“You cannot pass!” Gandalf bellowed, his staff planted firm, cloak billowing in the furnace wind.

The Balrog halted—massive, blazing, terrible. Fire licked from its jaws. It drew itself up like a living mountain, wings unfurling in a shroud of smoke. The hall groaned beneath its weight.

Frodo, from the far side, cried out, “Gandalf!”

But the wizard did not flinch. “I am a servant of the Secret Fire,” he declared, his voice rolling like thunder across the abyss. “Wielder of the Flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!”

The Balrog raised its sword—a weapon of living fire—and brought it down upon him. Gandalf’s staff rose in answer—light flashed like a falling star, and the sword of fire shattered with a scream.

“Go back to the Shadow,” he roared.

The beast roared and stepped forward, cracking the stone. It lifted a whip of fire high above its head. Gandalf raised both staff and sword high.

“YOU—SHALL NOT—PASS!”

He drove his staff down. A deep tremor shook the mountain. The center of the bridge cracked—and fell away. The Balrog’s step became a plunge. Its wings flailed, but it fell with a shriek that shook the air and sent waves of heat rippling outward.

Victory—until—

The whip lashed up from the abyss, curling like a living serpent. It caught Gandalf’s ankle.

“No!” Frodo screamed, running forward, but Boromir grabbed him, holding him back with fierce strength.

“Stay back!” he barked, gripping him tightly.

Gandalf dangled at the edge of the shattered bridge, fingers digging into crumbling stone, robes whipping in the blast of heat. Bai Qian stood still—her fan half-lifted, eyes wide, heart pounding in her immortal chest.

Feng Jiu clutched her arm, voice shaking. “Gou Gou—do something—please—!” But Bai Qian did not move. Her fan trembled.

Gandalf’s gaze met hers across the fire-lit chasm. There was no fear in his eyes. Only peace. Will. A knowing older than time. And Bai Qian understood. This was not failure. It was fulfillment. Her lips parted—but no words came.

Gandalf’s voice rang out—deep, final, unwavering.

“Fly, you fools.”

Then he let go. He fell into the abyss, robes fluttering, swallowed by darkness and fire.

“NOOOOO!” Frodo’s scream rang out as Boromir lifted him up in his arms and carried him out.

Feng Jiu reached out, as though she could catch the void itself. Her fingers closed on empty air.

Bai Qian lowered her fan. Slowly. As if folding a prayer. Aragorn stood frozen for a heartbeat, grief etched into his face. Behind them, the mountain shook. Fire crackled. Arrows rained down like judgment.

The Fellowship fled.

Arrows rained down. Stone exploded behind them as they fled. The surviving Fellowship ran through the last corridor, out into the blinding light of day. They burst from the blackness of Moria into the biting daylight. The wind knifed across the plateau, cold and sharp—but none of them felt it. Behind them, the mountain groaned, stone cracking, fire roaring far below where light could never reach. One by one, they collapsed.

Merry and Pippin fell into each other’s arms, their sobs muffled by the fabric of cloaks and trembling shoulders. Sam sank to his knees, blank-eyed, tears cutting paths through the dust on his face. Legolas stood still as marble, his blue eyes wide, unbelieving—his immortal heart resisting the shape of loss.

Gimli let out a cry like a wounded beast and hurled his axe into the ground with a savage grunt. Boromir stepped forward and embraced him, one hand clasping the dwarf’s head, the other anchoring them both. There was no protest from the dwarf. Only grief.

Frodo stood apart—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fists clenched. His tears fell silently.

Aragorn’s sword slid back into its sheath with a grim finality. He surveyed them all—shattered, silent, adrift.

“Legolas,” he said, his voice low and edged with urgency. “Get them up.”

Boromir rounded on him, eyes aflame. “Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!”

But Aragorn shook his head. “By nightfall, the hills will be crawling with orcs. We must reach Lothlórien. Come—Legolas, Gimli, Boromir—get them up.”

He knelt beside Sam and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “On your feet, Sam.” There was no time left for mourning.

Feng Jiu stood on the edge of the slope, her fox eyes reflecting the dark mouth of Moria. Her voice broke the stillness like glass.

“He didn’t have to fall,” she said hoarsely. “You could’ve stopped it.”

Bai Qian said nothing. The scorched scent of fire still clung to her robes. Her hands—so often serene—trembled faintly at her sides. “I know,” she finally said, and that quiet admission held the weight of mountains.

Feng Jiu turned to her, face pale with anger and heartbreak. “Then why didn’t you? You’ve fought worse. You’ve won.”

Bai Qian’s eyes remained on the dark beyond. “Because this world is not ours.”

“That’s never stopped us before!” Feng Jiu snapped. “You didn’t hesitate in Rivendell. Or in the tombs. Why now?”

Bai Qian’s voice stayed soft—but iron lived beneath it. “Because what we can do is not always what we should do.” Feng Jiu’s mouth opened, but Bai Qian cut gently across her. “This realm is layered with laws we do not yet understand. Not mortal. Not divine. Something older. I won’t gamble with fates that aren’t ours to rewrite—not yours, not theirs.” Her voice lowered, sorrow threading through it like winter wind. “I saw what happened when you tried to change fate in a realm we knew.”

Feng Jiu flinched.

“Your cultivation nearly broke,” Bai Qian said gently. “And this world is stranger still. If I had miss-stepped...”

Feng Jiu fell silent.

Behind them, Aragorn called Frodo’s name. Bai Qian turned and walked forward. Frodo didn’t move as she approached. His fists were clenched. His shoulders heaved.

“I should’ve helped him,” he whispered. “I should’ve—done something.”

“You couldn’t have,” Bai Qian murmured.

“He saved us,” Frodo choked. “He saved me.”

Bai Qian knelt beside him. She didn’t speak of courage, or honor, or destiny. She only placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “He did,” she said. “And he knew what it meant. But to honor that gift, Frodo, you must go on.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” she said. “Because he believed you could. And that belief... it was his last gift.”

Frodo turned toward her, eyes red, chest tight.

“Let that belief guide your steps.”

He nodded. Just once.

As Aragorn crested the slope, Bai Qian rose and stepped aside. Frodo followed him—his steps slow, but resolute. Ahead, the golden woods of Lothlórien gleamed beyond the stream. Behind them, the Fellowship followed—shattered, but still walking. And at the rear, Bai Qian and Feng Jiu walked in silence.

One had made peace with sacrifice.

The other could not yet forgive it.

Chapter Text

The forest of Lothlórien loomed ahead, rising like a memory from the mists—its golden canopy glowing with the last light of day. But before the Fellowship reached the eaves of the woods, they paused beneath a quiet outcropping of stone and moss, near the stream where Aragorn had first halted them. Grief lingered like smoke—clinging to breath and bone.

The hobbits sat huddled together, seeking warmth from each other as much as the world. Legolas moved silently at the edge of the trees, scouting the path beyond. Gimli sat apart, head bowed, axe across his knees. Aragorn stood watchful nearby, sword still at his side, though his shoulders sagged with unseen weight. Boromir had withdrawn, sitting upon a flat stone with his back to the group. His sword lay across his lap, fingers tracing the blade’s dull edge—not to sharpen it, but to feel something real beneath his hands. His expression was distant, clenched, like a man bracing against a storm only he could hear.

Bai Qian approached quietly. He didn’t look up—not at first—but her presence was not something easily ignored. At last, he turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet surprise.

“What is it?” he asked. Not unkind. Just… tired.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, her tone even.

Boromir glanced down. A shallow cut beneath his bracer. He hadn’t noticed.

“It’s nothing.”

She tilted her head. “That’s what men say just before the wound festers.”

A faint huff escaped him—half a laugh. “I’ve had worse.”

“I imagine you have,” she said, stepping closer. Then, softly: “Let me see it.”

He hesitated. But the look in her eyes was calm, unreadable, not asking for permission—only offering care. Reluctantly, he extended his arm. She crouched with the quiet grace of a falling petal, her sleeves folding back as she placed two fingers lightly to his skin. A pale glow stirred—not bright, not showy. More like a shimmer beneath clear water. Her qi moved through him like cool wind through leaves, sealing the skin, drawing out the ache. Boromir watched her, quietly.

“You fought,” he said at last. “That fan of yours. The magic.”

“It wasn’t meant to impress,” she said without looking up.

“But it did,” he said. “You stepped forward. You were ready to face that demon.”

She paused, fingers stilling. “Yes. I was.”

“And if Gandalf hadn’t stopped you?”

She met his eyes. “Then I would have fought it.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Boromir looked away, voice low. “You’re not afraid.”

“I’ve lived too long to fear death,” she replied. “But I respect it. That’s different.”

A beat.

“And you?” she asked, her voice like wind brushing a distant bell. “What is it that weighs so heavily on you, son of Gondor?”

He stiffened. “Too many things.”

“That, I can see.”

His jaw clenched. “And what exactly do you see?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “A man carrying a burden too heavy for one life. And a wound beneath the armor—one no blade ever gave.”

Boromir’s eyes flicked away, but something in his face faltered. “Duty doesn’t leave time for wounds.”

“No,” she said softly. “But I do.”

He looked at her again, sharply. Not in anger—but disbelief. The way a man might look at sunlight after years of shadow. “You speak like someone who’s known more than war.”

“I have,” she said. “Love. Grief. Regret. The kind that doesn’t leave when the battle ends.”

They fell into silence. The wind stirred golden leaves overhead. The hush of Lothlórien pressed near. Then, with practiced ease, Bai Qian reached into her sleeve and drew a pale length of silk—finely embroidered, but worn by years of quiet use. She wrapped it around his arm with sure hands, tying it with a flick of her fingers.

“There,” she murmured. “Now you can bleed quietly like the rest of us.”

That startled a laugh from him—quiet, raw, surprised. It startled her too. She rose, but before she could step away, he reached up—catching her wrist gently.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was low. Honest. Not just for the healing.

Bai Qian looked down at him, her gaze unreadable—but something ancient stirred behind it. She saw a man standing at the edge of ruin, still fighting. Not yet fallen. Not yet whole. Trying. And somehow, that mattered.

The woods of Lothlórien whispered with voices older than memory. Golden leaves rustled high above, catching the amber light of the setting sun, and the air was hushed—so still it felt as though the forest itself held its breath. Gimli stepped cautiously, drawing Frodo a little closer as they crossed the stream. His eyes darted among the towering trees, shoulders tense beneath his gear.

“Stay close, young hobbits,” he muttered. “They say a great sorceress lives in these woods—an Elf-witch of terrible power. Those who look upon her fall under her spell… and are never seen again.”

Behind him, Feng Jiu tilted her head with a mischievous glint in her eye. “That sounds romantic.”

Bai Qian cast her a sidelong glance, arching a pale brow. “You would think that.”

“Well!” Gimli huffed, bristling. “Here’s one dwarf she won’t bewitch so easily! I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!”

Feng Jiu’s expression flattened. “Excuse me?”

But before he could bluster further, two arrows shot from the trees—stopping mere inches from his nose. He froze.

“Oh!”

In a blink, the company was surrounded—Elves stepped from shadow and leaf like starlight on water, bows drawn, silent as snow. Their silver mail gleamed faintly beneath the trees. Legolas raised his own bow in answer, but Aragorn quickly stepped forward, hand lifted in peace. From behind the others, a tall Elf emerged—graceful, sharp-eyed, his hair pale as frost. He paused, gaze sweeping over the Fellowship before settling on Gimli with cool disdain.

“The dwarf breathes so loud,” he said, tone dry, “we could have shot him in the dark.”

Gimli growled, but held his tongue as they were led onward through the forest. They climbed the winding stair of a great mallorn tree, far above the forest floor, until they reached a high platform bathed in the last golden light.

The lead Elf turned. “Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion.”

“Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien,” Legolas answered, bowing his head.

Haldir’s sharp gaze moved to Aragorn. “A, Aragorn in Dúnedain, istannen le ammen.”

Aragorn bowed, placing a hand over his chest. “Haldir.”

Gimli huffed. “So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves! Speak words we can also understand!”

Haldir turned, expression barely shifting. “We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days.”

“And do you know what this Dwarf says to that?” Gimli growled. “Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!”

Aragorn’s eyes closed in mild annoyance, and then hand clapped firmly on Gimli’s shoulder. “That, was not so courteous.”

Then Haldir’s attention shifted. His eyes found Feng Jiu and Bai Qian, who stood apart near the rear of the company. Feng Jiu gave a small wave, her pink robes brushing the wind, her dark hair lifting like flame. Bai Qian stood still beside her—serene, silent, as if carved from moonlight and time itself.

Haldir’s composure faltered. His hand tightened slightly on his bow. He glanced at Legolas, as if seeking confirmation that these beings were not illusions.

“Man eneth lín?” he murmured, barely audible..

Legolas stepped beside him, lowering his voice. “They are not of this world. But they are no threat.”

Haldir’s eyes lingered on Bai Qian, wary. He bowed his head ever so slightly. Then his gaze turned to Frodo—and to the Ring that lay hidden beneath the hobbit’s cloak.

“You bring great evil with you,” he said quietly. “You may go no further.”

The company tensed. Aragorn stepped forward, urgency in his voice. “Boe ammen veriad lín. Andelu i ven!”

Haldir replied softly, unmoved, his voice too low to make out what he said.

“Merin le telim,” Aragorn pressed. “Henio, aníron boe ammen i dulu lín!”

Legolas looked over at Frodo, whose shoulders were slumped. Sam glanced at him and quickly looked away. Merry and Pippin exchanged a silent, worried glance. Gimli bowed his head. The moment stretched, heavy with the threat of rejection.

Boromir, who had stood quietly until now, stepped beside Frodo. “Gandalf’s death was not in vain,” he said solemnly. “Nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead.”

His words settled heavily—but it was Bai Qian who moved next. She crossed to Frodo with quiet steps. Her presence seemed to still the very air. She knelt beside him, her voice low and even.

“You carry a lion’s heart in a hobbit’s frame,” she murmured. “But even lions grow weary. Let others share the weight, if only for a while. No road worth walking is walked alone.” Her words had no spell, no enchantment—but they wrapped around Frodo like light at dawn. He looked up at her, eyes glassy, and nodded—small, but sure.

Haldir looked between them. Then he turned toward Aragorn, and after a long moment, gave a shallow nod. “Andelu i ven,” he said at last. “You may enter.” He walked to Frodo, and though his voice was even, there was a shift in it—an echo of something gentler. “You will follow me.”

The city of Caras Galadhon shimmered like a dream half-remembered—its slender bridges and spiraling stairways wrapped around ancient trees whose roots reached back to the birth of time. Lanterns glowed with silver light, casting soft halos through the canopy above. No ash marred the leaves here. No sorrow dared raise its voice.

The Fellowship walked in silence, surrounded by the stillness of Lothlórien. Even Gimli, ever grumbling, held his tongue—though he cast wary glances at each elf that passed. At the rear of the line, Bai Qian moved like a drifting veil of moonlight. Her white robes, tinged with silver thread, whispered with every step. Beside her, Feng Jiu padded lightly along the woven path, her red robes fluttering like flame caught in the breeze.

She leaned toward her aunt and whispered with exaggerated reverence, “Do you think they sing to the trees? Maybe they’re trying to impress us.”

Bai Qian didn’t glance at her. “If they are, they’re failing.”

“They don’t even look at us,” Feng Jiu muttered. “I bet they don’t even know what a Nine-tailed Fox is—”

“Silence is also a form of judgment,” Bai Qian said calmly.

They arrived at last atop the central flet—a wide platform of pale wood suspended in air, encircled by golden boughs. There, waiting in stillness, stood two figures. Celeborn, Lord of the Galadhrim, tall and cool-eyed, his expression unreadable. And beside him, radiant as starlight given form, stood Galadriel. Her light was not of fire or flame, but of something far older—an echo of the Undying Lands, of light before the breaking of the world. When she looked upon them, it was not merely sight, but knowing.

A hush fell across the company.

Aragorn bowed low. “Haldir o Lórien speaks rightly. You are high and fair, Lady Galadriel.”

Legolas followed, voice reverent. “You stand before Galadriel of the Noldor. Lady of Light.”

Galadriel said nothing at first. Her gaze passed over each of them like a tide. Frodo flinched as her eyes touched him, though she did not linger. Until she reached the back of the group. There, the light shifted slightly—her expression stilled.

Celeborn tilted his head. “There are strangers among you. Two women not of Men, nor Elf, nor Dwarf.”

Aragorn stepped forward. “They have come from beyond our knowing. Their path crossed ours by fate, not by force. They mean us no harm.”

Feng Jiu stepped forward without hesitation, smiling brightly. “I’m Feng Jiu, of Qing Qiu. And this is my aunt, Bai Qian—Queen of Qing Qiu. We sort of... fell into this world.”

“I did not fall,” Bai Qian corrected coolly. “I walked.”

Galadriel’s head tilted slightly. Her voice, when it came, was soft but resonant. “You are not of Arda. Nor shaped by the Music of the Ainur. The Song did not call you into being.”

Celeborn’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Then what are they?”

Galadriel’s gaze never left the two fox spirits. “They are celestial spirits—beings woven of light and divine cultivation. Fox-formed. From a realm that lies beyond the stars and the circles of this world.”

A ripple passed among the gathered Elves.

Legolas turned, his voice curious. “I have heard fragments of such tales—of shapechangers and star-walkers east of Rhûn. But never have I seen such beings.”

Gimli muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.”

Feng Jiu turned to him, teeth flashing. “You haven’t even seen the tails yet.”

“The what?”

She winked and skipped back to Bai Qian’s side—illusion firmly intact. But Galadriel’s eyes were no longer on them. She had turned to Boromir.

“To the East you go,” she said, her tone deepening. “And a shadow coils in your thoughts. Boromir, son of Denethor… I see what you fear.”

Boromir’s jaw tightened. He turned away—but not before Bai Qian noticed the flicker of pain behind his eyes. Her own expression shifted, barely—but it did. Galadriel’s gaze swept to Frodo.

“You come to the very edge of darkness, Frodo Baggins,” she said. “There are lights that do not reach every heart.”

Frodo bowed his head.

Celeborn stepped forward. “The Enemy knows you are here. Whatever hope you had in secrecy has passed. You may rest, but only briefly. Then you must go.”

The golden boughs of Lothlórien swayed gently above, casting a patchwork of light across the quiet glade. Though the Fellowship had found shelter beneath the mallorn trees, grief lingered like mist clinging to the forest floor.

The hobbits sat in a small cluster upon a moss-soft rise. Merry and Pippin were silent, their eyes unfocused. Sam absently pulled at blades of grass, lips pressed into a line. Frodo sat apart, legs tucked beneath him, staring at the glassy surface of a nearby stream. The water rippled gently—yet his reflection would not settle.

Barefoot, Feng Jiu drifted toward them. The red of her robes stood out like a flame among autumn leaves, but her steps were light, careful, reverent. She didn’t need words to sense the weight of the moment—grief always left an echo, and this one rang through the trees. Without ceremony, she plopped down beside Merry, legs stretched, toes curling into the moss. “Is this what mortals call moping?” she said, brows raised. “Because if so... you're all excellent at it.”

Pippin snorted. It wasn’t a laugh—not quite—but it tried.

Merry gave her a weary side-eye. “You ever lose a wizard?”

She tilted her head. “Lost a few foxes. A sea god. One very charming dragon who owed me a poem and never paid up. Oh—and my cousin almost got trapped in a mortal realm because she fell for a scholar with dimples.” She smiled, softening. “But yes. I’ve lost someone who made the world feel warmer just by being in it.”

The hobbits quieted. Her voice was light, but the weight beneath it needed no explanation.

Feng Jiu leaned back on her elbows, eyes drifting up to the mallorn canopy. “You know what helps?” she asked.

“What?” Sam murmured, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Ridiculous stories,” she said. “Or honey cakes. But mostly the stories.” She wriggled her fingers in mock mysticism. “Like the time I accidentally insulted a sea king and he turned my bathwater into squid ink for a month. You’ve never seen more offended hair.”

Frodo blinked—and laughed. Just once. Small, but real.

She grinned, tilting her head toward him. “Better. You’re too small to carry that much sadness.”

The laughter faded gently into quiet. A familiar hush settled around them—one that felt old and sacred. Above, faint singing drifted down like falling petals. Legolas appeared on the glade’s edge, his fair face somber, eyes shadowed with memory. He did not speak at first. Instead, he tilted his head to the distant melody.

Pippin’s voice broke the silence. “What are they singing?”

Legolas’s answer was low. “They sing of Mithrandir. Of Gandalf the Grey. A lament in the tongue of the Galadhrim.” He hesitated. “I cannot translate it. The grief is too close.”

The melody hung in the air—strange and sorrowful, like starlight weeping. It spoke of light extinguished, of fire fading into memory. Frodo’s shoulders trembled. His hand, clenched in his lap, loosened slightly. And Feng Jiu, without a word, reached out and rested her fingers over his. Not to hold. Not to heal. Just to remind him: he wasn’t alone.

Later, when they would speak of Lothlórien—the beauty, the silence, the songs—it wouldn’t be the lanterns or the Elven magic the hobbits remembered first. It would be the barefoot woman in pink, who told ridiculous stories about sea kings and dragons. The one who made them laugh through tears. And sat beside them as though she had always belonged.

In the quiet heart of Lothlórien—where the trees held the weight of moonlight and memory—trouble stirred. Not from orcs. Nor fell beasts. But from a fox. A very small, very radiant, and very mischievous fox. She perched atop a carved stone balustrade overlooking one of the winding tree-walks below. Her fur was the color of autumn fire, her nine silken tails curling in gentle waves like dancing mist. A red birthmark bloomed like a petal on her brow, and her black-tipped ears twitched with anticipation. She was luminous in the moonlight—unmistakably magical. And unmistakably up to something.

Below, Haldir of Lórien stood in conversation with two fellow Galadhrim. Regal. Impeccable. Stern as carved marble.

Until—

Plop.

A delicate sprinkle of crushed mallorn blossoms drifted from above and settled directly in his shining hair.

One guard cleared his throat—too forcefully. The other blinked with the practiced neutrality of an elf trying not to smile. Haldir went perfectly still. Slowly—slowly—he looked up.

Nothing. Only branches, swaying with dignified innocence. Leaves rustling in quiet conspiracy.

Then—

Fwip!

A single mallorn leaf fluttered downward, twirling just above his outstretched hand—charmed to dance just out of reach. Haldir lifted his arm to catch it...

Plop.

Another shower of petals landed neatly on his shoulder.

A soft giggle echoed from the treetops—like bells caught in the breath of twilight. Musical. Mischievous. Unmistakably fox-like.

The guards tensed.

And then—nothing.

She was gone. A flicker. A glimmer. A breeze. The red fox darted through the canopy like a flame through silk, vanishing into the shadows between golden leaves, tails trailing starlight.

Haldir stared upward for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly and brought a hand to his temple.

“…Strange days,” he muttered. But beneath the polished calm of his voice, something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The Lady of the Golden Wood moved like moonlight on still water—silent, ethereal, and impossibly ancient. Beside her, Bai Qian stood with arms loosely folded, the silver of her sleeves catching the soft starlight. Her gaze rested on the silver basin before them, calm, impassive. But her breath was slower than usual. The air was cool, laced with the sweet drift of mallorn blossoms. All was still.

Galadriel lifted a delicate hand and poured water from her ewer. The ripples shimmered like threads of woven time. “This is the Mirror of Galadriel,” she said, her voice like starlight wrapped in silk. “It shows many things. Some that were, some that are… and some that may yet come to pass.”

Bai Qian’s lips curved faintly—not quite amusement, not quite disdain. “Time is a strange fabric. Stranger still when mortals try to pull its threads.”

Galadriel’s eyes met hers. “Even immortals must reckon with time. If not in length… then in consequence.”

They stood a moment longer in silence, and then Galadriel stepped aside. Bai Qian approached the basin, her expression unreadable. The water rippled. Images bloomed across the surface like ink in glass.

The past.

The golden halls of the Nine Heavens rose before her, their skies painted with eternal dawn. Ye Hua stood at the foot of the Jade Pool, holding her hand as she bled, her veil drifting in the wind. Then Qing Cang's prison. Her trial. Her sacrifice. Her falling tears when she drank the forgetfulness potion. Her son, A-Li, reaching up with small hands. Ye Hua's face in death. Her own in grief.

Bai Qian did not flinch, but her hand had curled into a fist at her side.

The present.

The water shifted again—new winds, new lands.

Rivendell: the white walkways, the wary stares of Elves unused to gods in disguise. Lord Elrond greeting her with courtesy edged in caution. Feng Jiu fidgeting beside her. The Council. Gandalf’s gravelled voice. The Ring gleaming innocently on its pedestal.

Boromir speaking of Gondor—his father’s will, his people’s need. “One does not simply walk into Mordor.”

Then: hills, forests, battles. Her watching from behind the veil of her power. Boromir at the front, unflinching. Throwing himself between the hobbits and harm. His silent anguish, his striving, the burden pressing upon him heavier than his blade.

She saw how he looked at her—only when he thought she wouldn’t notice. And how often, she looked back.

Galadriel’s voice came like a whisper behind her.

“He will try to take the Ring from Frodo.”

Bai Qian did not react outwardly—but her eyes narrowed.

“The darkness in men,” Galadriel continued, “is not always born of malice. Often, it grows from fear. From the desire to protect… to do good, no matter the cost.”

Bai Qian’s voice was quiet. “I’ve seen that before. Ye Hua once bore a burden so vast it nearly broke him. It was duty that nearly destroyed him, not evil.”

Galadriel inclined her head. “The Ring speaks to him already. Its voice is gentle. Persuasive. But false.”

The future.

Boromir stood alone in the woods. His eyes—so often stormy but noble—were twisted now by desperation. He reached for Frodo. Words failed him. His voice was pleading, his will fraying.

"Give it to me! I only ask for the strength to defend my people!"

Frodo vanished. Boromir staggered, breath ragged. His knees buckled beneath him. Shame carved deep into his features.

And then, the battle.

The forest burned with cries and steel. Orcs charged. Merry screamed. Pippin fought against claws with a sword too small.

Boromir—redeemed in death—threw himself into the fray.

One arrow pierced his chest.

Then another.

He gritted his teeth, shielding the hobbits. A third arrow dropped him to his knees. Blood spilled freely. He slumped beneath the trees, eyes barely open as Aragorn reached him too late.

"I would have followed you, my brother... my captain... my king."

The water stilled.

Bai Qian inhaled slowly—but her face was still a mask of porcelain. Only her eyes betrayed the storm behind them.

But the Mirror rippled again.

The battlefield returned—familiar trees, cries of pain, steel and fire and shadow.

But this time she was there. She did not float. She ran. A blur of white and silver, her celestial robes gathered for war, the sword in her hand gleaming like moonlight drawn thin. No fan. No veil. Only purpose. The glow around her was faint—compressed, controlled. Fury wrapped in stillness.

She reached the first Uruk before it could raise its blade. Her sword slid through its chest like a falling star. The second crumpled on her backstroke. The third arrow screamed through the air—fast. But she was faster. With a sharp pivot, she caught it mid-flight on the edge of her blade and cast it aside. Sparks flared, then vanished. She did not fight as a goddess. She fought as someone who had already lost too much.

When she reached Boromir, he was slumped against the roots of a great tree, his surcoat dark with blood. His breath was shallow. His eyes flickered. She dropped to her knees beside him. The vision gave them no voices—only motion, emotion, and unbearable urgency. She reached an arm out and a familiar lamp appeared in her hand. She placed it beside his heart. Light spilled over him—faint, flickering, drawn from her essence.

Then s he drew a dagger-- and turned it on herself. A swift, fluid motion. The blade plunged into her chest—just below the collarbone, angled toward her heart. Not mortal... but devastating.

The surface of the Mirror stilled, showing only Bai Qian’s reflection—composed, lovely, and lined with a silence that cut deeper than speech.

Galadriel stepped closer. “You are not bound to fate, Queen of Qing Qiu. But neither are you exempt from its laws.”

“I came to this world without intention,” Bai Qian said softly. “Yet it shapes me.”

Galadriel’s voice gentled. “He reminds you of the one you lost.”

Bai Qian’s eyes remained on the water. “Not in face. Not in name. But... in conflict. In how he holds too much and speaks too little.”

There was a pause.

Galadriel nodded slowly. “Mortals are not lesser for their brevity. Their hearts blaze brighter because of it. But when they fall... they fall hard.”

“I know,” Bai Qian said. “That is why I remained distant. Why I refused to feel it.”

“But you do,” Galadriel said. “You already do.”

The reflection shifted slightly as Bai Qian’s gaze met her own. She looked the same—cool, eternal. Unshaken. But behind her eyes now shimmered something unspoken. A crack in the stillness. A storm barely held at bay.

“What do you choose?”

Bai Qian did not answer at once. Her eyes lingered on the quieted mirror. Then, “I will not change the course. Not yet. But I will walk beside him. Until the choice is no longer mine to make.”

Galadriel’s smile was faint—melancholy and knowing. “Then you are wiser than many who call themselves gods.” They stood together in the starlight. Two queens. Two immortals. Not untouched.

After a time, Galadriel asked, “And what shapes your heart?”

Bai Qian turned to her. Dark eyes met pale. “Grief,” she said quietly. “And the hope... that it might not come again.”

Galadriel looked at her, ageless and old as sorrow. “Then perhaps,” she said, “you have already chosen.”

And far away, keeping silent watch beyond the edges of elven twilight, Boromir looked up suddenly—his breath catching, his eyes narrowing on the horizon. As if his name had been spoken across stars.

The air in Lothlórien was cool and sweet, threaded with birdsong and the rustle of mallorn leaves. Shafts of silver light filtered through the high canopy, softening the day until it felt like dreamlight more than sun. A marble fountain nestled in the center of a quiet glade, its waters cascading with serene elegance into a crystal basin. Haldir of Lórien stood beside it, arms clasped behind his back, posture impeccable. His eyes swept the golden wood—sharp, silent, and ever vigilant.

At least until she arrived.

Above him, stretched out like a lounging cat along the lowest branch of a mallorn tree, Feng Jiu watched with amusement curling at the edges of her lips. In her human form, she looked almost demure—until you noticed the impish fire flickering in her eyes and the subtle shimmer of illusion magic curling in her palm. She shaped it into a silver mallorn leaf, then a dragonfly, then a tiny raincloud.

“Oh, Haldir,” she drawled. “You’ve been standing there like a sculpture. Don’t your legs ever protest?”

He didn’t look up. “I keep watch, Lady Feng Jiu. Not conversation.”

“Pity. You’re missing out,” she replied, and with a casual flick of her fingers, released the illusion spell. The enchantment spiraled downward, invisible to mortal eyes but laced with mirth. It settled at Haldir’s feet—just a thin sheen of slickness over the stone. Nothing dangerous. Just... inconvenient.

His stance shifted slightly. A faint hitch in his boot. Then—

Slip.

His foot slid an inch to the left. His balance wavered.And then—

splash.

Not from a fall—but from his boot striking the lip of the fountain, sending a beautiful arc of water into the air. Haldir jerked upright, soaked from mid-calf down, and stiff as a blade. One of the nearby birds squawked. From the trees, Feng Jiu let out a delighted trill of laughter, bright enough to echo.

“I swear,” she giggled, legs swinging off the branch, “I didn’t mean for you to look like an angry swan.”

Haldir exhaled sharply through his nose, brushing droplets from his sleeve with measured grace. Then he looked up, expression taut but composed. “Was this an attempt at amusement... or insult?” he asked coolly.

Feng Jiu slid off the branch, landing beside him in a slow, deliberate motion that was far too graceful to be apologetic. “A bit of both,” she said sweetly, adjusting her sleeve. “But mostly to see if the great marchwarden of Lothlórien could be startled.”

He regarded her more closely then, recalibrating something behind his eyes. “You are a strange creature, Lady Feng Jiu.”

“And you’re far too serious for someone who lives in a city made of gold leaves and moonlight,” she countered. Her gaze softened slightly as she looked at the water. “But... you didn’t reach for your blade. Even when startled.”

“I’m not in the habit of harming guests,” Haldir replied. “Especially ones the Lady herself has named friend.”

Feng Jiu studied him for a beat, mischief fading. “Still. You could’ve been cruel. I’ve met warriors who would be.”

“I serve Lothlórien. Not my pride.”

A pause.

“But,” he added dryly, “if you enchant my boots again, I may reconsider.”

She gasped, mock-offended. “Haldir! Was that... humor?”

“I make no promises.”

They stood a moment in companionable silence—just enough stillness to mark a shift. Then Haldir returned to his post, gaze sweeping eastward. Feng Jiu didn’t scamper off this time. She climbed back into the boughs above him—but settled herself quietly. No foxfire. No tricks.

Just company.

By the time Bai Qian stepped silently beneath the golden boughs, the night had deepened. Cool air threaded through the groves, laced with starlight and the faint scent of mallorn blossoms. She bore no torch, made no sound. The weight of the Mirror’s vision clung to her like frost against her ribs, but her expression was composed—serene, unreadable. She neared the resting circle of the Fellowship.

At the edge of the glade, Legolas stood watch, a sentinel wrapped in silver moonlight. His gaze scanned the trees—ever alert—but softened as it fell upon the companions at rest. The Elvish songs of Lothlórien still hummed faintly through the leaves. Gimli snored gently by the fire, cradled in his own beard. Near him, curled like a flame at the center of the hobbits' slumber, lay Feng Jiu in her fox form—nine crimson-tipped tails sprawled luxuriously around Sam and Pippin, who clung to her like the world’s softest blanket. Merry lay snoring with one arm tossed over her tail. Even Frodo had relaxed, one hand resting lightly against her warm fur. Feng Jiu’s ears flicked at the sound of approaching steps. She didn’t open her eyes—but she knew.

Bai Qian stood still, taking in the rare serenity: trust unspoken, grief cradled gently in sleep. In a world teetering toward ruin, this was a pocket of untouched peace. Her gaze lingered. Then, beneath the moon’s silver light, she moved. Her silhouette shimmered—white silk to mist, mist to fur. A wash of foxfire bloomed around her in a quiet breath, and then was gone. In her place stood a white fox, regal and hushed, nine silken tails trailing behind her like frostlit banners. There was no sound. Just presence.

She padded forward, silent as snowfall. Legolas turned toward her slightly, acknowledging her without words. He had grown accustomed to her quiet arrivals, the aura of something far older than time walking gently through starlight.

Bai Qian did not cross into the firelight. She remained just within the border of shadow, her gaze steady—drawn not to the sleepers, but to the two men beneath the tree. There, Aragorn knelt beside Boromir, speaking softly.

“Take some rest,” Aragorn said gently to the Gondor Captain. “These borders are well protected.”

Boromir didn’t look at him. His eyes remained fixed ahead, into the dark beyond the glade. His voice was low when it came—roughened by sorrow. “I will find no rest here,” he murmured. “I heard her voice... inside my head.” A shadow passed through his expression. “She spoke of my father. Of the fall of Gondor. She said to me, ‘Even now, there is hope left.’” He gave a sharp breath, the kind that fought tears. “But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope.”

Aragorn remained quiet. A steadying presence.

Boromir turned to him at last—no arrogance now, only vulnerability. “My father is a noble man... but his rule is failing. And our people…” His voice cracked slightly. “Our people lose faith.” He swallowed. “He looks to me to make things right. And I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.” His hands clenched unconsciously, as if he could grasp that dream if only he held tightly enough.

Then, he looked at Aragorn, eyes alight with memory and longing. “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?” he asked. “The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver? Its banners caught high in the morning breeze?”

His voice turned reverent. A boy remembering a dream. “Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

Aragorn’s answer came after a pause, like the echo of a long-buried truth. “I have seen the White City,” he said. “Long ago.”

Boromir stared at him—truly saw him—and in Aragorn’s voice, he heard the same aching love for their homeland. Hope stirred, tentative but real.

“One day,” Boromir said, “our paths will lead us there. And the Tower Guard will take up the call: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned.’”

He smiled faintly. Aragorn matched it—but his eyes were shadowed. As if he knew that home was still far, far away.

Beneath the mallorn trees, Bai Qian watched. She did not move. Her form lay coiled, white fur glowing faintly in the starlight, tails like slow-breathing silk. But her gaze never left the man who had spoken with such pain and quiet longing. She had seen the weight he carried. She had seen how it might break him. But now, she saw why he carried it.

When Aragorn rose and departed, footsteps lost to the hush of the night, Boromir remained—alone, bowed beneath memory and duty.

And the white fox remained too. Silent. Steady. Bearing witness.

Her paws made no sound on the forest floor as she padded forward, weaving between shafts of moonlight, her delicate form touched by silver and shadow. Her white fur shimmered faintly, and her nine sweeping tails moved like whispered starlight behind her—graceful, never hurried.

Boromir didn’t stir at first. Perhaps he thought her some enchantment born of the elven woods. But when she stepped close and gently nudged his hand with a cold nose, he blinked and looked down—startled, then quieted. A soft, incredulous breath left him.

“You again,” he murmured. His voice was rough with unshed emotion. “Always silent. Always watching.”

His calloused fingers reached out, brushing her fur with tentative reverence—as though she might vanish if he touched too firmly.

“There is something strange about you,” he said, half to himself. “Strange… and comforting.”

The fox made no sound, only settled beside him—close, but never imposing. Her warmth folded into his side like moonlight on snow. Quiet. Steady.

Boromir spoke into the hush. “I used to think strength meant bearing the weight alone,” he said. “Carrying it because no one else should. Or could.” He paused. His eyes flicked to the dark canopy above them, haunted. “But I see now… I’ve spent so long trying to become what Gondor needs that I never stopped to ask what I need.” He hesitated. “What I fear.”

The fox shifted, her ears twitching. A breeze stirred—but not from the forest. It swept around them like breath exhaled from the stars. The light along her white fur shimmered. Her form glowed faintly, and then—

She moved. Not with grandeur, but grace. Her nine tails drew inward and vanished into a soft pulse of mist and light. And then Bai Qian stood before him. She rose from the earth like a story being told slowly—moonlight made flesh. Her silver robes whispered with motion, her dark hair trailing like cloud-shadow. Her gaze met his, still and eternal.

Boromir stared, startled again—but not fearful. “You’re not meant for this world,” he said at last, his voice low. “And yet… you remain.”

Bai Qian said nothing at first. She lowered herself beside him in the grass, her presence soft as snowfall. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “You’ve borne too much,” she said. “Even silence has grown heavy on you.”

Boromir exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between grief and relief. “I have not always walked a noble path,” he admitted. “You must know that. The Lady of the Wood saw it. My heart... shadows it.” His voice cracked faintly. “I am the son of a Steward, raised to believe my worth lies in duty and strength. But both have begun to feel... empty.” He gave a bitter, self-aware smile. “I keep thinking hope is a lie we tell ourselves at night. A story meant for children.”

He turned toward her, voice lower. “But you—” He swallowed. “You look at me without pity. I don’t understand why.”

Bai Qian looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching. “You wear your burdens like armor,” she said. “Even your grief tries to protect you.”

Boromir flinched—barely.

“But armor cracks,” she went on, her tone gentle but firm. “And grief seeps through the breaks.”

He gave a low, mirthless laugh. “And what would you know of grief, immortal as you are?”

She turned her face to the stars.

"I have mourned for my mentor, who fought to protect his people. To protect me, and brought him back from death. I have mourned for a man I considered a brother, who fought and died beside me.” She paused, closing her eyes, and continued. “I buried the man I loved. Forgotten my name. Fought wars that lasted centuries." She looked back to him—calm, composed, and aching underneath.

“Do not mistake immortality for peace.”

Boromir’s breath caught. He had expected poise. He had not expected truth.

“When I first saw you,” he said after a pause, “you were not what I imagined. Distant. Untouchable. Beautiful, yes—but cold.”

She arched a brow, amused.

“And now?”

“You are still distant,” he said with a faint smile. “But I think… not because you feel nothing. I think it’s because you feel too much.”

The silence that followed was not hollow. It settled between them like a bridge built of shared weight.

“You are not beyond redemption, Boromir,” she said, and her hand lifted—delicate, steady—and rested gently over his heart. “The world does not need you perfect. Only willing.”

His breath hitched beneath her palm. “And are you?” he asked, voice almost a whisper. “Willing?”

Her dark eyes held his—not soft, but resolute. “I am,” she said. She did not speak of visions. Did not reveal what she had seen in the Mirror. That would come later. But in her steadiness, in the absence of judgment—in the sacred quiet of her presence—Boromir felt, for the first time in weeks, the weight of his shame… begin to lift.

Not erased.

But forgiven.

Most of the Fellowship lay deep in sleep beneath Lothlórien’s golden canopy. A hush blanketed the forest floor, broken only by the rustle of mallorn leaves and the occasional breath of night wind through the trees.

Bai Qian sat alone, her white silhouette poised beneath the stars, still as stone yet softer than shadow. Her gaze was fixed on the flickering embers of the dying campfire, but her thoughts were elsewhere—far ahead, or far behind.

Behind her, curled into a ball of russet fur and velvet tails, Feng Jiu slumbered in the crook of the hobbits' circle—a pattern now familiar. Her small form was tucked beside Sam, head resting near Pippin’s feet. One tail covered Merry like a blanket, and another draped over Sam’s legs protectively. They murmured in their dreams, unafraid. The fox's warmth, it seemed, had woven into their sleep as effortlessly as starlight.

Bai Qian’s eyes softened.

Only a few nights ago, she had seen Feng Jiu hurling enchanted leaves at a silver-haired elf with all the restraint of a child poking a lion with a stick. And then, of course, the fountain. She had not interfered—only raised a delicate brow, as she often did when Feng Jiu spiraled into mischief. The girl would need more than charm and cleverness if she hoped to one day lead Qing Qiu. Still, the sight of her now—quiet, gentle, curled around those who had come to trust her—struck something unexpected.

A shimmer of light stirred the air. Red fur flickered, dimmed, and in a soft breath of foxfire, Feng Jiu shifted forms mid-yawn. She padded barefoot across the moss, hair tousled and eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"You’re awake," she murmured, flopping beside her aunt with practiced ease. "You’ve been quiet all night."

"You were busy keeping the hobbits warm," Bai Qian replied, voice like cool water.

"They needed it," Feng Jiu said simply. "They’re small. And squishy."

"Mm. And wholly unprepared for your schemes."

Feng Jiu gave a smirk. "You’re still sore about the fountain thing, aren’t you?"

"Haldir nearly went headfirst into Elven architecture."

"I’d call that a win. Elves take themselves way too seriously. I was doing him a favor."

"I’m sure he’ll see it that way... eventually."

They sat in silence for a while—centuries’ worth of comfort resting between them.

"You’ve grown," Bai Qian said, eyes never leaving the fire. "This journey has shaped you more than I expected."

Feng Jiu blinked, the comment catching her off guard. She studied her aunt’s profile—the way moonlight traced her features, the stillness that spoke of far more than peace. "You’re being sentimental," she said suspiciously. "That’s weird."

Bai Qian gave the faintest smile. "Savor it. I don’t often repeat myself."

"You’re not... dying or anything, are you?" Feng Jiu leaned in theatrically. "Because this sounds like a last-will-and-testament speech."

There was a pause. The fire crackled. A night bird called overhead.

"Things may change soon," Bai Qian said finally, her tone unreadable. "We may not walk the same path much longer."

Feng Jiu straightened. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Bai Qian said, turning to face her now, "you are the future Queen of Qing Qiu. You cannot follow my shadow forever."

"That’s not fair," Feng Jiu muttered. "You’re always so vague."

"And you’re always so loud." Bai Qian reached out, smoothing an unruly curl behind her niece’s ear. "Balance."

Feng Jiu puffed her cheeks and flopped dramatically onto her back. "Well, tough. I’m staying close. If you do anything stupid, I’m following—fox form or not."

Bai Qian laughed, a sound rare and low. "Stubborn child."

The silence that followed was warmer this time. Then, with a small grumble and a shimmer of foxfire, Feng Jiu changed again—her form shrinking into russet fur and velvet tails. She trotted back to the hobbits, nestled between Merry and Pippin like a flame returned to its hearth. One tail flopped over Sam’s toes. The hobbits barely stirred, long used to their fuzzy guardian. Bai Qian watched her for a moment longer. Her expression did not change—but a breath slipped from her lips, long and low. It carried something unspoken.

Then, in a movement so smooth it barely stirred the grass, she shifted as well. A pulse of moonlight shimmered along her form. Silk gave way to fur. Silver hair darkened into pale white strands, rippling like cloud trails. And there stood the white fox of Qing Qiu—quiet, proud, unbowed—her nine tails catching the wind as though the very forest bowed to her.

She stepped forward without sound. Moss and loam accepted her weight as if it had always been theirs. And the woods, in turn, fell still—holding its breath for two foxes beneath the stars.

She found him beneath the great arching root of a mallorn, half-shrouded in moon-dappled shadow. Boromir sat alone, unmoving but not asleep, his head tipped back against the bark, his brow furrowed in thought. One hand rested across his lap; the other idly twirled a ribbon—frayed at the edge—once tied to the hilt of his sword. Bai Qian padded forward, quiet as mist over water. She didn’t conceal her presence, but neither did she impose it. Her fur caught stray glimmers of silver light, her nine tails brushing lightly through moss and leaf.

Boromir turned his head slightly at the sound. He did not startle. When his gaze dropped to the white fox at his side, a breath caught in his chest.

“You again,” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue—but touched by something else. Wonder, maybe. Or gratitude. “I still can’t decide whether you’re a comfort... or a test.”

She said nothing, only drew closer, moonlight ghosting across the delicate curve of her ears and the slope of her shoulders.

Boromir let out a breath, slow and uneven. “It should unsettle me,” he said, “seeing you like this. But it doesn’t. You look like something out of the old tales—half legend, half dream.” His gaze lowered to his hands. His thumb brushed the edge of the ribbon, and for a moment, his voice dimmed. “I have dreamed much, of late.”

She sat beside him without a sound. Her tails curled carefully, but she did not touch him. She simply waited.

“I don’t understand you,” Boromir said quietly. “You never speak. Not when it matters most. And yet…” He trailed off. “I feel seen. Not judged. Not pitied. Just… seen.”

Still, the fox was silent. But her stillness wasn’t passive. It was listening. Present.

Boromir’s eyes flicked to the quiet space between them. “I told Aragorn I could find no rest here,” he said, his voice softer now. “And yet… somehow… I am not alone.” He hesitated, then reached out—slowly, almost reverently. She tilted her head, watching him. His hand hovered above her for a breath. Then, gently, it settled against her shoulder.

“You remind me,” he said, eyes fixed on the glow of her fur, “that the world is wider than Gondor’s grief. And perhaps… kinder than I deserve.”

One of her tails shifted—barely grazing his leg. Featherlight. Intentional. Boromir stilled as though that faint touch grounded him more than any blade.

“I am no elf,” he whispered. “No wizard. Just a man born in a city of stone and fire. I was raised to bear my name like a shield.” He looked at her, really looked. “But with you beside me… I start to wonder if I could be something else. Someone else.”

Bai Qian said nothing. But her eyes—luminous and still—held him. Slowly, she stepped closer. She turned in a tight circle and curled beside him, her flank brushing his thigh. Her head rested lightly against his leg—not demanding. Just there.

Boromir stiffened for half a second. Then… he breathed.

A fox. And not a fox. A creature born of starlight and other realms. And yet… warm. Living. Real. He reached out again. This time, he let his fingers trail down the fur of her head, smoothing gently between her ears. It was soft—cool at first, then gradually warming beneath his hand.

“I do not deserve peace,” he said, barely more than a thought. “But for this moment… I will not turn it away.”

His voice faded.

And so did the weight.

With Bai Qian’s breath rising and falling beside him, steady and calm, Boromir leaned back against the mallorn root. For the first time in many nights, sleep came—not the restless half-dreams of a soldier on watch, but the slow descent of a man forgiven, if only for a moment.

And beneath the golden boughs of Lothlórien, the heir of Gondor rested in silence—while a fox of white light kept vigil at his side.

The mallorn leaves whispered softly in the breeze, their golden sheen catching the morning light like scattered coins across the high canopy. Lothlórien basked in tranquil stillness—but Haldir did not. He moved through the forest’s edge with practiced precision, each step placed with the surety of long habit. This was the border he had walked since his youth, long before the Shadow stirred again in the East.

But this morning, he was not alone.

Feng Jiu strolled beside him with the effortless grace of one who had never been bound by the laws of gravity or restraint. Her feet barely kissed the mossy earth, and her path wove in gentle arcs—led not by duty, but curiosity. She brushed fingers along vines, paused to peer into glimmering pools, and occasionally hummed softly, as though the trees themselves might sing back.

Haldir kept his eyes forward. But his ears were far less disciplined.

“You’re staring again,” she said suddenly, without looking at him, her tone bright as the morning sun through gold-filtered leaves.

“I am observing,” he replied evenly, without breaking stride.

She turned slightly toward him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh? And what have you observed, Marchwarden of Lothlórien?”

There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice was low, thoughtful. “You move with the ease of one born from the forest,” he said. “But there is something older in your steps. You carry yourself like one who has seen war—and chosen not to wear it openly.”

She blinked. That was... more perceptive than expected. “I’m older than I look,” she said breezily, tossing her hair back.

“That much,” Haldir said, arching a brow, “was never in question.”

Feng Jiu’s laugh rang out, light and genuine, laced with the mischief he was beginning to expect—and something quieter, just beneath. She was not like any being he had met. Not elf, not mortal, not Maia. She shimmered somewhere between foxfire and memory. “And you,” she grinned, “are far less grumpy than you pretend to be.”

He stopped mid-step. “I am not—grumpy.”

She leaned closer, hand raised as if sharing a scandal. “You tried to scowl at a squirrel earlier.”

“I did not,” he said, but the flicker of offense was already losing ground.

“You did,” she declared. “He squeaked. You scowled. He ran.”

A pause. Then—barely—his mouth twitched. “It was too loud.”

“I like that you didn’t deny the squirrel.”

They reached a small rise in the path. The trees parted there, revealing the river Silverlode curling like liquid moonlight through the woods below. They stood for a moment, bathed in birdsong and morning hush.

Haldir’s voice broke the stillness, quieter now. “Your magic…” He didn’t look at her. “It feels older than the forest. Wilder than wind. Yet... gentle.”

Feng Jiu’s gaze softened. She turned from the view to study him. “It’s fox magic,” she said quietly. “From my realm. It doesn’t come from study, or books, or even incantation. It lives in the breath. In the blood.”

He nodded, slowly. “That is why it defies reason.”

“You don’t have to understand something to appreciate it,” she replied, her voice faint but certain.

That made him look at her. Truly look.

His gaze moved—deliberately—from the flame-dark fall of her hair to the curve of her cheek, to the wild glint in her eyes that no court could polish smooth. Then, just above the space between her brows, his eyes lingered for a breath longer—on the faint red mark shaped like a flame, nestled in the center of her forehead. It did not glow, but it pulsed with quiet power, like something ancient made flesh. He did not know its meaning, but he knew enough to recognize a sign of rank, of lineage—perhaps even of divinity. It made her seem both younger and older all at once.

It was not the gaze of Legolas—so open, so admiring. Nor the gaze of a dreamer. Haldir was no dreamer. He was a soldier who had seen too much to let himself be distracted. And yet, she distracted him.

“You are…” he began.

Feng Jiu tilted her head, eyes wide, curious.

He looked away, quickly—composure snapping back over his features like armor refastened.

“…Troublesome.”

Her peal of laughter startled a bird from a nearby branch.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, beaming.

He exhaled, a sound that might have passed for a chuckle if one didn’t know Haldir too well. “Just don’t enchant my boots again.”

“No promises.”

They walked on—side by side, leaves drifting lazily in their wake. Above them, the golden canopy stirred, as if amused by the unlikely harmony below.

Chapter Text

Morning mist clung to the forest floor like breath made visible. The golden woods of Lothlórien exhaled their final stillness as the Fellowship stood gathered at the edge of the Anduin, their boats nudging the shore in gentle rhythm. Sunlight pierced the mallorn canopy above, painting the farewell in a hush of honeyed gold.

Galadriel stepped forward—more vision than woman—her radiance woven from moonlight and memory. The elves flanking her bore bundles wrapped in soft cloth and wound with silver thread. Each gift was chosen with care, though none came without weight.

To Merry and Pippin, she gave two short daggers in fine-tooled sheaths.

“These are the blades of the Noldorin. They have tasted war before. May they serve you in courage.”

Pippin grinned as he unsheathed his with a gleam. “Shiny and pointy!”

“Just what I always wanted,” Merry added, flicking his wrist like a practiced swordsman.

To Samwise, she presented a coil of silver-gray rope, shimmering like starlight.

“For you, Samwise Gamgee, Elven rope, made of hithlain. Light to carry. Stronger than it seems.”

Sam blinked down at the coil. “Elven rope?” he echoed in wonder. “Thank you, my lady.” A pause. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of them nice shiny daggers, would you?”

Galadriel’s lips twitched—just barely. Next she turned to Frodo, who stood quiet beside Sam, the weight of the Ring resting heavy on his chest.

“For you, Ring-bearer,” she said, and in her hand appeared a crystal phial, faintly aglow with liquid starlight. “The light of Eärendil, our most beloved star. May it be a light in dark places… when all other lights go out.”

Frodo reached out with both hands, reverently. “Thank you,” he whispered.

To Legolas, she gave a longbow of the Galadhrim, strung with silver hair and carved with leaf-motifs.

“A weapon worthy of our woodland kin. May your arrows fly swift, and never stray.”

Legolas bowed low in gratitude. “Le hannon, hiril vuin.”

Then she turned to Boromir, who stood tall, though his eyes flickered uncertainly beneath her gaze. She saw him wholly—not with scorn, but with ancient compassion.

“For you, Captain of Gondor,” she said, “a belt of gold, wrought in the likeness of mallorn leaves. You carry great burdens. Let this be a reminder that strength is not only forged in battle, but in love.”

Boromir bowed his head, his voice hushed. “You honor me, Lady of Light.”

Then, she turned to Gimli, who shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat

"And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?"

Gimli shook his head. “I ask for nothing,” he said, head bowed. Then almost hesitantly, “But if it is not too bold—perhaps a strand of your hair, to remember your beauty.”

Galadriel smiled—and reached for three. She sealed them within a crystal vial and placed it in his calloused hands.

“Not one, but three. For the heart that sees beauty where others see only stone.”

Gimli’s jaw parted slightly, words failing him for once.

To Aragorn, she stepped gently, her gaze drawn not to his face, but to the Evenstar that lay over his heart.

“I have no gift greater than the one you already bear,” she said softly. Her fingers grazed the pendant. “In her love, I fear the grace of Arwen Undómiel will diminish.”

Aragorn’s face turned grave. In Elvish, quiet and reverent, he answered: “I would have her take the ship to Valinor. To be safe. To be with her people.”

Galadriel’s voice was low and knowing. “That choice is not yours to make. But your own still lies ahead.” She stepped back, the wind catching her silver robes like the petals of a falling star.

At last she turned to the two who stood slightly apart, as though the forest itself hesitated to frame them. Bai Qian stood still as frost-laced glass, her dark hair cascading like midnight across her shoulders. Beside her, Feng Jiu tilted her head, alert and curious, eyes bright with mischief even in the solemn light.

Galadriel paused. “For the Queen of Qing Qiu, and its fox-born princess… I find no treasure in this realm worthy of you. For you are already the bearers of powers older than Lórien’s memory.”

Bai Qian stepped forward with quiet grace. “You owe us no offering, Lady Galadriel,” she said. “Your shelter and welcome have already honored us.”

Galadriel met her gaze. For a long, still moment, neither woman spoke—but something unspoken passed between them. Grief, veiled. Power, restrained. The Mirror's vision lingered between them. She reached forward and took Bai Qian’s hand.

“Then let me offer this—no gift, but a blessing. May your clarity remain when all else fades. May you still choose light, even when shadow shows the way.”

Bai Qian bowed her head, her hand tightening slightly around Galadriel’s.

Then the Lady turned to Feng Jiu.

“I see you have left… impressions on my people,” she said delicately, though her eyes shimmered with wry humor.

Feng Jiu’s expression was pure mischief. “Leaves fall on their own, my Lady. I simply... assisted.”

Galadriel smiled—and with slow purpose, reached out and tucked a golden mallorn leaf behind Feng Jiu’s ear. It shimmered faintly with ancient blessing.

“Carry that laughter, child of the Qing Qiu Fox tribe. The world will need it.”

The boats were loaded. Elven cloaks drawn close. The golden canopy above seemed to sigh, as if the wood itself mourned their parting.

As they drifted down the Anduin, the silver thread of river catching the sunlight, Lothlórien faded behind like a dream waking from itself. But the weight of what had passed lingered—in the quiet glances shared, in the hush of unseen futures. In the fire-glow of courage kindled, even when not yet called upon.

And in Bai Qian’s still eyes—gazing ahead down the river, calm as starlight—there lived the shape of a choice not yet made.

But already known.

The boats glided soundlessly along the silver ribbon of the Anduin. Morning mist hung low over the water, brushing the curved prows of the elven vessels with fingers of cool light. The hush of the river was broken only by the soft dip of oars and the occasional murmur from the Fellowship.

In one of the boats, Boromir rowed with slow, steady rhythm, his hands moving more from memory than effort. Merry and Pippin sat near the bow, cloaked against the chill, their voices low and drowsy with morning quiet. Nestled between them, curled like a piece of the mist itself, lay a white fox. Bai Qian’s fox form rested in perfect stillness, her soft fur gleaming pale against the dark lacquered wood. Her nine tails folded elegantly over her paws, and her ears flicked occasionally in response to sounds only she seemed to notice. Half-lidded, her silver eyes reflected the muted sun like polished mirrors. Boromir stole glances at her between strokes. The crease in his brow—habitual now—began to soften. She had curled beside him once before, in Caras Galadhon, when his grief had left him raw. But here, on this drifting passage between shadow and choice, her presence was something else.

She brought quiet—not the cruel hush of isolation, but a stillness that soothed. That dulled the voice of his father echoing through memory. That pressed balm against the edges of guilt. She asked nothing. Expected nothing. She simply was. A constant beside a man who had never believed he deserved constancy.

Merry had already dozed off against the boat’s side. Pippin’s fingers absently combed Bai Qian’s snowy fur, sighing softly in contentment. The fox didn’t stir.

Boromir’s grip on the oars slackened further, his rowing unhurried. He looked at her again—truly looked—and felt a flicker of awe. Not for what she was, but for what she gave so freely. For once, he allowed himself to believe—if only faintly, and only here—that perhaps he wasn’t beyond saving.

The river widened, its glassy surface catching the sunlight in shimmers. Trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults, filtering gold into the shade.

In the lead, Aragorn’s boat held Frodo and Sam, quiet as river stones. Legolas followed, seated with practiced grace while Gimli sat near the front, arms crossed and beard damp with morning spray.

Their boat skimmed forward, smooth and stable.

Until it wasn’t.

With a sudden thump and a streak of pink silk, Feng Jiu landed squarely on the rear of Legolas’ vessel—her boots skimming the rim as the boat tilted precariously to one side.

“Are you mad, lass?!” Gimli roared, arms pinwheeling for balance as the river sloshed.

Legolas didn’t lurch, but his hand snapped out like lightning to grip the edge. His voice was calm, but cold. “You risk sending us into the current, Lady Feng Jiu. Do your games ever end?”

Feng Jiu crouched catlike at the stern, hair swaying. “Oh, please. It’s only water.”

In the boat behind them, Bai Qian lifted her head. A flick of her tails, a quiet shimmer of unseen magic—and the river beneath Legolas' vessel stilled. The current calmed, just enough to keep the boat steady.

Legolas noticed. His eyes met Bai Qian’s across the water, and though his expression barely shifted, the faintest nod passed in acknowledgment.

Then he turned sharply back to the fox currently masquerading as a saboteur. “You will walk next time,” he said. “Even if you must tread on water itself.”

Feng Jiu grinned. “Bet I can land on Aragorn’s boat without a ripple.”

“No,” Aragorn said flatly from ahead. He didn’t turn around. “Please stay where you are, Princess Feng Jiu.”

“You sound so tired,” she said.

“I am tired,” Aragorn replied.

“You’ve had too much fun,” Gimli muttered, still gripping the sides.

From her place between Merry and Pippin, Bai Qian let out the fox version of a sigh—an almost imperceptible puff of breath—and laid her head back down.

Boromir, watching this unfold, chuckled softly. “Is she always like that?”

One of Bai Qian’s ears flicked. She didn’t open her eyes, but one of her tails gave a soft thump against his thigh.

Yes. Always.

Night had settled over the woods near Parth Galen, draping the camp in folds of cool shadow. The river whispered close by, murmuring softly to the trees, and above, a waning moon painted silver lattices through the canopy. The Fellowship, weary and quiet, had made their fire in a shallow hollow beneath the looming rise of Amon Hen.

Apart from the group, Bai Qian stood still, her sleeves trailing like mist as she traced a spell into the air. Her fingers moved with serene precision, ancient and deliberate. The magic that followed was quiet—no shimmer, no fanfare. Just a subtle folding of light and sound, the camp’s presence blurring into the forest like a forgotten dream. To mortal eyes, nothing had changed. But the veil of illusion muted their firelight, softened their scent, and coaxed the shadows into a more protective embrace.

She turned to check on Feng Jiu—and paused.

A small, familiar heap lay nestled among the hobbits. In her fox form, Feng Jiu was curled between Merry and Pippin like a warm ember wrapped in russet silk. One hobbit had draped an arm across her midsection; the other had his head pillowed against her back. Her white-tipped tails twitched now and then in sleep, flicking at unseen dreams.

Bai Qian took a quiet step forward, prepared to rouse her. A hand intercepted her wrist.

She turned sharply.

Legolas stood beside her, his fingers light against her skin but unwavering. “Let her be,” he murmured, voice low and even. “They are safe with her. And she, with them.”

Bai Qian studied him. He wasn’t looking at her—his gaze rested on the fox beside the hobbits. And in that gaze was something rare: not amusement. Not curiosity.

Fondness.

Her eyes narrowed.

“She is not a stray to be taken in, Prince Legolas.”

That earned the faintest smile. “No,” he said. “She is no such thing.”

“She once made herself into one,” Bai Qian said, more to the shadows than to him. “Reduced herself to an ordinary single-tailed fox, her power sealed. All so she could follow a man who never turned to see her. She threw away her name, her birthright, her place in Qing Qiu.” She paused, her gaze lingering on the red-furred figure now twitching in dreams.

“And I let her. I watched her suffer. I did not stop her.” Her voice dropped, wistful and distant. “We Qing Qiu foxes… we favor blood over justice. Especially the blood we raise as our own.”

A silence fell between them, ancient and weighty.

“She is not a stray,” Bai Qian repeated, softer this time. “She is the only direct descendant of the Bai clan. She has no business offering herself so easily.”

Legolas remained still. But when he looked at Feng Jiu again, his expression shifted—something reverent, even mournful. “Perhaps,” he said, “she offers herself because she fears no one else will.”

Bai Qian’s gaze snapped toward him. But whatever reply she had curled on her tongue was lost to the weight of the firelight—and the truth behind his words. “She’s young,” she said after a moment. “Her mother travels. Her father, my brother, helps our father run the clan. I raised her more than either of them, with the help of my brothers.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I was the one she clung to during storms. The one who taught her to shift. The one who had to scrub ink out of her fur when she tried to disguise herself as a rabbit.” Her lips twitched faintly. “She’s trouble.”

“She is joy,” Legolas said quietly, almost without meaning to.

Bai Qian turned her head sharply toward him. He met her gaze calmly, with no trace of jest.

“She is reckless,” she countered.

“She is alive,” he said, gently. “In a world that is growing darker by the hour.”

They stood in stillness again, neither retreating. The fire crackled behind them, and Bai Qian’s expression remained unreadable.

“She will be Queen of Qing Qiu,” she said at last. “And a queen must learn to tolerate injustice—to stand tall when none will lift her.”

“She is learning,” Legolas said, gaze lingering on Feng Jiu. “Even now.”

Bai Qian’s arms folded loosely, but her eyes were wary. “She will not always be in your care.”

He looked at her, unblinking. “She doesn’t need to be,” he said. “But while she’s near me, I will not let her fall.”

Her gaze sharpened like flint. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever it is you’re beginning to consider.” Her voice lowered. “You will break her.”

Legolas didn’t flinch. “Or I will not.”

Their eyes locked—immortal to immortal—wind and starlight in a long, unmoving silence. Then Bai Qian’s gaze drifted—past him, past the campfire—down toward the river.

Two figures stood near the water’s edge. One still, the other pacing. Aragorn and Boromir. She couldn’t hear their words, but she could feel the tension: thick, strained, brittle.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, stepping away. She passed Legolas like a breeze parting branches, her robe whispering against leaves as she descended the slope toward the river—silent, composed, and resolute.

The river glistened, silver and quiet. Aragorn’s silhouette had long vanished into the trees, his parting words still echoing like old wounds. Boromir remained by the water’s edge, jaw tight, shoulders stiff with a pride too cracked to stand tall. His fingers itched—tightened—unconsciously brushing the hilt of his sword.

Above him, in the shadows beneath the boughs, Bai Qian watched. She had seen the argument. The tension. The pain neither man dared name aloud. But she did not approach. Not yet. Not while his pride was armor. Not while the sting of failure was still fresh. She waited until the fire had died, and the others drifted into uneasy sleep. The mist crept low again. Only then—when the silence settled into something heavier than night—did she move.

Her steps were soundless on the moss. Boromir didn’t look up, but his hand stilled on the hilt.

“…Come to judge me too?” he asked, voice rough, weary. Not cruel. Not defensive. Just… tired.

“No,” Bai Qian said quietly. “Only to sit.”

And she did—her knees folded beneath her without sound, the hem of her robe floating down like falling petals, untouched by grass or dew. She sat upright, serene, her hands resting lightly in her lap, sleeves cascading like moonlit waterfalls. It was not a pose born of effort, but of centuries—a stillness honed in immortal courts and silent battlefields. Even the wind softened as it reached her, stirring only the faintest strands of her hair.For a time, they simply sat, two figures beneath the trees, with the river whispering nearby and the moonlight sharp on the water.

“I failed him,” Boromir said at last, voice barely above breath. “I called him my brother. And I failed him.”

Bai Qian tilted her head slightly. “You were both right. And both wrong.”

He gave a bitter laugh, low in his throat. “That’s generous.”

“No,” she said. “Just true.”

He turned to look at her then—truly look. “Do you not see it?” he asked, hand clenched on his knee. “It grows louder every day. The Ring. Whispering. Twisting hope into command. Duty into desperation. And I—” He cut himself off, his breath sharp. “I am not blind. I know it’s begun to break me.”

Bai Qian regarded him with the stillness of a mountain in winter. “I saw it,” she said. “Long before Lothlórien. The cracks forming. The struggle behind your eyes.”

Boromir flinched, his jaw tight. “Then why say nothing?”

“Because you did not need a warning,” she answered softly. “You needed someone to stay.”

That brought him short.

“I am not here to forgive you, Boromir,” she continued. “You haven’t done anything yet that needs it.”

He looked away. “Not yet. But I will.” The certainty in his voice was worse than anger. It was resignation.

Bai Qian turned to face him fully. “If you believe that fate is fixed, then you make it so. But I’ve lived lifetimes, Boromir. I've watched men rise and fall. And I can tell you—your end is not written yet.”

His gaze met hers—tired, worn, aching.

“You are afraid,” she continued. “Of being weak. Of losing Gondor. Of losing yourself. But courage is not the absence of fear. It is walking forward anyway.” She reached over—slowly—and laid her hand over his. Not a lover’s touch. Not pity. Just presence. Steady. Undemanding. Real.

“I am not here to change your path,” she said. “Only to remind you that you are more than the voice you hear in the dark.”

A beat.

Then, her hand withdrew.

And still, Boromir sat frozen. His mouth opened once—then closed again. What could he say? He looked back to the river.

The Ring still called.

But for now, it was distant.

And beside him sat a woman who had known kingdoms rise and fall, gods weep and wars rage—and yet had chosen to sit beside a broken man anyway.

“Thank you,” he said at last, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d spoken.

Bai Qian didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

The night deepened, cloaking the trees in shadow and stillness. Mist wound through the roots like breath held in suspense, curling low around stone and bark. The fire had dwindled to little more than a bed of coals, its light pulsing faintly through the gloom. Most of the Fellowship slept uneasily. But Frodo sat awake, knees drawn to his chest, the weight of the Ring pressing heavier with each hour. It seemed to pulse against him now—not just a burden, but a presence, insistent and possessive.

He heard the whisper of silk before he saw her.

Bai Qian emerged from the darkness without a sound. She did not sit too near, only lowered herself with quiet grace a short distance away. Her gaze was not fixed on him, but on the river beyond the trees, where moonlight shimmered like forgotten memory upon the water’s surface.

She didn’t speak. At first, Frodo didn’t either. But her stillness was not empty—it was patient. It made space. It waited without asking.

“I saw it,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a breath.

She turned slightly, not intruding—just listening.

“In the Mirror,” he whispered. “Lady Galadriel showed it to me. The Shire in flames. My friends… caged. The Ring... like lead in my hand.”

A pause.

“I think… I think I knew then. I’d have to leave them all behind.”

Bai Qian’s expression didn’t change. But her gaze softened, just enough. “I saw things in the Mirror as well,” she said, her voice gentle and low. “Echoes. Warnings. Not certainties, but the shape of what could be.” Her fingers moved slightly over the fabric of her sleeve, slow and thoughtful. “I told myself I could change it. That if I walked lightly, if I shielded others from the worst of it, I could avert what I saw.” She glanced toward him. “But the Mirror does not lie. And it does not promise hope.”

Frodo’s shoulders hunched. “Boromir will try to take the Ring.”

It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The confirmation did not bring relief—only a slow, dull ache. Yet her honesty anchored him. There was no panic in her tone. No despair.

“He isn’t wicked,” she continued, softly. “Just... afraid. And hopeful. A man trying to save something precious before it crumbles to dust. The Ring knows how to whisper to men like that—those who would die for others.” She turned back to the river. “And in that whisper, he will lose himself.”

Frodo’s voice cracked. “How can you be so certain?”

“Because I know what it is,” she said, “to reach for power when all you feel is helplessness. To believe you can bear the cost, because someone else would break beneath it.”

He stared at her. The lines in her face were serene—but beneath the calm was sorrow. Not fresh, but remembered. And deeper than a mortal lifetime.

“What do I do?” he asked, almost a child again.

Bai Qian didn’t rush her reply. “You keep walking,” she said. “Even when no one else can follow.”

The wind stirred lightly, as if to underscore the silence that followed. Then, softly, she reached out and touched his shoulder—just a breath of contact, yet steady and real.

“There is strength in you,” she murmured, “that the Ring will never understand. That is why it fears you.”

Frodo swallowed hard. “Gandalf said something like that. That even the smallest person can change the course of the future.”

A rare smile touched her lips. “Then your wizard was wiser than most.”

For a time, neither spoke. The moon climbed higher, its light washing over the campsite in soft silver. Frodo’s burden remained. But it had shifted—just enough that he could bear it until morning.

And Bai Qian remained beside him—silent, steady, and true—not to offer false comfort, but to remind him he was not alone in the dark.

The river was quiet beneath the boats, save for the gentle slap of water against wood and the distant echo of birdsong echoing faintly in the canyons beyond. Morning mist curled over the surface like breath held in suspense, draping the Fellowship in a hush as they glided forward, cradled by the Anduin’s slow current.

Then the mist began to thin. They emerged like ghosts from stone—two colossal figures rising from either side of the river, arms lifted in solemn warning, weathered but unyielding. The Argonath. The Pillars of the Kings.

Bai Qian, curled in her fox form near Boromir in one of the boats, lifted her head. Her ears swiveled forward, her silver-glass eyes catching the reflection of the ancient kings. Her nine tails stilled, spread like breath behind her on the boat’s wood. For all the heavens and divine palaces she had once ruled over, even she stilled at this sight. There was something different in this majesty—not born of celestial power, but of mortal will defying time itself.

In the boat ahead, Feng Jiu had risen to her knees at the prow of Aragorn’s vessel. Her robes fluttered behind her, catching the river wind as she peered upward with open awe.

Aragorn stood, his silhouette tall against the rising stone. “The Argonath…” he murmured, reverence in every syllable. “Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old... my kin.”

None of the others spoke. Even the hobbits, normally filled with wonder or chatter, stared wide-eyed as they passed between the outstretched arms of Elendil and Isildur. The river bore them forward like supplicants through a gate of legends.

From her boat, Bai Qian’s gaze shifted—not toward the statues, but toward Aragorn. There was a gravity to him here. A resonance. She watched, quiet and knowing, as the truth of his lineage settled heavier on his shoulders than any crown ever could.

Soon, the river gave way to open lake. The boats scraped against the pebbled shore of Nen Hithoel. One by one, the Fellowship disembarked, stretching sore limbs and adjusting packs. The wind whispered through the tall trees, their boughs heavy with shadow and scent.

“We cross the lake at nightfall,” Aragorn said, eyes scanning the wooded slopes beyond. “We’ll hide the boats and continue on foot. We approach Mordor from the north.”

Gimli grunted, already hoisting his gear. “Oh yes. Just a light stroll through Emyn Muil— just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil—an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks. And after that? A festering, stinking marshland as far as the eye can see.”

Aragorn’s look was dry as salt. “That is our road,” he said. “I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf.”

“Recover my—” Gimli began, indignant, but fell silent when Legolas stiffened beside him.

“We should leave now,” Legolas said quietly.

Aragorn frowned. “No. Orcs patrol the eastern shore. We must wait for cover of darkness.”

“It is not the eastern shore that worries me,” Legolas murmured. His eyes drifted toward the trees—toward the western edges of Parth Galen. “A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind. Something draws near... I can feel it.”

Farther from the group, hidden among the ancient trees, Bai Qian and Feng Jiu moved like whispers. Their feet left no trace. Their sleeves, light as mist, barely stirred the leaves as they layered enchantments into the land itself. Bai Qian’s fingers traced sigils into the air—fluid, elegant movements that shimmered briefly before vanishing into the soil like dew into bark.

“This one veils both scent and sound,” Bai Qian said, her tone soft but focused. “Layer yours here.”

Feng Jiu stepped forward, mimicking the motion—her spell work less precise, but gaining confidence with every movement.

“They won’t notice?” she asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Not until they’re inside the web,” Bai Qian said. “And by then…” Her mouth curved, not in mirth, but in dangerous calm. “It will be too late.”

They worked in silence for a few more breaths.

Then Bai Qian’s hand stilled mid-air. “They’re closer,” she said softly, her head tilting slightly as she listened—not with ears, but with instinct. “I feel them in the roots. A pressure. Like steel dragging across soil.”

“The Uruk-hai?” Feng Jiu asked.

Bai Qian nodded slowly. “Different from the goblins of Moria. These creatures were made for war. They do not fear light. They do not hesitate. And they do not come alone.”

Feng Jiu’s expression hardened, her playfulness gone. “Should we tell the others?”

“We will,” Bai Qian said. “But not yet. Let them rest while they still can.”

The wind shifted, bringing with it a scent unlike any natural thing—iron, smoke, something born of cruelty and order. Bai Qian turned toward it, her eyes narrowing.

“Tonight,” she murmured, “the shadows will not wait for us to move first.”

Back at camp, the fire had burned low. Sam snored lightly beside a bundled pile of kindling, one hand still loosely gripping a stick he’d meant to add to the flames. Nearby, Merry approached Gimli with more wood in his arms and a grin on his face.

“Where’s Frodo?” he asked.

The words landed like a dropped stone.

Sam bolted upright. “Mr. Frodo—?”

In an instant, the camp shifted. Aragorn, standing near the perimeter, froze. His gaze swept the sleeping forms—then landed on Boromir’s bedroll.

Empty.

His shield lay abandoned in the grass.

Without a word, Aragorn spun and broke into a run, boots slamming the earth in powerful strides. Branches whipped past, leaves scattering in his wake as he tore through the woods, following some instinct older than thought.

And then—

He nearly collided with Bai Qian.

She turned at his approach, having just finished laying the final ward. The shimmer of her spell still danced faintly in the air before fading into invisibility. Aragorn’s hand flew to his sword, but he halted when her eyes met his—sharp, steady, alert.

“Frodo,” he said. “And Boromir—he’s gone. Have you seen either of them?”

Her expression shifted, no longer calm but tight with understanding. “No,” she said, already stepping back.

A ripple of silver surged through her—light, wind, power. Her form shimmered and contracted, robes dissolving into brilliance. In her place crouched a white fox with nine long tails, gleaming with soft lunar fire. Her eyes—molten gold rimmed in silver—locked briefly with Aragorn’s. He did not question. He simply nodded.

Together, they turned and raced into the woods.

Aragorn moved like a hunting wolf, low and fast. Beside him, Bai Qian streaked through the underbrush, her paws silent, her body all fluid momentum. Magic pulsed faintly around her—trailing threads of scent, heartbeat, and breath across the air.

She wasn’t just tracking. She was seeking. Two presences. One burning with the weight of the Ring. One unraveling under the weight of temptation.

Behind them, a rustle stirred the branches. Feng Jiu stepped lightly from the shadows, robes half-swaying around her legs as she watched the two disappear into the deeper forest. A sigh left her lips, half fond, half exasperated.

“I’m always missing the dramatic bits,” she muttered, already rolling her sleeves back.

Her gaze flicked to the trees—to the west this time.

The forest was no longer still.

With a hum of warning magic curling beneath her fingertips, Feng Jiu turned and walked calmly back toward the camp.

The ancient stone ruins of Amon Hen rose like a broken crown above the hill, draped in moss and time. Beneath the crumbling seat of seeing, Frodo stood alone—small, trembling, and shadowed. In his clenched fist, the Ring gleamed like a live coal, deceptively still beneath the fractured light. His breath came shallow. The weight of the world—or something darker—pressed down on his chest.

Then: footsteps. Swift, purposeful.

“Frodo?”

He turned sharply. Aragorn emerged from the trees, his cloak torn, his brow furrowed with urgency. Dirt streaked his jaw, and his sword-arm twitched with readiness. Beside him padded something pale and otherworldly—nine tails streaming like silk behind a sleek white body. Bai Qian, in her fox form, moved with liquid quiet, her eyes like moonlit gold.

She stopped only a few paces away. Then, with a soft shimmer—barely more than a sigh of starlight—her fur rippled, collapsed inward, and Bai Qian stood once more in flowing robes, her gaze calm, but sharp with knowing.

Frodo recoiled, startled by the sight. “It has taken Boromir,” he said hoarsely, the words falling like stones.

Aragorn tensed. “Where is the Ring?”

Frodo stepped back, hand tightening around it. “Stay away!” The words struck like a whip.

Aragorn halted. His voice dropped, gentled by guilt and grief. “Frodo... I swore to protect you.”

“Can you protect me from yourself?” Frodo’s voice was not angry, only broken.

A heavy silence fell.

Bai Qian said nothing, but her eyes were locked on the Ring now exposed in Frodo’s hand. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The darkness curled from the Ring like smoke, reaching, prodding, searching. Her divine essence repelled it, untouched—but not unfeeling. She sensed the sorrow buried in its making. The warping of what had once been beautiful into a thing of chains and hunger. A hollow crown of fire.

Frodo’s voice trembled. “Would you destroy it?”

Aragorn looked at the Ring. And for a heartbeat—just one—his breath faltered. Then he dropped to his knees. “I would have gone with you to the end,” he whispered. He closed Frodo’s hand gently over the Ring. “Into the very fires of Mordor.”

Frodo blinked rapidly, tears at the edge of his voice. “I know.” He hesitated, then added, “Look after the others... especially Sam. He won’t understand.”

Bai Qian’s head snapped to the west, her expression shifting. The forest breathed wrong. Wind shifted. Leaves hissed. The veil of calm was ruptured. Her fingers flexed at her sides.

Aragorn turned sharply as well. Frodo unsheathed Sting just enough to see it glow blue.

The roar came like thunder splitting stone. Trees groaned. Earth shook. From the heights of Amon Hen, the Uruk-hai burst forth—snarling, armored, two hundred strong. Their war cries shattered the air.

“Go, Frodo!” Aragorn barked, sword flashing into his hand.

Frodo hesitated, eyes wide with dread.

“RUN!”

Bai Qian didn’t wait for permission. Her form blurred—robes peeling away into wind and starlight. Light bent as she transformed mid-motion, streaking forward on silver paws. Her nine tails streamed behind her like ribbons of divine fire, slicing the underbrush as she shot after Frodo.

Not as a guardian.

Not as a queen.

But as a shield.

The Uruk-hai swarmed like a plague of iron and rage. And Aragorn stood alone to meet them. With a defiant cry, he charged into the fray—blade flashing, boots pounding, cloak snapping behind him like the banner of a doomed king. His sword cleaved through the first Uruk’s neck, then the second’s chest. He moved like a storm wrought in flesh and fury—each strike forged from grief, each breath a vow to hold the line.

He would buy them time.

No matter the cost.

Steel rang against steel, echoing through the broken crown of Amon Hen. The ruined stones bore witness to his stand, their silence broken only by the clash of blades and the snarling bellows of the enemy. They came in waves—black-armored, thick-limbed, tireless. One axe struck his shoulder, throwing him sideways. Another Uruk rushed in.

Too close. Too fast.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Arrows sang through the air. Three Uruk fell mid-charge, their throats pierced clean.

Legolas stepped into view atop the rise, bow drawn in one fluid motion. Pale as starlight, sharp as judgment, he fired again and again. Each shot a whisper of death. The Elf moved like breath over water—silent, precise, deadly.

Then came a roar like a forge erupting.

“HAH! They picked the wrong forest!” Gimli hurled himself into the battle with glee, axe spinning in wide arcs. He crashed into the enemy like a battering ram made flesh, already soaked in black blood. “Come on then! I’ve got plenty of steel for all of you!”

And then, through the din, came a flicker of red.

Feng Jiu. She descended the slope not like a warrior, but like a vision—robed in flame and starlight. Her long sleeves and silk hems swept the ground without ever collecting blood. But there was nothing soft in her now. Her eyes blazed with wild purpose. In each hand, she held a sword—twin fangs of moonlight.

She struck.

She was motion and memory, grief and fire. One blade swept low, the other high. She ducked, twisted, rose, her body moving in arcs so smooth they defied the chaos around her. A dozen Uruk fell before they could even register her presence. Her robes whipped with the force of her motion, and the air crackled with faint traces of foxfire, glowing faint and cold. Passion guided her blade. Precision followed.

Aragorn, bloodied and breathless, caught the shimmer of her fighting beside him.

Legolas saw her first. In her movements, he saw both recklessness and elegance—something raw and unrefined, but undeniably powerful. Not the honed grace of Elvenkind, but something older. Wilder. Glorious.

Then—

An Uruk surged toward her blind side.

Before Feng Jiu could turn, an arrow thudded into the creature’s chest.

She whirled. Her eyes met Legolas’s across the ruin-strewn field. A single beat passed between them—no words. Just breath, and a flicker of something unspoken. Then she turned back, blades flashing. He followed.

Together, they cut a path through the mob, converging on Aragorn’s embattled form. Feng Jiu leapt from a fallen pillar, spinning midair, her blade slicing down an Uruk from shoulder to hip. She landed beside Aragorn in a crouch—elegant, breathless, eyes wild.

He looked at her—just once—and nodded.

Then Gimli barreled into place at their flank, growling, “About time the pretty ones joined the fight!”

The three of them formed a line. Feng Jiu moved like fire given form, her blades arcs of silver flame. Blood sprayed in crescents behind her. Aragorn held fast—solid, unyielding. Legolas danced like wind between stone. And behind them, Gimli was a wall of wrath, axe rising and falling in brutal rhythm.

Then—

A horn.

It rolled through the trees like a cry for help torn from the chest of a dying world.

The Horn of Gondor.

Feng Jiu froze for a fraction of a second.

So did Aragorn.

It sounded again—closer. Louder. Desperate.

“The Horn of Gondor!” Legolas shouted, his head snapping toward the sound. Even as he loosed another arrow, his body was already turning—his instincts sharpened by fear.

Aragorn’s face shifted. His eyes narrowed. His chest rose with sudden urgency.

“Boromir.”

He didn’t hesitate. With a cry like a blade unsheathed, he surged forward, cutting through the Uruk-hai like a force of nature. His sword rose and fell in brutal cadence—less a warrior now, more a storm—driven downhill by dread and something deeper. Love. Guilt. Hope.

Behind him, Legolas and Gimli pivoted with practiced ease, falling into step at the rear. The Elf’s arrows whistled in rapid succession, the Dwarf’s axe swung in rhythmic fury—each guarding the other’s flank.

But Feng Jiu remained still.

Just for a breath.

The horn’s echo faded over the hills like a dying heartbeat.

Her eyes widened.

“Gou Gou…”

A ripple passed through her chest—not sound, not wind, but something deeper. A spiritual tether pulled taut. A thread between her and Bai Qian had trembled. She felt it. Pain. Strain. Something unraveling. She turned sharply toward the trees, heart suddenly thundering.

“Feng Jiu!” Legolas called out, dropping another Uruk with a clean shot. One had nearly breached her flank, but he was faster. Too fast for her to thank.

Because she was already running. Downhill. Her pink robes snapped like flame behind her, trailing smoke and urgency. Her twin blades glinted at her sides, and her breath came sharp as her heels tore across root and stone.

It wasn’t just Boromir.

Bai Qian was in danger, too.

And for once, Feng Jiu didn’t know which fear pulled her harder.

Chapter Text

Frodo was faster than she expected.

Even in her fox form—fleet as a sigh of wind across the forest floor—Bai Qian found herself pressed to keep pace. He darted between roots and shadow like a spirit unbound, nimble with the desperation of one not merely fleeing danger… but running from fate itself. Small though he was, Frodo moved with uncanny speed—purpose burning in his every breath, grief and fear etched into the ground he fled across.

Bai Qian crested a low ridge and stilled. Her silver paws planted on moss-slick stone, ears swiveling sharply. The world below held no trace of him. No footsteps. No heartbeat.

Gone.

She shifted in a breath of light. Fox to woman. Mist coalesced around her, and from it stepped Bai Qian once more—robes unfurling like clouds at dawn, hair cascading down her back as the divine shimmer faded. Her feet were silent on the leaves, but her breath was tight.

“Frodo...” she whispered, eyes scanning the trees. Her voice did not carry far, but the forest answered nonetheless.

Not in words. In growls.

Branches cracked behind her.

She turned.

Uruk-hai—half a dozen, no more than that, but swift, wide-shouldered, eager. Their blades were slick with blood. Their eyes burned with cruel hunger.

At first, Bai Qian didn’t move. Then, she reached into her sleeve. Silk brushed steel—then the hiss of unfolding elegance. The Jade Purity Fan of Kunlun sprang open, its etched ribs gleaming. And then it shifted, lengthening, reshaping into a sword as smooth as water and just as cutting. Then she moved.

The first Uruk charged, axe high, roaring. She side-stepped, so fluid it seemed she drifted, and her blade arced once—precise, clean. He dropped without a sound. Another came in from her side. She spun, robes swirling around her like moonlit water, and her sword carved upward in a luminous streak, slicing through armor and flesh. She was not a brawler, nor a brute. She was movement refined to its purest form—centuries of grace made lethal. A poem of violence.

But they kept coming.

Their numbers pressed in, cutting off space, forcing her into tighter motion. A branch snagged her sleeve for half a second. She twisted free, but it cost her her rhythm. And then it came.

The horn. It rang out across the trees—deep, mournful, splitting the air like prophecy.

Bai Qian’s head snapped up.

The Horn of Gondor.

Her heart dropped.

Boromir.

The cry pierced her—no, tore through her, like the ghost of a wound reopened. Her breath caught, and the world seemed to narrow to a single point.

She could see it. The future the Mirror had shown her—the blood at his lips, the arrows in his chest, the echo of his name in the trees.

“No—” Her whisper cracked.

Something inside her—an old grief, a fear long buried—rose like a wave. And her blade responded. It flared with foxfire along its edge, as if drawn to the storm building in her chest. She struck again. Harder. Faster.

Gone was the ornamental precision—in its place burned something wild. Each blow came quicker, fiercer. Her blade blurred in the air, shedding elegance for urgency. Her divine aura surged, and the Uruk-hai recoiled as foxfire flared across the tips of her robes, crackling like stars falling to earth. She was fury. She was protection incarnate. She cut through the last of them, breathing hard, her eyes wide and burning.

Then the horn blew again.

Still alive—but not for long.

Bai Qian didn’t hesitate.

She ran.

She ran like time itself could be undone if she was swift enough.

The forest burned with the clash of steel and snarls.

Blood soaked the earth beneath Boromir’s boots, dark and thick where grass once grew. His breath came ragged, chest heaving, but still he stood—shoulders squared, blade gripped tight in hands gone slick with blood. His body screamed with fatigue, but his will held.

One more. Just one more.

He cut down another Uruk-hai, then another, blade flashing with Gondorian steel and fury. Around him, the circle tightened—snarling, armored monsters moving in like wolves scenting blood. And behind him—Merry and Pippin screamed and fought in vain with their small daggers, hearts too brave for their size.

“Run!” he roared to the hobbits. “Run!” He turned, parried, struck—his blade flashing with fury, soaked now with black blood. The Uruk-hai pressed harder, howling, circling like wolves.

Then—

Thunk.

The first arrow struck him in the chest.

His breath hitched—stolen, sharp—as though the world itself had slammed into him. His legs buckled. His vision faltered. And yet—he didn’t fall. Somewhere behind the pain, beneath the chaos, there came a flicker. Not magic. Not a voice.

Just a memory. Of calm. Of stillness.

Of her.

He remembered the night she had stood beside him while he kept watch—silent, watching the stars. She had said almost nothing. But in her silence, he had found no judgment. Only presence. A strange, fragile kind of peace. And now, in the storm of blood and steel, it returned.

He gritted his teeth. His sword wavered—but did not fall.

Not yet.

Teeth clenched, Boromir roared and surged forward. The sound was raw, a broken war-cry pulled from the deepest part of him. Uruk-hai fell around him.

Then—

Thunk.

The second arrow buried itself in his side. He gasped, pain slashing through him like fire. Blood poured down his ribs. His knees threatened to give.

But then—he remembered.

The way she had looked at him after the Council. Not with fear. Not with pity. She had seen him, even then—flawed, afraid, fighting too hard. And still, she had chosen to walk beside him.

That memory anchored him.

He growled, hoarse and feral, and swung his sword in a vicious arc, splitting armor and flesh.

Then—

Thunk.

The third arrow slammed into his shoulder. He dropped to one knee. The blade dug into the dirt beside him. His breath came in shallow gasps. The forest blurred. Sounds warped.

Still—he clung to her. Not in name. Not in sight. But the sense of her presence—that cool steadiness, like moonlight through stormclouds—wrapped around him. She had never promised him survival. Only truth. And because of that, he endured.

He could not stand. But he would not fall. His hand dropped from the arrow shaft. His limbs shook. Blood painted the earth. He watched, helpless, as Merry and Pippin cried his name—screaming, thrashing—as Uruk-hai seized them and hauled them away like trophies.

“Boromir!”

But he could no longer rise. He tried. His sword slipped in his grasp. The strength was leaving him now—slowly, completely. He knelt, three arrows deep in his body, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. Blood trickled from his lips.

Then—through the haze of trees—Lurtz emerged. Massive. Methodical. The Uruk commander moved with slow, deliberate steps, his yellow eyes locked on Boromir with the cold patience of a predator. He stopped in front of the fallen Gondor captain. With a snarl, Lurtz reached behind his back, drew another black-fletched arrow, and notched it to his bow.

Boromir’s eyes lifted to meet his. He did not beg. He did not look away. But he was afraid. It flickered in his eyes—real and human. Not of death, but of failure. Of the hobbits taken. Of Gondor unprotected. Of a burden dropped too soon.

He braced for the end.

The bow creaked as Lurtz drew the string back, aiming squarely for his head.

And then—

Wind. Light. Steel. A flash of silver and storm erupted from the trees. The snap of shattered wood rang out—the bow broken clean in Lurtz’s hands.

Time fractured.

She stood before him.

Not Aragorn.

Bai Qian. Queen of Qing Qiu. Daughter of the Fox Clan.

And the fury of the heavens.

Raven hair streaming behind her like a banner, her robes torn and bloodied from battle, her sword now a gleaming extension of her fury. In her hand, the Jade Purity Fan, now transformed into a radiant blade, shimmered with foxfire and wrath. Her eyes burned. Not with fear. Not even with rage.

But with refusal.

You will not take him, her stance screamed. Not him. Not now. Not while I breathe.

Lurtz roared, snapping a jagged blade from his belt.

She met him head-on.

He struck first—brute strength, a downward arc meant to split her in half. She didn’t parry. Her form flickered—mist dissolving on air—and reformed behind him. Her blade struck high, deflecting his second swing before it could finish.

She glided.

Each movement was impossibly fast, but silent—no stomp, no thud, only the whisper of cloth and breath. She ducked low, spun, stepped sideways—not away from the fight, but around it, within it, like water shaping itself to the force of a stone. Foxfire shimmered along her blade as it sang through the air, catching Lurtz’s weapon with the precision of instinct, not effort.

Boromir’s vision blurred. But through blood and pain and awe, he saw her fight.

She moved like a dream given form—and not a gentle one. There was no rage in her. No fury. Only precision. Only refusal. Each flick of her wrist, each shift of her feet, guided the rhythm of battle. Lurtz swung with brute strength—she turned it aside with the ease of memory. He growled and lunged—she vanished into the blur of light and wind, reappearing just beyond his reach.

This was not combat. It was inevitability.

Boromir, barely conscious, felt the ache return—not just from his wounds.

From her. She wasn’t just shielding him. She was declaring—wordlessly, in motion and silence—that he mattered.

Each time Lurtz advanced, she drove him back. Each time he roared, her silence answered louder. She fought with more than skill. She fought with feeling. For him.

Boromir’s hand reached out, trembling, barely able to grasp the hilt of his fallen blade. He couldn’t lift it. Could only watch.

She had always been beautiful. Mysterious. Distant. But now…

Now she was fire. She wasn’t fighting for the world. Not for a cause.

She fought for him.

And he felt it. In his chest. Beneath the agony. That impossible ache.

Not the arrows.

Her.

Lurtz swung again, brute force hammering at her defenses. She turned with him, spinning low, her robes whispering through blood-slick grass. Steel shrieked. Sparks danced. Her blade flicked like lightning, forcing the Uruk commander back step by grinding step.

Boromir had seen warriors. He had been one. But he had never seen this. Grace weaponized. Stillness honed to lethality.

Their blades screamed against each other, sparks flying. Lurtz grew desperate. He struck again, and again. Steel rang. Sparks bloomed. Her foot slid in the mud—he lunged—

She pivoted, blade rising in a crescent. Foxfire danced across Lurtz’s chest, burning cold and fast. He roared, stumbled. In a final effort, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her close, snarling inches from her face. Her expression didn’t change.

With a fluid motion, she reversed the blade in her grip and drove it into his chest—clean, silent, final.

Lurtz froze.

And then, without a change in breath, she stepped back, turned the blade, and severed his head in one sweep. The body collapsed behind her. Her robes whispered around her. Her blade lowered. Her gaze—serene, grave—fell to Boromir.

He had slumped against the roots of a twisted tree, blood pooling beneath him like shadow. His sword had fallen from his grasp, half-buried in the earth. His breath came shallow and ragged. Blood leaked steadily from his shoulder, too deep a wound to be healed by hands. Beside him, the shattered horn of Gondor lay broken—cleaved in two like a memory of a dying age.

She dropped to her knees beside him—quietly. No cry. No weeping. Only the swift grace of someone who had lived through too many endings. Her hand hovered over his chest, near the arrow, but did not touch. Not yet.

“You fool,” she whispered. Her voice was cool but frayed, fragile in its restraint. “Why didn’t you run?”

Her hand trembled as she reached again—but she stopped herself. She was divine. But this was mortal pain. Mortal cost. And she knew better than to steal that away.

“I can try to—” she began.

“No,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “They’re gone. Frodo. The others. I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop them.”

“You held them off long enough,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “It wasn’t enough.”

Her breath hitched. She forced the words out—each one carried with effort. “You stood against all of them. You held them off alone. That… that means something.”

And she meant it. But the ache behind her words—the storm within—threatened to pull her under. Because she had seen this. In the mirror. The blood. The breaking. And she had done nothing. Let fate play its course, like she always had. Watched it unfold.

Watched him fall.

And now he lay dying. Because she had stood still.

His eyes opened again, slow and heavy. He studied her face—not the poise, not the beauty, but the quiet ache behind her stillness.

Then—footsteps.

Aragorn. Legolas. Gimli. And just behind them, Feng Jiu, silent and stricken, watching with wide, unreadable eyes. Aragorn reached Boromir first and dropped to his knees opposite Bai Qian. His hand went to the wound instinctively—pressing, too late.

“Boromir,” Aragorn breathed, pressing a hand against the flow of blood. His voice was tight, desperate.

Boromir’s head shifted. “They took… the little ones…” he rasped.

Aragorn swallowed hard, trying to staunch the wound.

“Frodo—where is Frodo?” Boromir gasped again, panic lacing his voice.

“I let Frodo go,” Aragorn said quietly, his eyes filled with regret—but resolve, too.

Boromir’s gaze sharpened. Despite the haze of death clouding his thoughts, he understood. “Then you did what I could not,” he murmured. “I tried to take the Ring from him…”

Aragorn nodded slowly, solemn. “The Ring is beyond our reach now.”

A tremor passed through Boromir. His voice broke. “Forgive me. I did not see... I have failed you all.”

“No,” Aragorn said, fierce but quiet. “You fought with honor.”

Bai Qian still hadn’t moved. Her hand now touched his temple—fingers cool, gentle, trembling. Not from fear. From helplessness. Something she had not known in a long time. “You are not a failure,” she said, and though her voice was soft, it frayed around the edges. “Not to them. Not to us.”

He turned his head. Looked at her. Through her silence, he felt it—what she couldn’t say.

She had seen this coming.

And she had hoped it wouldn’t.

Aragorn went to bind the wound, but Boromir weakly pushed at his hand. “Leave it,” he whispered. “It is over…” A tremor passed through him. He coughed, blood on his lips. “The world of Men will fall… all will come to darkness… and my city… to ruin…”

“Boromir...” Aragorn whispered, voice low with anguish.

“No,” Bai Qian said softly, her eyes gleaming—not with divine power, but grief. “Not yet.”

His hand groped in the dirt. Aragorn understood and placed the sword into his palm. Boromir’s fingers closed around it—barely.

“I do not know what strength is in my blood,” Aragorn said, his voice low and fierce, “but I swear to you—I will not let the White City fall. Nor your people fail.”

Boromir’s breath caught. His eyes welled—not just with pain, but something softer. Something like peace. “Our people,” he murmured. Then, with the faintest smile, he whispered, “I would have followed you... my brother… my captain… my king.”

Then, his gaze found Bai Qian again. And it held. There was no more weight in him to lift a hand. But his voice found strength—not in volume, but in truth. He smiled. Small. Worn.

“Thank you.”

Bai Qian’s breath stopped.

“For being here,” Boromir continued, each word slower than the last. “For standing beside me.”

She stared at him—frozen.

“You gave me strength,” he said, “when I had none. Hope… when I was lost.”

Her eyes blurred.

Not from divine magic. Not from vision.

But because he meant it.

And she had done nothing to deserve it.

She bowed her head. Tears—silent, trembling—slipped from the corners of her eyes.

“I…” Her voice failed.

But he wasn’t waiting for her answer. His fingers relaxed. His chest rose—

And stilled.

Boromir, Captain of Gondor, was gone.

And Bai Qian broke.

Not in fire. Not in fury.

In silence.

Her breath caught. Her chest ached—not from injury, but from something deeper. A wound beneath time. The kind that no immortality could numb. She reached for him—her hand brushing his cooling face with the gentleness of someone trying not to wake a dream. Then she stilled. As if the air had left her lungs.

A sound escaped her—not loud, not full of rage. It was small. Cracked. The sound of a heart breaking in the space between one breath and the next. Her forehead lowered to his, barely touching. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The pain bloomed too fast, too deep. And all she could do was kneel there, frozen, as everything inside her unraveled.

She had seen this.

She had known.

And still—she had let him die.

Her breath came sharp and shallow now, as if she were drowning in the open air. Her body folded forward, her hands slipping into the bloodied earth around him. This time, she had no grace to hold onto. The control she had wielded for centuries—the poise of a queen, the restraint of a goddess—shattered.

“I didn’t save him,” she choked, her voice barely audible.

Feng Jiu had come close, her steps slow, her hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes were glassed with tears—but she did not speak. She could not. This was not a sorrow she could mend.

Bai Qian’s grip on Boromir’s hand tightened, as though by force alone she could keep him tethered. His skin was already losing warmth.

“I let it happen. I let it happen…”

Her shoulders began to shake—small tremors at first, then deeper ones that rocked her whole frame. Still, no scream came. No collapse. Just breath after broken breath.

And the look in her eyes—when she finally raised her head—was one Feng Jiu would never forget. Not in all the realms. A look of loss so vast, it seemed to reach beyond this life, into all the lives Bai Qian had already lived—and all the ones she no longer wanted to face alone.n She did not cry like mortals did. She cried like someone who had run out of time.

Feng Jiu stood, her bright eyes dimmed with sorrow. There was no mischief in her face now, no teasing smirk. Only a stunned quiet—the kind that came when words had no meaning. Her hands were clenched tightly together. Her jaw trembled, though she forced it still. She had never seen her aunt like this. Bai Qian had always been serene, distant, unshakable. Even when Ye Hua had fallen, her grief had come like snow—silent, regal, untouched by the world.

But now?

Now she saw Bai Qian as she truly was. Undone. Her aunt knelt beside Boromir—not as the Queen of Qing Qiu. Not as a High Goddess of any realm. But as a woman brought to her knees by love unspoken and time denied.

Feng Jiu stepped forward slowly, her voice barely audible.

“Gou Gou…” The name was a whisper. A bridge between past and present.

Her aunt clung to Boromir’s hand, as if holding it tightly enough could rewrite the last few minutes.

“I thought I had more time…”

Feng Jiu’s throat tightened. She had no answer. What could she possibly say?

Her gaze fell on Boromir—his face strangely peaceful now. And then to her aunt, whose composure had always seemed untouchable.

But here she was, shaking, clutching a fallen man like he held the last of her strength. This wasn’t grief bound in ceremony. It was raw. Mortal. And for the first time, Feng Jiu understood: this man had mattered. Not like others who came and went from immortal lives. He had changed something in Bai Qian.

He had reached something in her soul.

And now that he was gone—truly gone—there was nothing Feng Jiu could do to ease the wound left behind.

Across from Bai Qian, Aragorn watched. He had seen many things in his years. He had witnessed kin fall, watched noble men give their last for causes no one would remember. But this—This was something older. Something sacred. He had not known what she was before—only guessed at it. But now, as he watched Bai Qian’s shoulders tremble, as he saw the tears that fell not freely but as though carved from something eternal—

He understood.

This was not the grief of a passing fancy. This was the grief of a soul that had recognized another. And lost him.

He lowered his head in reverence. No words came. None were needed.

Legolas stood just behind Aragorn, silent. His keen eyes, sharpened by centuries of watchfulness, took in every detail. The way Bai Qian held Boromir’s hand. The way she shook. The way she made no effort to compose herself. He said nothing. But he stepped back—not out of dismissal, but respect. A silent gesture: this is hers to carry.

Gimli, too, had drawn near, his usual bluster nowhere in sight. He removed his helmet, bowing his head—not in the Dwarvish manner of battle remembrance, but something quieter. Less formal. More human.

None of them could comfort her. They knew that. They had seen death before. But never grief like this.

Not from a being like her.

And in the stillness of Amon Hen, where blood stained the earth and the echoes of the horn still seemed to linger in the trees, they stood together—

Three warriors of Middle-earth bearing witness to a goddess who had just lost a man. To a woman who could not save the one who gave her hope.

And though not a single word passed between them—

They understood.

The forest had fallen silent.

The smoke of battle still clung to the trees, but it was the absence of sound that made the world feel hollow. No birds. No cries. Only the wind stirring leaves—soft, reverent, as if nature itself mourned the fallen.

Frodo and Sam were gone—lost to whatever path they had chosen.

And Boromir lay still, his lifeless body prepared for the river.

Bai Qian stood at the edge of the clearing, apart from the others. Her eyes—clouded, unreadable—remained fixed on him. Her sleeves whispered in the wind, but she did not move.

They were dressing him in honor. Placing his sword, broken horn, armor. Performing the rites of Men. It was a practice she knew. One she had followed before. Clean hands. Quiet breath. Let go. But her heart trembled with every movement they made.

Aragorn’s face was grave as he gently placed Boromir’s sword upon his chest. The hilt nestled into the crook of his arm with reverence. Legolas adjusted the hem of the cloak. Gimli stood silent, his helm pressed to his chest.

Each bore their grief in silence. But hers roared beneath her skin.

Let him go, she told herself. The voice was hers—but distant, mechanical. The voice of a Bai Qian that could still walk away from heartbreak.

That Bai Qian no longer lived here.

Her breath hitched when Aragorn stepped toward the boat they had prepared, the river’s edge glinting gold beneath the dying sun. Boromir’s body rested there, cradled by wood and water.

He cannot die like this, she thought. Not while I still have the power.

The instinct to reach for that power was reflex—centuries of divine discipline and unspoken restraint warred inside her. She was trained to hold the balance. To respect the cycle.

But Boromir’s soul... it had not fully left.

She felt it.

Like a whisper just beyond the veil, like breath caught in the branches overhead. He lingered.

Feng Jiu hovered nearby, her eyes wide. She said nothing. Then, soft as falling petals:

“Gou Gou…”

The sound of her name broke something loose.

Bai Qian stepped forward. Each step felt wrong. Her feet were light, but her heart dragged her backward with every motion. Her hand rose and touched Boromir’s chest—cool now, but not empty. She closed her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips, no louder than wind brushing stone. Then she turned to Aragorn. He stood at the prow, hands steady, prepared to push. Legolas waited in the shallows, guiding the boat with one hand on its stern.

“We commit our brother to the river,” Aragorn said, voice low and firm.

They began to push.

“Stop.”

Her voice cut the silence like a blade.

Legolas paused, ankle-deep in water. His eyes lifted to hers—watchful, wary. “My lady,” he said gently. “He is gone. It is time.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Please.”

Aragorn’s hands stilled on the prow. “We must,” he said. “This is our way. He cannot stay.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice tightening. Her hands curled at her sides.

Gimli turned, frowning. “Do not speak to us of grief as if we are strangers to it, lass. We know what must be done.”

“I know the ways of Men,” she said, voice hollow. Then sharper: “But I am not one of them.” There was something in her voice now. Not anger. Not madness. Something ancient. And breaking. She moved to Boromir’s side. Her fingers hovered above his brow. She had watched gods die. Kings fall. Lovers fade.

But not this.

Feng Jiu stepped closer. “Gou Gou… he’s gone. You… you have to let him go.”

Bai Qian did not look away. Her eyes shimmered—not with power, but sorrow. “I am a spirit of Qing Qiu,” she said, her voice rising. “Seventeenth disciple of Mo Yuan. Queen of the Fox Clan. A high goddess of the Nine Heavens.”

Feng Jiu blinked. “What are you saying?”

Bai Qian didn’t answer. Instead, she raised one hand—slowly, reverently. Light bloomed. Pale blue-white. Gentle at first. It curled into form, luminous and unearthly. A lantern—silver and jade, hovering above her palm. Its flame pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.

Aragorn stepped back. His hand drifted toward his sword—not in threat, but awe.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “Thatn is no Elven craft.”

“No,” Bai Qian said. “It is not.” Her voice was steadier now—not calm, but claimed. Her name, her grief, her purpose—all one.

“This is the Soul-Gathering Lamp of the Nine Heavens.”

Aragorn’s voice was cautious. “What does it do?”

She looked down at Boromir. Her hand, still holding the lantern, trembled faintly. “It gathers what remains of a soul… if it has not fully departed. With the proper offering—his breath, his essence—it may bring him back.”

There was a beat of silence.The river murmured beside them.

Feng Jiu’s voice was a whisper. “Gou Gou… how long have you known?”

“That I would try?” Bai Qian’s lips curved faintly—not a smile, more the shadow of one. “Since the moment he fell in a vision.” Her gaze remained on Boromir. “I just didn’t let myself believe it.”

Aragorn stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His voice was steady, but edged. “You cannot tamper with death. Not like this.”

“I can,” Bai Qian said softly. “And I will.”

Legolas’s voice was quieter, but carried a sharpness like drawn steel. “What you speak of… it is unnatural.”

“So is the Ring,” she replied, her voice still measured. “So is Sauron’s rise. So was the fall of Númenor, if your histories speak true.” She turned her eyes to Aragorn—cool, ancient, unwavering. “Do not lecture me about the order of this world when it’s already unraveling.”

Feng Jiu looked between them, heart racing. “But Gou Gou… why him? You’ve never—” She hesitated. “You’ve never risked this before. Not for mortals.”

Bai Qian’s gaze softened as it met her niece’s. “Because I feel it,” she said, voice lowered but clear. “Not duty. Not compassion. Something else.” She looked back at Boromir. “He was brave. Proud. Flawed. But he gave everything. And now he lies here as if none of it mattered.”

She knelt beside him again.

“But it does matter. And if even a thread of his soul lingers… I will reach for it.”

Feng Jiu took a shaky step closer. “And the cost?”

Bai Qian didn’t answer right away. Her eyes remained on Boromir’s face—his stillness, the weight of what he had carried. Then: “My cultivation. My years of power. Perhaps more.”

Silence fell like stone.

Feng Jiu’s throat tightened. “Gou Gou… if you do this, you might not—”

“I know.”

And with that, Bai Qian turned to the boat. The Soul-Gathering Lamp floated at her side, pulsing quietly—waiting. She knelt again, placing her palm flat over Boromir’s heart.

That silenced them all.

“Gou Gou...” Feng Jiu’s throat tightened.

And with that, she moved to the boat. The lamp hovered beside her like a silent witness. She knelt again, placing her palm flat over Boromir’s heart. There was no chant. No spoken invocation. Only silence—thick, reverent—as her power gathered around her like mist before rainfall. The forest itself seemed to still, leaves trembling in anticipation. Bai Qian closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed.

And in that breathless pause, something shifted—an energy older than the trees, deeper than the river, began to hum through the air. The Soul-Gathering Lamp pulsed beside her—its glow responding not to words, but to intention. To grief made holy. It was not a spell. It was a prayer. Unspoken. Unyielding. The lamp hovered nearby, its soft glow beginning to brighten, pulse by pulse.

Bai Qian looked down once more at Boromir—pale, still, regal in death. From within her sleeve, she drew a small, slender dagger. The hilt was fox-etched silver, worn from centuries. It gleamed once in the dying light. And then—

She turned it inward. The blade pierced cleanly into her chest, just above the heart.

“My lady!”

“Gou Gou!”

Blood bloomed instantly, staining her robes dark crimson. She gasped, but her expression never broke. Her hands caught what they could, shaking only slightly from the pain.

Legolas moved first, instinctively stepping forward.

“Stop her—she’s losing too much—” Aragorn barked, already moving.

“Do not touch her!” Feng Jiu cried, flinging herself between them. Her arms outstretched, eyes bright with panic.

Aragorn froze, stunned.

“She’ll bleed out—”

“She knows what she’s doing!” Feng Jiu said, voice tight with fear. “It’s white fox blood—divine. Just a few drops can preserve a body past death.”

Gimli’s eyes went wide. “This is madness,” he muttered. “She’ll bleed herself dry—”

“To save him,” Feng Jiu snapped. “So watch. Or step aside.”

The others fell still.

Bai Qian’s robes had turned dark with blood. Yet her face—drawn, white, unwavering—remained calm. Her hands cupped the crimson offering. Her breath trembled, but did not falter. She leaned forward, parting Boromir’s lips with reverent fingers. And then, slowly, she poured her blood into his mouth. It shimmered faintly—silver-touched, otherworldly—as it passed his lips.

For a moment, there was nothing.

The forest held its breath.

The light of the Soul-Gathering Lamp flared—a sudden pulse, deep and low, like the first beat of a distant heart. Bai Qian’s shoulders sagged from the strain. Her face had gone ashen. Her body swayed. But her eyes remained fixed on Boromir.

“I am preserving the vessel,” she murmured. Her voice was hoarse, hollow. “Now… the lamp will call the soul.”

The glow pulsed again—stronger. Brighter. Like it had heard her.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli stood transfixed. They had seen death, seen miracles, but never this—never a goddess willing to bleed for a man of Gondor.

Feng Jiu pressed a hand to her own chest, shaken to her core. “Gou Gou…” she whispered, barely audible.

The forest wind shifted. The flame in the lamp pulsed again—slow and strong, like a heartbeat resuming its rhythm.

Bai Qian’s hands, still slick with blood, trembled as she reached for the broken Horn of Gondor. The two halves lay where they had placed them—silent, sacred, as if mourning in their own way. Her fingers curled around the ivory. She rose unsteadily, staggered once, then knelt once more beside the Soul-Gathering Lamp. Her white robes—stained dark red across the chest—trailed behind her like snow caught in a dying light.

She held the pieces to the flame. The horn ignited. Not with fire, but with a searing silver-blue light, burning without heat. The flame devoured the relic cleanly, sending sparks leaping into the air—sharp, bright, like stars falling upward. The smoke that followed smelled not of ash, but of memory.

The lamp responded. Its flame flared higher, brighter—casting ghostlight across the trees. Something stirred within its glow.

Bai Qian exhaled, her breath slow and cracked. She pressed a trembling hand against the wound in her chest. A shimmer—faint, like mist—began to rise from her skin. It wasn’t light. It wasn’t air. It was something older. Deeper.

It was her cultivation, leaving her.

Feng Jiu stepped back, eyes wide. “She’s shedding her cultivation…”

Aragorn turned sharply. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Feng Jiu said quietly, “she is giving up who she is. Her strength. Her power. Everything she has spent thousands of years building. To bring him back... the price must match the wrong.”

The wind around them stilled. The sky dimmed, just for a heartbeat, as if the sun itself hesitated. Then Bai Qian’s body jerked forward. She coughed violently—blood dark and thick spilling from her lips. She fell sideways, barely catching herself. The Lamp flickered. Its silver flame hissed.

“Gou Gou!” Feng Jiu cried, rushing forward. Bai Qian sagged into her niece’s arms, her body ashen, her glow extinguished. Her pulse fluttered beneath her skin.

Aragorn knelt immediately beside them, hands instinctively reaching to check for wounds. “She’s bleeding from within—this isn’t just the chest wound—”

“No,” Feng Jiu said. “It’s backlash. She’s divine—and she defied the fabric of this world. Life wasn’t meant to be returned like this. Not here.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Aragorn demanded, desperation rising in his voice. “Tell me. Anything.”

Feng Jiu’s eyes brimmed, but she shook her head. “If you touch her now—if you interfere—you could destroy the link between his soul and the vessel. It may kill her and Boromir will be lost to the dead forever.”

Legolas stood still, eyes narrowed, watching the light. Watching her. “She fights death with everything in her,” he said softly. “Even her soul.”

Gimli swallowed hard. “And if she fails?”

“She won’t,” Feng Jiu whispered, brushing hair from Bai Qian’s sweat-slick brow. “She is High Goddess of the Nine Heavens. She made her choice.”

And as if in answer, the Soul-Gathering Lamp pulsed again—slow, steady, radiant.

The forest around them was silent now. Time itself seemed to hush. The lamp hovered beside Boromir’s body, glowing faintly—its silver light playing along the contours of his face. He lay still. Breathless. But no longer cold.

Bai Qian slumped nearby, barely upright, her body trembling from the effort. Her face was paper-pale, her breath a whisper. And yet—her eyes opened. They were dim. But steady.

Feng Jiu held her hand.

“He is not yet among us,” Bai Qian murmured, voice thin as wind. “The ritual is complete. But his soul has far to travel.”

Aragorn stepped forward cautiously. “What does that mean?”

Bai Qian looked at him—calm, though her limbs shook. “It means he will not wake now. His spirit must return slowly. Gently. Or not at all.”

Legolas’ voice was quiet. “And if something interferes?”

“Then the ritual fails,” she said. “And he dies—truly, this time.”

Another silence fell. The kind that felt like a decision being made.

Bai Qian’s gaze returned to Boromir. “I will stay with him,” she said simply. “Until he returns. I will not leave his side.”

Gimli frowned. “You mean to travel with him?”

She nodded, slowly. “Yes. By boat. The enchantment is fragile. His body must be guarded. His soul... guided.”

Aragorn looked troubled. “If you follow the river, you’ll reach Osgiliath. Gondorian soldiers patrol those waters. If they see you with his body—”

“They will think I stole him,” she said. “That I desecrated him. That I had a hand in his death.”

“They may try to stop you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said, and though her voice was quiet, it carried the finality of thunder. “Because he mattered.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed. “You owe him nothing,” he said softly. “You’ve already—”

“I know,” Bai Qian interrupted, her voice barely above a breath—but still it stilled them. Not sharp. Not cold. Just honest. “But not everything is owed.” She turned her eyes to the boat again, where Boromir lay still beneath the lamp’s soft light. Her next words were softer—meant only for herself, and perhaps the wind.

“He gave me something… I hadn’t expected. And I am not ready to let it go.”

Feng Jiu helped her to her feet. Bai Qian stood, barely—but still regal. Still a queen.

“The lamp will guide me,” she said. “And I will see him home.”

She turned her eyes to the boat.

The ritual was over. And her vigil had just begun.

The current tugged softly at the boat as it glided outward, carrying Bai Qian and Boromir into the river’s embrace. The Soul-Gathering Lamp glowed faintly at the bow, its light pulsing slow and steady—like a heartbeat suspended between worlds. Bai Qian knelt beside Boromir’s body, unmoving, her sleeve fluttering in the wind like a banner at half-mast. She did not look back.

On the riverbank, Aragorn and Legolas stood in silence, watching until the vessel became little more than a shape against the silver water. Then Legolas turned, walking to the last remaining elven boat. He placed his hands on the edge and gave it a firm push.

“If we are quick,” he said, voice steady, “we will catch Frodo and Sam before nightfall.”

Aragorn didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed across the Anduin—at the distant shore where a small boat rested against the bank. Two tiny figures could be seen slipping into the woods beyond, already retreating into shadow.

Legolas glanced at Aragorn. “You mean not to follow them…” he said, realization dawning in his tone.

Aragorn exhaled slowly. “Frodo’s fate is no longer in our hands.”

Behind them, Gimli gave a grunt, frustration tightening his brow. “Then it has all been in vain,” he said grimly. “The Fellowship has failed.”

Aragorn turned at last, his voice low but clear. “Not if we hold true to each other.” His gaze swept toward the distant hills, hardening. “We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left.”

From his pack, he drew a hunting knife and buckled it to his belt with finality.

“Leave all that can be spared behind,” he said, with a soldier’s clarity. Then, quieter—but charged with fire—“We travel light.” His eyes glinted. “Let’s hunt some Orc.”

Gimli’s eyes gleamed as he looked at Legolas. “Yes! Hah!”

But before they could leave, Legolas paused, turning back to the riverbank. Feng Jiu stood still, her gaze locked on the shrinking silhouette of the boat. She had not moved, save for the slight tremble in her arms as she hugged herself—held tight against the wind and the ache in her chest.

Legolas stepped closer. “Are you coming with, my lady?” he asked, gentle as falling snow.

She didn’t speak at first. Her voice, when it came, was soft. “This is what she meant…”

Aragorn turned, his expression tightening.

“In Lothlórien,” she continued, “Gou Gou told me there would come a time where our paths would split. That she would go somewhere I could not follow.” Her lips trembled. “She knew. Even then. And she chose him.” The words were quiet, but their meaning rang clear as steel.

She exhaled slowly and lifted her chin, blinking back the mist from her eyes. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Aragorn nodded—no words, only understanding in his eyes—and turned to gather his gear. Gimli gave Feng Jiu’s shoulder a gruff but kind pat before he followed.

Only Legolas lingered. His gaze found hers, steady and clear. “She is strong,” he said, voice low. “But so are you.” Then the elf turned, vanishing into the trees with the soundless ease of his kind.

Feng Jiu remained, her small figure outlined against the river, the wind tugging gently at her robes. The Soul-Gathering Lamp still glowed faintly in the distance—its light defiant, unwavering, like a promise burning in twilight.

She stayed until it vanished around the bend.

And only then did she turn—shoulders squared, heart aching—and follow the path into the woods.

The boat drifted in solemn silence down the Anduin, guided by current and quiet will—of river, of fate, of something older still.

Moonlight spilled in silver strands across the dark water. The trees on either bank stirred gently, their leaves whispering in the hush of night—reverent, or perhaps warning. At the bow, the Soul-Gathering Lamp glowed low and unwavering, its pale blue flame flickering like a memory reaching back across lifetimes.

Bai Qian knelt at Boromir’s side.

Her sleeves were folded beneath her knees, her posture poised despite the toll carved into her bones. The blood on her robes—her own, given freely—had dried into stiff, rust-colored petals across her chest. Her strength was threadbare, her spirit hollowed and raw. She had poured herself into the ritual. Fox fire. Divine blood. The burning of the Horn of Gondor. And now there was nothing left to give.

Only waiting. The wind kissed her cheeks, cool and soft, the kind of breeze that once carried blossoms through the air in the immortal realm. Here, it carried only silence.

Boromir lay still beneath her hands. The pain that had twisted his brow had eased. His face, once marked by grim determination and death’s encroaching grip, now held the calm of dreamless sleep. The arrow wounds remained—three, deep and merciless—but the blood no longer wept from them. The bruised skin was beginning to pale. The torn flesh, though still broken, no longer gaped open.

She laid her palm lightly over his chest. There was no heartbeat. Not yet. But the skin beneath her hand… it was no longer cold. Not warm, either, but—something in between. As if life remembered him and was trying, gently, to return. Her eyes lifted to his face. His lips, once edged in the ashen blue of death, now held the faintest trace of color—like a promise trying to find shape.

The lamp pulsed. Once. Soft. Blue. Steady.

It was working. Slowly. Painfully. But it was working.

Bai Qian’s shoulders loosened, the tiniest tremble leaving her body in an exhale. Not in surrender—but in relief that was too fragile to name. She reached forward, brushing a strand of dark hair from his brow, her fingertips tender where once they had wielded blades and power.

He did not move. He would not—not yet. But the distance between life and death had lessened.

He was not lost.

She bent forward, her forehead coming to rest gently against his, and let her voice fall like a breath across his skin. “Come back, Boromir,” she whispered. “You’re not finished yet.”

The Soul-Gathering Lamp flared—once, sharp and soft—as if answering.

And the boat glided onward into the dark, carrying them both through shadow and silence.

Chapter Text

The river was cloaked in mist that morning, veiling the water in a hush of silver and shadow. High above, sunlight strained against thick cloud, but reached only as a faint glow—diffused, distant. Bai Qian sat at the stern of the narrow elven boat, arms folded around her drawn-up knees, her posture composed but silent, carved from something more than weariness. At her feet, Boromir lay wrapped in a blanket to ward off the morning chill. The Soul-Gathering Lamp glowed faintly at the bow, golden light pulsing slow and even—like a breath not yet taken.

She had not slept. She couldn’t. Every few hours, she leaned over him, pressing another drop of her blood between his lips. The wounds from the Uruk-hai’s arrows had sealed over now, smooth and strange with their otherworldly sheen—neither truly healed, nor untouched. His fingers, once clenched in death’s rigidity, now rested softly atop his chest. As though in a dream.

A tremor passed through her hands as she adjusted the blanket across his shoulder. Her magic was unraveling—thread by precious thread. Even holding the boat steady took effort now. The constant strain of preserving his body, shielding it with warmth, weaving herself into the remnants of his soul—it wore her thin. She felt it. The slow lightening of her limbs. The ache behind her eyes. She was hollowing out, piece by aching piece.

And still, she would not stop.

Her breath hitched. She looked down at her sleeves—silk once white as starlight, now browned and blackened in places, scorched by magical backlash. The fabric clung to her arms like wet paper. Her bones pulsed with exhaustion, not the kind felt after battle, but the kind that lived in the soul.

“I thought you were a fool,” she murmured hoarsely, reaching to smooth his hair. “But I was worse. For letting you matter this much.”

Time passed like mist—ungraspable, unmarked. Eventually, she began to speak to him. Softly. As though her voice might keep the tether from fraying.

“Qing Qiu is peaceful in spring,” she said, the words barely stirring the air. “The cliffs bloom with peach blossoms until the wind smells sweet with them. You’d scoff at first—call it too soft, too delicate for a soldier’s taste.” A faint smile touched her lips, sad and knowing.

“But then you’d breathe easier. Sleep deeper. Let the silence settle in your bones.”  She brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. “You’d pretend to grumble. Say it was too quiet. Too pink. But you’d stay.” Her fingers lingered just above his chest. “You’d stay because for once, there’d be nothing you'd have to fight for.”

Her gaze traced the faint rise and fall of his chest—illusion, perhaps. Or hope.

“There’s a waterfall that sings after sunset. Feng Jiu and I would cross it barefoot, racing over the stones, laughing like the world was nothing but sky and water.” Her voice cracked, soft and vulnerable. “I haven’t told that to anyone.”

She leaned closer, her breath brushing his ear.

“I trained under Mo Yuan, the God of War,” she whispered. “I was headstrong. Defiant. Determined to prove myself, even when I didn’t yet understand what that meant.” Her gaze flicked toward the Jade Purity Fan lying beside her, quiet now. “I fought in the war against the Ghost Tribe. I died. I came back.”

The fan, like her, had survived.

“When I returned, that fan chose me. It knew before I did what I had become. A high goddess. A guardian. A weapon.” Her voice softened. “But never someone who needed anyone.”

Her eyes settled on him again.

“Then you came along. Loud. Mortal. Stubborn.” Her fingers brushed his cheek. “But I saw it. The weight you carried. You never hid it as well as you thought.”

Her palm settled once more against his chest, light and steady.

“And still, you stood. With three arrows in your body, you stood.”

The boat rocked gently beneath them. She leaned her forehead to his once more, eyes fluttering shut.

“I have fought ghosts, demons, kings... but I have never feared them. Not the way I fear this.”

The Soul-Gathering Lamp gave a single, steady pulse.

Her eyes opened.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Her voice was quieter than before. Not pleading. Just honest. “Don’t keep me waiting much longer.”

The river bore them on—two souls suspended between breath and silence, drifting through fog toward the unknown.

Night crept in like a soft shroud. The mists had thinned by twilight, revealing a sky pricked with cold stars. The river flowed gentle and deep beneath them, cradling the boat in a current that sighed like a tired world. Bai Qian knelt beside Boromir again, limbs aching, breath shallow. She had fed him more blood before sunset. The faint color in his cheeks remained. Warmth lingered in his fingers.

But still, he did not stir.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing her robes tighter, and tilted her head to the heavens. A breath passed her lips—uneven, frayed. The silence pressed in now. No longer serene. Only endless.

“There... was someone else,” she said softly, the words barely brushing the air. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t know if he could hear. Perhaps she was only saying it aloud to keep from falling apart. “His name was Ye Hua. A crown prince of the Nine Heavens.” Her lips curved in a tired, bitter smile. “We were promised before I even remembered who I was.”

Her fingers toyed absently with a frayed thread at her wrist. “I thought he was dull. Too proper. Too composed. I mocked him. Avoided him. He gave everything.” Her voice hitched. “And I offered so little… until the end.”

The boat shifted gently. The Soul Gathering Lamp flickered—dim and steady, like a lantern remembering grief.

“He died before I could say what I needed to. To protect our son. To protect me.” A pause. “I watched him fall—shattered beneath the Bell of Donghuang. I was there. But he...he didn't let me help him.”

Her hand trembled as she reached once more to Boromir’s chest. Still warm. Still waiting.

“Ye Hua was a god. But even gods fall.”

Silence stretched. Only the ripple of the river answered.

“I thought that kind of loss would make me numb forever. That I would never care like that again.” She swallowed. “You were not meant to matter. Just a man. Just a fight.” She brushed a lock of hair from Boromir’s brow, her touch light, lingering.

“But you are not buried. Not yet.”

A breeze stirred, lifting the edges of her robe like ghost hands.

“I don’t know what it means,” she murmured. “That I can reach for you—and not for him. That I can still give you this… chance.” Her voice softened to something almost childlike in its honesty.

“I don’t know what I want. Only that I cannot let you go.”

The lamp pulsed again—gentle, resolute, gold as memory.

Bai Qian closed her eyes. The ache in her limbs, the weight in her chest, the fear threading through her resolve—it all pressed in. Still, she stayed awake. Watching. Waiting.

The night deepened, and the boat sailed on.

The crags of Emyn Muil stretched endlessly beneath a brooding sky, jagged stone and broken paths offering little mercy. Wind knifed through the ravines, trailing the distant shrieks of crows and the vanishing stench of orcs. Aragorn crouched beside a scatter of cracked stone, fingers brushing faint impressions in the mud. 

“They passed here just after nightfall,” he said quietly, certainty grounding his voice.

Legolas stepped beside him, gaze fixed on the horizon. “They are swift,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Faster than creatures burdened.”

Above them, a flicker of red danced along the ridge. Feng Jiu—now in her fox form—skittered down the rocks with nimble grace, paws silent on stone. She sniffed at a gnarled root, then followed the trail with a low, warning growl.

Gimli shifted uneasily. “She gives me the shivers like that.”

“She’s tracking,” Aragorn replied, watching her intently. “And well.”

Feng Jiu stopped at a narrow ledge and shifted mid-stride—fur melting into silk and starlight. She landed softly, crouched low as she examined a churned patch of earth. Her robes, wind-tugged and pink as peach blossoms, billowed behind her. She turned her head.

“They’re pushing through the worst terrain,” she said. “Deliberately. Trying to lose us. But the scent here—orc sweat, blood, fear—it’s thick.”

“Pippin and Merry?” Aragorn asked.

She nodded once. “One of them is hurt.”

Gimli scowled. “Then we’ve no time to waste. Curse these blasted hills.”

Legolas’s eyes scanned the horizon. “No sign yet. But they are not far.”

Feng Jiu glanced south. Her voice shifted, softer. “Gou Gou is still alive.”

Legolas turned to her. “You feel her?”

“She is my aunt,” Feng Jiu said, not looking at him. “Of course I do.” Without another word, she vanished—a blur of red fur darting back into the rocks.

Aragorn watched her go.

Gimli grunted. “Let’s hope she doesn’t vanish when steel clashes again.”

They pressed on.

By twilight, the sky had darkened to iron. The stars fought through a ceiling of cloud, and a meager fire crackled beneath a stone overhang. Aragorn sat sharpening his blade, his expression unreadable. Gimli dozed nearby, axe across his chest. Feng Jiu had been quiet since sundown. Her usual spark dimmed. She sat apart, eyes distant, fixed southward as if she could will Bai Qian’s return with sheer force.

Legolas watched her. In the fire’s flicker, her eyes gleamed—but not with mischief or challenge. It was fear. Quiet, deep, and close to breaking.

“You’re troubled,” he said softly.

Feng Jiu didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, “Our connection is weakening. I can feel it. She’s unraveling herself for him.” Her voice thinned. “It’s more than she should give.”

Legolas nodded once, grave. “She made her choice. But that doesn’t mean it won’t cost her everything.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, folding her arms across her knees. “And she would never let me say that.”

Silence settled. Then, with a tired shimmer, Feng Jiu shifted again—light and fur. Her small fox form curled up by the fire’s edge, her red tails folding protectively over her.

Legolas hesitated. Then he stood, crossed the camp, and sat beside her. No words. Just presence. The kind of stillness that guarded pain, not questioned it.

She stirred as he sat. Without waking, she shifted toward him, her small body brushing his thigh. A soft sigh escaped her, and one of her tails flopped gently across his lap. At first he didn’t move, but then, he remembered her sleeping between the hobbits in Lothlórien—comfort given without asking. And now, in this desolate place, the comfort remained, but it was laced with grief. He looked to the sky, to the hidden stars, and did not speak.

But he stayed.

The land had changed again—hardened into ridges of stone and scrub, where the wind howled like a thing with fangs. Even under daylight, shadows clung stubbornly to the hills. And still, they ran. Aragorn crouched low beside a slab of sun-warmed rock, pressing his ear against its surface. He stayed there, motionless, listening. Then he rose swiftly, urgency sharpening his features.

“They’ve picked up our scent,” he muttered. “They’re moving faster.” Without another word, he took off at a run.

Legolas was already ahead, bounding up the slope with tireless grace. “Come, Gimli!” he called back, not breaking stride.

A flash of red streaked past them—Feng Jiu in fox form, her paws barely touching the earth as she moved. Ash clung to her fur, but she flowed over the rocks like wind and flame. She veered left, then snapped into her human shape mid-leap, robes swirling around her as she landed beside Aragorn in a burst of light.

“They’re doubling back and trying to confuse the trail,” she said quickly, breath controlled. “But there’s still blood in the air. They’ve turned northeast.”

Gimli crested the hill behind them, panting, his beard damp with sweat. “Three days and nights,” he wheezed. “No food, no adequate rest, and nothing but blasted stone and boot-prints to show for it.” Still, he pressed on, planting his axe into the soil like a banner of resolve.

They pressed forward again, figures moving like shadows across the heights—two men, an elf, and a blur of red fur racing across the ridge.

Aragorn stopped suddenly, crouching. From the grass, he lifted a single object: a silver brooch, shaped like a leaf. He held it reverently.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall.”

Legolas joined him, his eyes scanning the broken trail ahead. “They may yet live.”

“They’re less than a day ahead. Let's move.”

Feng Jiu shimmered back into fox form, a streak of red light hurtling over the rocks. Legolas was at her heels, a faint grin curling at the corner of his mouth despite the tension.

“Keep up, Gimli!” he called.

The Dwarf had just crested the slope. His foot caught on a loose stone, and with a thunderous rumble of armor and indignation, he tumbled down the hill, cursing the terrain in Khuzdul all the way. “I’m wasted on cross-country,” he growled as he hauled himself upright. “We Dwarves are natural sprinters—very dangerous over short distances.”

At the next ridge, the land opened before them in sweeping majesty. Golden fields stretched far and wide, stirred by the wind like the mane of some sleeping beast.

“Rohan,” Aragorn breathed. “Land of the Horse-lords.” But his gaze darkened. He knelt again, fingers pressing to the earth. “There is a foulness in this wind,” he murmured. “Something unnatural hastens their pace. It is not their strength alone.”

Legolas strode to the edge of the rise, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. Feng Jiu stood beside him, still in her fox form, her tails brushing against his boot. She was perfectly still—ears flicking, nose lifted—her gaze locked on the eastern horizon, golden eyes alert.

“Legolas!” Aragorn called. “What do your elf-eyes see?”

Legolas’s voice was tense, clipped. “The Uruks turn northeast.” He paused. His eyes widened.

“They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened.

“Saruman.”

Morning broke slowly, gilding the sky in muted silver that softened the river’s restless churn. Mist clung low over the water, and though the sun rose, it brought no warmth. Bai Qian sat upright in the boat, spine straight despite the weight pressing into her bones. Her hair was windblown, her robes torn and stained, her hands blood-crusted from offering more than she should have. And yet she remained still—composed, immovable—as though the heavens themselves bore witness to this moment.

Today was the third day. A sacred number. A number of resurrections and returns. Of myths fulfilled and hope reborn.

Her gaze dropped to Boromir’s body, cradled in layers of fox fur and elven cloak. His wounds had faded to pale, sealed scars across his chest—no longer angry red, but ghost-like remnants of the battle that felled him. His skin held warmth now. His lips were no longer tinged with death, but with life slowly returning. And the Soul Lamp pulsed at the bow—brighter than before, its glow steady and vigilant.

Bai Qian lifted his hand between hers, cradling it gently. She had done all she could. And today, she believed—truly believed—he would open his eyes.

She waited.

The boat drifted through reed-strewn bends and narrow channels, steered only by the last threads of her power. Time slipped by. The sun climbed. Still, he did not stir. He did not breath, and his eyes remained shut.

By midday, she began to hum—soft and low, songs from her youth in Kunlun. Old melodies Mo Yuan had once taught her when she was still a headstrong disciple with dust on her boots and mischief in her smile. Songs passed through generations of foxes in Qing Qiu, sung when someone might be found again after a long absence. She whispered one now, brushing a lock of Boromir’s hair away from his brow.

But nothing changed. The Soul Lamp continued to glow, but his chest did not rise.

By twilight, the cold returned. The wind picked up. And still—nothing.

The light behind her eyes dimmed. She did not weep. Not truly. But when she pressed her lips to the back of his hand, a single tear slipped free—carving a slow trail down her cheek before vanishing into his skin. She did not wipe it away.

Instead, she bowed her head, and let the stillness enshroud them both.

When night came, it was starless. She sat beside him again, swaying faintly with the rhythm of the river. The weight of three sleepless days gnawed at her limbs. Her spirit was frayed, thinned, but not broken. She pressed a hand to the wound at her chest—still faintly raw beneath the layers of cloth—and drew from it what little blood remained willing to answer her call. Her fingers trembled as she coaxed a final offering forth. Then, as always, she leaned down and let the crimson thread pass from her lips to his.

Afterward, her forehead came to rest against his. “I thought you would return today,” she whispered. “But perhaps this world moves differently. Perhaps it takes more time.” A pause. “Or maybe... the magic does not belong here at all.”

Her voice did not tremble. She had lived long enough to master that. But her hand lingered on his chest. Feeling—not breath. Not a heartbeat. Not presence.

And still, she did not stop.

Bai Qian sat upright again, regal even in ruin, and resumed her vigil. If not today, then tomorrow. If not three days, then five.If not here—then in the next life.

She would wait.

The morning came gray and hushed. A fine mist clung to the river like breath on glass, and Bai Qian sat in the drifting boat as she had for four days, unmoving. But today, the silence felt different.

Heavier.

It was Feng Jiu’s absence that struck the hardest. She had not let herself think of it—not truly—until now. Until the dull ache in her limbs, the hollowness behind her eyes, and the fraying edge of her magic left her vulnerable to more than fatigue. Her little fox. Her bright, impulsive niece with laughter like bells and fire in her heels. Reckless to a fault, wild as moonlight, and loyal in ways that mattered more than rules. Now she was gone—somewhere behind her, hopefully with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

And Bai Qian… was alone.

Her gaze dropped to Boromir.

Still he lay in silence.

She traced the shape of his brow with steady fingers. His features, once drawn with pain, now rested in a deceptive calm. He looked as though he might wake at any moment. But no flicker moved behind those lids. No flutter of breath, no grasping hand.

The Soul Lamp glowed. Unwavering. But unchanged.

She should have told Feng Jiu goodbye.

Her voice cracked, just slightly, as she spoke—not to Boromir, not to herself, but to the ache inside her that had no name. “She will make a chaotic queen,” Bai Qian murmured, her thumb brushing gently over Boromir’s knuckles. “Chaotic, but brilliant.”

The corners of her lips lifted faintly. “Always sneaking sweets. Always chasing butterflies or trouble—or both. But her heart’s pure. Fierce. Golden. She’s fox-blood, through and through.” Her voice dropped, wistful. “I taught her what I could. Whether she listened was another matter.” A quiet breath of laughter escaped her.

“She’ll rule well one day. I know she will. I just wish she were here.”

She tucked the blanket higher over Boromir’s chest and let the hush of the river settle around them.

“You’re lucky,” she added, soft and fond. “You missed her tantrums.”

For a time, nothing more was said. The boat drifted, and the water pulled them onward through reeds and current and cloud-shadow. And then, when the stillness had worn down her guard, she spoke again—quieter now, her voice shaped by memories too old to share with most.

“I once lived as a mortal during my trial to ascend,” she said. “I was called SuSu. Powerless. Mortal.” She smiled faintly. “I met Ye Hua as a dragon. Wounded. Beautiful. He was young, too serious. I mocked him. Resisted him. But… we loved.”

Her fingers moved to adjust Boromir’s cloak.

“They took me to the Celestial Palace. Married us. I bore our son without even knowing who I truly was.” Her breath hitched. “And they took A-Li from me. Said I wasn’t worthy to raise a prince.” She blinked slowly, once, as if seeing some distant past behind the mist. “But I came back. Regained my name. My strength. And A-Li found me. He called me Mother without hesitation. As if no time had passed. As if nothing had been broken.”

A wistful breath followed. “You’d like him. He’s brave. Sharp-eyed. He sees straight through people.”

She paused.

“I had everything,” she said. “A kingdom. A child. A man who loved me.”

The words hung between them, trailing like incense on the wind.

“And then I came here.”

She looked down at Boromir, eyes heavy with more than exhaustion.

“You’re not him. You’re not Ye Hua. But you’re something I hadn’t expected.”

Her fingers grazed his again, lingered longer this time.

“You are flame where he was frost. Bold. Mortal. Flawed in the open. And still—you fought for others. Gave your life without being asked.”

The wind tugged at her sleeves, lifting the edges of her tattered robes. The Soul Lamp glowed—a little stronger.

“I made a promise,” she said, and this time her voice didn’t waver. “To see you through. Whether or not you wake.”

By late afternoon, the sound of rushing water filled the air.

The river narrowed, curving sharply, its current tugging faster with each bend. Trees arched overhead like sentinels, their limbs creaking in warning. Birds scattered from high branches as the growing roar of a distant waterfall surged through the mist.

Bai Qian sat upright. She had glimpsed the cliff during an earlier sweep from above, but she had not expected it to arrive so soon. With effort, she reached within her robes and withdrew a silver talisman—one of the few remaining relics from her world. Her fingers, stiff with cold and fatigue, tightened around it.

She closed her eyes and summoned what magic remained. Winds gathered. Threads of light—thin, shimmering, and silk-fine—wove around the hull of the boat, enfolding it in a gauze of ethereal energy. As the edge neared and the boat tipped forward, there was no sharp drop. Only a breathless drift—petal-light, guided by will alone.

The waterfall thundered around them, spray soaking her robes, tangling her hair, but the boat held. It did not crack. It did not shatter. With her breath caught in her throat and her hands trembling at the rim, Bai Qian carried them through descent—delicate, suspended, unnatural. When they reached the basin below, the boat landed with barely a splash.

Exhausted, she sagged forward. Her arms trembled from the effort. Her head throbbed. It would take hours to rebuild even a whisper of what she had just spent. Still… they were safe. She reached for Boromir’s hand—not with strength, but instinct—and whispered, “There. I told you I would see you through.”

The Soul Lamp glowed gently in response, unwavering. His fingers did not move.

The thunder of the waterfall faded behind them as the skiff drifted into calmer waters. Bai Qian slumped against the side of the boat, arms limp at her sides. Guiding them through that descent had stripped her near to the core. Her magic frayed inside her now—thin threads of cultivation unraveling like silk torn from an ancient loom. She leaned forward, resting her brow against the boat’s wooden edge.

The river here was quiet. Mist curled along its surface. The light had turned golden, slanting through the trees in long, soft beams.

She breathed deep, willing her spirit to still.

Suddenly, the roar of the waterfall faded, replaced by the clash of swords and the swell of triumphant cheers.

The air thickened. Time shifted.

Bai Qian’s eyes snapped open—but the world was no longer river and mist.

Stone lay beneath her feet, sun-drenched and solid. She stood—unseen, untouchable—amid a city scarred by fire, but victorious. The white stones of Osgiliath gleamed in the light of afternoon. Battered soldiers lined the streets, cheering with raw-throated joy, their spirits reignited by hard-won triumph.

And high above them, upon the ramparts, stood Boromir.

Alive. Proud. Unbroken.

He raised the banner of Gondor high, and the crowd erupted.

“Boromir! Boromir!”

Bai Qian turned slowly, heart pounding. This was not a conjuring of her own making. It had weight. Truth. This was no illusion—but memory. A memory not hers.

Boromir lowered the banner and drew his sword, his voice ringing across the square.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom,” he declared, eyes bright with conviction. “A place of light and beauty and music. And so it shall be once more!”

Roars thundered in response.

“Let the armies of Mordor know this: Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands!”

The city echoed with fervent cheers.

“This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed… for Gondor!”

“For Gondor!” the soldiers cried in unison, their voices a living wave.

Boromir raised his sword once more. “For Gondor!”

“For Gondor!” came the answer, again and again, a chant that rolled like fire through the streets.

Bai Qian could only watch, breathless. This was not the man she had held in her arms, broken and bloodied. This was a warrior in his prime—fierce and radiant. This was the son of Gondor.

From the crowd, a younger man approached, clad in dust-streaked armor—Faramir. His face lit with warmth as he clasped Boromir in a brother’s embrace.

“Good speech. Nice and short,” he teased.

Boromir laughed, clapping him on the back. “Leaves more time for drinking!” He turned to the gathered men. “Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

Laughter echoed through the square. Goblets passed from hand to hand. Bai Qian watched them toast. So alike in face. So different in fate. She had never seen Boromir laugh like that. Not once. The sight warmed her chest—and ached.

“Remember today, little brother,” Boromir said, voice soft. “Today, life is good.”

But the joy shifted. Faramir’s expression dimmed. Boromir shot his brother a confused look.

“What?”

“He’s here,” Faramir said quietly.

Boromir turned—and his face hardened.

Bai Qian followed his gaze. A man in dark robes approached, flanked by aides. His presence snuffed the celebration like wind to flame. His eyes were cold. Measuring.

“One moment of peace, can he not give us that?” Boromir muttered bitterly, turning back to his brother.

“Where is he?” the man called out. “Where is Gondor’s finest? Where’s my first-born?”

Boromir turned reluctantly. “Father!” he said, voice forced into cheer.

Bai Qian’s breath caught. So this was his father.

“They say you vanquished the enemy nearly single-handedly,” Denethor said. The praise was too smooth—poisoned.

“They exaggerate,” Boromir replied, aiming for humility. “The victory belongs to Faramir, too.” He glanced to his brother, generous.

Faramir stepped forward.

“But for Faramir, this city would still be standing,” Denethor said, a velvet dagger. “Were you not entrusted to protect it?”

Faramir looked down, shame and pain flickering in his eyes. Bai Qian felt it in her chest, sharp and sudden.

“I would have,” Faramir replied, voice low, “but our numbers were too few.”

“Oh, too few,” Denethor sneered. “You let the enemy stroll in. You always cast a poor reflection on me.”

Bai Qian’s jaw clenched. The cruelty was measured, intentional. Her fingers curled into fists.

“That is not my intent,” Faramir said quietly.

“You give him no credit,” Boromir interjected, voice rising, “and yet he tries to do your will.” He turned away in frustration, but Denethor pursued him.

“He loves you, Father,” Boromir said, turning around to face his father once more, his voice edged with pain.

Denethor’s face remained cold. “Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses… and they are few.”

The words landed like frost. Bai Qian flinched, her fists clenched tight.

“We have more urgent things to speak of,” Denethor continued. He lowered his voice, “Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

Boromir’s expression darkened.

“The One Ring. Isildur’s Bane.”

Denethor leaned in, whispering now. “It has fallen into the hands of the Elves. Everyone will try to claim it: Men, Dwarves, Wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor.”

Boromir stepped back, shaking his head. “Gondor…”

“It’s dangerous, I know,” Denethor said quickly. “Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men. But you—you are strong. And our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He’s massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him.” He gripped Boromir’s arm tightly.

“You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift.”

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “No. My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Would you deny your own father?”

Faramir stepped forward, having followed them. “If there is need to go to Rivendell… send me in his stead.”

Denethor sneered. “You? A chance to show your quality?” His voice iced over. “I think not.”

Faramir looked down, crushed.

“I trust this mission only to your brother,” Denethor said. “The one who will not fail me.”

The vision blurred. Boromir now sat astride a horse, armored and solemn. His gaze lingered on the city walls, the banner of Gondor fluttering high above them. Faramir stood below, hands at his sides, eyes filled with everything he could not say.

Boromir nodded to him, voice solemn.

“Remember today, little brother.”

Then he turned his horse, riding out of the city’s gate.

The vision broke like glass.

Bai Qian gasped, the weight of memory casting her back into her body. She stumbled, falling to her knees in the boat. Twilight cloaked the trees. The river glinted with the last gold of day. She turned to Boromir, still lying motionless.

Tears welled in her eyes. Not just a warrior. Not just a proud man. She had seen the fire. The shame. The pain. The loyalty.

“You carry so much,” she whispered, voice shaking. “And still… you endured.”

She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

“I swear to you… I will not let this end in silence.”

The stars blinked into the night sky.

She folded herself beside him, drawing close—not to grieve, but to shield. To honor.

And the river flowed on.

They had run without rest across the Riddermark, relentless as wind, a streak of motion over grass and under sky. Aragorn led the charge, eyes sharp on the trail, Gimli wheezing behind, and Legolas gliding like a silent wraith. And at their heels, streaking red against the rising dawn, the nine-tailed fox kept pace—her form fluid, wild, and beautiful, nine shimmering tails fanned in her wake.

“Keep breathing,” Gimli gasped, nearly stumbling as he pushed forward. “That’s the key. Breathe.”

“They’ve run as if the very whips of their masters were behind them,” Legolas said, eyes scanning the distant horizon.

They pressed on into the night, the stars wheeling above them, the ground soft with early dew. Dawn broke in streaks of pink and pale gold. Then came the sound—a low thunder rolling from the north. Hoofbeats.

Aragorn crouched low, studying tracks half-buried in the grass. His expression sharpened. “Hide!”

The four ducked behind a stone outcropping just as a company of riders crested the hill—Rohirrim, scores of them, gleaming like sunlit bronze. Their steeds were swift and proud, their lances raised high.

Once they passed, Aragorn stepped forward unarmed but unafraid. “Riders of Rohan!” he called. “What news from the Mark?”

The riders wheeled, enclosing them in a living wall of muscle and metal. The captain of the host dismounted and strode forward—tall, fair-haired, with eyes like sharpened steel.

“What business does an Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?” he asked briskly. “Speak quickly.”

Gimli bristled. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine.”

The captain halted before him. He dismounted his stead and walked up, stopping in front of Gimli. “I would cut off your head, Dwarf,” he said, a bite to his tone, “if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

Before the insult could settle, Legolas moved—fluid, lethal, a bow drawn and aimed at the man’s head. “You would die before your stroke fell.”

The circle of spears turned inward. Tension crackled like lightning in the air.

And then the red fox leapt forward.

But she did not land on four paws. With a shimmer of golden light and a ripple in the wind, Feng Jiu appeared—human once more, her long pink robes trailing behind her like fire. Her nine tails flared in fury, glowing faintly in the dawn light. Her dark hair stirred in the breeze, her face regal and unflinching.

The Rohirrim drew back, startled at the transformation, though their spears sitll threatened. Eomer placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Legolas glanced sideways. “Your tails are showing,” he murmured, almost amused.

Feng Jiu blinked, scowled slightly, and with an annoyed flick of her fingers, the glowing tails vanished—most of them. A final one lingered, swaying behind her like a defiant cat before disappearing with a reluctant shimmer. She stepped between the spears with the poise of a queen.

“I am Bai Feng Jiu,” she said, voice clear and steady. “Princess of Qing Qiu. I travel with these men as their friend, not their prisoner. We seek no quarrel, only answers.” Her gaze was calm, but her eyes burned with heat.

Aragorn moved beside her, lowering Legolas’s arm with one hand. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he said. “This is Gimli, son of Glóin, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden, your king.”

The captain studied them closely. “Théoden no longer knows friend from foe,” he said, weariness creeping into his tone. “Not even his own kin.” He took off his helmet and the riders lowered their spear.

“Saruman has poisoned his mind and seized control of these lands,” Eomer said. “We are loyal to Rohan, and for that, we are exiled.” He stepped closer, his tone softer, but rough. “The White Wizard is cunning. Cloaked and bent, but dangerous. His spies walk openly, in forms no man can trust.” He eyed them all warily.

“We are no spies,” Aragorn said, steady. “We track a company of Uruk-hai. They have taken two of our friends captive.”

The man’s face darkened. “The Uruks are destroyed. We fell upon them in the night and slaughtered them all.”

A stillness settled over the clearing.

Gimli stepped forward. “But there were two hobbits among them! Did you see them?”

“They would be small,” Aragorn added. “Only children to your eyes.”

Eomer shook his head. “We left none alive. Their bodies lie in a pyre, burned to ash.” He gestured eastward. A column of smoke curled into the sky.

Gimli’s face paled. “Dead?” he whispered.

Legolas lowered his eyes.

Feng Jiu was still for a moment. Then she stepped forward, her voice quiet but resonant. “I traveled with them,” she said. “Merry and Pippin. Hobbits, yes. But brave. They smiled through fear. We shared fires, dreams, and laughter.” Her hands curled. “Tell me they did not suffer.”

Eomer’s expression shifted slightly. Perhaps it was regret. Or guilt. “I saw no halflings alive,” he said. “But neither did I see their corpses. If they live they must have made their escape amongst the fighting. We made haste to burn what remained.”

Feng Jiu lowered her head, veiling her face in shadow. When she lifted it, her anger had softened into something quieter. “You did what you believed was right,” she said. “I respect that. But so long as no body is found, I will not grieve them. Not yet.”

Eomer gave a slow nod. He looked at the four of them for a moment. Then, he turned around, and with a sharp whistle, he called forth two horses from the ranks. “Hasufel! Arod!” He beckoned the two steeds with his fingers, and they trotted forward, unburdened and watchful.

“May they bear you to better fortune than their former masters,” he said, and replaced his helm and mounted his horse. “Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope.” He looked around the land, bitterly. “It has forsaken these lands.” He turned to his men.

“We ride North!”

And with that, the riders turned, their banners snapping in the wind, and galloped northward in a blur of light and hooves.

As the last of the dust settled, Feng Jiu turned to Legolas and said quietly, “Don’t tell my aunt that I was… diplomatic.”

Legolas allowed himself the faintest smile. “You make a terrifying diplomat.”

She arched a brow. “Good.” Then she turned, the wind catching her robes, and began walking toward the smoking pyre in the distance—where the trail, and the truth, might yet lie waiting.

The smoke of death clung thick to the sky, rising from the heap of charred flesh like a warning to the living. The horses slowed as they approached the blackened remains. Hasufel and Arod pawed the earth uneasily, snorting at the scent.

Aragorn dismounted first, his eyes already scanning the scorched field. Gimli clambered down and moved toward the pile with a scowl. “If there’s even a bone left unburned,” he muttered, lifting his axe.

Feng Jiu, still in human form, watched the smoke twist in the breeze. Her gaze was sharp, but unreadable. As Legolas swung gracefully from his saddle, a whisper of something deeper passed through her—a scent, faint but familiar.

But she did not speak. Instead, she stepped away from the group, her form flickering like flame before shrinking down into the shape of a fox once more. Her crimson fur bristled as her nose lowered to the ash-dusted ground. One tail, then two—then nine—emerged like silk ribbons behind her, glowing faintly as she began to circle the pyre, scenting carefully.

Gimli slammed his axe down, shifting burnt corpses with grim efficiency. His thick fingers tugged a melted leather belt from beneath a scorched ribcage. He turned and held it up, his face shadowed.

“It’s one of their wee belts,” he said quietly.

Legolas bowed his head. “Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath...” he murmured, the Elvish words falling gently between them. May they find peace in death.

Aragorn stood frozen. His jaw clenched. Then, with sudden fury, he kicked a blackened Uruk helm across the ground and let out a deep, raw, cry. He fell to his knees beside the smoldering mound, fists buried in the ash.

“We failed them,” Gimli said.

But Aragorn wasn’t listening—not entirely. He stared down at the earth, eyes shifting rapidly as meaning emerged from chaos. His fingers brushed the dirt.

“A hobbit lay here,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “And the other.”

Feng Jiu trotted beside him, still in her fox form, her nose pressed near his fingers. She let out a soft whuff, confirmation.

“They crawled,” Aragorn murmured, fingers tracing two shallow furrows in the soil. “Their hands were bound.”

His eyes flicked to a piece of frayed rope near the edge of the pyre. He snatched it up, holding it between his fingers.

“Their bonds were cut.”

Feng Jiu let out a sudden sharp bark. She had darted off a few feet, tails flaring, nose pressed to the grass. Aragorn followed, his body in motion before his words caught up.

“They ran,” he said, “over here.”

The others were behind him now—Gimli struggling to keep pace, Legolas already gliding forward.

“They were followed,” Aragorn continued, sprinting toward a break in the grass.

The fox sprinted ahead of them, tails trailing in streaks of flame. She yipped—urgent now—as she darted through the grass and skidded to a halt near a shadowed wood. Aragorn caught up beside her, then froze.

The forest loomed before them, ancient and watchful. Its trees leaned together like conspirators, thick trunks rising like sentinels in the morning mist. The air shifted as they stared into it—cooler, darker. A whisper of things unspoken.

“The tracks lead away from the battle…” Aragorn said slowly. His voice dropped. “…into Fangorn Forest.”

At the name, even Feng Jiu’s ears twitched uneasily.

“Fangorn?” Gimli echoed, catching up at last. “What madness drove them in there?”

Feng Jiu shimmered into her human form, a soft gust of magic trailing in her wake. Her robes fell like silk, and her hair spilled down her back in waves. The last of her tails vanished behind her. Her eyes, deep and unreadable, studied the forest with caution—and respect.

“Not madness,” she said softly. “Instinct. Or something older. The forest does not welcome easily—but neither does it kill without cause.”

She stepped closer to Aragorn, her voice quieter now. “If they made it that far… then they are not lost. Not yet.”

Aragorn held her gaze, then nodded once—grim and resolved.

Without another word, the four stepped into the shadows of Fangorn.

The dawn broke gray over the crumbling bones of Osgiliath. Mist clung to the shattered towers and broken bridges like lingering ghosts, wrapping the city in silence. The Anduin flowed slow and solemn, its waters carrying more than just driftwood this day.

A lone skiff crested the bend, drifting toward the ruined docks. Inside it, Bai Qian knelt beside the still form of Boromir, her once-pristine robes soaked through and stained with blood and river water. Her lips were cracked. Her skin, pale as bleached bone. Each breath was shallow, ragged. She barely noticed the watchtower as they passed beneath its gaze.

But the sentries above did.

A horn sounded—sharp and sudden—splitting the morning stillness.

On the western battlement, Faramir turned. He had been overseeing the rebuilding of a lower post, ash streaking his hands, exhaustion etched deep in his brow. But the horn’s call froze him. Something in its tone struck too near the heart.

Another horn. Then shouting. The words were carried by the wind:

“A boat—on the river! A body aboard! Two figures!”

Faramir rushed to the riverbank, armor clinking with each stride. Behind him, Madril followed, bow at hand, already suspicious.

The skiff slid into view, drifting between shattered pylons. The guards tensed, weapons raised. Faramir stepped closer—and stopped dead in his tracks.

He knew that face. The cloak was torn, the armor battered—but there was no mistaking the man lying silent in the boat.

“Boromir…” he breathed. “No…”

He splashed into the shallows, heedless of the cold. Behind him, Madril raised his bow, voice sharp with warning.

“Steady,” Madril called to him, already raising his bow. “Something is wrong. That woman—she's leaning over him.”

Faramir threw a hand back. “Wait!”

“She may be the reason he lies like that,” Madril said, eyes narrowed. “A sorceress. Or a trap.”

“No,” Faramir said sharply. “Hold your fire.”

But Madril’s aim remained trained on the woman—Bai Qian, whose robes fluttered faintly in the breeze, dark hair soaked and trailing into the water like fallen moonlight. She didn’t stir.

“She’s not moving,” Madril said darkly. “Could be she’s waiting for us to lower our guard.”

“She’s barely conscious,” Faramir snapped. “Look at her. That’s not an assassin. That’s someone who’s given everything.”

“She might’ve taken everything,” Madril muttered, but his string remained taut. “Boromir is dead, Faramir. We can’t take chances.”

Faramir whirled. “Stand down.”

Madril’s jaw clenched. “My lord—”

“I said, stand down!” The command came with steel. “If you trust me at all, Madril, you will not loose that arrow.”

The silence was thick. Then, reluctantly, Madril lowered his bow.

The boat bumped against the stone edge. Faramir stepped to it and knelt. His eyes never left Bai Qian. She was deathly pale, a vision of ivory and shadow. Her shoulders trembled faintly. Her breathing was shallow. But serene. Her face—though near collapse—radiated pain wrapped in grace.

At the bow glowed a small, flickering lamp—not of mortal craft. Its light pulsed weakly.

…What magic is this?” Faramir whispered. His eyes turned back to his brother.

“My brother…”

His voice broke.

Then Bai Qian stirred. Her lashes fluttered. Her gaze, unfocused and glassy, found Faramir’s face—and something within her recognized him. The little brother with the wound that never healed. She reached for him, lips cracked and voice barely a breath.

“Faramir…”

He froze.

“How do you know my name?”

But she didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted to Boromir. Her hand rose with effort, trembling as she laid it over his chest. The Soul Lamp flickered, its pulse now struggling.

Madril stepped closer again. “What is she doing? What is that thing?”

“Wait,” Faramir said.

Her hands glowed with faint silver, but her body sagged. Her power thinned. She turned her face toward him one last time. Her voice, soft as falling leaves:

“I have nothing left… Let it be enough…”

Then she collapsed.

Faramir caught her, her forehead resting weakly against his shoulder, her body limp. Her skin was cold as marble.

“No… no, my lady…” he murmured, cradling her gently. “Stay with us…”

And then—

The Soul Lamp flared.

A burst of golden light surged from its heart—then shattered. The flame broke like glass, the chime of its passing ringing across the water like a bell from some higher world. The fragments scattered into the wind, gleaming as they vanished.

Boromir gasped.

It was soft at first—a catch of breath, a flutter of lashes. Then his chest rose. His eyes opened slowly, blinking into the pale sky. Confused. Alive.

Faramir froze. “Boromir?” he whispered.

His brother stirred, his brow twitching. Slowly, eyes opened—hazy, uncomprehending. He blinked up at the light above him, then turned his head, his voice raw and rasping. “...Faramir?”

“He lives,” Madril breathed, stunned. “By the Valar—he lives.”

Boromir tried to sit up but faltered, weak as a newborn. His eyes locked onto his brother’s face—familiar, aged by worry and war. “Where… am I?” he murmured.

“The ruins of Osgiliath,” Faramir said. “You came down the river. In a boat.”

Boromir frowned, glancing around. “A boat?” The words didn’t make sense. He looked down, fingers brushing damp, silken cloth.

That was when he saw her.

Bai Qian.

Collapsed beside him, draped against Faramir’s arm, her form death-still. Her hair—wet and dark as a raven’s wing—spilled across his chest. Her robes were stained with blood, especially at the center, near her heart.

Boromir’s confusion broke like a dam.

“No.”

He shifted, pushing himself upright despite the tremble in his limbs.

“No—Bai Qian?”

Her name left his lips like a question and a plea. He reached for her, cupping her cheek. Cold. Not lifeless—but too close. “Wake up, my lady,” he whispered. Then, louder: “Bai Qian. Wake up.”

Faramir steadied him. “Easy. You’re barely standing.”

But Boromir ignored him. His hand found her cheek—cold. Not dead, but near. Too near.

“What happened?” he demanded, eyes flicking to Faramir. “Why is she—like this?”

“We don’t know,” Faramir said gently. “She was with you when the boat reached the dock. Neither of you were breathing properly. I thought we were too late.”

Boromir sat back, breathing hard. “I remember… dying,” he said, voice hollow. “The Uruks. The hobbits. The Ring. Then… her. She found me. She held on.” His eyes returned to her face. She looked impossibly fragile now. “She dragged me back,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A beat.

“Why would she do that?” The words were sharper this time, thick with disbelief—and guilt. His jaw clenched. “She should’ve saved herself.”

At the edge of the boat, the shattered Soul Lamp lay in ruins—its golden frame cracked open, the flame that once burned now gone. Only the memory of its light lingered in the air. Madril still lingered nearby, watchful. Though his bow had lowered, unease had not left his eyes.

Faramir glanced at him, catching the tension. “She is not our enemy.”

“She’s… not natural,” Madril murmured, not cruelly—but with wary reverence. “Whatever she did—it wasn’t the doing of any healer I’ve known.”

Boromir turned, his voice low and firm. “She is no threat.”

Madril’s hand drifted near his bowstring again—then stilled. The authority in Boromir’s voice, even so pale and bloodstained, still held weight.

“…as you say, Captain.”

Faramir moved then, cradling Bai Qian carefully in his arms. She weighed next to nothing—her skin cold, her breathing shallow and uneven. Yet she pulsed with something that felt ancient, like a waning star.

“We’ll take her to Henneth Annûn,” Faramir said. “There are healers there. She’s earned their care—and you need it as well.”

Boromir watched her, silent. Her expression had softened, but her body was broken in ways that could not be seen. The full weight of her sacrifice began to settle on him like a storm cloud—heavy, consuming.

“She gave everything,” he said, quiet and bitter, more oath than praise. And in that moment—Boromir of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower—did not care if she was goddess, a queen, fox spirit, or sorceress. She had given everything to pull him back from the black.

Madril stepped in to steady Boromir as he stood—barely. His legs shook under the weight of breath reclaimed. He did not resist the help, though his eyes stayed on her the entire time.

The sun had begun to break through the morning fog, casting golden light across Osgiliath’s ruined bones. Smoke from distant fires curled upward, mingling with the mist. Life stirred amid ruin.

Faramir adjusted her slightly, glancing at Boromir. “Come. We’ll see her safe.” He paused. Then, more softly: “And after… you will tell me everything.”

Boromir looked between the two of them—his brother, and the woman who had pulled him back from death’s teeth—and gave a single, solemn nod. He had no words left. Only resolve.

As they stepped from the boat, the last shards of the Soul Gathering Lamp disintegrated into ash behind them—falling like golden snow into the river.

The sound of falling water hummed like a lullaby through the hollow, the cascade at the far side of the grotto tumbling into a deep, clear pool. Henneth Annûn lay hidden among the woods, a sanctuary draped in leaves and guarded by silence. Torches flickered beneath the canopy. Rangers moved with quiet purpose, tending the wounded and watching the veiled paths beyond.

Boromir sat propped against a stone wall within the sanctuary, wrapped in blankets. Bandages bound his chest where the blood had only just dried. His hair was damp from the river, his limbs stiff, but color had begun to return to his face. His eyes—fatigued, but sharp—rested on the heavy curtain that divided him from the alcove beyond.

Faramir knelt beside him, one hand resting lightly on his arm, the other holding a clay cup steeped with bitter herbs.

“Drink,” he urged gently. “It will ease the pain. Strengthen you.”

Boromir accepted it with effort, taking a slow sip. The warmth settled deep, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. He scanned the dim grotto, searching for the presence that had been his tether through death.

“Is she awake?” he rasped.

Faramir shook his head. “No. She hasn’t stirred since we arrived.”

A furrow creased Boromir’s brow. “Then, is she dying?”

Faramir’s answer came after a beat, not from doubt, but precision. “No. That’s the strange part. The healers cleaned her wounds—several, though the worst was a stab to the chest. Too precise for an enemy’s strike. She should have bled out… but didn’t.”

Boromir’s jaw tensed.

“She’s alive,” Faramir continued, “but unresponsive. The healers tried everything—poultices, draughts, tonics. Nothing rouses her. And yet, she doesn’t weaken. Her pulse is steady. Her breathing, even.”

Boromir frowned. “Then what is it?”

“She isn’t…here,” Faramir said slowly. “Not entirely. One healer likened it to tending a flame that doesn’t burn—one that refuses to die. Her condition is suspended. Preserved.”

Boromir looked away, his grip tightening on the cup. “She gave everything to bring me back.”

Faramir watched him a moment, then laid a hand over his forearm. “Then let that gift not be wasted. Rest, Boromir. Heal.”

But Boromir’s thoughts spun like a storm. “What happened? How did I get here?”

“You came down the Anduin,” Faramir said. “In a skiff, of elvish make. She was with you. Barely breathing, barely alive. You were gone. No breath. No heartbeat. Then she fainted—and you woke.”

Boromir closed his eyes, memories pressing against the inside of his skull: Uruk-hai. Arrows. The hobbits. His failure. Then—her. Her light. Her voice. Her hands at his chest.

“I remember dying,” he whispered. “No… I was dead.”

Faramir’s gaze was steady. “And she brought you back.”

Boromir nodded. “It wasn’t a dream. I felt her grief… saw things that weren’t mine. She burned like starlight in the dark.”

“There was a lamp,” Faramir said quietly. “In the boat. Not like any I’ve seen. It shattered when you breathed again.”

Silence fell. The waterfall murmured behind them, a hush of unending time.

“Madril almost loosed an arrow,” Boromir said darkly. “He thought she’d bewitched me.”

“He feared her,” Faramir admitted. “You should’ve seen yourself, brother. You looked like a fallen king drifting in from legend—and she, like a queen carved of moonlight. It frightened him. It frightened many.”

Boromir huffed once, without humor. “I don’t blame him.”

“He sees clearly now,” Faramir said. “He trusts you. He saw your face when you looked at her.”

Boromir’s gaze drifted toward the curtained alcove. “She would’ve died for me.”

“She may yet live for you,” Faramir murmured. “Let’s hope she does.”

Another long silence passed, not heavy, but full of the weight between two brothers who had been on opposite sides of a chasm—and now sat, for once, in the same place.

“When you’re strong enough,” Faramir said at last, “tell me everything. What happened after you left.”

Boromir let out a breath, gaze distant. “I will. But you may not believe a word of it.”

Faramir smiled faintly. “I will. Because you’re here. And that woman still breathes. There’s no tale more unbelievable than that.”

Chapter Text

The glow of dusk seeped through the canvas walls of the tent, painting the interior with mellow gold. A low fire crackled in a brazier nearby, warding off the mountain chill that seeped through stone and fabric alike. Outside, the falls of Henneth Annûn whispered their endless song. Inside, silence wrapped the two brothers—not awkward, but thick with the weight of all that had not yet been said.

Boromir sat propped against cushions, still pale and sore but upright beneath a dark cloak. Before him lay a modest meal—stew, flatbread, and herbal broth—all untouched. Across from him, Faramir ate slowly, his eyes straying often to the curtained alcove nearby.

She had not stirred. But her breath was steady. Light. Sure. That alone lent them a fragile peace.

Boromir finally took a bite. The warmth steadied him, rooted him. After a long moment, he said, “You asked what happened.”

Faramir looked up, every inch the soldier now—alert, steady. “Yes.”

Boromir exhaled. “It started after Osgiliath. I didn’t want to go. You remember.”

Faramir let out a dry breath. “I recall your arguments with Father. Half the Tower heard them.”

Boromir gave a short, humorless smile. “I told him my place was here. That Rivendell was not for me. But he was relentless. He believed I could resist the Ring. That I had the strength to carry it to Gondor.”

Faramir’s expression dimmed. “He thought you were the only one who wouldn’t fail him.”

Boromir looked away. “And perhaps I did.”

“You lived,” Faramir said gently.

Boromir nodded. “The road to Rivendell was longer than he imagined. My maps were poor. I got lost in the northern wilds—more than once. Had to trust my horse to find the right way.”

Faramir’s lips twitched. “You? Lost? I’d have paid silver to see that.”

Boromir gave him a look. “Careful. I was nearly devoured by wargs.”

“And yet still you arrived at the Council,” Faramir said. “If barely.”

Boromir leaned back slightly. “And that’s when I met her. Bai Qian. And her niece, Feng Jiu. The fox spirits.”

“She found me… or I wandered into her path. I don’t remember her first words. Only that they were sharp. Wry. She was cold, at first—not unkind, but like snow on bare stone. Regal. Distant. There was a look in her eyes… as though she saw right through me.”

Faramir tilted his head. “And what did she see?”

Boromir smiled faintly. “I couldn’t say. It unsettled me. I thought her arrogant. I wasn’t entirely wrong. But I was far from right.”

His tone shifted. “She was beautiful. Not the courtly beauty we know. Something else. It’s the way she moved, the way she held silence. And her eyes… Gods, her eyes. Like starlight reflected on black water.”

Faramir chuckled softly. “So my brother returns from a sacred errand and falls for a goddess.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow. “You noticed.”

“I’m not blind,” Faramir murmured. “Go on.”

“She and her niece were already there. No one knew how they’d come—not even Elrond or Gandalf. But they were respected. Feared, maybe. Lord Elrond spoke to Lady Bai Qian as if she were royalty.”

Faramir leaned forward, intrigued. “And the Council?”

Boromir’s gaze darkened. “It was chaos. I argued for the Ring. I believed it belonged in Gondor. I said… things. Harsh things. And when tempers flared, she silenced the room. With a fan. One motion—and wind swept through the hall like judgment.”

Faramir’s brows rose.

“I was furious,” Boromir admitted. “But later… I sought her out. I owed her an apology. I expected mockery. She gave me grace instead.”

He glanced toward the bed. “It was the first time I saw past the silks. Past the cold. She has a strength deeper than pride. She forgave without scorn. And I… I didn’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps she saw something in you that you hadn’t yet seen in yourself,” Faramir said. “Forgiveness, when it’s not needed, is the rarest kind.”

Boromir gave a dry smile. “You always were the wiser.” He rubbed his forehead, weariness clinging to him. “You asked for everything. I’ll do my best. We left Rivendell soon after. The Fellowship: Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, the hobbits… Mithrandir…and her.”

He nodded toward Bai Qian’s resting form. “Or rather, them. Lady Bai Qian and Lady Feng Jiu. I didn’t know what they were, not truly. Elrond only said they were not of this world—but they had chosen to aid us.”

Faramir tilted his head. “Chosen?”

“They turned into foxes,” Boromir said simply. “White and red. With tails like silk banners. They said it was faster. I’d never seen such magic.”

“And you thought her cold,” Faramir muttered with a smile.

“I did,” Boromir admitted. “Like the snow atop Mindolluin. Too far to reach.”

Faramir stirred his broth. “But I imagine you tried.”

Boromir smirked, then shook his head. “Not then.” His voice lowered. “Caradhras came. Storms and snow. We thought the mountain would bury us. She stepped forward. Drew her fan. One sweep—and the snow veered. The avalanche missed us.”

Faramir blinked. “She redirected a mountain?”

“Seemed that way.” Boromir exhaled. “No effort. Just… command.”

“What happened next?”

“Moria. It was darkness. We were too few for the number of orcs. But things… happened. Strikes missed. Foes stumbled. At first, I thought luck. Then I began to see them—Bai Qian and her niece—intervening. Subtly. Quietly. Tilting the scale.”

Faramir’s brow furrowed. “Not the way of Gondor.”

“No,” Boromir said. “But effective. An orc came at her. I moved to stop it. Didn’t need to. It flew back before I struck. She hadn’t moved.”

“Magic.”

Boromir nodded. “And then the Balrog.” His eyes dimmed. “She looked ready to face it. Drew her fan again. Gandalf stopped her. Ordered her back. They exchanged words… strange words. Her face—Faramir, she meant to fight it. I saw it in her eyes.”

“Perhaps he was protecting her,” Faramir said.

“Or she was protecting us,” Boromir countered.

They fell quiet.

“She helped us in little ways,” Boromir added. “Burns. Cuts. She never asked. Just… helped.”

Faramir studied him. “And that meant more to you than you expected.”

Boromir’s eyes lingered on the sleeping form beyond the curtain.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it did.”

His voice softened, a memory blooming like spring after winter.

“In Lothlórien,” Boromir said, “she came to me in fox form. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t rest there. My mind was filled with shadows—fear of the Ring, of failure… of everything I’d already done and what I might yet do.”

Faramir tilted his head. “She stayed beside you?”

“She did. Every night,” Boromir said, a quiet breath of wonder in his voice. “Curled beside me. No words. No judgment. Just… presence. It helped.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I even started talking to her. Out loud, like a madman. She never answered—not like that. But it was easier, speaking to her that way. She was… less intimidating when she was a fox.”

Faramir let out a soft laugh. “A goddess in the form of a sleeping fox. You always did find the rarest paths to comfort.”

Boromir chuckled once, low and rough. “It was the only comfort I had.”

“And the Lady of the Wood?” Faramir asked gently.

Boromir’s jaw tensed and his expression darkened. “She looked into me. Saw the truth I couldn’t hide. The darkness. My will wavering. She said I stood at a crossroad—and if I did not turn aside, ruin would follow.”

Faramir said nothing. He didn’t need to.

“She was right,” Boromir said softly.

Silence fell again. Outside, birds called to one another through the trees, oblivious to sorrow.

Boromir’s hands curled slightly over his knees. “At Amon Hen… I tried to take the Ring. Frodo fled. Then the Uruk-hai came. I fought to protect the other halfings—Merry, Pippin. I had to protect them.”

He drew a steady breath.

“I took two arrows. Then a third. I would have died there. The Uruk-hai captain would have put an arrow through my head.”

Faramir’s lips parted, but no sound came. His eyes were shadowed.

“But then…” Boromir’s voice caught, softer now. “I saw her.” His gaze turned toward Bai Qian’s still form. “She wasn’t using magic. No fan. Just a blade—long, silver, curved like a crescent moon. She fought with… fury. Precision. Grace. I’d never seen anything like it. She moved like wind and water—like poetry made flesh and steel. Not a brawl. Not even the Elves move like that. It was something older. Deeper. Relentless.”

Faramir blinked. “She fought with a blade?”

“Aye.” Boromir nodded. “And she fought the Uruk captain—brutal thing, twice her size. I thought he’d crush her. Then he staggered back, blood pouring from a slash I never even saw her make. It was like the sword was part of her.”

“She fought for you,” Faramir said, voice low.

Boromir’s eyes didn’t leave her. “For me.”

A pause. Then, quieter still: “When I fell… I saw her face. Not the cold immortal. Not the distant queen. Just a woman. Afraid. Desperate. She knelt beside me. Took my hand. And I knew I wasn’t alone.”

Faramir’s voice was soft with understanding. “She came to love you.”

Boromir hesitated. “I don’t know if she did. But she stayed.”

And that, somehow, meant more.

Faramir leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch between them.

“And now she sleeps.”

Boromir turned toward her, his voice hushed. “And I will wait.”

They sat together in the stillness, the fire’s glow flickering between them, the sound of distant water a lull beneath their quiet.

Faramir spoke at last. “She must have seen something in you. Something worth saving.”

Boromir’s throat tightened. “Then I pray I prove her right.”

Faramir reached across the space between them and placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You already have, Boromir. And I am glad—beyond all measure—that you are here.”

For a time, they said nothing more. The fire burned low. The shadows danced gently across Bai Qian’s unmoving form, her breaths still steady, still present. The hush of Henneth Annûn seemed to cradle them all.

At last, Faramir spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“Rest now, if you can. When she wakes… there will be questions. But for now…” He paused, his voice warm. “For now, this moment is enough.”

Boromir closed his eyes, just for a breath.

Then Faramir reached out again, his hand resting steady on his brother’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have you home, Boromir.”

The forest of Fangorn was thick with mist and shadow, every bough and branch cloaked in a heavy, ancient hush. Gimli paused beside a low shrub, smearing his gloved fingers through a dark red smear on a fallen leaf. He sniffed and tasted it—then promptly spat it out with a grimace.

“Orc blood,” he grunted.

Without a word, the four companions pressed on, moving quickly through the tangled woods. Aragorn knelt low, brushing his hand over the mossy earth and turning over a crushed leaf.

“These are strange tracks,” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

Gimli huffed. “The air is so close in here.”

Legolas was more still than the others, his gaze drifting skyward, listening. “This forest is old,” he said quietly, reverently. “Very old. Full of memory... and anger.”

A deep groaning noise rumbled from the trees around them. Gimli jerked and raised his axe in alarm.

“Gimli!” Aragorn snapped, “Lower your axe,”

Realization dawned on the dwarf’s face. “Oh,” he muttered sheepishly, and slowly lowered his axe.

Legolas remained motionless, his expression distant. “They have feelings, my friend. The Elves began it—waking up the trees, teaching them to speak.”

Feng Jiu, walking lightly in human form just behind Legolas, gave a sly smile and murmured under her breath, “Imagine what they’d say about you, Gimli.”

He turned. “Talking trees? What would they talk about? The consistency of squirrel droppings?”

Before anyone could answer, Legolas stiffened. His hand flew to his bow.

“Aragorn—nad no ennas.”

“What do you see?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas stared into the mist. “The White Wizard approaches.”

Aragorn’s hand moved to his sword. “Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us.”

All four prepared. Aragorn drew Andúril, Gimli hefted his axe, Legolas nocked an arrow. Feng Jiu stood perfectly still—alert, poised—her eyes sharp, lips just parted, prepared to call her power at the first breath of danger.

Then came the light. It blazed from between the trees—white, pure, blinding. The companions shielded their eyes.

Gimli hurled his axe. It was turned aside in midair, spinning off into the brush. Legolas released his arrow—it, too, was deflected. Aragorn cried out as his sword burned red-hot in his grip. He dropped it with a curse.

The light grew brighter.

A voice rang out—deep and commanding. At first, it sounded like Saruman.

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits.”

Aragorn stepped forward, every muscle taut. “Where are they?”

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

Aragorn’s grip clenched. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

The light dimmed slightly, enough for a figure to become visible—robed in white, bearing a staff. He stepped forward, revealed in full.

Gandalf.

Aragorn stared in stunned disbelief. “It cannot be.”

Legolas, recognizing him, immediately dropped to one knee. “Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman.”

Gimli followed suit. “Gandalf…”

Feng Jiu blinked. Then—

“Gandalf!” she squeaked, all pretense of celestial grace gone. Without warning, she launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his waist like an exuberant fox cub. The wizard gave a startled “oof!”—then laughed, his stern face cracking into a warm smile as he patted her head fondly.

“I am Saruman,” he said, gently patting her head before addressing the rest. “Or rather, Saruman as he should have been.”

Aragorn stepped closer, searching his face. “You fell.”

“I fell,” Gandalf said, voice growing distant. “Through fire and water. From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak… I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy, and smote his ruin upon the mountainside.”

The forest stood silent around them, as if even the trees listened to his words.

“Darkness took me,” Gandalf continued, voice low and steady, “and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead… and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again. I have been sent back… until my task is done.”

He lifted his gaze, blinking slowly, as though finding his name among memories. “Gandalf… Yes. That was what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. That was my name.”

Feng Jiu’s face lit up with pure joy. “It still is to me.”

The wizard smiled, touched. “I am Gandalf the White. And I come back to you now—at the turn of the tide.”

They walked beneath the ancient trees, their footsteps muffled by moss and loam. Gandalf’s white robes gleamed beneath a grey cloak, his staff tapping lightly as they moved.

“One stage of your journey is over,” he said. “Another begins. We must make for Edoras with all speed.”

“Edoras?” Gimli squawked. “That’s no short distance!”

“We’ve heard of trouble in Rohan,” Aragorn said gravely. “It goes ill with the king.”

“It will not be easily cured,” Gandalf replied, a note of heaviness in his tone.

Gimli threw up his hands. “So we’ve run through these cursed woods for nothing? Are we just to leave the Hobbits behind, in this dark, dank, tree-infested—?”

The forest groaned again. Loudly.

Gimli blanched. “—I mean...charming. Very charming forest.”

Feng Jiu smirked at him. “Good save.”

Gandalf chuckled. “It was more than mere chance that brought Merry and Pippin to Fangorn. A power sleeps here—older than the kingdoms of Men. Their coming will be like the falling of small stones… that start an avalanche in the mountains.”

Aragorn gave a half-laugh. “In one thing you have not changed, old friend. You still speak in riddles.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. “A thing is about to happen that has not occurred since the Elder Days. The Ents are going to wake up… and find that they are strong.”

“Strong?” Gimli muttered as another creaking groan echoed through the trees. “Strong and wonderful.”

Gandalf turned toward him. “So fret not, Master Dwarf. Merry and Pippin are quite safe. In fact, they are far safer than you are about to be.”

They reached the edge of the wood. The scent of moss and old magic faded behind them as sunlight spilled over the plains. Gandalf raised two fingers to his lips and whistled—sharp and clear.

From the horizon came the sound of galloping hooves, swift and proud. A white horse appeared, gliding over the earth like wind, its mane streaming. It slowed and came to a graceful halt before them.

Legolas’s eyes widened. “That is one of the Mearas… unless my eyes are deceived by some spell.”

Gandalf stepped forward, resting a hand against the horse’s neck with gentle reverence.

“Shadowfax,” he said quietly. “He is lord of all horses… and he has carried me through fire and shadow.” The wizard turned back to the others, eyes sharp beneath his brows.

“Before we ride, tell me—what remains of the Fellowship? We were eleven when we left Rivendell. Where is the rest?”

He looked from Aragorn to Legolas, then Gimli—and finally, to Feng Jiu.

She stood frozen. Her hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes glistened—but she refused to blink. Then, like glass cracking, her composure gave way.

“They’re gone!” she cried, voice breaking. “Gou Gou…and Boromir! I should’ve gone with them, but I—I didn’t know—!”

Her words broke apart, swallowed by grief. She turned her face away, shoulders shaking, trying to stifle the sobs—but they came anyway, unstoppable and full of guilt.

Aragorn stepped forward instinctively, but paused, unsure. Legolas’s gaze softened, and even Gimli looked away, uncomfortable with such raw sorrow.

The elf stepped forward, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Feng Jiu…”

But Gandalf was already moving. In two strides, he knelt before her, placing a steady hand on her trembling shoulder. “Child,” he said gently, “tell me everything.”

It took her a moment, but she nodded, eyes rimmed with red. The others gathered close as the wind whispered low through the grass.

Aragorn spoke first.

“Boromir…” Aragorn exhaled, his jaw tightening. “He fell. The Uruk-hai attacked us at Amon Hen. He gave his life trying to protect Merry and Pippin.” His voice dropped further. “They were taken.”

Legolas bowed his head. Gimli muttered a curse under his breath. Feng Jiu’s hands curled into fists.

Aragorn hesitated. “But before the fighting began… he tried to take the Ring from Frodo.”

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed. “He succumbed?”

“For a moment,” Aragorn said. “But then he turned back. He repented. He fought to protect the others.”

A long silence followed. The trees creaked softly around them.

“I feared this,” Gandalf murmured. “The Ring is treacherous. And Boromir… he was ever proud, ever valiant. He would not fall easily. But he was not invulnerable.”

“No one is,” Aragorn said quietly.

Gandalf turned to Feng Jiu, still pale and shaken. “And what of the Lady Bai Qian?” he asked gently. “She is not with you.”

Feng Jiu’s throat tightened. “Gou Gou stayed behind… with Boromir.”

“She what?” Gandalf’s voice sharpened.

“She used a divine artifact,” Aragorn said carefully. “I… I don’t fully understand what I witnessed. She called on a power I’ve never seen.”

Feng Jiu stepped forward, her voice hushed but clear. “It’s called the Soul-Gathering Lamp. It anchors the soul of one who has died… keeps it from passing on. She combined it with her blood—to preserve his body. She poured in her cultivation, her years… everything she had left.”

Gandalf’s eyes flashed with concern. “To tamper with death is no small matter. That power is perilous in all realms.”

“She knew,” Feng Jiu whispered. “But she didn’t care. She said he was worth it.”

Gandalf’s face softened with awe—and sorrow. “And did she succeed?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice cracking again. “We were separated. I can’t feel her anymore. Not like I used to. It’s like a string has been cut.”

A long pause followed. The group stood still, weighed down by silence.

“Then let us hope her sacrifice was not in vain,” Gandalf said at last. “Your aunt is strong—stronger than most would believe. But even strength has limits when the heart is on the line.”

“I just want to see her again,” Feng Jiu whispered. “Even if it’s just to get scolded.”

“You will see her again,” Gandalf promised. “Whether in this life or the next. But take heart—hope is not yet lost.”

The tension eased, if only slightly.

Legolas turned toward her, offering his hand with a quiet smile. “Come. Ride with me. It’ll make the road lighter.”

Gimli snorted. “What? Squeeze her on with you and leave me dangling off the back like a sack of turnips?”

Feng Jiu shook her head, a little more like herself. “Thank you, Legolas. But I think your horse might revolt.”

“She’s wise,” Gimli muttered.

“I’ll take her,” Gandalf said kindly, extending his hand. “Shadowfax fears nothing.”

She nodded and climbed up behind him, settling gently onto the great horse’s back. Gandalf looked back at her, eyes kind beneath his snowy brows.

“You carry a great sorrow, little fox.”

“She always carried me,” Feng Jiu murmured. “Now it’s just… quiet.”

“You are not alone,” Gandalf said. “Not now. Not ever.”

He clicked his tongue, and Shadowfax took off at a smooth canter.

Aragorn mounted his steed. Legolas followed, Gimli climbing awkwardly behind him. Together, they rode out from the edge of Fangorn, leaving the murmuring trees behind.

Ahead lay the plains of Rohan—sunlit, windswept, and waiting.

The stars glinted like shards of ice in the night sky, vast and unblinking above the windswept plains of Rohan. A cold wind whispered through the tall grass, curling around the small camp nestled at the base of a hill. A fire flickered at its heart, casting warmth and long shadows across the tired faces of those gathered.

A short distance from the flames, Aragorn stood with Gandalf. The wizard’s pale robes shimmered faintly in the firelight, his eyes fixed to the east—where darkness loomed like a gathering storm.

“The veiling shadow that glowers in the east takes shape,” Gandalf said, his voice low and grim. “Sauron will suffer no rival. From the summit of Barad-dûr, his Eye watches ceaselessly.” He turned toward Aragorn, eyes sharp with purpose. “But he is not yet so mighty that he is above fear. Doubt gnaws at him. The rumor has reached him—that the heir of Númenor still lives.”

Aragorn said nothing, but his jaw clenched.

“Sauron fears you,” Gandalf continued. “He fears what you may become. And so he will strike hard and fast at the world of Men. He will use his puppet Saruman to destroy Rohan. War is coming.”

He began to pace, hands clasped behind his back.. “Rohan must defend itself. And therein lies our first challenge… for Rohan is weak and ready to fall. Théoden’s mind is ensnared. Saruman has worked a deep spell. The noose tightens.”

He paused. Then, more quietly, he added, “But for all their cunning, we have one advantage.”

Aragorn looked up.

“The Ring remains hidden,” Gandalf said. “And the thought that we would destroy it... has not yet entered their darkest dreams. The weapon of the Enemy moves toward Mordor—in the hands of a hobbit.”

His voice dropped, laced with both dread and hope. “Each day brings it closer to the fires of Mount Doom.”

Aragorn’s face clouded with guilt. “We left them,” he murmured. “Frodo and Sam…”

Gandalf’s expression softened. “Do not regret that. Frodo must finish this task alone.”

Aragorn lowered his gaze. “He’s not alone. Sam went with him.”

At that, Gandalf smiled—light breaking gently through the weight of night. “Did he?” His eyes twinkled. “Did he, indeed? Good. Yes… very good.”

Closer to the fire, Feng Jiu sat curled with her knees drawn up, chin resting on her arms. She had spoken little since Amon Hen. Too preoccupied during the search for the hobbits—but now that they had found Gandalf, and learned Merry and Pippin were safe, the truth had settled: she was alone.

The usual spark in her eyes was gone. No teasing, no sly glances. No sudden giggles or impish prods at Gimli. She was still and quiet, her long lashes lowered over dark, troubled eyes.

Legolas sat nearby, cleaning an arrow with quiet precision, though his gaze often wandered to her. He had noticed the shift—the slump in her shoulders, the silence where once there had been fire.

Gimli, seated on a stone with his axe across his lap, noticed too.

“She’s been quiet as a stone since we left the forest,” he muttered—not unkindly. “You’d think she’d been turned to marble.”

“She worries,” said Legolas softly. He turned toward her, voice lowered. “Feng Jiu.”

She didn’t move at first, then blinked slowly—like waking from a dream.

“Yes?”

“You haven’t said a word since Amon Hen. No illusions. No riddles. That is not like you.” He offered a faint smile. “I almost miss waking to find my boots wandering off on their own.”

She looked up, surprised, then lowered her gaze again. Her voice was a whisper. “I haven’t been able to feel her recently. Gou Gou. It’s like... she’s slipped too far.”

Legolas’s expression darkened. “You cannot sense her at all?”

Feng Jiu shook her head, wrapping her cloak tighter. “Before, I could always feel her. Like a thread humming in the air. But now…” She swallowed. “Now, it’s just silence.”

“Perhaps she only rests,” Legolas offered gently.

She shook her head again. “Not like this. She would never stay silent unless something was deeply wrong.”

A long silence fell. The fire popped and hissed quietly.

Gimli cleared his throat. “You call her ‘Gou Gou’? Sounds more like a pet’s name than a powerful spirit.”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “It’s a nickname. From when I was little. My parents were busy with their duties, so my care often fell to her. She raised me, along with my uncles. I gave her no end of trouble… but she always protected me. Taught me everything.”

“You miss her,” Gimli said gruffly.

She nodded.

Trying to lift the heaviness, Legolas tilted his head. “Tell me more of Qing Qiu. You said once it had mountains.”

That seemed to stir her.

“Oh yes. Qing Qiu has nine sacred mountains, cloaked in mist and peach blossoms. Even in winter, the wind smells of spring. The rivers run silver, and the hills bloom with foxglove. And the skies…”

“I like the sound of the mountains,” Gimli interrupted. “Strong, steady. But all that moss and fluttering petals—bah. Too much flower, not enough stone.”

That, at last, drew a real laugh from her—small, tired, but true. “You’d like the forges under the cliffs, then. Not dwarven, but solid enough.”

Legolas’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. “And the mark on your brow. The red petal—it’s like a blossom. What is it?”

Her hand rose instinctively, fingers brushing it. “A Phoenix Petal. That’s why I’m called Feng Jiu. The red phoenix is sacred to our people. I’m the only red nine-tailed fox.”

“Is it a blessing?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Everyone said it meant something important. But sometimes... it feels like I carry a weight I haven’t yet earned.” She looked toward the fire. “Gou Gou always said the truth would come in time.”

Gimli squinted at the mark. “Never seen anything like it. But it suits you, lass. Mysterious. Strange. Like the rest of you.”

She smiled—truly, this time. “Thank you, Gimli.”

Legolas leaned slightly closer, voice warm. “We’ll find her. Your Gou Gou. The world hasn’t darkened enough to hide a soul like hers.”

Feng Jiu leaned into him just a little, her weariness spilling past her careful mask. On her other side, Gimli gave a gruff snort and shifted closer, nudging her with the side of his arm like an uncle too stubborn to say he cared.

The wind shifted again, carrying scents of ash and grass. From nearby, Gandalf’s voice floated toward them.

“We ride at dawn,” he said. “The king’s fate—and Rohan’s—may depend on what we do next.”

Legolas looked up at the stars. “Then let us rest while we may.”

The fire burned low. Feng Jiu tucked her knees beneath her cloak and, for the first time in days, allowed her head to rest lightly against Legolas’s shoulder. He stilled, but did not move away. On her other side, Gimli made a low noise and muttered something unintelligible, but stayed close.

And under the vast Rohan sky, they kept watch.

Over the fire.

Over each other.

Over the small threads of hope not yet broken.

Moonlight pooled softly on the stone floor of Henneth Annûn, casting silver light across Bai Qian’s still form. Her hair, the color of midnight and frost, spilled over the blankets like ink. She breathed—shallow, steady—untouched by the stirrings of the world around her.

Boromir sat vigil at her side, as he had every night since their arrival. He did not speak. He barely moved. His calloused hand rested near hers, close but not touching—reverent, regretful. The shadows carved his face in harsh relief: the hollows under his eyes, the lines worn deep around his mouth. His mail shirt lay discarded beside him; he wore only a linen tunic now, sleeves rolled—as if trying to shed the trappings of a captain and face her simply as a man.

His gaze never strayed far from her face, watching for the faintest flutter of lashes, the smallest shift of her fingers.

Behind him, soft footsteps approached. Faramir carried two tin cups of broth.

“She still does not stir?” His voice was quiet, respectful.

Boromir shook his head. “No change. She breathes. Her skin is warm. But her spirit feels... far.”

Faramir offered him one of the cups. “You should eat.”

Boromir accepted it, though he didn’t drink. “I’m not hungry.”

“She wouldn’t want you starving on her account.”

That drew a dry huff—half sigh, half laugh.

“She’d scold me. Gracefully.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching her.

Then Faramir asked, gently, “Who is she to you, Boromir?”

Boromir’s throat tightened. “She is... more than I can name. I owe her my life. And more.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, exhaling. “When I fell, it wasn’t the enemy who brought me back. It was her.”

Faramir studied his brother’s face. “I know you died, Boromir. The wounds you bore... no man should’ve survived them. And yet here you are.”

“Aye.” Boromir’s voice was low. “She fought death itself to bring me back. With a lamp I still don’t understand, and a power that doesn’t belong in this world. She called my soul back into my body. I remember the pain. The light. And her voice.”

His gaze dropped. “And I remember why I died.”

Faramir sat beside him, his eyes drawn to Bai Qian’s still form. “You’ve told me what happened. The Ring. Your fall. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

Boromir’s fingers tightened around the cup. “I failed, Faramir,” he said. “The Ring consumed me, even as I fought it. I said I would protect him, Frodo, and I broke that vow. I gave in. And it cost me.”

Faramir’s expression didn’t waver. “You died defending the halflings.”

Boromir let out a long breath. “I see it more clearly now. I wasn’t just tempted by power. I wanted to prove myself. To Father. To Gondor. Even to you.” He looked toward the cavern wall, voice tight. “I thought I had to carry the burden alone. I made it about glory. Pride. And I lost sight of what I was meant to protect.”

Faramir frowned. “You thought you had to earn love through victory?”

Boromir’s laugh was bitter. “Didn’t we both? Father never left room for gentler things. And when I saw Frodo with the Ring—so small, so brave—I thought I could take that burden from him. That I was strong enough. But I wasn’t. I was wrong.”

“You’ve said these things before,” Faramir said softly, “but never like this.”

Boromir looked again at Bai Qian. “She called me back, Faramir. I remember all of it. The pain. The fading. And then… warmth. Light. Her voice. I don’t know what she truly is—not just a woman. Something older. Greater.”

Faramir followed his gaze. “There’s power in her. I feel it even now.”

“She gave me another chance,” Boromir said. “I don’t know why. But I mean to be worthy of it.”

Faramir studied him for a long moment. “You already are, Boromir. Do you think I can’t see the change in you?”

“I’m not the same man,” Boromir said. “I can’t be. Not after her.”

Faramir laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then be the man she brought back.”

Boromir’s throat worked. He met his brother’s eyes—and though his voice failed, gratitude did not.

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence after that, a stillness between wars and wounds. Bai Qian slept on, untouched by their words—but not unmoved.

Far within the veil of dreams, something stirred.

--

The wind stirred faintly outside the canvas, rustling the leaves beyond the waterfall like a whisper too ancient to name. Within the healer’s tent, it was still and dim, lit only by the soft, golden flicker of a lantern near the cot. Bai Qian lay unmoving beneath her blankets, her breathing steady but shallow. A faint glow lingered on her skin—elusive, like the memory of dawn before the sun.

Boromir sat at her side, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He had not spoken in some time, nor had he slept. His eyes remained fixed on her, as though the rise and fall of her breath might anchor him through the night.

Faramir entered quietly and sat across from him, setting down a hand-stitched satchel of rations. “Supplies came down from Cair Andros this morning,” he said gently. “I told them you’d refuse food unless someone physically shoved it into your hands.”

Boromir managed a tired smile. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”

A silence passed between them. Faramir’s gaze shifted to Bai Qian. “She still doesn't stir.”

“No,” Boromir said softly. “But she’s still here. I can feel it.” His eyes flicked down. “I don’t understand it—but when I’m near her, the fear quiets. As if she holds the worst of it at bay just by being. Like in Lothlórien.”

Faramir nodded slowly. “You’re different, Boromir. Since your return. Stronger in some ways… softer in others.”

Boromir exhaled through his nose. “She sees through me. Saw everything—my pride, my ruin. And still… she brought me back.”

Another silence, longer this time.

“You’ve been thinking about Father,” Faramir said—not a question, but an observation.

Boromir’s hands tightened slightly. “He needs to know I’m alive. That much I owe him. Even if he turns his back on me.”

“You know what he’ll say.”

“I do,” Boromir murmured. “And I’ll face it anyway.”

Faramir studied him, eyes full of quiet understanding. “He’ll deny your warning. Deny anything that threatens his illusion of control. And still you go.”

Boromir nodded. “I must. For Gondor, yes—but also for myself. I won’t hide from my own blood. If I can stand before death and return… I can stand before Denethor and not let him unmake me again.”

Faramir’s voice gentled. “Then I’ll stay. Someone should keep watch—for the Company, and for her.”

Boromir looked to Bai Qian once more. The lantern’s flame caught the strands of her hair, turning them to molten silver. “I hate leaving her.”

“She’ll wait,” Faramir said. “She crossed worlds to find you. I daresay she’ll do it again.”

Boromir gave a breath of quiet laughter. “That, I believe.”

They stood, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Faramir placed a hand firmly on his brother’s shoulder.

“You are not going alone, Brother. You go with my blessing. And with truth at your back.”

Boromir clasped his forearm in return—the old soldier’s grip that once bound them in battle, now heavy with deeper meaning.

“Then I will go,” he said, glancing one last time at Bai Qian. “And when she wakes… tell her I will return.”

Faramir inclined his head. “You have my word.”

The tent flap stirred with the rising wind as Boromir stepped into the shadowed dawn—a man no longer running from death, but walking toward what must be faced.

Beyond the veil of trees, the sun began its slow ascent, casting golden shafts through the mist that rose with the falls. Morning light spilled into the healer’s tent in slender fingers, brushing against the cot where Bai Qian lay—still, unchanged. The faint shimmer clinging to her, like a veil of starlight, had not faded.

Faramir remained at her side, hands folded loosely in his lap.

He had not spoken much to her. How could he? She had not stirred—save for one moment, back in Osgiliath, when her lips had shaped his name. A whisper, fragile as breath. A thread of sound carried from some distant, unreachable place.

Yet even in her stillness, she did not feel distant.

Faramir studied her—not with envy, nor with desire, but with the quiet awe of a man raised on tales of ancient power and fallen realms, never expecting myth to live before him.

Her beauty was not of Middle-earth. Not even the Elves could claim such grace. Her skin gleamed like frost on moonlit leaves. Her hair, black as the night sky, pooled like silk. And upon her brow...

She looked eternal. And yet… breakable.

Faramir sighed and dipped a cloth into the basin beside her, pressing it gently to her temple. The healer had said to keep her cool. She did not burn—but neither did she warm.

“You don’t belong to us,” he murmured. “And yet… I think my brother belongs to you.”

The words surprised even him, but once said, they settled like truth.

Boromir had not needed to name it. Faramir had seen it in his eyes—the reverence of a man broken and remade, the look of one who found peace not in salvation, but in being seen and not turned away. That kind of devotion meant everything.

And it was not his to claim.

Faramir smiled faintly. “He is not always easy to love,” he said, looking at her still form. “But you saw him. Not the man our father shaped. The man he is.”

A breeze stirred the canvas. The faint scent of wildflowers slipped through from beyond the falls.

“I will keep watch until you wake, Lady,” Faramir whispered. “You’ve given him strength to face what waits in Minas Tirith. Perhaps, in time, he’ll give you a reason to stay.”

He dipped the cloth again and laid it across her brow. Her skin was cool—too cool—but breath still passed her lips. Her pulse—soft as silk beneath her jaw—still beat. She was fighting.

And so, Faramir remained. He would not let her wake alone.

Chapter Text

The wind shifted across the plains of Rohan, tugging at cloaks and whispering through golden grasses. The land rolled gently beneath the hooves of their mounts, yet an unease clung to the air—an ancient stillness stretched too thin, like a breath held too long.

They paused on a rise, the sun casting a burnished light over the distant city.

“Edoras,” Gandalf said, his voice low and weathered. “And the Golden Hall of Meduseld. There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan… whose mind is overthrown.”

Feng Jiu followed his gaze, her fox eyes narrowing. The hall glittered faintly atop its hill, but something about it set her teeth on edge. Not awe, but dissonance—like a chord struck out of tune, low and crawling beneath her skin.

Beside her, Legolas studied her expression with quiet curiosity. Her robes, a pale blossom pink today, shimmered softly in the breeze—but despite their elegance, her posture was still, watchful. The glimmer in her eye was not mischief, but wariness.

“Saruman’s hold over King Théoden is now very strong,” Gandalf went on. “Be wary. This place offers no welcome.”

Feng Jiu said nothing, but her brow furrowed slightly. She remembered the feel of that name back on Caradhras, the bitter wind that cut deeper than frost. It was the same shadow here—familiar and foul, like something old trying to wear new skin.

As they rode into Edoras, the gates creaked open with a reluctance that felt deliberate. Inside, the air was heavier. The people were silent, pale-eyed, watching from doorways and corners—not hostile, but hollow, as if their spirits had thinned with grief. Their gazes lingered longest on Feng Jiu. Her foreign garb and otherworldly poise seemed to ripple something under the surface.

Aragorn caught movement from the corner of his eye—a banner, loose from its moorings, fluttered to the ground beside them like a sigh.

Feng Jiu dismounted without a sound. She bent, fingers brushing the fabric of the fallen standard, then looked up toward the hall—and stilled.

At the top of the steps, a woman stood: golden-haired, white-robed, her gaze shadowed with something aching and ancient. They locked eyes—but only for a heartbeat. Then the woman turned and disappeared into the gloom.

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli muttered, looking around with open distaste.

Feng Jiu tilted her head. “There is no cheer here,” she murmured, voice soft, almost distant. “Only a sickness. Not of the body… of the soul.”

Legolas turned toward her. “You feel it too?”

She nodded. “The land itself resists it. The stones groan beneath it. But whatever this is… it does not belong here. It was forced in.”

Their company pressed onward, hooves echoing against the stone paths as they climbed toward Meduseld. At the rear, Feng Jiu slowed, one hand resting lightly on the tasseled knot at her waist.  The wind caught her hair, brushing it like fingers. She didn’t flinch.

This is not mortal illness, she thought. It is sorcery. And old, if not wise.

They reached the carved steps of the Golden Hall, sunlight splintering through the clouds behind them. At the door, Hama and several guards stepped forward, barring the way.

Hama bowed slightly. “I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame. By order of Gríma Wormtongue.”

There was a long pause.

Gandalf inclined his head with grave patience. “As you will.”

One by one, Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas began removing their weapons. Even Legolas, though reluctant, unbuckled his knives and longbow with practiced ease. When Hama turned to Feng Jiu, she met his gaze with a serene expression.

“I carry no blades,” she said lightly, lifting her arms. Her wide sleeves swirled like petals as she gave them a faint, theatrical shake. Nothing fell. No steel, no weight. “I bruise easily,” she added with solemn innocence. “And I’ve never held a sword properly in my life.”

Gimli grunted. “That one’s more dangerous without weapons than most men are with them.”

Hama blinked, unsure if he’d been insulted or charmed. Then his gaze fell on Gandalf’s staff. “And your staff, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf blinked at it, feigning surprise. “Hm? My walking stick?”

Before Hama could respond, Feng Jiu slipped beside the old wizard and slid her hand into the crook of his arm with practiced elegance.

“Grandfather’s knees are not what they once were,” she said sweetly. “If he stumbles on those stairs, I’ll be forced to catch him—and that will not be graceful for anyone.”

Gandalf patted her hand fondly, his eyes twinkling.

Hama hesitated—caught between suspicion and courtesy—then stepped aside.

The doors of Meduseld swung open with a low groan, and the Fellowship entered the darkened hall.

Gríma Wormtongue perched at the king’s side like a vulture robed in silk, murmuring poison into the ear of a man who barely seemed to breathe. Théoden slouched on the throne of Rohan, his face sunken and pale, his eyes cloudy, ringed with age beyond his years. His fingers curled weakly around the arms of the seat, knotted with the stiffness of one long entombed while still alive.

“My lord,” Gríma purred, casting a sidelong glance toward the approaching figures, “Gandalf the Grey draws near. A herald of woe, if ever there was one.”

The firelight flickered weakly in the vast hall, its warmth failing to touch the gloom clinging to the rafters.

Gandalf stepped forward, voice steady and commanding. “The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King.”

Behind him, Feng Jiu’s steps made no sound, her gaze sweeping the shadows. They clung thick as rot to the beams and tapestries. Her nose twitched, not with fear—but with knowing. The stench of sorcery pressed against her senses. It was rancid, unnatural—she did not need to know Saruman’s name to know his hand was here.

“He is not welcome,” Gríma said pointedly, his voice thick with false humility.

Théoden looked up slowly, his rheumy eyes full of distrust. “Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?”

“A just question, my liege,” Gríma slithered forward, his eyes glinting with malice. “Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear… Láthspell I name him—Ill news is an ill guest.”

The guards began to move in, blades in hand.

Gandalf’s voice cracked through the gloom like thunder. “Be silent! Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!” He raised his staff—light catching the polished wood—and Gríma stumbled backward with a shriek.

His eyes widened. “His staff!” Gríma howled, “I told you to take the wizard’s staff!”

The hall erupted. Aragorn struck first, knocking aside a guard’s blade and landing a hard fist to the man’s jaw. Gimli barreled into another with a roar, axe forgotten in favor of brute force. Legolas moved like wind through grass—silent, swift, uncatchable.

And then the air shifted.

A guard sprinted toward Gimli—only to trip over nothing and slam into the stone with a wheeze. Another lunged for Legolas and missed wildly as the Elf stepped lightly aside; the man stumbled into a pillar, dazed. Feng Jiu had not moved far from where she stood, robes swaying like clouds around her ankles. But her hand lifted—graceful, precise—and the threads of her will flicked through the air like a puppeteer’s dance.

Another man charged Aragorn—then reeled suddenly left, spun by a gust no one else felt. He crashed into his companion with a grunt.

Legolas caught her eye. That sly glimmer had returned to her gaze, even if her lips remained still. She lifted one hand—flicked her fingers—and a third man, blade drawn, spun on his heel and fell backward as his scabbard twisted about his leg.

Gimli, elbow-deep in chaos, let out a delighted bellow. “I don’t know what spell she’s weaving, but I hope she keeps doing it!”

Through it all, Gandalf strode forward.

“Théoden… son of Thengel,” he said, voice ringing like steel on stone. “Too long have you sat in the shadows.”

Gríma shrank backward, only to find Gimli’s boot on his chest, holding him firmly in place. “I would stay still if I were you,” the dwarf growled.

Gandalf lifted his staff high.

“Hearken to me! I release you… from the spell!”

Théoden laughed—a sound like dry leaves in a storm. “You have no power here… Gandalf the Grey.”

At that, Gandalf shed his grey cloak. White blazed beneath it, brilliant and pure. Théoden was thrown back by the light, his body writhing against the chair. A scream echoed—not from his lips.

“I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound!” Gandalf thrust his staff forward.

Éowyn burst into the hall, skirts flying, eyes wide with horror. “Uncle!” she cried, ready to rush to him. But before she could take two steps, a gentle hand stopped her. Feng Jiu stood at her side, impossibly fast, her fingers resting lightly on Éowyn’s wrist. Her touch was cool, like water drawn from a sacred spring.

“Wait,” she said, her voice low, musical, and calm as falling snow. “He is not lost. Not yet.”

Éowyn faltered, breath catching, caught in the stillness of the stranger’s gaze—ancient, certain, and full of quiet strength.

Théoden stirred in his throne, his head jerking unnaturally. But the voice that spoke from his lips was not his.

“If I go,” Saruman rasped through the king, “Théoden dies.”

“You did not kill me,” Gandalf answered, voice hard with thunder. “And you will not kill him.”

“Rohan is mine!” came the final, feral snarl—from the depths of the king’s throat, but borne of another will.

“Be gone!” Gandalf roared. He struck forward with his staff, and a pulse of white light surged through Théoden. The king was hurled from his throne—and far away, in Isengard, Saruman staggered, flung backward as though struck by a hammer. Blood streamed down his temple as he screamed into the stone.

In Meduseld, silence fell like ash.

Then, Éowyn broke from Feng Jiu’s hold and ran to her uncle, catching him just before he collapsed fully. She cradled him, eyes wet with fear and hope.

Théoden shuddered—then drew a breath, slow and trembling. His skin brightened, the pallor lifting. His beard seemed to recede; the lines of age faded like a bad dream. When he opened his eyes, they were clear. Blue. Alive. “I know your face,” he whispered hoarsely, gazing up at her. “Éowyn…”

Her smile broke as tears spilled freely. “Uncle…”

Théoden turned, dazed, toward Gandalf. “Gandalf…?”

“Breathe the free air again, my friend,” the wizard said, his voice gentling into joy.

Slowly, Théoden rose, legs uncertain beneath him. He looked at his hands—once gnarled, now firm and strong. “Dark have been my dreams of late…”

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better,” Gandalf said, “if they grasped your sword.”

From the side, Hama approached, reverent. In his hands was a blade wrapped in memory. Théoden stared at the weapon as if seeing it for the first time. He reached out. His hand closed around the hilt—and then, with slow purpose, he drew the blade free. Its steel gleamed like a star reborn. Light returned to the King’s eyes.

He turned.

There, near the doors, Gríma stood trembling—his silks no longer cloaking the fear beneath.

“You…” Théoden said, voice low and gathering storm. “You have haunted this hall long enough.”

Gríma fell to his knees. “I’ve only ever served you, my lord,” he whimpered. “Only ever spoken truth!”

Théoden stepped forward, fury rising like a tide. “Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!”

Gríma recoiled, crawling backward across the flagstones. “Send me not from your sight!”

Théoden raised his sword high, rage spilling through his limbs.

“No, my lord!” Aragorn stepped forward, firm. “Let him go. Enough blood has been spilled on his account.” He moved to Gríma, kneeling, and offered his hand—not as a friend, but as a man unwilling to become executioner.

Gríma looked up, sneering, and spat on the offered hand before scrambling away—shoving past villagers and guards alike as he fled down the steps into the wind. The murmur that rose behind them swelled like a wave.

“Hail, Théoden King!” Hama cried.

One by one, the people of Edoras fell to their knees.

Théoden stood at the threshold, gazing at the city, at his niece, and at those who had helped restore him. His shoulders lifted—freed from years of shadow. Then his face changed. He turned to Gandalf, voice quiet, cracked with sorrow.

“Where is Théodred?” he asked. “Where is my son?”

The white towers of Minas Tirith shimmered in the waning light of day as Boromir passed beneath the high gates of the city. He wore no heraldry—only a travel-worn cloak and the steel of a soldier who had walked too far and seen too much. The guards gaped at him as he entered—one dropped his spear.

Whispers passed like windfire through the levels of the city. The Steward’s heir. He lives. He has returned.

The halls of the Citadel had changed little. The cold stone echoed beneath his boots, the banners of Gondor hanging stiff and silent. It was the smell that struck him most—the mingled scents of old parchment, oil, and ash. Once, it had stirred pride. Now it choked.

He had barely stepped into the throne hall before Denethor descended from the Steward’s seat, his robes rustling like dried leaves. His face, once pale with sunless hours, had drained further of color, stricken with something between disbelief and fury.

“You…” Denethor’s voice caught—hoarse, trembling. “You were dead.”

Boromir stopped several paces away and inclined his head—not in deference, but in deliberate respect.

“I nearly was.”

Denethor reached for him, then faltered. “How? Where? I saw your body carried by the river in a vision—I saw your horn broken in two. What trickery is this?”

“No trick,” Boromir said. “I died… and something greater pulled me back.”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed. “Spared? By whom?”

Boromir did not answer. He met his father’s gaze—steady, unflinching. The silence between them stretched like a drawn bow. “I failed you,” he said. “I failed the quest you sent me on. I tried to take the Ring from the Ringbearer. A halfling. I broke my oath to protect him.”

Denethor flinched as if struck. “What nonsense is this? You did what you must! The Ring belongs to Gondor—to us! Why else would you have been sent on such a path?”

Boromir’s jaw tensed. Once, those words might have moved him. Now they tasted of ash.

“No, Father. That path would have ruined me. It already nearly did.”

“You speak like a stranger.” Denethor’s voice rose. “What has happened to you? Where is your fire? Your strength?”

“I still have strength,” Boromir said. “But it’s not the kind you taught me to wield.”

A silence colder than stone followed. Denethor stepped back, eyes narrowing as though truly seeing the change in him—the deeper lines, the weight behind his gaze, the restraint where once there had only been fire.

“You come back a broken man.”

“No,” Boromir said softly. “Only changed.”

Denethor’s mouth twisted. “And where is the Ring now? With the halflings?”

“It is beyond us now. And it must be. Seeking it would destroy this city before the Enemy even raises his hand.”

Denethor turned away sharply, striding toward the broad window that overlooked the Pelennor Fields. His hands gripped the stone sill until his knuckles whitened. “You would defy me,” he said, voice low. “After all I have done. After all I hoped for in you.”

Boromir did not raise his voice. He simply stood there, hands calm at his sides. “You hoped for a weapon,” he said, not unkindly. “But I am a man.”

Denethor did not turn.

Boromir inclined his head once more. Then turned, and left the chamber in silence. The heavy doors closed behind him with a low thud, sealing off the echo of his father’s disappointment.

He stood in the corridor for a breathless moment before beginning the ascent—stone steps worn with the memory of his youth, the path to chambers that once felt like sanctuary but now pressed unfamiliar beneath his feet. The city around him was hushed. A reverent quiet followed his return, but no cheers. No calls of celebration. It was a city that mourned its dead and did not yet know how to welcome them back.

He opened the door slowly. The scent of old dust greeted him like a breath held too long. No one had lived here since he left for Rivendell. The bed remained neatly made, the hearth cold. His sword still hung on the wall, ceremonially displayed but long untouched.

Boromir stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Only then did his posture loosen. He removed the cloak and draped it over a chair with absent care, eyes drifting toward the hearth. He did not light it. Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. For a long while he remained there in stillness, listening to the wind against the stone.

He should have felt peace. This was the place he had dreamed of returning to—the white city, the tower, the home he had bled for. But the walls no longer echoed the man he had been. His pride, once so sharp in these halls, now felt dulled. And in its place: the memory of a quiet woman with dark hair and eyes that saw through him. A woman who had never tried to claim him. Never asked for anything.

Bai Qian.

She had not stirred once since he woke, brought back from the dead. Her skin, pale as moonlight, remained cool. Her breath, slow and barely visible, whispered like wind across snow. But she was still there—an anchor in the storm he’d nearly drowned in.

It wasn’t love—not yet. Not something he could name aloud. But it was reverence. Gratitude that had deepened into awe.

She had crossed the veil of death to bring him back—not with desperate pleas or borrowed spells, but with conviction carved out of ancient power and timeless will. He missed the healer’s tent—not for its comfort, but because she had been near. Even in silence, even in stillness, she gave him strength. Her presence had steadied something inside him that had always lived on edge.

And now, here in Minas Tirith, the city of his birth, that steadiness was tested.

He rose and crossed to the basin near the window, pouring a cup of water. He drank slowly, then leaned on the cold stone sill and looked out over the rooftops. The white towers. The streets. The people who did not yet know their son had returned from the dead.

“Not as they remember me,” he murmured to the wind. “And not as he wants me to be.”

Denethor had already seen it—the shift, the silence, the refusal to bow. Boromir had not shouted in the throne hall. Had not begged. That alone was enough to rattle his father. But deeper still was the wound Denethor could not name: his son no longer burned for the same glory.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Captain?” came the voice of a soldier outside the door—tense, respectful. “Lord Denethor has summoned the council. He bids your presence.”

Boromir didn’t answer at first. He looked around the room once more—his past scattered across the walls. A childhood sword. A half-carved wooden falcon. A map of Gondor curled at the corners. He donned his cloak again and paused at the door, looking back.

“I am not who I was,” he murmured. “And I will not be him again.”

And with that, he stepped into the hall—not as the Steward’s heir, not as Gondor’s chosen son, but as a man still discovering who he truly was.

Théodred’s body was borne with solemn reverence, carried upon the shoulders of six royal guards. They passed through the great gates of Edoras and out onto the windswept plains beyond, toward the ancient barrows that crowned the hill like sentinel stones—watching, waiting, as they had for ages.

King Théoden walked behind his son, stiff with grief. At his sides strode Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli—and Feng Jiu, her expression calm but solemn. Behind them, the people of Edoras followed in silence, their heads bowed, boots whispering against the grass. The wind stirred cloaks and hair. Above, the sky hung heavy with cloud, as if mourning beside them.

Awaiting them at the tomb were the women of Rohan, cloaked in white and ash-gray. Among them stood Éowyn, pale and still, her eyes shadowed. As Théodred’s body was passed gently into their care, she stepped forward—not with words, but with song.

A lament, pure and sorrowing.

"Bealocwealm hafað frēone frecan forth onsended,
giedd sculon singan glēomenn sorgiende,
on Meduselde þæt he ma no wǣre,
his dryhtne dyrest and māga dēorost..."

The old tongue rang soft over the plains, winding like a thread of grief through every heart gathered there. As the women bore Théodred into the barrow, the great stone doors closed behind him with a mournful thud.

At the foot of the mound, Théoden stood motionless. A single white flower had fallen beside him—Simbelmyne. He knelt, fingers brushing the delicate bloom.

“Simbelmyne,” he murmured. “Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebears.” His voice caught as he looked back to the barrow. “Now it shall cover the grave of my son.” His shoulders sagged, the full weight of grief breaking through his kingly bearing. “Alas… that these evil days should be mine. The young perish, and the old linger. That I should live to see the last days of my house…”

Gandalf’s voice came gently behind him, layered with sorrow and certainty. “Théodred's death was not of your making.”

The king bowed forward, lowering himself to his knees. His tears fell silent and slow.

“No parent should have to bury their child.”

Gandalf placed a hand upon his shoulder, and for a moment, bowed his head. “He was strong in life. His spirit will find its way to the halls of your fathers.” He bent closer, whispering, “Westu hál. Ferðu, Théodred, ferðu.” Then he stepped away, giving space for grief.

Feng Jiu approached the edge of the mound. She did not speak. Her eyes passed over Théoden, then fell to the earth where the first flower had dropped. She lifted her hand—no more than a subtle flick of her fingers, like stirring silk in still water. No flash. No blaze of magic. But over the barrow, the soil shifted. A single white blossom opened. Then another. A gentle ripple of Simbelmyne followed—quiet, reverent—blooming where none had yet grown.

The king did not see. His eyes were still low, shadowed. But Gandalf paused mid-step. And from the slope above, Legolas saw it clearly.

A wind lifted through the grass, soft as a sigh. He turned to find Feng Jiu standing with the breeze catching her robes, her gaze resting on the mound. Her face held no triumph, only sorrow. Stillness. And something older.

Legolas’s lips curved faintly—barely a smile, but real. The fire in her had not gone out.

Behind them, a cry rang out. Gandalf turned to see two children on horseback, one slipping from the saddle in exhaustion. The spell of silence broke, and the living world pulled them forward once more.

Within the Golden Hall, the hearth burned low, casting flickering shadows on the walls as the survivors huddled together. Children, newly arrived from the burning villages of the Westfold, sat close to Eowyn. They ate hungrily, shoveling bread and broth into their mouths with shaking hands. Eowyn kept a protective arm around one of the little girls, drawing a blanket around her slender shoulders.

“They had no warning,” Eowyn said quietly, her voice strained as she addressed those gathered—Theoden, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Feng Jiu. “They were unarmed. Now the Wild Men move through the Westfold, burning as they go. Rick, cot, and tree.”

A little girl looked up, her voice small and fragile. “Where is Mama?”

Eowyn pulled her closer, stroking her hair. “Sssh,” she whispered.

Theoden sat still, hand pressed against his temple, wearied beyond words. Gandalf, beside him, leaned forward with urgency in his tone. “This, is but a taste of the terror Saruman will unleash.” The wizard’s voice cut through the heavy air. Theoden stirred slightly, listening. “All the more potent, for he is driven now by fear of Sauron. Ride out and meet him head on. Draw him away from your women and children.” He laid a hand gently on the king’s chair.

“You must fight.”

Aragorn stepped forward, voice low but steady. “You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak. Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king.”

But Theoden rose suddenly from his seat, frustration laced in his words. “They will be three hundred leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us.” He paused, and then turned toward Aragorn, the fire in his eyes barely veiled. “I know what it is you want of me—but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened. “Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not.”

Silence followed—tense, taut. Then Theoden’s voice, cool with authority: “When last I looked… Theoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan.”

An awkward pause. Gimli, chewing beside them, let out an unfortunate belch and looked up in embarrassment. No one spoke. The air pulsed with growing discord.

Before Gandalf could speak, a new voice cut through the silence—calm, clear, and quiet as falling snow.

“Then let the king's wisdom prevail, as it should,” said Feng Jiu.

All turned to her. She had not raised her voice, yet it rang with a certain lilt—one that carried a quiet command.

She stepped forward from her place near the hearth, chin high, eyes gentle yet unwavering as she looked to Theoden. “None here forget who wears the crown of Rohan. But even a mighty tree bends in the storm, and finds strength in leaning upon the stone beside it. This is not the hour for pride—nor the moment for division among those who still stand in the light.” Her gaze drifted to Aragorn, softening slightly, then returned to Theoden.

“Your people are frightened, my lord. But they have not yet fallen. You are still their hope. And those who speak now—” she inclined her head briefly toward Aragorn and Gandalf—“do so not to command, but because they wish to see Rohan endure.” She paused. “As do I.”

Theoden studied her closely, brow furrowed. This strange woman—no warrior, yet no simple lady—stood with the confidence of someone used to courts and councils, and yet she carried herself with the quiet grace of the earth itself. Not an equal in title, perhaps… but something else. Something older.

“Who are you?” he asked, not unkindly.

Feng Jiu dipped her head, her crimson robes whispering like wind-brushed silk. Her voice, when it came, was soft but steady—clear as falling water, touched with the quiet dignity she had grown into since the events at Amon Hen. “My name is Bai Feng Jiu,” she said. “future queen of Qing Qiu, a land far beyond your knowing. I am a fox spirit of the Bai clan, born of a realm older than your towers and deeper than your legends.”

Her gaze met his, unflinching. “I do not expect you to understand what I am. Even if I spoke the truth plainly, it would sound like a tale told to children. But I offer this: I have walked through battles and sorrow, through realms where time does not touch and love is weighed against fate. I have lost, and I have endured.”

She stepped forward, her expression gentle but firm. “I am not here as a queen, or a spirit, or anything beyond your reach. I am here as one who wishes to protect the living—and to remind those with power that the time to lead is not when it is easy, but when it is hardest.”

For a long beat, Theoden said nothing. His eyes searched hers for mockery or pride, but found only truth. Though her words were strange, they were not hollow. And her presence—strange though it was—felt… right.

At last, he gave a faint nod, more thoughtful than dismissive.

“Then you are welcome, Lady of Qing Qiu,” he said, with the weight of a king who had seen enough to trust what could not be explained.

For a long breath, no one moved. Then Gandalf, sensing the shift, spoke.

“Then what is the king’s decision?”

The cavern was dim, its air cool and heavy with the scent of moss and stone. Light filtered through cracks in the rock high above, catching faintly on the veils drawn around Bai Qian’s resting place. She lay unmoving upon a woven cot, her silver-white robes flowing like water, her breathing shallow but steady.

Boromir stood nearby, arms crossed, gazing at her. Though his mail was polished and his surcoat clean, his eyes were shadowed—older now than they had been even weeks ago. He looked not merely like a man returned from the brink of death, but one who had faced the weight of his soul and bore the quiet scars of what he had seen there.

“She has not stirred?” he asked quietly, not turning his head.

“No,” came Faramir’s soft reply from the alcove. He stepped into the light with a worn leather journal in hand.

Boromir exhaled through his nose—an almost bitter sound. “She came to save me… and now she lies silent, while I return to walk beneath the White Tower. It feels like mockery. Cruel and hollow.”

Faramir moved beside him, his gaze settling on Bai Qian. Even in repose, her beauty seemed unreal—like some dream of the moon half-remembered upon waking. “What did Father say?” he asked quietly.

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “He welcomed me with fanfare before the people—as if I’d merely returned from patrol, not from death. But behind closed doors…” His voice dipped low, anger flickering beneath. “He wanted answers about the Ring. Demanded to know why I did not bring it. Why I allowed a ‘vagabond’ and a halfling to escape with it.”

Faramir sighed. “He never did understand that power isn’t always a gift.”

“I told him what I saw,” Boromir muttered, voice rough. “The cost. The corruption. Frodo’s strength, Aragorn’s resolve. I told him I died for the hobbits. That I failed—and then fought to make it right.” His voice thinned. “He didn’t hear a word of it.”

Faramir nodded slowly. “He’s never wanted to understand our hearts. Only our service.”

“I gave him both,” Boromir said hoarsely. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

Faramir placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You were tempted by something crafted to destroy even the strongest of hearts. And yet… you chose to defend them in the end. You gave your life for them, Boromir. That is no failure.”

Boromir’s gaze fell. “I don’t know if I was saved… or if I was simply given a second chance to suffer.”

“Or,” Faramir said gently, “you were given a second chance to become the man you were always meant to be.” He let the quiet settle, then added, “You came back, Boromir. And you came back changed. That’s what she gave you. A second breath. A second chance.”

Boromir looked toward Bai Qian again, his expression raw. “And what did she give up to do it?” His voice hushed now. “She burned her power to bring me back. I can feel it—in my bones, in my blood. Whatever tethered me to this world… it was her.” He took a breath, one hand tightening slightly at his side. “What if she never wakes? She gave everything. And now she lies still, like death itself. I fear I’ve only traded one doom for another.”

“She didn’t think it a poor trade,” Faramir said softly. “Or she would not have made it.” He paused, then slowly smiled—quiet, sure. “She’s still here, Boromir. That’s something.”

“Is it?” Boromir’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know if she chose to stay… or if what’s left of her is just caught. Trapped in some in-between.”

Faramir was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “If she is… I believe she’s waiting for you.”

Boromir blinked, slowly turning toward him.

“You came back to her,” Faramir said. “Perhaps now, she’s waiting for you to show her it was worth it.”

The silence that followed was not heavy, but reverent—a pause that acknowledged the weight of grief, and the fragile, flickering thread of hope.

At last, Boromir bowed his head. “Then I’ll wait with her,” he said softly. “Even if it takes the rest of my days.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and in the hidden sanctuary of Henneth Annûn, two brothers sat vigil beside the sleeping fox queen—one returned from death, and one who refused to leave her behind. The stillness shattered with raised voices echoing from the outer caves. A ranger came running into the alcove where Boromir and Faramir kept watch beside Bai Qian.

“My lords,” he said breathlessly, “there are strangers at the entrance. Dressed strangely—no one saw how they arrived.”

Boromir and Faramir exchanged a look. Faramir stood first, hand brushing the hilt of his sword. Boromir rose more slowly, casting a last glance at Bai Qian. She remained as she had for days: serene, silent, a queen lost in sleep too deep for dreams.

They emerged into the outer chamber, where several rangers had gathered—tense, uncertain, weapons drawn but not yet raised. Two men stood before them, unlike any seen in Gondor.

One wore flowing robes of pink that shimmered like peach blossoms caught in spring wind; the other was dressed in white, crisp and clean, his bearing sharp as a blade and just as still. The pink-robed man carried himself with a kind of amused elegance, eyes half-lidded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The other stood a step behind and to the side, silent but commanding, his watchful gaze taking in every movement. Boromir felt it at once—not just strangeness, but something else. A brush of power that whispered through the air, delicate and undeniable. Familiar in a way that gripped the edge of his soul.

“They’re like her,” he murmured to Faramir.

Faramir nodded once, gaze narrowed. “Yes.”

The man in pink stepped forward with lazy grace, his voice warm and ageless. “I am Zhe Yan of Peach Blossom Grove,” he said, gesturing lightly toward his companion. “And this is Bai Zhen, fourth son of the Fox King of Qing Qiu. We are looking for Bai Qian—my old friend… and his younger sister.”

Boromir blinked. The final truth clicked into place. “You’re too late to ask whether we’ve seen her,” he said quietly. “Come. We’ll take you to her.”

Zhe Yan’s smile faded into something gentler. “We followed her qi across worlds. It flared brightly… and then faltered. We feared the worst.”

Bai Zhen said nothing, but his expression tightened. His gaze had already shifted, searching for the path ahead.

Boromir led them quickly through the stone passageways, Faramir close behind. When they entered the chamber, Bai Qian lay as before—white-robed, radiant even in rest, her breathing too shallow for comfort. Zhe Yan approached first. The ease in his steps had softened into concern. He knelt beside her and reached out, brushing her brow with careful fingers.

“Little fox,” he murmured. “Always rushing ahead.”

Bai Zhen moved to her other side, lowering himself slowly. His hand hovered over her shoulder—but he didn’t touch her. Still, there was protection in his stillness. A brother’s silent vigil.

Boromir stood at the edge of the space, arms folded tightly. Relief warred with uncertainty. This was her family—her true world.

Faramir leaned close. “They found her. But… can they bring her back?”

“I don’t know,” Boromir said. His eyes never left her. “But if anyone can… it’s them.”

Zhe Yan pressed two fingers gently to Bai Qian’s sternum. A golden-pink shimmer of light flickered beneath her robes before fading. His brows knit immediately. “She’s been injured,” he said softly. “A stab wound. Clean. Deliberate. Self-inflicted.”

Bai Zhen’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Zhe Yan’s hand hovered again. “Straight to the heart chakra. Not meant to destroy… but to release.” His voice dropped. “She did this to herself. I don’t know for whom.” He closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath as he swept his energy through her core. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What is?” Bai Zhen asked.

“Backlash,” Zhe Yan said grimly. “Magical. Violent. Whatever she tried—it was powerful, and it hit her just as hard. Her cultivation is… fractured. Like a pearl cracked beneath pressure.” He leaned back slightly and sighed. “She’s not dying. But her spirit is exhausted. Her qi is nearly gone.”

“She shouldn’t have done this alone,” Bai Zhen muttered.

“She never asks for help,” Zhe Yan replied, managing a tired smile. “Even when she should.” From his sleeve, he drew his long, peach blossom fan and tapped it once against his palm. Power rippled outward. With a flick of his wrist, golden light unfurled from its arc and spread over Bai Qian like a spring breeze, settling across her body like petals caught in sunlight.

Boromir and Faramir watched in quiet awe.

Faramir leaned closer. “Magic… unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not like the Grey Wizard,” Boromir said, voice low. “It feels… older. Softer. But no less strong.” His gaze lingered on Bai Qian’s face. “He’s helping her. And they know her. They love her.”

Before Faramir could respond, Bai Zhen looked up, eyes fixed on Boromir. “You carry my sister’s qi,” he said, voice low but pointed. “Not a trace. It surrounds you—woven into your breath.”

Boromir met his gaze without flinching. “She gave much to save me.”

“Then tell me,” Bai Zhen said, stepping forward, calm but unwavering. “Everything. From the moment you met her—until now. Spare nothing.”

Zhe Yan didn’t pause in his work, but smirked faintly. “Ah. Story time.” He flicked his fan open again. “Might as well get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

Boromir looked at Bai Zhen—and began to speak.

“They came to Rivendell before the Council. Quietly. But no one mistook them for ordinary.” He exhaled. “Lady Bai Qian… she kept her power hidden unless needed. But when she wielded it—” He gave a faint, awed shake of the head. “She calmed the chaos with a single gust from her fan. Calm. Commanding.”

“The Jade Purity Fan,” Bai Zhen said, a nod betraying recognition.

Zhe Yan, who had gone still in his healing work, now looked up. “You said they.”

Boromir blinked. “Yes. Her niece. A fox spirit called Feng Jiu.”

Both immortals froze.

Zhe Yan choked. “Feng Jiu? Bai Feng Jiu? The little red menace? She’s here?!”

Even Bai Zhen’s composure wavered. “Are you certain?”

Boromir nodded. “Red robes. A red petal-shaped birthmark. Bold. Mischievous. I’m fairly sure she tried to enchant Legolas’s arrows once, just to see what would happen.”

Zhe Yan covered his face. “Heavens help them.”

“She’s not alone?” Bai Zhen asked.

“No. She traveled with us. She’s with the Fellowship—what remains of it.”

The immortals exchanged a silent glance.

“This changes things,” Zhe Yan murmured.

“It complicates them,” Bai Zhen muttered.

Zhe Yan turned to Boromir, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You attract quite the celestial storm, don’t you?”

Boromir, only slightly confused, pressed on. “They both joined the Fellowship. We crossed the Misty Mountains, but were turned back by the snows. Then came Moria. We lost Gandalf.” His voice dipped. “She stood when others faltered. Her fan was a force of nature.”

His tone changed as he spoke of Lothlórien.

“In that forest… everything grew quieter. She offered a peace I hadn’t felt in years. One night… she came to me in her fox form. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. But for the first time, my mind was quiet. The judgment, the failure, my father’s voice… were silent.” He swallowed. “She gave me a night of rest.”

A silence followed. Zhe Yan lifted his brows, half-amused.

Bai Zhen frowned. “You’re telling me my sister… comforted you? As a fox?”

Zhe Yan shot him a dry look. “That sounds like her.”

Boromir didn’t flinch. “She did.”

Bai Zhen’s frown deepened. “She doesn’t show her true form unless she feels deeply safe. Or deeply compelled.”

“She gave us all pause,” Boromir said. “Even Legolas. He’d never sensed magic like hers. She was apart from the world—and yet, she carried it.”

Zhe Yan, still working, glanced up. “And you say she followed you all the way to Amon Hen?”

“Yes,” Boromir said. “That’s where I fell. I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I was… consumed. I fought to redeem myself. To protect the hobbits. I was struck down.”

Bai Zhen’s voice was quiet. “And yet you stand here.”

Boromir looked down. “I don’t remember what happened. Only that I woke in Osgiliath. Faramir was there. And a broken lamp beside me.”

Faramir stepped forward. “The light lingered, even cracked. It smelled like plum blossoms. It shattered the moment he woke.”

Zhe Yan went still. “The Soul Gathering Lamp,” he whispered.

Bai Zhen turned sharply. “She wouldn’t.”

“She did,” Zhe Yan said. “That explains the wound. Her condition. The drain on her qi.” He ran a hand through his hair. “She must have summoned it to call you back, Boromir. She gave her blood to preserve your body and anchor your soul.”

Boromir stared. “She did all that… for me?”

“It’s not done lightly,” Zhe Yan said. “It demands cultivation. Life force. And lots of it. It works only if the bond is true.”

“She wouldn’t want you to carry it like a debt,” Bai Zhen said quietly. “But now you know what she gave.”

Boromir’s voice cracked. “Then… she cared.”

Bai Zhen didn’t smile. But the coldness left his gaze. “More than you know.”

“What kind of person does that?” Faramir asked.

“One who feels deeply,” Zhe Yan said.

Bai Zhen turned slightly away, jaw tight. Then said, barely audible, “If she did this... then she must love you.”

Zhe Yan finished his healing circuit and gently rested his hand on her brow. A shimmer lingered across her skin—peaceful. “She will recover,” he said. “But it will take time.”

“How long?” Boromir asked.

“Time moves differently in our realms. She’s drained herself crossing—and anchoring you. With care, she should wake in a few days.”

Bai Zhen nodded. “Then she stays here.”

Zhe Yan gave him a sly look. “You’ll be busy.”

“Busy with—?”

“Feng Jiu,” Zhe Yan said. “She’s in this world, and we’ve no idea where. And she’s… not exactly subtle.”

Boromir gave a tired smile. “You could say that.”

“You'll need to find her, Bai Zhen,” Zhe Yan said. “I’ll consult Si Ming at the Celestial Palace. If anyone has recorded anything about this strange crossing between worlds, it’ll be him.”

Bai Zhen’s lips thinned, but he didn’t argue. “Fine. But if Feng Jiu has made a mess of things—”

“She probably already has,” Zhe Yan cut in with a half-smile. “Which is why you’re perfect for the job. After all, she's your niece.”

Bai Zhen muttered something under his breath, already striding toward the entrance.

Just then, a ranger appeared. “My lords—Haradrim scouts near the eastern wood.”

Faramir’s jaw tensed. “I’ll ride.” He clasped Boromir’s arm. “Stay. Watch over her.”

“Go with care,” Boromir said.

As his brother vanished into the dark, and Bai Zhen’s silver robes disappeared beyond the firelight, Boromir turned back to Bai Qian’s resting form. He knelt beside her, voice a whisper.

“Come back soon, my lady. There’s still more to say.”

Outside beneath grey skies, Hama stood among the milling townsfolk. “By order of the king,” he called, “the city must empty. We make for the refuge of Helm’s Deep.”

People moved quickly, gathering only what they could carry. Gandalf moved among them, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli at his heels.

“Do not burden yourselves with treasures,” Hama instructed. “Take only what provisions you need.”

Gandalf exhaled, glancing to the mountains. “Helm’s Deep,” he muttered.

“They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight,” Gimli said grimly. “Who will defend them, if not their king?”

“He is only doing what he thinks is best for his people,” Aragorn answered, eyes shadowed with doubt. “Helm’s Deep has saved them before.”

They reached the stables.

Gandalf turned to them, grave. “There is no way out of that ravine. Theoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he’s leading them to safety. What they will get is a massacre.” His voice dropped. “Theoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan.” He turned to Aragorn, his face lined with time and weariness. “He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you.”

Aragorn breathed deep. “The defenses have to hold.”

“They will hold,” Gandalf replied, brushing a hand along Shadowfax’s mane. “The Grey Pilgrim. That’s what they used to call me,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Three hundred lives of Men I’ve walked this earth. And now I have no time.” He mounted, settling into the saddle. “With luck, my search will not be in vain.” He looked to Aragorn. “Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east.”

Aragorn nodded. “Go.”

Without another word, Gandalf turned Shadowfax and galloped out of the stables and down the hill, a streak of white vanishing into the gathering dusk.

The stables were dim and hushed after Gandalf’s departure, the faint clatter of hooves echoing in the distance as Shadowfax disappeared across the plains. Inside, a horse screamed—a great, dark bay rearing between two stablemen who held him with ropes, struggling to keep him contained.

Aragorn stepped forward slowly, hands raised in peace.

“That horse is half-mad, my lord,” one of the stablemen warned. “There’s nothing you can do. Leave him.”

But Aragorn didn’t answer. His eyes, steady and calm, locked with the animal’s. He whispered in the tongue of the Rohirrim, “Féste, stille nú, féste, stille nú. Lac is dréfed, gefrægon.” His voice was gentle, low as a lullaby. The horse’s violent trembling began to ease. Carefully, Aragorn reached out and removed one of the ropes, placing a hand on the steed’s flank. “Hwæt nemnað þé? Hm? Hwæt nemnað þé?”

From further down the row of stalls, Éowyn looked up from tending her own steed. She approached, her voice soft. “His name is Brego,” she paused, her eyes dimming in memory, “He was my cousin’s horse.”

“Brego…” Aragorn repeated. “Þin nama is cynglic.” The horse finally stilled under his touch, great sides heaving but no longer panicked. Aragorn’s voice dropped into elvish now, asking, “Man le trasta, Brego? Man cenich?”

Éowyn approached slowly. “I have heard of the magic of Elves,” Éowyn murmured, watching him with quiet wonder. “But I did not look for it in a Ranger from the North. You speak as one of their own.”

“I was raised in Rivendell,” Aragorn replied, lifting his saddle from the post. “For a time.” He turned back to Brego with a gentle pat. “Turn this fellow free. He’s seen enough of war.”

Éowyn nodded, her expression touched with emotion as Aragorn walked away.

Further down the stable corridor, Legolas stood at an open stall door, watching the exchange quietly. He turned when Feng Jiu joined him, a ripple of breeze in her silks. Her hair was pinned in a simple twist, her expression composed yet distant.

“You made the flowers bloom,” he said—voice low, but touched with warmth. “At Théodred’s mound.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “It was a small comfort,” she said. “But a comfort nonetheless.”

Gimli, a few paces away and pretending not to listen, muttered something approving around the pipe he was stuffing, though he kept a respectful distance.

“I’ve never seen that kind of magic,” Legolas continued. “Subtle. Living.”

Feng Jiu’s eyes lingered on the mountains in the distance. “A child of Qing Qiu learns to nurture what grows—and to release what cannot remain.”

There was a pause, then Legolas’s gaze turned more solemn. “Do you think the Soul Gathering Lamp could have worked on Théodred? If it were here?”

She turned fully to face him, expression soft but firm. “No,” she said gently. “The lamp draws on the lingering breath of a soul. It cannot seize what has already passed too far into the cycle.”

“But Bai Qian tried with Boromir,” Legolas pointed out.

“Yes.” Feng Jiu’s voice lowered. “Because there was a bond between them. The kind of bond that can call to a soul even at the brink. And the Horn of Gondor—his horn—was burned to release his “breath”, or essence. Even then...” She paused, voice softening. “We still do not know if it worked.”

Legolas gave a quiet nod, thoughtful. “Then it is not a lantern, but a bridge—only if the soul chooses to cross.”

Feng Jiu met his gaze. “Yes. And Théodred’s soul has already passed through the veil of this world. The door remains shut, unless the soul lingers behind it. I believe… he did not.”

Gimli snorted gently in the background. “A clean passing is a mercy. I’d not want to be dragged back after I’ve gone.”

Feng Jiu almost smiled, her eyes warming faintly. “You may find it harder than you think to slip away unseen, Master Dwarf.”

Legolas smiled, the ghost of amusement in his voice. “You’re sounding more like yourself again.”

Feng Jiu chuckled softly, and for a moment, a flash of the mischievous, bright-eyed spirit Legolas had first met returned to her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, but he saw it—and held it close.

It was early still—mist curling between the trees of Henneth Annûn, the stone paths slick with dew, and the silence broken only by the occasional call of birds or the distant rustle of Rangers changing watch. The hidden sanctuary stirred slowly to life, but Boromir lingered in the dim chamber where Bai Qian lay.

A faint golden glow bathed the room from the lantern Zhe Yan had left behind—an artifact of fox magic that gave not only light, but a steady warmth that pulsed in time with Bai Qian’s breath. She remained still, but no longer lifeless. There was purpose in her slumber now, something quietly healing beneath the surface.

Boromir knelt beside her. He had shed his armor, dressed instead in simple travel leathers bearing the White Tree of Gondor. His sword lay at his side, his shield strapped to his back. He was prepared for the road ahead. But before he left—he needed this moment. He lingered in silence, simply looking at her. His eyes traced the lines of her face, and though he had looked upon her a dozen times since they carried her into Henneth Annûn, this was the first time he truly saw her—not just as a figure of legend or power, but as a woman. Pale and strong. Impossibly lovely.

Her skin, smooth as moonlight over water, bore the glow of returning health. Her brows, fine and dark, were like brushstrokes from a master’s hand. Her lips were slightly parted in sleep—shaped with the kind of softness that could undo a man with silence alone. And her features—her high cheekbones, elegant nose, the sweep of her jaw—spoke of a heritage unlike any he had ever known. She was not of Gondor. Not of Middle-earth. That much was certain. Her beauty was not only otherworldly—it was unfamiliar. Arresting.

A single strand of dark hair had slipped from the braid Zhe Yan left her in. It curled across her temple, as if defying the stillness around her. He ached to brush it back. How strange, he thought, that she lay in such quiet peace and still commanded the very air.

He had seen her fierce—calling storms and golden fire. He had seen her wounded, bloodied, leaning against him with breathless resolve. Beautiful, yes—but not untouchable. Her parted lips looked soft enough to speak again. Her hands, resting atop the pale silks she had been dressed in, were fine-boned. Strong. There was strength in her stillness. And sorrow, too.

She has lived long, he thought, not as a soldier—but as a man would think it: through grief and love and endurance. She has loved deeply. And she has lost.

He swallowed, torn between reverence and ache.

“If only…” he whispered, the words trailing into silence. There was no room in his world for wishes. And yet—he stayed, memorizing her face like a man starving for memory.

There had once been a tale in Gondor—his mother’s favorite. She told it to him when the White Tree still bloomed and Minas Tirith had not yet become a tomb of shadows. The story of Serelwen, the Silver Queen, whose grace was said to tame falcons and still the mountain winds. No painting of her remained, only words: that her beauty was like the moon caught in winter ice.

Looking at Bai Qian now, Boromir thought of that tale.

But Serelwen, if she ever lived, had been of Gondor—tall and pale, angular of face, as his people were.

Bai Qian was not like her.

She was not of his world at all.

And yet—there was something of that old myth in her. The weight of time in the curve of her brow. The serenity that lingered even now, while she lay far from her realm. But she was no pale wraith of the past. She was vivid. Vivid and real. The soft fullness of her lips, the strength in her cheekbones, the dark fall of her hair—so unlike the women of Gondor, and yet more captivating than any lady of court he had ever known. It was not her difference that startled him.

It was how natural it felt to be drawn to her all the same. Not a queen of Gondor. Not a vision. But a woman who had already changed the course of his fate.

“Lady Bai Qian,” he said softly, as one might address a queen. “I know not if you hear me. Perhaps your spirit still walks far from here… in a place I could never reach. But if any part of you lingers—then hear me now.” His gaze flicked to the lantern. It pulsed gently. Almost in answer.

“I dreamt of you,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “Or perhaps it was no dream at all. Perhaps it was your voice that reached me.”

He remembered how it had drifted to him like wind across the Anduin.

“You spoke of a son. A child you would give your life to protect. And a man… Ye Hua. Your betrothed.” The words burned as he spoke them—not from jealousy, but from grief. Grief for a hope he hadn’t realized he held.

“I am no stranger to loss,” he continued. “And I would never begrudge a mother her child. Nor a woman her love.” His gaze fell. “But forgive me, my lady… I had hoped.” He reached for her hand—not to take it, but to rest his fingers beside hers.

“I have not known peace in many years. I’ve fought and bled for Gondor. Given my strength to duty. But in the time we’ve shared… in the stillness between storms… I found something I thought long lost. You reminded me that strength isn’t only found in blades or shields. It can lie in grace. And mercy.”

His voice thickened, but he kept speaking.

“Whether you wake and remember me—or forget me entirely… whether you return to your realm or remain in mine… I will honor you.”

He touched his brow in salute.

“I will not let your gift be wasted. I will carry it forward, into fire if I must. Your light will be in my shield arm and my sword hand—even if you never speak my name again.”

He rose, slowly.

“I go now to Minas Tirith. My father calls for me. My city needs me. But if the Valar are kind… and the Fates more merciful than they’ve ever been—” His gaze lingered on her face. “Then perhaps I’ll see you again. Just once more.”

A gust of wind stirred the silken curtains. Zhe Yan’s lantern flickered once, gently.

Bai Qian did not stir.

With his head bowed and his heart burning, Boromir turned—

And walked away.

Chapter Text

The long column of Rohan’s people wound through the shallow lakes beneath the twilight sky, their wagons creaking and hooves squelching in the soft earth. The air was thick with exhaustion, and tension clung to the travelers like mist.

Yet, a ripple of murmurs began to spread through the ranks.

From the tall grasses padded a creature that had not been seen before—at least, not in the world of Middle-earth. A red fox, impossibly elegant, with nine sweeping tails that shimmered like silk in the dying light. Upon her brow, nestled between her eyes, was the distinct crimson shape of a petal. No ordinary fox, and certainly no beast of burden or war.

Feng Jiu, in her true form, walked with dainty paws along the mud-dampened road, her tails swaying like ribbons. Some of the Rohan children gasped in wonder. An older man clutched a charm and muttered a prayer. Even the horses sidestepped, uneasy and mesmerized.

The fox paid them little mind. She had eyes only for one horse.

Aragorn turned as the soft pitter of paws approached. He blinked in surprise as Feng Jiu sprang nimbly into the air and landed behind him on his horse’s back. She was warm and light, like a breeze, but the shimmer of celestial energy around her raised the hairs on his neck.

He did not protest.

Theoden, riding nearby, turned and watched, brows raised. “She takes many forms, this fox spirit,” he said with measured curiosity, no longer surprised—but still intrigued. “One moment a woman, the next... a dream out of legend.”

Aragorn gave a faint smile. “She’s been both since the day we met.”

Theoden looked forward again, awed. “We were raised on tales of Elves and dragons. But none warned me that such wonder would ride beside us again.”

Not far behind them, Gimli was in the midst of a story. He rode with great effort on a horse that Eowyn led by the reins.

“It’s true,” he was saying, puffing with effort, “you don’t see many Dwarf women. And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance... that they’re often mistaken for Dwarf men.”

Eowyn turned her head, amused, casting a brief look at Aragorn. He only grinned and gestured under his chin. “It’s the beards,” he whispered.

Eowyn stifled a laugh, and Gimli pressed on, emboldened.

“This, in turn, has given rise to the belief... that there are no Dwarf women... and that Dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!”

Eowyn laughed freely now, and even Gimli chuckled—until the moment Feng Jiu’s gaze flicked toward him. In a flash, one of her nine tails swished outward, brushing against the horse Gimli sat upon. The beast let out a startled whinny and bolted sideways, sending the dwarf tumbling headfirst into a puddle with a great splash.

“It’s all right!” Gimli declared immediately, sputtering. “Nobody panic. That was deliberate! It was deliberate.”

Legolas, riding a short distance behind, raised a perfectly arched brow. A knowing smile ghosted across his face as he watched Feng Jiu settle herself more comfortably against Aragorn’s side, clearly proud of her mischief.

Eowyn rushed to help Gimli up, biting back laughter. Aragorn chuckled aloud. For the first time since this journey began, the air felt lighter.

Theoden, still observing his niece, spoke in a low voice to Aragorn.

“I haven’t seen her smile for a long time,” he said, his tone laden with memory. “She was a girl when they brought her father back—cut down by orcs. She watched her mother waste away, her grief swallowing what was left of them.”

Aragorn followed Theoden’s gaze to Eowyn’s face as she looked up, smiling briefly in his direction. The wind teased through her golden hair.

Theoden’s eyes darkened. “Then she was left alone... to tend her king in growing fear. Doomed to wait upon an old man who should have loved her as a father.”

As the wagons pressed forward and the sun dipped low, the red fox on Aragorn’s saddle gave a gentle huff and curled one tail around herself. The journey to Helm’s Deep stretched on ahead, but in that moment, something akin to peace brushed their weary hearts.

The golden light of late afternoon cast long shadows across the Rohirrim encampment as they paused in their long march toward Helm’s Deep. Tired horses drank from shallow streams. Children rested in clusters beneath carts. Smoke rose from modest fires where some made efforts to cook what little they carried.

Among the travelers, Eowyn moved with determined grace, carrying a steaming pot and a bowl in her hands. Her fair face was flushed from effort and warmth, her expression hopeful.

She approached a cluster where Gimli sat on a log beside Legolas and Feng Jiu—who, now in human form once more, was drying the sleeves of her pink robes by the fire. Her forehead still bore the faint trace of her birthmark. In her lap, rested a skewered fish, perfectly grilled, its aroma tantalizing.

“Gimli?” Eowyn asked brightly, holding out the bowl.

The dwarf eyed the contents warily and patted his belly with exaggerated apology. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

Legolas, ever the diplomat, offered a polite shake of the head and murmured, “My people... eat lightly when on the road.”

Feng Jiu gave a sly smile as Eowyn walked away, offering the stew to others who came across her path. Wordlessly, she extended her grilled fish toward them both. “Try this instead,” she said. “It’s fresh, and I seasoned it with lemon fern from the riverbank.”

Gimli accepted it with gusto, while Legolas gave her a rare, sincere nod before taking a bite. “Delicate,” he said with some surprise. “Well balanced.”

She beamed at the praise, but her ears perked up as she watched Eowyn move toward Aragorn, who sat a short distance away, cleaning the edge of his sword.

“I made some stew,” Eowyn said softly as she knelt beside him. “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”

She filled the bowl and handed it to him. Aragorn offered a tired smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

He brought a spoonful to his lips.

Feng Jiu, watching closely, saw his expression falter the moment the stew touched his tongue. He struggled to swallow, his jaw tightening with effort, and nodded a little too quickly.

“It’s... good.”

Eowyn’s brows lifted, a shy smile gracing her face. “Really?” She turned, clearly meaning to move on, and Aragorn seized the moment. He half-rose, bowl in hand, intending to discreetly dump the contents. But Eowyn turned back just as he made the attempt. Aragorn quickly brought the bowl back in his lap, hot broth splashing over his hands and lap.

“My uncle told me a strange thing,” she said, fixing him with a look of gentle curiosity. “He said that you rode to war with Thengel, my grandfather. But he must be mistaken.”

Ignoring the burning of his fingers and lap, Aragorn replied, “King Théoden has a good memory. He was only a small child at the time.”

Eowyn stepped closer, curiosity deepening. “Then you must be at least sixty.”

He shifted, uncomfortable.

“Seventy?” she guessed. Her eyes widened as he gave a small shake of his head, a small smile on his face. “You cannot be eighty!”

Aragorn gave a long-suffering sigh, his eyes shifting from the ground, and then to hers. “Eighty-seven.”

Eowyn’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You are one of the Dúnedain. A descendant of Númenor, blessed with long life. It was said your race had passed into legend.”

“There are few of us left,” Aragorn said, voice low. “The Northern Kingdom was destroyed long ago.”

A hush fell between them. Eowyn’s expression softened. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. Then she gestured to his bowl. “Please, eat.”

With a soldier’s resolve, Aragorn forced another spoonful into his mouth.

Across the fire, Feng Jiu tilted her head, eyes softening. With a subtle flick of her fingers, the stew shimmered. Its sour taste transformed—rich now with roasted vegetables, tender fish, and fresh herbs.

Aragorn blinked as the flavor changed, visibly surprised. His posture eased.

Éowyn beamed, pleased.

Feng Jiu turned back to her own fish, chewing smugly as Gimli grunted with appreciation.

“That was kind,” Legolas murmured. “A quiet intervention.”

“She was trying,” Feng Jiu said with a shrug. “So was I.” She sat cross-legged, one elbow on her knee, and met Aragorn’s gaze across the flame. She gave him a sly smile, flicking her fingers as if brushing away ash.

Aragorn raised a brow, recognizing the gesture. His smile, this time, was real and he returned to the stew with genuine appetite.

The day was dim with dust and tension as the refugees of Rohan trudged toward Helm’s Deep. The air was heavy. The horses were restless. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Hama and Gamling rode ahead, flanking the front of the caravan. Legolas had crested a grassy hillock and stood motionless, sharp eyes scanning the ridge lines. Behind him, horses shifted uneasily. Feng Jiu, walking beside Arod, paused mid-step. Her fingers twitched.

She felt it too. A wrongness in the air.

The elf saw two horsemen riding past—then suddenly freeze.

Gamling turned sharply. “What is it, Hama?”

“I’m not sure,” came the uneasy reply.

Above them, high on a rocky outcrop, a hulking Warg and its orc rider emerged, snarling, eyes wild. It leapt from the cliff in a dreadful arc and slammed into Hama’s horse, tearing the man from the saddle and mauling him before he could draw steel.

“WARGS!” Gamling shouted.

He barely had time to raise his sword before the beast was upon him. Legolas reacted instantly—he raced down the hill, drawing and loosing an arrow in a single motion. The Warg fell. Its rider next, cut down by the elf’s blades as he passed.

Aragorn came running.

“A scout!” Legolas shouted.

Aragorn’s face tightened. He whirled and sprinted back toward the caravan.

Theoden galloped forward, reining in hard. “What is it? What do you see?”

“Wargs,” Aragorn growled, already mounting. “We’re under attack!”

Panic swept through the people like wildfire. Screams rose. Children were pulled close. The herd of frightened horses whinnied and bucked.

“Get them out of here!” Aragorn ordered.

“All riders to the head of the column!” Theoden called.

Gimli staggered toward his horse. “Come on! Get me up here—I’m a rider! Come on!”

Theoden rode fast to Éowyn, who had taken the reins of a supply cart. “You must lead the people to Helm’s Deep, and make haste.”

“I can fight,” she said, jaw set, chin high.

Theoden looked at her with sorrow. “No! You must do this, for me.”

Éowyn stared at him, her pride flickering, then turned away, commanding the people. “Make for the lower ground! Stay together!”

Legolas turned back toward the highlands. From the top of the hill he saw them: a wave of Wargs pouring from the ridge, howling, snarling, mouths foaming.

Theoden turned his horse—but caught sight of another figure near the wagons. Dressed in flowing robes and leather armor, with hair like river flame, Feng Jiu stood with an unfamiliar sword in her hand. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation—not fear.

“Lady Feng Jiu!” Theoden called as he reined close, voice firm but not unkind. “You must go with the women and children—”

“No, I will not,” she said, voice calm and clear. “I am not of Rohan.” And with that, she turned her back on him and headed toward the battle.

Theoden blinked—but there was no time to argue.

Legolas, high on the hill again, saw the wave coming. Wargs—dozens of them—raced like a dark tide over the rise. He spun and ran for Arod, grabbing the strapping and swinging up into the saddle in one smooth motion.

The Wargs crashed into the riders. Steel rang out. Horses screamed.

Gimli wrestled with his mount. “Forward! I mean—charge forward!”

Feng Jiu stood her ground. A Warg lunged at her—she sidestepped with inhuman grace and drew her sword in a flash of silver. She slashed, not at the Warg, but at the air. With a flick of her wrist and a low whisper, the earth beneath the beast trembled and cracked. It stumbled, hit by an invisible force, and crashed down in a tangle of limbs. The orc atop it choked on a mouthful of dirt as he fell beneath his own mount.

Another Warg lunged from the side. She made no sound as she raised two fingers and traced a sigil in the air. A ripple of golden energy shimmered in a circle—time seemed to stutter around it. The Warg faltered mid-pounce, its limbs suddenly clumsy. It landed with all the grace of a sack of flour and rolled headfirst into a boulder, spine-first.

From horseback, Legolas caught a flash of her magic and reined in Arod sharply. His sharp eyes narrowed. Her face was radiant with concentration, hair lifted slightly by the breeze of her own aura. For a heartbeat, the world slowed for him.

She turned and met his gaze. Just for a second.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he called, loosing an arrow over her shoulder and dropping a Warg she hadn’t seen.

“Would that trouble you, my lord elf?” she called back, her lips curving slightly even as she flicked her blade and sent another orc flying backwards without touching him.

He blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in her voice despite the carnage around them. “You puzzle me,” he muttered, not entirely to himself.

Feng Jiu pivoted and with one sweeping motion, summoned a burst of red wind—a petal storm that cut through another wave of orcs. But even then, Legolas knew it was only a fraction of her strength. Like an archer drawing only to half-length.

Meanwhile, Gimli had slid from his horse and now wrestled with a Warg feeding on a corpse.

“Bring your pretty face to my axe!”

Legolas rode past and dropped the beast with a clean arrow to the skull.

“That one counts as mine!” Gimli shouted, only to be crushed beneath the dead creature. “Stinking thing!”

Another orc lunged at him—he broke its neck with a single motion. More dead weight. Gimli groaned. He summoned his strength and began lifting the two dead bodies off of him when he saw the face of another warg peaking down at him, a low snarl ripping from it’s throat.

Aragorn saw it happening. He grabbed a nearby spear and threw it, pinning a final Warg before it could bite. The beast collapsed on top of the others, atop Gimli.

The battle roared on. Theoden and Aragorn fought with blade and flame. Suddenly, a Warg crashed into Aragorn, tearing him from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet as another orc rode by on a Warg. Aragorn jumped, grabbed the saddle straps, and pulled himself onto the creature. The two grappled as the Warg ran headlong across the field.

They fought tooth and nail. Aragorn stabbed the orc—but in doing so, tangled his hand in the straps. The orc fell. The Warg did not stop. It ran—straight toward a cliff edge. The Warg leapt—and vanished over the edge, taking Aragorn with it.

Theoden pulled up his horse, eyes scanning the bloodied field. Warg corpses smoked. Orcs fled or lay dead. Wind blew banners of dust over the carnage. The battlefield lay quiet, stained with blood and scattered with the fallen. The wind carried the tang of smoke and iron, and the wounded cried out as the healers moved among them.

Feng Jiu stood amid the stillness, sword slack in her hand. Her breathing was even, but her nine tails—now faint and barely visible—drifted with unease.

“Aragorn?” Legolas called, eyes scanning the wreckage.

“Aragorn?” Gimli echoed, breathless, axe clutched in hand. Desperation edged his voice.

Feng Jiu stilled. Her gaze sharpened—fixed on the bloodied grass ahead. Without a word, she stepped forward. In a shimmer of light, she became the red fox once more—graceful, sure, her nine tails flickering with faint magic.

Gimli let out a low sound, not of surprise, but of worry. “She’s smells something.”

“She tracking,” Legolas murmured. His gaze lingered not with awe, but with quiet trust. He had seen this before. Come to rely on it.

Feng Jiu darted ahead, nose low, weaving through the torn field. The scent led her past broken weapons and scattered saddles, down a slope to the cliff’s edge. There, she stopped. Her ears folded back. A soft whimper escaped her.

Legolas and Gimli reached her. The elf knelt beside the fox, already looking over the edge. Far below, the river surged—wild and empty.

“No sign of him…” Gimli said quietly.

Feng Jiu transformed beside them, rising fluidly to her feet. Her voice was solemn. “He fell. But I cannot sense a body. The river is swift.”

Legolas’s brows drew together. “He’s alive.” It wasn’t a question. “He must be.”

A raspy chuckle snapped their attention behind them. A dying orc lay crushed beneath a dead Warg, his face torn and bloody—but his grin intact.

Gimli strode forward, fury in every step. “Tell me what happened,” he growled, “and I’ll ease your passing.”

The orc coughed, blood flecking his lips. “He’s… dead,” he wheezed. “Took a little tumble off the cliff.”

Legolas lunged, seizing the orc by the armor and hauling him up. “You lie.”

But the orc gave one last sputtering breath—and died.

A glint caught Legolas’s eye. He pried something from the orc’s stiff fingers.

The Evenstar. The jewel gleamed, cold and perfect, in his palm. Grief tightened his jaw. Gimli stepped closer, silent. Feng Jiu stood just behind them, her hair and robes stirring in the wind.

“I can still sense him,” she said softly. “Dim… but present.”

Legolas turned toward her. Something in her tone steadied him—not hope, but certainty.

“Get the wounded on horses,” Theoden’s voice rang out. “The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.”

Feng Jiu stepped forward. Her sleeves flowed like mist as she reached out. A pale, steady hand opened toward Legolas—not a command, but an offering.

He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes.

And he took it. No words passed between them.

But for that breath of time, amidst ruin and silence, her hand in his anchored something inside him. She was warmth—quiet, wild, and unwavering.

They rode on beneath a steel-colored sky. The wounded groaned. The strong rode silent. Blood and churned earth thickened the air. In the distance, a wolf cried.

Feng Jiu rode beside Legolas. Her robes, torn and stained, fluttered as she sat close in the saddle. They had never ridden this near before—but in the wake of loss, it felt… natural. Her gaze scanned the road ahead, her shoulder brushing his.

She wasn’t certain Aragorn had survived. Neither was Legolas. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw, the set of his shoulders—spoke of hope tempered by realism.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asked at last, voice quiet, shaped by years of learning when to ask and when to wait.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes roamed the hills, chasing memory or sign. Finally, his voice came low. “I do not know. But I hope.”

Feng Jiu’s smile was small, bittersweet. “I hope too.” She leaned forward slightly, pivoting the mood with quiet grace. “Tell me, Legolas… how did you and Aragorn first meet?”

He glanced back at her, the weight in his face softening. “A story long past. I first met him in Mirkwood. He came as a ranger. I did not know him then—but he brought Gollum with him. Captured.”

Feng Jiu’s lip curled faintly. “The creature from Moria?”

“Yes. He and Gandalf hunted it for months. Believed it held knowledge of the Ring. My father agreed to imprison it.” He paused, eyes distant. “That’s when I met Aragorn.”

“What was he like?”

Legolas’s gaze grew thoughtful. “Not as you know him now. No beard. Fewer lines. But he carried old pain, even then.”

“And you?”

“I did not know what he would become. I did not think we would fight side by side—or that he would become…” He hesitated. “One of the greatest men I have known.”

Feng Jiu studied him. “Did you like him?”

A ghost of a smile played at his lips. “I respected him. He was unlike the Men I knew. Fewer words. None wasted. When he spoke, it was with purpose. When he fought… it was with honor.”

She nodded slowly.  She watched him, then asked quietly, “Do you always speak of those you mourn with such calm?”

Legolas met her gaze. “I learned long ago not to show the first wound. But some griefs… stay beneath the skin.”

Feng Jiu exhaled. “Foxes grieve differently. But I think… my heart was made too much like a mortal’s.”

The wind whispered between them. The rhythm of hooves beat a steady, mournful cadence.

At last, she reached out, hand brushing his lightly. Her tone turned playful, a balm to their hearts. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what happens with Aragorn. But either way… we keep moving.”

Legolas’s hand lingered on hers.

“That is what we do,” he murmured.

And they rode on together, quiet understanding blooming like dawn beneath a stormed sky.

The weary people of Rohan trudged down the final slope, their faces lifting with dawning hope as the towering walls of Helm’s Deep came into view. The citadel rose from the mountain like a last sanctuary, its stonework ancient and resolute against the rising dark.

“At last!” someone cried. “Helm’s Deep!”

“There it is!” shouted another. “We’re safe!”

Feng Jiu, riding behind Legolas on Arod, didn’t echo their relief aloud. She looked ahead with sharp, tired eyes, her pink robes brushing the side of the elven steed like a whisper. Her ears, attuned far better than any mortal’s, caught the gasps and prayers of the people.

An older woman reached for Eowyn’s hand. “We’re safe, my lady. Thank you.”

Eowyn managed a wan smile and nodded, her eyes already scanning the gathering crowd and the food stores. She handed off a small basket to a nearby soldier. “Where is the rest?”

“This is all we could save, my lady,” the man replied.

Eowyn's jaw clenched. “Take it to the caves.”

As the people passed through the fortress gates, Gamling’s voice rang out above the crowd.

“Make way for the king! Make way for Theoden!”

The riders went through the gate. Theoden first, followed by Legolas, Gimli, and what remained of the Rohirrim. Helm’s Deep was stirring into motion, soldiers and sentries falling into practiced lines, civilians moving crates and supplies with anxious hands.

Eowyn ran forward, her eyes searching. Feng Jiu slid from Arod and stepped lightly beside Legolas, her arms folded, expression carefully composed.

“So few,” Eowyn whispered, looking from one rider to the next. She stopped in front of Theoden as he dismounted. “So few of you have returned.”

Theoden hesistantly met her eyes. “Our people are safe,” he answered gravely. “We have paid for it with many lives.”

Gimli stepped forward. “My lady.”

Eowyn’s voice caught. “Lord Aragorn… where is he?”

Gimli's wavered for a moment, holding her gaze. Finally, he said, “He fell.”

Eowyn swayed, her lips parting in silent disbelief. Her gaze flicked to Theoden, but the king turned away and walked up the stone steps. A single tear escaped her as she stood still, stunned, the weight of grief heavy and sudden.

Beside Legolas, Feng Jiu's expression remained unreadable. Her heart ached quietly. She, too, had seen Aragorn fall—and yet something inside her resisted the finality of it. For now, she held on to hope. It was foolish, maybe—but she was nothing if not persistent.

Theoden stood atop the Deeping Wall with Gamling and a few guards. The wind tugged at his cloak as he surveyed the valley.

“Draw all our forces behind the wall,” he ordered. “Bar the gate. And set a watch on the surround.”

Gamling bowed slightly. “What of those who cannot fight, my lord? The women and children?”

“Get them into the caves,” Theoden said, already descending toward the base of the wall. They passed a narrow sewer gate set into the stonework. “Saruman’s arm will have grown long indeed if he thinks he can reach us here.”

Feng Jiu stood quietly on a nearby parapet, watching the soldiers move. Her silks rustled softly in the wind, the faint shimmer of magic in her presence beginning to draw subtle attention—though none dared speak of it aloud. She turned her head slightly, and found Legolas watching her.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low, respectful.

She tilted her head, as if listening. “Something is coming,” she murmured. “Not yet. But it will.” Then she glanced up at the mountain behind the fortress, her expression cool. “Let’s hope their walls hold.”

Legolas nodded, but not without wariness. There was something in her tone—a quiet, practiced calm—that unsettled him almost more than the storm on the horizon.

Feng Jiu offered him a faint smile. “You worry too much, Elven prince.”

“And you worry too little,” he replied, though his tone was warmer now.

Her eyes lingered on the gate where Aragorn had not returned. “We’ll see who’s right.”

At dusk, Feng Jiu stood alone on the stone walkway, her pink robes tight against the wind that whispered through Helm’s Deep like a warning. The lamplight cast long, flickering shadows along the fortress walls, and far below, the last of the civilians disappeared into the caves.

She turned toward the high wall, looking out beyond the stronghold. Her gaze lingered on the empty wilderness—on the trail that had swallowed Aragorn.

“Where are you going?” The quiet voice behind her didn’t startle her. She had known he would follow.

Legolas approached without armor, his expression solemn, concern written plainly in the tight set of his brow. His sharp elven eyes searched hers. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving.”

“I am,” she replied simply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve waited long enough.”

“You saw the fall. Even I saw it.” His voice was soft, but his jaw tightened. “The river took him, Feng Jiu. What do you hope to find out there now?”

She turned to face him fully, lifting her chin. “That he lives.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I can,” she said with quiet certainty. “Or perhaps I just refuse to believe otherwise. Call it foolishness, if you like. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought so.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice, more intense now. “Then let me come with you.”

She gave a soft, sad smile, touched by the offer—deeply. “You can’t.”

“I can,” he insisted. “You know I can. I’ll move faster than any mortal, and you’re not human either—together—”

“No,” she said, more firmly now, though her tone remained calm. “You’re needed here. They just lost Aragorn. The last thing these people need is to lose you too.”

“I am not their king,” he said. “I am not their hope.”

“But you are strength they rely on, whether they say it or not. Gimli needs you. Theoden needs every person who can fight. If you leave, it will shake them more than you think.” Her gaze dropped briefly, and she sighed. “And you would only slow me down.”

That made him blink.

She raised an eyebrow. “You can’t fly.”

He exhaled—not quite a laugh, but almost. Then he said, quieter still, “And if you don’t return?”

Her expression softened, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “Then you’ll know I was wrong.”

Legolas looked at her for a long moment, taking in the determined set of her shoulders, the shimmer of quiet power she barely contained, and something else—something more human than divine: her heart. He stepped forward and took her hand, his fingers warm and steady over hers.

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“I do not like this,” he said.

“You weren’t supposed to,” she murmured, but her fingers curled gently around his. “Thank you… for trying.”

He hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, not touching her cheek but close enough to be felt. “Come back to me, Lady Feng Jiu.”

Feng Jiu gave him a small, serene smile. “If I can.”

And with that, she slipped away from the wall, her form blurring for just an instant as her fox spirit stirred beneath the surface. She vaulted from the battlements into the shadows below, her cloak catching the wind like a crimson flame, and was gone.

Legolas stood in silence for a long time after, his hand still faintly warm from hers, the wind howling softly through Helm’s Deep.

Heavy boots crunched on the stone behind him.

“I saw the little fox leap off that wall,” came Gimli’s unmistakable grumble, his tone casual but eyes shrewd beneath his helm. “Don’t tell me you let her go alone.”

Legolas didn’t turn, still gazing into the fading twilight. “She goes where she wills.”

“Hmph.” Gimli crossed his arms. “And I suppose you didn’t offer to chase after her, either.”

Legolas said nothing.

“Aye,” Gimli muttered, glancing sidelong at him. “You’re moon-eyed over her.”

At that, Legolas finally looked at him, expression unreadable. “You think I do not see clearly.”

“I think you see her very clearly,” Gimli replied, scratching his beard. “That’s the trouble, eh? Seeing her too clearly.”

A pause. The wind stirred the banners overhead.

“She’s strange, that one. Fierce and fine as a silver-edged axe.” Gimli gave a short nod, as if affirming his own words. “But if she brings you more joy than grief, I’ll not say a word against it.”

“She brings both,” Legolas said quietly.

Gimli let out a chuckle. “Aye. Then it must be real.”

They stood together in silence for a moment longer, before Gimli added, “Come. Let’s see to the gate. I’ve a feeling we’ll need more than walls before this night is through.”

Legolas followed him down, but not before casting one last look toward the darkening cliffs, where somewhere—just maybe—a fox danced through the gathering night.

The chambers of the Steward were dim, lit only by the grey light that filtered through the high windows. The air smelled of smoke, parchment, and the cold metal of ancient armory. Boromir stood once again before his father’s seat—not in triumph, not in mourning, but in dread.

Denethor had summoned him, though the timing was strange. And as Boromir entered, he saw his father bent over a table littered with maps and old scrolls, eyes rimmed with red, hands shaking faintly.

“You asked for me,” Boromir said evenly, stepping into the light.

Denethor did not look up. “The skies darken. Our borders bleed. And still…you come with no Ring.”

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “I have told you before, and I will tell you again: the Ring is not salvation. It is ruin. I have felt it, Father. It nearly destroyed me.”

Denethor slowly looked up, eyes sunken and rimmed with weariness and obsession. “Yet the halfing held it and survived. Why not you?” He straightened, facing his son. “You know what is coming. Even now, the east churns with fire. Do you think Rohan will hold? That Gondor can resist Sauron without some advantage?”

“There is no advantage in a curse,” Boromir said, striding closer. “I told you Father—I saw what the Ring does. I felt it inside me. It warped my thoughts. It would have destroyed me, and all I stood for. And it was only through... a miracle... that I returned.”

Denethor narrowed his eyes. “A miracle? What miracle?”

Boromir hesitated, then answered with measured reverence. “A woman... from another world. Her name is Bai Qian. A being of power, yes, but also of grace. She crossed into our realm through means I do not understand. She fought beside us, stood with us, and when I fell—when the Ring had taken me too far—she brought me back. She gave her strength, her life, to restore mine.”

The name echoed oddly in the chamber. Bai Qian. Unfamiliar, foreign. Unwelcome.

Denethor’s gaze sharpened. “You speak of her as if she were a goddess.”

“I speak of her as someone with more honor than many born to it,” Boromir said, his voice low. “Someone who acted not out of greed or fear, but compassion.”

Something flickered behind Denethor’s eyes then—curiosity, yes, but something softer beneath it, like a breath taken from deep memory. A faint light reached his face, the barest softening at the edges of his mouth.

“You’ve never spoken this way of any woman,” Denethor said, almost to himself. “Not even when your mother still walked these halls. I once hoped you would find someone… someone to carry your burdens. To share your fire.”

Boromir’s face faltered for a moment. “She would have liked her, I think,” he said, guardedly.

“Perhaps. I once thought you would wed, one day,” Denethor went on, almost dreamily. “That you would bring new life to this hall, that your strength might carry Gondor into an age of peace. Find joy where I—” He stopped.

There was silence. And then the moment passed.

Denethor’s face shuttered. The warmth vanished, his voice turning to ash. “But that was long ago.”

“You remember Mother,” Boromir said quietly.

Denethor’s shoulders tensed.

“She would have understood,” Boromir pressed. “She would not have asked for power at the cost of another’s soul.”

Denethor turned then, sharply, pain curdling behind his eyes. “Your mother died and left me alone with a kingdom teetering on the edge of ruin! She left me with two sons—one to serve, and one to disappoint.”

Boromir stiffened. “Faramir is a loyal son and a capable captain.”

“He is soft,” Denethor snapped. “He lacks your strength.”

“You mean he will not bow to your will.”

Denethor’s hand struck the edge of the table. “And now you return from the grave, whispering of foreign enchantresses and second chances? Where is this woman now? Where does she whisper her counsel into your ear?”

Boromir paused, before proceeding carefully, but calmly. “She is resting. That is all you need to know.”

A beat of silence. Denethor studied him carefully, seeing the guardedness in his eyes.

“You’re hiding something.”

“I’m protecting someone."

“From me?”

Boromir didn’t answer.

Denethor’s eyes flashed with fury. “You forget your place,” he sneered.

“I remember it too well.” Boromir turned, voice steel. “And I remember what the Ring did to me. I will not bring that horror into Gondor’s gates. Not even for you.”

“You are a fool!” Denethor barked. “A fool who believes in fairy-tales and sacrifices made by strangers. Shall Gondor listen to the wisdom of foreigners and fairy queens?”

“Better her counsel than a crown built on madness.”

That struck.

Denethor’s mouth twisted. “Get out.”

“Father—”

“I said go.” His voice cracked like a whip.

Boromir lingered for a heartbeat. Then he bowed—stiffly, like a soldier before a stranger—and turned to leave. At the door, he paused but he did not look back.

“Mother would have mourned what you’ve become,” he said. “But she would not have hated you for it.”

And then he left, the stone halls swallowing his footsteps like the closing of a tomb.

Feng Jiu ran swift and silent across the mountain pass, her red tails streaming behind her like silken banners in the wind. Her paws barely disturbed the dust of the trail, though her heart thundered with urgency.

Snow-capped ridges loomed ahead as she climbed higher into the mountain trail, nose to the ground, her breath even. She searched not only with her senses, but with something older—something older than even this land. Her inner fire, her immortal spirit, pressed outward, seeking what might have brushed the veil between life and death.

The wind carried many scents—orc filth, trampled earth, blood long dried. But then, she froze.

A scent. Faint, and familiar.

She turned sharply, following the trail off the main path, weaving through brambles and the skeletal remains of scorched trees. And there—just ahead on the rise—stood a figure.

Brego.

The proud warhorse stood beneath a crooked pine, sides heaving as though he’d run for leagues. His ears flicked toward her, and he took a cautious step forward.

Feng Jiu stilled, her many tails curling low to the ground. They locked eyes.

You remember him, don’t you?

The question wasn’t spoken aloud, but Brego’s ears flicked as if he heard her nonetheless. He gave a soft whicker and stepped closer. She padded closer, then circled him once.

You’re searching for him too.

The horse stood utterly still, his great dark eyes never leaving her. There was something ancient in him too—a steady wisdom horses sometimes carried. A bond not easily broken.

Feng Jiu sat, wrapping her tails around her paws, her vulpine gaze lifted up toward the ridge. The wind stirred her fur. She could feel it now—faint, but not extinguished.

He lives.

She turned her head slightly toward Brego.

Then let’s go find him.

The stallion let out a deep breath, almost a sigh.

She sprang forward, and Brego followed without hesitation, hooves pounding behind her as the two creatures—beast and immortal—swept into the wild.

The wind rustled the tall grass as Feng Jiu trotted forward, red fur bright beneath the graying sky. Brego followed close behind her, as though they’d struck an unspoken pact. His large hooves thudded softly behind her as she led him down toward the lower valley, her sleek form weaving through trees and shallow streams with uncanny ease.

She slowed when the scent changed—faint, but familiar. Blood. Leather. Ash and smoke. And beneath it… Aragorn.

With a soft, urgent yip, Feng Jiu leapt ahead, Brego snorted, picking up speed behind her. The river came into view, its currents glinting with weak morning light. It was cold and restless through the valley, swollen from mountain runoff. Mist hung low over the bank where willows drooped like mourning figures. There, half-submerged among reeds and stones, a figure lay motionless—pale, bruised, and barely clinging to life.

Aragorn.

Feng Jiu reached the edge of the river just as the morning light broke over the hills. Her keen eyes scanned the water until they landed on the dark form tangled near the bank. She froze for a moment, her tails flared like a blossom. And then with a burst of speed, she darted forward, paws splashing in the shallows.

She circled him, heart leaping in her chest. He was alive. Bruised and bloodied, yes—but alive. The faint rhythm of breath stirred beneath his ribs. She nosed at his cheek, gently pressing her cold snout to his skin.

He stirred.

Feng Jiu gave a delighted trill, the sound sharp and birdlike, tails quivering in joy. She nosed him again, insistently, her black nails clicking on the smooth stones beside him.

Aragorn’s eyes fluttered open.

“...Feng Jiu?” he rasped.

Another trill escaped her throat, this one louder and almost laughing. She gently wagged her tails in uncontained glee and gave his arm a gentle lick, then stepped back as Brego came up beside her.

The stallion gave a deep, knowing nicker and nudged Aragorn’s shoulder, as if scolding him for making them both worry. Then, slowly, the proud horse bent his knees and lowered himself to the ground beside the fallen man.

“Brego,” Aragorn breathed, his voice filled with hoarse relief. His hand trembled as he grasped the horse’s mane. With effort, he pulled himself up, half-sagging against the horse’s back. His breath came in shallow gasps, but he was upright.

Brego rose carefully, and Aragorn settled against his neck, grateful for the horse’s warmth and steadiness.

Feng Jiu trotted beside them, her graceful form weaving around the stallion’s legs as they turned toward the hills. The sun lit her red fur in gold as they began the long journey back to Helm’s Deep—hope reborn in every step. Her joy radiated from every stride, every glance she cast up at Aragorn. She had found him. He lived. And she would see him safely home.

They hadn’t been riding long before Feng Jiu veered off the path again, leaping ahead into the underbrush with her usual confidence.

Aragorn squinted after her, swaying slightly on Brego. “That’s the third time,” he muttered, voice hoarse but dry with affection.

Feng Jiu yipped as if in protest, her fluffy tails flagging high behind her as she scrambled up a slope. But when she reached the crest and looked around, her ears flattened. Trees. Rocks. More trees. She spun in a slow circle, sniffed the air again, and huffed—a small, flustered chuff that sounded very much like frustration.

Brego snorted.

Feng Jiu jumped back down, landing with a splash beside the horse and flicking a pawful of mud onto Aragorn’s boot. If she could have shrugged, she would have.

“You’re lucky he knows the way,” Aragorn rasped with a faint smile.

With a gentle nudge from Brego, they pressed on, the pace quickening now as the land grew more familiar. The foothills surrounding Helm’s Deep began to rise on the horizon, distant but recognizable.

They  crested another hill—and Aragorn pulled sharply on Brego’s mane, bringing the stallion to a halt.

Feng Jiu, who had darted ahead again, froze mid-bound and turned, confused by the sudden stop.

Aragorn stared ahead, eyes wide, breath caught in his chest.

The plain below them rippled like a black tide.

Thousands upon thousands of figures marched in brutal precision—an endless army clad in dark iron and bearing the white hand of Isengard upon their banners. The sound of them—the dull thunder of countless feet, the clatter of weapons, the deep horns echoing over the land—struck like a blow.

Feng Jiu dropped low to the ground, fur bristling, and gave a low growl. Her ears twitched toward the sound, her sharp eyes narrowing. Her tails stilled.

Aragorn’s knuckles whitened on the reins. “We have to warn them,” he said, urgency sharpening his voice despite the pain.

Brego didn’t need further coaxing. With a sharp cry, he surged forward, hooves pounding the earth as he galloped down the hillside. Feng Jiu bounded beside him, her crimson shape a blur as they raced together—three souls against the coming storm.

And behind them, the army of Saruman marched toward Helm’s Deep with death in its wake.

They rode hard through night and day, wind slicing past them, dirt flying beneath hooves and paws. At last, the stone ridges and towering walls of Helm’s Deep broke over the horizon. Smoke still drifted faintly from the forges, and the movement of people within the walls was frantic but determined.

From the ridge, Aragorn reined Brego in and looked down on the fortress, exhaling slowly. He patted the stallion’s neck.

“Mae carnen, Brego, mellon nîn.”

Beside them, a small red fox with nine splendid tails paused on the incline. Feng Jiu huffed from the exertion, paws caked in dust, but her sharp eyes followed Aragorn’s gaze with approval. A soft trill escaped her throat, satisfied.

The crowd gathered fast at the sight of Aragorn riding through the causeway. Gasps broke out.

“He’s alive!”

“By the Valar, it’s him!”

From within the press of bodies, Gimli’s unmistakable voice roared out, “Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way! I'm going to kill him!”

He elbowed through the people, pushing aside men twice his size. His face was twisted into a scowl—until he saw Aragorn dismounting.

“You are the luckiest, the canniest,” the Dwarf huffed, approaching fast, “and the most reckless man I ever knew!”

Before Aragorn could utter a word, Gimli threw his arms around him and squeezed tightly.

“Bless you, laddie,” he said, voice thick.

Aragorn chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Gimli—where is the king?”

Gimli nodded toward the great hall, but before Aragorn could make it far, Legolas stepped into his path, tall and sharp-eyed as ever.

“Le abdollen,” he murmured, voice low.

Aragorn raised his brows, half-smiling, but said nothing.

Legolas took him in, noting every gash, every bruise, every hour of exhaustion on his friend’s face. “You look terrible.”

Despite everything, both men smiled.

Legolas reached inside his tunic and brought out a delicate object—the Evenstar. He held it out wordlessly.

Aragorn took it in both hands. His gaze softened, heavy with meaning. “Hannon le.”

Not far behind them, Eowyn had paused, halfway between approach and retreat. She stared at Aragorn with tears in her eyes, but said nothing.

Near the base of a stone wall, Feng Jiu had nestled into a coiled rest, her fox tails fanned out like silk over the stone. She watched the reunion with contentment and let her eyes drift shut for just a moment. There was something deeply comforting in seeing the Man, the Elf, and the Dwarf back together again. Her red ears twitched as she listened.

Then—without warning—strong arms swept her up.

She yelped, all nine tails flaring out in sudden surprise as she was lifted clean off the ground. She squirmed once in midair before realizing who it was.

Legolas looked down at her with one elegant brow raised, completely unfazed by the ball of warm fur in his arms.

“You’ve grown lazy,” he said lightly. “Did you the whole way back without lifting a paw.”

She bristled at him, giving him sharp, quick, trills of anger and indignation.

Behind them, Gimli nearly doubled over laughing. “Oho!” he crowed. “Now that explains it! I’ve seen how she looks at you—nuzzling your boots, curling around your legs—don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

Legolas gave him a look that was somewhere between icy calm and profound regret. Feng Jiu made a distinct little chittering sound in his arms that might’ve been amusement.

Aragorn, tightening his belt as he prepared to move on, paused mid-step. He turned around just in time to hear Gimli mutter, “I knew it! He’s gone all moon-eyed over the fox.”

“I have not,” Legolas called over, stiffly, but his ears were a little pink.

The Ranger’s brow furrowed. “Wait—what?”

He looked between the grinning Dwarf, the exasperated Elf, and the now extremely pleased fox. Realization dawned.

“Oh,” he said slowly, lips parting. “Oh.”

Feng Jiu, still in Legolas’ arms, tilted her head and blinked.

Legolas sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Aragorn fought a smile. “I didn’t say a word.”

The wind howled through the mountain passes, stirring the banners above Helm’s Deep. Inside the fortress, tension simmered in every corridor—soldiers sharpening blades, women whispering prayers. But in a quiet alcove high along the wall, moonlight spilled across smooth stone and silence.

Feng Jiu sat on the ledge, now in her human form, legs tucked beneath her and sleeves of pale pink silk pooling like mist around her. She tilted her face toward the silver sky, the light catching in the red phoenix mark upon her brow. Her long hair fluttered gently in the breeze. She didn’t turn when she heard him approach—his steps too quiet for most to detect, but not to her. He stopped beside her, the soft rustle of his cloak brushing against the stone.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Legolas murmured.

“I’m thinking,” she replied, glancing at him sidelong. “And waiting.”

He arched a brow. “Waiting?”

“For you,” she said simply.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if unsure how to respond to something so direct. The stars shimmered behind him like a tapestry, woven just for this moment.

After a beat, she added lightly, “I have a question.”

Legolas leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her. “Ask it.”

She turned to face him fully now, chin lifting slightly. “Earlier today… Gimli called you ‘moon-eyed.’ What does that mean?”

He blinked. The faintest flush touched his fair cheeks.

Feng Jiu blinked back, entirely serious. “Is that an elvish phrase? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

“…No,” he said slowly, as if regretting everything about the moment. “It’s not Elvish.”

“Well, what is it then?” she pressed, now smiling, because his hesitation was just the sort of thing that entertained her.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s a…Dwarvish expression. It means someone who—”

“—Can’t stop looking at someone else,” Gimli’s voice rumbled cheerfully from the shadows below. “Usually because they’re lovesick.”

Legolas stiffened. “Gimli.”

Feng Jiu’s brows lifted with interest, eyes twinkling.

The Dwarf didn’t even look apologetic. “Just doing my part to spread understanding between cultures.”

Legolas turned slowly back to Feng Jiu, whose lips were now curved in a knowing, foxlike smile.

“I see,” she said, voice silky. “So that’s what he meant.”

“Don’t,” Legolas said warningly, though his voice had no real bite.

She tilted her head, watching him with amusement. “Lovesick?”

“I was not—” he began, but stopped when she started laughing. Not the wild laughter she gave after pulling a prank or with her aunt—no, it was soft and warm, like petals falling from a tree.

She leaned in slightly, her voice low. “I think it’s a rather sweet phrase. Being moon-eyed.”

Legolas gave her a dry look, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “You would.”

Feng Jiu smiled wider, clearly pleased with herself. “You are rather obvious, you know.”

He blinked. “I am an Elf. We do nothing obviously.”

Feng Jiu didn’t believe that for a second.

Chapter Text

Within the hidden refuge of Henneth Annûn, the air was damp and hushed, broken only by the faint rush of the waterfall outside and the quiet bustle of rangers moving about their tasks. The flickering light of lanterns cast long shadows across the cavernous space, where Faramir stood beside a weathered table strewn with maps.

He turned as Madril approached.

“What news?” he asked quietly, his eyes already drifting toward the map’s southern edge.

“Our scouts report Saruman has attacked Rohan,” Madril said grimly, placing a calloused finger on a route traced along the White Mountains. “Theoden’s people have fled to Helm’s Deep.”

Faramir’s brows drew together. “And our borders?”

Madril hesitated. “Orcs are on the move. Sauron is marshaling an army. Easterlings and Southrons are gathering at the Black Gate.”

“How many?”

“Thousands. More each day.”

Faramir exhaled, then pointed at the Anduin’s winding path. “Who guards the river to the north?”

“We pulled five hundred men at Osgiliath. If the city is attacked—”

“We won’t hold it,” Faramir finished quietly. He traced his hand from Isengard to Mordor on the map, his tone low and grim. “Saruman attacks from the west. Sauron from the east. The fight will come to Men on both fronts.” He paused, contemplating the situation. “Gondor is weak. Sauron will strike soon—and strike hard. He knows we cannot repel him.”

At a signal from him, two rangers stepped forward and removed the blindfolds from the two small figures standing near the cave wall. Blinking in the torchlight, Frodo and Sam looked around uncertainly. They were surrounded by tall, grim men in dark cloaks, all armed. The man who stepped forward—tall, noble, with the same strength in his bearing that Boromir had carried—regarded them closely.

“My men tell me you are Orc spies,” Faramir said without preamble.

Sam bristled. “Spies? Now just a minute—”

“If you’re not spies,” Faramir interrupted coolly, “then who are you?”

There was a long pause. Frodo glanced at Sam, then stepped forward, voice calm despite the tension in the air. “We are hobbits of the Shire. Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Your bodyguard?”

Sam lifted his chin. “His gardener,” he replied, smartly.

A flicker of amusement ghosted over Faramir’s face, but he didn’t let it settle. “And where is your skulking friend? That gangrel creature. He had an ill-favored look.”

“There was no other,” Frodo said quickly. Sam stiffened beside him, but said nothing.

Faramir watched him for a long moment, clearly not believing it, but chose not to press—yet.

“We set out from Rivendell with eleven companions,” Frodo continued. “One we lost in Moria. Two were my kin. A Dwarf there was also. And an Elf, and two Men. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor.”

At Boromir’s name, Faramir’s face shifted. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“You were a friend to Boromir?”

“Yes,” Frodo said softly. “For my part.”

Something shifted in Faramir’s posture. He rose to his feet slowly, his voice quiet but firm.

“It will grieve you then to learn that he is dead.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. “Dead? How? When?”

“He fell at Amon Hen,” Faramir said, voice thick. “He died protecting the halflings—Merry and Pippin—from a host of Uruk-hai. My men found his body in a boat in Osgiliath...” He paused. Something in his voice shifted. “We thought him lost.”

Sam bowed his head. “He was a brave and noble man.”

Faramir looked between them. “That is not the end of it.”

Frodo blinked. “What do you mean?”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You said you set out with eleven companions. You’ve named only nine.”

Frodo stiffened. Sam shifted nervously beside him.

“Who were the others?” Faramir pressed, his tone calm but insistent.

Frodo hesitated, then said, “One Feng Jiu, a fox spirit from a place called Qing Qiu.”

Faramir’s brows drew together. He remembered hearing the name from Boromir when he recounted his experience with the Fellowship, and also from Zhe Yan and Bai Zhen.

Frodo’s gaze faltered. “And her aunt, Lady Bai Qian,” he whispered. “A woman—but more than that. She—”

Faramir’s eyes widened in confirmation. “Bai Qian,” he repeated. His voice turned quiet, almost reverent. He glanced toward the back of the chamber, where soft lamplight flickered beyond a curtain. “She was with Boromir. My men found them—found her—at Osgiliath.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Found her?”

“My men found his body in a boat, but Bai Qian—some power she held beyond my understanding—she brought him back.” He glanced toward the back of the chamber, where soft lamplight flickered through curtains. “I thought I was dreaming. Boromir was dead... and then he breathed again. Because of her.”

“Magic?” Sam asked, stunned.

Faramir nodded. “By some power I do not understand. My heart cannot fathom it—but I thank the Valar for it.”

Frodo’s eyes were wide, filled with a strange light. “And...Lady Bai Qian? She’s here?”

“She’s recovering,” Faramir said, lowering his voice. “She nearly died from what she did. It took a toll, one we cannot measure. She hasn't woken since she first arrived in Osgiliath.” He gestured for them to follow. “Come. I’ll take you to see her.”

The winding passage through Henneth Annûn was cool and quiet, lit by lanterns hung in iron sconces. Faramir led them through the rock-hewn halls in silence, his footsteps slow, as though the gravity of what he was about to show them weighed down every step.

They came to a small chamber near the heart of the refuge. A soft glow spilled from within—candlelight and the gentle gleam of starlight that filtered in through a narrow window. The room was still, sacred in its hush. Frodo and Sam paused at the threshold.

Bai Qian lay on a narrow bed of stone, covered in fine linen and layered wool. Her long dark hair spilled over the pillows like a cascade of night. She looked as if she were sleeping, but her stillness was too perfect. Her chest rose and fell so faintly that it could have been imagined. Pale, serene, untouched by time or worry—save for the weariness that seemed etched in the very air around her.

Frodo swallowed. “She’s… she’s not…”

“No,” Faramir said softly. “She lives. Though… it is a life hard-earned.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “She’s…she brought Boromir back from the dead?”

Faramir nodded, stepping inside the room with a reverent air. “We found him broken and cold. There was no breath left in him, no warmth in his skin. My heart shattered to see him so. But she… she defied that end.”

He moved closer to the bed, his voice thick with awe. “I watched her kneel beside him. I do not know what power she called upon—whether it was a prayer, a sacrifice, or some divine gift—but she gave of herself. Her light… dimmed. And his returned.”

Frodo stood beside the bed now, gazing at Bai Qian’s motionless face. She looked so distant, yet not gone. Her lips were faintly parted, her brow smooth and untroubled, though her body bore no signs of effort or pain.

“She gave him her life,” Faramir said, voice lowered as if not to disturb her. “Or what she could spare of it. When Boromir awoke, he wept. I had not seen my brother weep since we were children.”

Sam stepped back, his gaze now filled with something close to reverence. ““Reckon Mr. Frodo would’ve written songs about her back home.”

Faramir gave a small nod, eyes still on her.

Frodo’s hand hovered at the edge of the stone bed, as if unsure whether to reach for her or bow before her. “What would compel her to do such a thing?”

Faramir shook his head. “I don’t know. Love. Duty. Perhaps both. I believe she and my brother had grown close.” His voice quieted. “I wonder if I would have the strength to do the same.”

There was a quiet moment between them, filled only by the sound of distant water flowing in the caverns.

Then Frodo looked up. “And what about Feng Jiu?”

Faramir frowned. “Her niece?”

“Aye,” Sam said, nodding. “Feng Jiu. Dark hair. Red birthmark upon her brow.”

Faramir slowly shook his head. “We have seen no sign of her. I asked the scouts, even sent word to Cair Andros. Nothing. If she lives, she is not in Ithilien.”

Frodo’s brow furrowed, eyes lingering on Bai Qian’s still form. “Then I hope she’s safe.”

“As do I,” Faramir said, almost to himself.

They stood a while longer in silence. Frodo looked upon the woman who had challenged death for love. Sam stared at her with newfound awe. Faramir bowed his head, and somewhere in the depths of the haven, the distant echoes of a horn’s call faded into stillness.

The silence in the chamber remained reverent, though heavy with unspoken thoughts. Faramir stood near the edge of the bed where Bai Qian lay, Frodo and Sam lingering respectfully nearby.

A sudden flutter of power swept through the air—soft, warm, floral—like the scent of spring blooms on a high mountain breeze. A ripple of golden-pink light shimmered in the doorway before coalescing into a tall, striking man clad in robes the color of rose quartz, his long hair cascading like a waterfall of peach blossoms. He looked utterly untouched by war or time.

Frodo and Sam instinctively stepped back.

“Zhe Yan,” Faramir said in quiet recognition, but there was a flicker of relief behind his calm words.

The immortal physician of Qing Qiu offered a tired, elegant smile. “You mortals are always so tense when I appear. I assure you, I’m not here to curse anyone.” Then his eyes landed on Frodo and Sam, narrowing just slightly as he tilted his head. “You must be the Shirefolk Boromir spoke of. Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, if I remember correctly?”

Frodo blinked. “Boromir spoke of us?”

Zhe Yan nodded, sweeping into the room with the grace of wind through willow branches. “Fondly, yes. Alongside tales of battle, stubbornness, and your curious fondness for mushrooms.”

Sam’s ears turned pink. “Well… mushrooms are good.”

The immortal chuckled and turned his gaze toward Bai Qian, his amusement vanishing into somber regard. He placed a hand lightly above her brow, not touching, but reading.

“She is still within herself,” Zhe Yan murmured. “Not lost. But very far away.”

Faramir stepped closer. “Any change?”

“None since last I came,” Zhe Yan replied, sadness threading his voice. “But her essence remains intact. She endures.”

Faramir hesitated before asking the next question. “And…Bai Zhen? Has he found the younger one? Feng Jiu?”

Zhe Yan’s expression tightened. “No. He searches still, but Middle-earth is… a strange and veiled world, more tangled than even the chaos realms. Its energies resist the touch of divine senses. Your trees, your skies—they are alive, but in ways foreign to our kind.”

He sighed.  “We’re not unwelcome here, but we are… misplaced.”

Frodo glanced between them, then quietly asked, “You think she’s still alive?”

Zhe Yan met his gaze. “If she lives, she’ll be doing her best to find her way back. She’s more resilient than she appears, though rarely punctual.”

Before more could be said, a young Ithilien soldier appeared in the doorway, breathless and whispering urgently to Faramir.

“Captain Faramir,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve found the third one.”

Faramir gave a curt nod. He turned sharply to the hobbits. “You must come with me. Now.”

They hesitated at the change in his tone.

“It’s your companion—the one you denied,” Faramir added.

Frodo paled slightly but gave a small, grim nod. “Gollum.”

Zhe Yan raised an eyebrow. “Gollum?”

Faramir gave no answer, already turning toward the exit, his boots quiet on the stone. Frodo and Sam exchanged a glance before following swiftly behind.

The chamber dimmed once more, Bai Qian resting in its heart, and Zhe Yan remained behind, fingers gently brushing a fold of her sleeve, whispering something ancient in a tongue only the gods still remembered.

The doors of the great hall groaned open with sudden force, drawing the attention of Théoden and Gamling where they stood mid-conference. Aragorn strode through, battered but unbowed, his hair still damp from river and rain, his eyes burning with urgency.

Théoden stepped forward. “A great host, you say?”

“All of Isengard is emptied,” Aragorn replied grimly.

Gamling straightened, eyes narrowing.

Théoden frowned before asking, “How many?”

Aragorn didn’t hesitate. “Ten thousand strong—at least.”

Théoden froze. “Ten thousand?” His voice was touched with disbelief, as if even now his mind refused to accept such doom.

“It is an army bred for a single purpose,” Aragorn said, voice low and dark. “To destroy the world of Men. They will be here by nightfall.”

Théoden turned from him, the weight of the truth setting hard on his shoulders. But he lifted his chin and said, challengingly, “Let them come.”

Outside, the wind carried the scent of coming storm.

Théoden walked swiftly with Gamling beside him, followed by Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. The ramparts loomed above them, and from the walls the people of Rohan looked on with wary, waiting eyes. Among them stood Feng Jiu, her red phoenix mark glowing faintly in the shadowed light. She had been watching the skies, but turned as the men passed, listening closely.

Théoden turned to Gamling. “I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall.”

Gamling gave a terse nod and turned to relay the order. Théoden and the rest made their way to the inner ramp, overlooking the causeway and gate.

“We will cover the causeway and the gate from above,” Théoden said. “No army has ever breached the Deeping Wall or set foot inside the Hornburg!”

Gimli, ever pragmatic, spoke up. “These are not mindless Orcs. These are Uruk-hai—bred for war.”

“I have fought many wars, Master Dwarf,” Théoden said stiffly, without looking back. “I know how to defend my own keep.”

Gimli muttered beneath his beard, affronted. Aragorn laid a calming hand on his shoulder as they moved forward.

“They will break upon this fortress like water on rock,” Théoden said as they came to the parapets. Below them, soldiers scurried to brace the gates and string their bows. “Saruman’s hordes will pillage and burn. We’ve seen it before. Crops can be resown. Homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we will outlast them.”

Aragorn’s voice cut through the chill. “They do not come to destroy Rohan’s crops or villages. They come to destroy its people… down to the last child.”

Feng Jiu’s expression shifted slightly—something ancient and mournful in her gaze as she watched the horizon. Her arms folded into her sleeves, head held high, but her silence spoke volumes. She said nothing, yet the weight of her presence settled like a hush between words.

Théoden glanced her way, as if only just recalling she stood among them. “Lady Feng Jiu,” he said with unexpected softness, “you are not of this land, nor are you bound by its wars. Will you go into the caves with the others, where it is safe?”

Feng Jiu’s lips curved into something close to a smile, but there was no mirth in it. “No, Théoden King. I will remain.” Her tone was calm, regal. There was no defiance in her answer—only certainty. Her eyes flicked toward the field below. “What strength I have, I will give to this fight. I do not cower from shadows.”

He nodded in acceptance, before turning back to Aragorn. His voice lowered with weariness and frustration. “What would you have me do? Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end—as to be worthy of remembrance.”

“Send out riders, my lord,” Aragorn urged. “You must call for aid.”

Théoden’s voice dropped, edged with bitter fury. “And who will come? Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead.”

“Gondor will answer,” Aragorn said, firm.

Théoden turned sharply, stepping close until their faces nearly met. “Gondor? Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was—” He stopped himself, exhaling the rage through his nose. His tone softened, but the steel remained. “No, my Lord Aragorn. We are alone.”

Feng Jiu lowered her gaze, saying nothing.

Théoden turned away, walking back toward the hall with Gamling and the guards in tow. His voice rang out in command. “Get the women and children into the caves.”

Gamling hesitated. “We need more time to lay provisions—”

“There is no time,” Théoden snapped. “War is upon us. Secure the gate!”

The fortress stirred with rising noise and motion, and Feng Jiu stood quietly atop the stone, her golden hair caught in the wind, watching as the storm crept closer from the east.

The fortress of Helm's Deep buzzed with urgent activity. Women and children were being ushered into the Glittering Caves, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty.

Aragorn and Legolas moved alongside the crowd, discussing their defensive strategy.

"We'll place the reserves along the wall," Aragorn said. "They can support the archers from above the gate."

Legolas glanced at him with concern. "Aragorn, you must rest. You're no use to us half alive."

Before Aragorn could respond, Éowyn approached, her eyes filled with determination.

"Aragorn!" she called out. "I'm to be sent with the women into the caves."

"That is an honorable charge," Aragorn replied.

She shook her head, eyes filling with anger. "To mind the children, to find food and bedding when the men return. What renown is there in that?"

"My lady, a time may come for valor without renown,” Aragorn told her, trying to appeal to her, “Who then will your people look to in the last defense?"

"Let me stand at your side."

Aragorn looked at her for a moment. "It is not in my power to command it,” he told her, and began to walk away.

"You do not command the others to stay!" Éowyn called after him.

Aragorn stopped and turned back, meeting her gaze.

"They fight beside you because they would not be parted from you,” she said, as she caught up to him. “Because they love you."

They looked at each other, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Eowyn’s eyes went wide as she realized what she’d just said.

"I'm sorry.”

Nearby, Feng Jiu observed the exchange from a respectful distance, one brow lifting. She tilted her head, bemused. So that was how things stood between the brave shieldmaiden and the would-be king. She had seen Aragorn with Arwen once—just briefly, a glimpse exchanged during their arrival in Rivendell—and even then, it was obvious he belonged to another.

But here was Éowyn, bold and tragic in her affections, and Aragorn, kind yet bound by honor. Feng Jiu sighed to herself, hands tucked behind her back, utterly charmed. What a gloriously romantic tangle of hearts. Mortal dramas were so intense. She couldn't help but root for them all.

Later, as preparations continued, Feng Jiu walked along the inner walls, her keen eyes scanning the fortress's defenses. She stopped near a section where water flowed through a culvert beneath the wall.

Gimli approached, noting her interest.

"Gimli," Feng Jiu said, pointing to the culvert, "this opening—could it be a weakness in the wall?"

The dwarf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Aye, it's the Deeping-stream. It flows beneath the wall through a culvert. It's small, but if an enemy were cunning enough..."

Feng Jiu nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. "Let’s hope the Urukai are too dumb to think that far ahead,” she hummed. “We must ensure it's well-guarded."

"Agreed," Gimli said.

As night fell, the defenders of Helm's Deep took their positions, the weight of impending battle heavy upon them. Feng Jiu stood atop the wall, her pale robes fluttering like mist, nine tails hidden beneath folds of starlight. Her gaze never wavered as the darkness approached—elegant, eternal, and utterly unafraid.

The waters of the Forbidden Pool had stilled again, disturbed only by the memory of the creature dragged from them screaming and writhing. Now, within the dim halls of Henneth Annûn, Gollum lay curled in a trembling heap under heavy guard. The echoes of his shrieks still rang in the deeper tunnels. Faramir stood outside the chamber, silent as stone, listening not to the words, but to the weight of what he’d just done.

The creature had broken quickly—fear had done its work well. It had not taken long for the truth to emerge. A confirmation of Boromir’s tale: the halflings were not just mere travelers with the Fellowship. They carried with them a relic of unimaginable power. The One Ring. The same weapon Isildur had once claimed. The same weapon his brother had died seeking.

Faramir walked away from the chamber with slow, deliberate steps, hands behind his back. His thoughts were not easy. He passed into a narrower corridor, its stone damp with age. A breeze stirred faintly from the falls beyond, cool and clean.

Boromir had spoken of the Ring in Osgiliath. He had not named it, but Faramir had seen the fire in his brother’s eyes when he’d spoken of a power that could bring victory to Gondor. He remembered how tightly Boromir had gripped his sword hilt, as if holding himself back from grasping something far more dangerous.

And then he had fallen. Faramir had never seen Boromir again, until a few days ago.

“Captain?”

The voice belonged to Mablung. Faramir turned slightly. “Is he secure?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Mablung said grimly. “Slippery as he looks, he’s cowed for now.”

Faramir gave a small nod and dismissed him. Once alone again, he leaned lightly against a stone pillar, closing his eyes.

He had hoped the halflings were harmless. That they could be given safe passage or shelter, and that this strange journey of theirs could pass through Gondor quietly, untouched by politics and blood. But now…

The Ring. Here. In Ithilien. Within reach.

He opened his eyes, gazing toward the chamber where the hobbits waited. Frodo Baggins. It was hard to reconcile that quiet, haunted boy with the bearer of such a weapon. There had been no boastfulness in his voice, no deceit. Only sorrow—and resolve. A rare combination, even among seasoned warriors.

Faramir had made his decision: he would not take the Ring. He would not be the man to repeat Boromir’s mistake. It would bring no glory, only ruin. Gondor had withstood dark times without it. They would again.

He would feed them, rest them, guide them toward whatever road they must take into the east—and let them go.

But then, a whisper. No sound, but a flicker of unease in the back of his mind.

Gondor needs this.

He clenched his jaw and walked with sharper strides toward the hobbits' holding chamber. He would see them one more time. Speak to them. Understand fully what they carried, and why.

He stepped into the chamber. The torchlight flickered, the air dense with silence. A flickering torch cast wavering shadows along the damp walls of Henneth Annûn. The flickering light of the torches in the chamber seemed dimmer now, the air heavier than before. Frodo and Sam sat near the far wall, shadows clinging to their faces.

When Faramir entered, they stood—though Frodo moved with a slow, wary grace, like a man forever bracing for a storm. He approached with no guards, only the silence of a man who had made a choice—or was about to. He stopped a few paces from Frodo, his expression unreadable.

“So,” he said at last, voice low and grave, “this is the answer to all the riddles.”

He stepped forward slowly, and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. With a slow, almost reverent motion, he drew the blade. Its edge caught the torchlight faintly.

“Here in the wild,” he said, gaze fixed on Frodo, “I have you. Two Halflings. And a host of men at my call.”

Frodo backed away instinctively, retreating until his shoulders touched the stone wall behind him.

“The Ring of Power within my grasp,” Faramir murmured, and the steel of his blade rose—not in attack, but to lift the fine chain around Frodo’s neck.

With the tip of his sword, he raised the Ring. It swung, catching the firelight like a burning eye, golden and terrible. Faramir’s eyes narrowed, his breath shallow.

“A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor…” he said, “to show his quality.”

Frodo stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling. A strange whisper stirred the air. The Ring called. His eyes glazed for a moment, breath caught in his throat. The power pressed against him like a weight.

“No!” he gasped suddenly, wrenching backward, ripping the Ring free of the sword’s edge and staggering away into the shadows. He pressed himself into the far corner of the cave, chest heaving.

“Stop it!” Sam cried, stepping between Faramir and Frodo, his fists clenched. “Leave him alone!”

Faramir blinked, but his eyes still held the strange, distant gleam of someone listening to a voice no one else could hear.

Sam’s voice trembled with desperation. “Don’t you understand? He’s got to destroy it! That’s where we’re going—into Mordor. To the Mountain of Fire!”

Faramir said nothing, only stared. The shadows of the Ring swam before his eyes. The weight of Gondor, of Minas Tirith, of Osgiliath, of Denethor—all of it leaned upon him in that moment.

With this, you could save them all.
With this, you could redeem him. Boromir would be remembered not as a failure, but as a harbinger of Gondor’s return to glory.
With this, your father might finally call you worthy.

Then a voice—clear, practical—cut through the veil.

“Captain.”

Faramir turned. A soldier had entered, face pale, armor dusty.

“Osgiliath is under attack. They call for reinforcements.”

For a long moment, Faramir did not respond. The light of the torches flickered, and his eyes drifted back to Frodo and Sam.

Sam’s voice was softer now, pleading. “Please. It’s such a burden. Will you not help him?”

Faramir looked at him. Truly looked—at the tears in the gardener’s eyes, at the way he stood firm despite them. At Frodo, trembling, eyes full of sorrow rather than fear.

He hesitated.

The soldier spoke again, firmer now. “Captain?”

Faramir closed his eyes briefly.

Then his voice rang out, cold and decided.

“Prepare to leave.”

He looked to Sam once more, but there was no warmth in it now.

“If Gondor is to stand, it must be with every weapon at its side. The Ring will go to Gondor.”

Sam’s expression crumpled with disbelief, and Frodo bowed his head. The shadows of the cave seemed to lengthen.

And in Faramir’s chest, the seed of doubt took root—but the choice had already been made.

The armory echoed with the clatter of steel and the murmur of anxious voices. Inside, men young and old were being handed swords, axes, and spears—some with hands that had never known the weight of a blade. The scent of oil, sweat, and old iron hung heavy in the air, thick as the dread in the men’s eyes.

Aragorn stood among them, observing. He weighed it, tested the balance, then set it down with a muted clank—as if laying aside a hope too brittle to hold. His gaze drifted from one face to another—boys barely old enough to wield a blade, men worn and bent from age or toil, not battle. He moved through the crowd toward where Gimli sat, sharpening the edge of his axe.

“Farmers, farriers, stable boys,” Aragorn said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. “These are no soldiers.”

Gimli looked up from his work, eyeing a man with gray in his beard struggling to fasten his armor. “Most have seen too many winters,” he said, matter-of-factly.

A familiar voice joined them—sharper, edged in Elvish steel.

“Or too few,” Legolas added, stepping closer. His gaze swept over the gathered men. “Look at them. They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes.” His words drew the attention of those around them. The men paused in their tasks to glance at the elf, uncertain.

“Three hundred... against ten thousand,” Legolas said bitterly in his own tongue.

Aragorn turned to him sharply, replying in the same tongue. “They have more hope of defending themselves here than in Edoras.”

But Legolas was not finished. He took a step forward, lowering his voice so only Aragorn could hear—but the words struck just as deeply. “Aragorn, they cannot win this fight. They are all going to die!

“Then I shall die as one of them!” Aragorn shouted, his eyes blazing.  

The silence that followed was brittle, filled with the weight of despair and pride clashing like swords. Legolas glared back, but Aragorn did not falter. He turned and strode away, his cloak whipping behind him.

Legolas moved to follow—but a thick, calloused hand gripped his arm. Gimli looked up at him with understanding in his eyes.

“Let him go, lad,” the dwarf said gently. “Let him be.”

Legolas paused, his shoulders tense, but after a long breath, he nodded. Around them, the men of Rohan continued their grim preparations for war—while above, storm clouds gathered like the shadow of the host soon to arrive.

Footsteps approached—light, deliberate, quiet as falling petals. Feng Jiu stepped into the glow of the torchlight, her expression unreadable, but calm as ever. She moved with an air of composed strength, her long sleeves swaying like drifting silk.

“You were harsh,” she said gently, her gaze settling on Legolas. “Even for a friend.”

Legolas didn’t look at her immediately. “He needed to hear the truth.”

She didn’t argue. “Perhaps. But truth is a blade that must be drawn with care. Especially when hearts are already bruised.”

Gimli glanced up at her with a faint grunt. “You still believe we’ll make it through this, do you?”

Feng Jiu nodded once, not flinching.

Legolas turned to face her now, his sharp features softening. “You place great faith in hope.”

“Not hope,” she corrected mildly. “Timing.”

She stepped past them, glancing over the soldiers with the look of someone who’d seen too many battlefields. “Remember what Gandalf said in the stables, ‘Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day.’ That wasn’t poetry. It was a promise.”

Legolas arched an eyebrow. “You believe he will return?”

She hummed as she nodded. “He is a being of great wisdom—and greater purpose. I’ve known a few like that in my time.” She looked away then, thoughtfully. “Middle-earth has its own patterns. Its own rhythm. Often, the tide turns when least expected.”

Gimli sighed, his expression softening despite himself. “You sound a little like an old elf yourself, lass.”

She smirked faintly. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ve been older than most elves for longer than I care to count.”

Legolas finally smiled. The tension eased slightly between them. “You carry yourself like someone who’s seen many wars.”

“I have,” she said simply, folding her hands. “And I’ve learned: despair is as dangerous as any enemy. Keep your mind sharp. Your heart steady. And never waste strength on fear.”

Gimli rose with a huff and slung his axe over his shoulder. “Well said. Right, let’s get back to it.”

She stood there a moment longer, her gaze lingering in the quiet where he’d walked. Something unreadable flickered behind her calm eyes—not fear, but something deeper. Memory, perhaps. Or the ache of recognition.

The wind at the top of the White Tower was sharp and cold, biting through the fine layers of Boromir’s cloak like winter pressing against armor. He stood alone, a solitary figure looking eastward across the Pelennor Fields. Beyond the Anduin, shadows stirred in the direction of Mordor—though it was not yet night, the sky was already darkening.

Boromir braced both hands against the stone ledge, the marble cold beneath his palms. From this height, Minas Tirith looked like a city carved from light and shadow. A bastion. A relic. A dream on the verge of crumbling.

He had once loved this place with the breathless certainty of a son who believed duty and honor would be enough to protect it. That strength alone could shield the White City from whatever storm was gathering in the east. But now…

Now he had died. And something—or someone—had brought him back.

His reflection in the Tower’s polished stone caught his eye—older, somehow. Not in years, but in bearing. As if crossing the veil between life and death had stripped something away and left something else behind. He wasn’t sure what yet. He only knew that he owed everything he was now to Bai Qian.

Her name lingered on his tongue like a prayer. He whispered it, eyes closed.

Bai Qian.

She had done what no healer of Gondor could. She had stood against death and, by some grace he still could not name, pulled him back from the brink. Not as a sorceress or a spirit, but as a woman who had chosen him—him—to live.

He did not know what it had cost her. Not truly. But the way Faramir had spoken of her exhaustion, of how she’d collapsed afterward without a word… It frightened him.

What if she didn’t wake?

Boromir clenched his jaw, forcing that thought away. No, Zhe Yan had assured him that she would live.

The wind caught his cloak and billowed it behind him like a banner, a flicker of red and gold against the grey sky.

And then, his mind drifted—What if Denethor ever saw her?

Would he see the courage in her? The kindness? Or would he see only a foreigner, a threat, something else to twist into a weakness?

Boromir had no illusions. His father had been growing colder for years. Ever since their mother died, a part of Denethor had gone with her. And now what remained seemed made only of stone and flame.

Boromir pressed a hand to the stone ledge, grounding himself.

He remembered the softness in Bai Qian’s voice, the calm in her eyes when she had stood beside him in battle, when her fingers brushed his as he lay broken. She hadn’t begged. She hadn’t wept. She chose—with quiet certainty—to save him.

He would protect her. Whatever the cost. And he would not let Gondor’s decay swallow her light.

From below, a bell rang out softly—an old sound. Familiar. Meant to mark the passing of hours. Yet to Boromir, it felt like a toll for all that was still to come.

He turned from the parapet, the cold no longer bothering him, and descended the winding stair.

There were preparations to make. Allies to protect. A city to defend. And a woman whose life had been spent for his. He would not let it be in vain.

From his place atop the White Tower, Boromir's gaze drifted eastward—past the outlying farms, past the gleaming curve of the Anduin, and toward the broken silhouette of the once-great city that lay straddling the river like a wounded sentinel. The towers there were half-crumbled, and what remained of its arches stood dark against the coming twilight.

But it was not the ruin that made his breath catch.

It was the smoke.

Thin at first, like wisps of breath in the cold, rising from the eastern edge—then thickening. Growing. Tainted by flame. And something deeper.

Shadow.

He narrowed his eyes. Movement. There—dark shapes shifting across the water. Fires sparking along the eastern shore. A dread certainty settled in his chest like a sword drawn from its sheath.

Behind him, bootsteps pounded the tower stair. A soldier emerged, armor glinting, breath coming hard.

“Captain Boromir!” the man said, eyes wide. “Osgiliath is under attack! Orc armies from Mordor!”

Boromir turned, already striding for the stairs. “How many?”

“Hard to say, my lord,” the soldier said, falling into step beside him. “They came with the dusk. They've breached the east bank and are pressing toward the garrison.”

“Damn it,” Boromir muttered. “Sound the alarm. Ready every able-bodied man who can bear arms. Archers to the walls, and tell the stables I’ll need a mount within the quarter-hour.”

The soldier nodded and dashed ahead.

As Boromir descended, armor clinking, his mind raced. Osgiliath. The last line before Mordor. If it fell—everything else would follow.

No. It must not fall.

And yet the warning signs had been there. He’d seen it in the fire in Denethor’s eyes. In the way his father spoke not of defense, but of power. Always the Ring. Always the weapon.

But it was not the Ring that would save them now.

It would be men. Blood and blade. And resolve.

Boromir reached the lower levels of the citadel and emerged into the courtyard, where soldiers were already rushing to prepare. Horns began to echo through the stone streets of Minas Tirith—clear and grim. A call to war. Mothers pulled children indoors. Guards fastened helmets. The city trembled with urgency.

He paused only once—lifting his eyes toward the mountains in the west, where the sky remained a pale shade of gold. Somewhere in that vast world, Bai Qian lay unconscious, and Faramir stood vigil beside her.

Keep her safe, he thought, fiercely. And I will hold the line.

Then he mounted his horse, sword strapped across his back, and rode for Osgiliath—his crimson cloak streamed behind him, a flare of defiance against the shadow ahead.

In the quiet of the armory, the clangor of swords and murmurs of fear were distant—muted behind thick stone walls. Aragorn stood alone, redressing himself in chainmail, buckling leather straps and adjusting his bracers with practiced hands. The weight of war hung around him like the steel he bore, heavy but familiar.

As he reached for his sword, another hand appeared beside his, offering it to him with a quiet, steady grace.

Aragorn looked up—and there stood Legolas. The Elf's face was solemn, yet the tension from earlier was gone.

“We have trusted you this far, and you have not led us astray.” Legolas said, his voice quiet but sure. “Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.”

Aragorn met his eyes with a faint smile, something warm flickering behind the weariness. “Ú-moe edaved, Legolas,” he answered softly. “There is nothing to forgive.”

They clasped each other’s shoulders in silent accord, the bond between them renewed, strengthened not in the absence of doubt, but in the overcoming of it.

From across the room, a loud grunt broke the quiet. Gimli wrestled with a chainmail shirt nearly twice his size, the hem dragging across the stone floor.

“If we had time, I’d get this adjusted,” the Dwarf muttered, pulling the shirt up and inspecting it with a grimace. “It’s a little tight across the chest.”

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged grins, the moment of levity a welcome breath amid the storm gathering outside.

Then it came—clear and unmistakable: a horn across the fortress.

Legolas’ head snapped up, his expression alert.

“That is no Orc horn.”

Without waiting, he turned and dashed from the room, Aragorn close behind him.

Outside, men were gathering on the ramparts, their eyes wide with disbelief and wonder. The sound of hooves and shouting echoed in the cold air.

“Send for the King!” one soldier cried.

“Open the gate!” another shouted, urgency thick in his voice.

The deep, resonant groan of Helm’s Deep’s gates slowly parted the stone doors. Light poured into the Keep’s courtyard—cold and golden. What followed made even the weary hearts of men stand taller.

An army of Elves marched through the gates in perfect formation, their armor gleaming like sunlight on snow, their banners lifting in the wind. Helm’s Deep had never seen such grace and precision.

The soldiers of Rohan stepped aside, astonishment on their faces slowly blooming into hopeful smiles. For the first time since the storm clouds gathered, there was wonder in their eyes.

From the top of the ramparts, Feng Jiu leaned forward, eyes shining as she watched the great gates of Helm’s Deep groan open. The sound of synchronized footfalls echoed like thunder through the stone walls—an army, marching in unison. As golden helms crested the threshold, Feng Jiu’s lips parted in delight.

“The elves from Lothlórien, they’ve come to help!” she breathed, her voice edged with awe. At that moment, her control faltered, and with a shimmer of light, her nine crimson tails flared out behind her, fanning in the wind.

Down below, Gimli looked up and laughed in surprise. “Well, bless my beard! Look there! The fox’s tails are out again. Her tails are out again!”

Feng Jiu blinked, then flushed, flustered. “Oh no.” With a flick of her wrist, her tails vanished in a swirl of glittering mist, and she muttered, “Not now, not now…”

Legolas, standing beside Gimli, raised an eyebrow as he followed her gaze. His smile was faint but laced with something less easy to define.

At their head, robed in shining golden armor with a crimson sash fluttering behind him, marched Haldir of Lothlórien.

King Théoden descended the stairs from the ramparts, disbelief writ in the lines of his face. His gaze fixed on the Elves, his voice almost hoarse with awe. “How is this possible?”

Haldir came forward and bowed deeply. “I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell,” he said with steady grace. “An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago, we fought and died together.” As he spoke, he lifted his gaze—and his smile widened when he spotted Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli descending the stone steps quickly.

“We come to honor that allegiance,” Haldir finished with quiet pride.

But before the moment could settle fully, there was a blur of motion from above. Feng Jiu had leapt lightly from the ramparts, her pink robes flowing and tails trailing behind like a comet of fire. She landed gracefully in front of Haldir and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug.

“Haldir!” she exclaimed, utterly unconcerned with decorum.

Haldir, taken aback for only a heartbeat, returned her embrace with a rare chuckle. “Lady Feng Jiu. I expected my boots to walk themselves again for the last prank you pulled,” he said warmly, “but this is a much more pleasant greeting.” Then he glanced pointedly at the empty space behind her. “Your tails gave you away before your voice did.”

“They did not!” she protested, swatting at the air as if that would make the memory vanish. “And they’re gone now, thank you very much.”

Legolas, just behind Aragorn now, paused for a fraction too long, his expression still composed—but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Aragorn, oblivious or pretending to be, strode forward and clasped Haldir’s shoulder.

“Haldir! You are most welcome,” he said earnestly.

Behind Haldir, the elven soldiers turned in perfect synchronization, standing to attention. Legolas stepped beside Haldir now, giving him a firm embrace of his own, though his eyes flicked sideways toward Feng Jiu, who had not quite let go yet.

Haldir straightened, his voice now formal as he addressed the gathering.

“We are proud to fight alongside Men once more.”

Feng Jiu finally stepped back, folding her hands with mock formality and whispering just loud enough for Gimli to hear, “Do you think he noticed I didn’t prank him this time?”

Gimli chuckled. “He’ll be wondering what kind of trick you’re saving for after the battle.”

Legolas said nothing—but his glance lingered on Feng Jiu longer than it should have. Guarded. Thoughtful. And perhaps… just a touch possessive.

The storm had not yet broken, but the skies above Helm’s Deep churned with dread. Final orders rang out from the walls. Arrows were sorted into bundles. Oil pots were positioned. The fortress bristled like a living thing, waiting for the first blow to fall.

Amid the bustle, Feng Jiu moved through the shadows of the upper ramparts, her robes trailing behind her like drifting cloud. She stood still for a long time, her fox-like eyes scanning the dark horizon beyond the Deeping Wall. She could still see them—lines of torches, like veins of fire creeping through the mountains. Endless. Alive.

A familiar presence joined her.

“I can feel your unease from across the fortress,” Haldir said gently, stepping beside her. He wore his golden armor now, his face noble in its stillness, the very image of elven composure. “I assume it’s not just concern for your tails this time.”

Feng Jiu didn’t smile. Not this time.

“We saw them, Haldir. Aragorn and I. An army not of ten thousand—but something fouler. It crawled out of Isengard like rot from a tree. What we face is not war. It is extinction.” She shook her head. “These men—they’re brave, but they are not soldiers. Half of them grip their swords like kitchen knives.”

She turned toward him, her voice softer now. “What if we can’t hold them?”

Haldir looked out over the battlements, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he spoke with quiet conviction.

“Long have the Elves watched the tide of shadow creep over this world, from mountaintop to sea. We have fought in silence, withdrawn from the affairs of Men—but tonight, we stand beside them.” He looked at her, something warmer now behind his calm.

“And I stand beside you.”

Feng Jiu blinked, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

He continued. “The fate of Middle-earth does not rest in Elven hands. It never has. It lies with Men. Not because they are the strongest. But because they still hope, even when all reason says to despair.”

She looked down at the battlefield, where torches flickered like dying stars. “You believe they can win.”

“I believe they must.”

A breeze caught her hair, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then Haldir added, more quietly, “And if I must fall in this battle, I would rather do so fighting beside Men who refuse to yield… and beside you.”

Feng Jiu’s breath hitched, though she quickly turned her face away, pretending to examine the rampart below. “That’s sentiment, Haldir. Elves aren’t supposed to be sentimental.”

He smiled faintly. “Some rules were made to be broken. You of all people should know that.”

At last, a smile touched her lips. The storm had not yet come—but for a heartbeat, she stood still in that calm, letting herself lean just slightly toward the warmth of the elf beside her.

The wind howled low through the stones of Helm’s Deep as final preparations fell into silence. The soldiers stood ready, weapons clutched, eyes fixed on the black horizon. But up on a narrow walkway above the rampart, Legolas stood still, the twilight brushing silver over his features.

His keen gaze had not missed the quiet moment shared between Haldir and Feng Jiu. Though they stood apart now, speaking little, the distance between them was intimate in its own way—shoulders nearly brushing, silence shared with understanding that did not require words. There was a softness in Haldir’s posture that Legolas had rarely seen, and in Feng Jiu’s expression... an openness that reminded him of moonlight before a storm. Her nine tails no longer swayed behind her—vanished in a blink after Haldir had pointed them out with an amused smile—but the warmth in her face had lingered. Legolas’s sharp eyes didn’t miss such things. He never did.

He tilted his head, unreadable as ever, though something flickered in his eyes.

From behind, he heard a grunt.

“Well,” came Gimli’s familiar voice, stepping up beside him with a smug grin, “that explains why she’s not dancing circles around the wall anymore.”

Legolas did not take his eyes off the pair. “You’ve been watching her too?”

“Aye,” Gimli said, folding his arms. “She’s hard to miss. Floating here, vanishing there—then suddenly flashing tails like a firework when the elves showed up.” He gave a chortle. “Though I’ll admit, I’ve grown fond of her company. She’s like no one I’ve ever met. And it’s good to see her still smiling—given what’s coming.”

Legolas said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, “She is... unique.”

Gimli glanced up at him, catching the slight tension in the elf’s jaw. A sly glint sparked in the dwarf’s eye.

“Ah,” he said at last, “I see that look.”

Legolas didn’t turn. “What look?”

“The one you’re wearing, lad. Like you just saw someone pick the last gem out of your hoard and walk off with it.”

Legolas exhaled slowly through his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“Mmhmm.” Gimli made a thoughtful noise, then tapped his fingers against his axe. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you.”

Legolas glanced down at him, skeptical. “No?”

Gimli grinned. “Not a chance. She may be friendly with Haldir—knows him better, probably—but I’ve seen how she looks at you when you’re not looking. All moon-eyed and wistful, like a maiden watching a particularly poetic cloud drift by.”

Legolas shot the dwarf a dry look. He had not forgotten the time when Gimli had explained to her what the term meant. “Moon-eyed.”

“Aye. Absolutely smitten,” Gimli said cheerfully. “Even an orc could see it. Though not many of them would live long enough to point it out.”

Legolas’s mouth twitched. “And this from the same dwarf who insisted she was a walking riddle wrapped in illusion.”

“She still is,” Gimli said with a shrug. “But she’s no riddle to herself. Whatever storm swirls in that clever head of hers, you’re right at the center of it, lad.”

Legolas looked back toward Feng Jiu. Her voice had lifted in a quiet laugh at something Haldir said, and the soft sound reached them like a wind chime in dusk. Still, as she turned her head ever so slightly toward where Legolas stood on the high ramparts, her expression shifted—softening, deepening.

Moon-eyed, perhaps.

“You elves. So graceful with a sword, so clumsy with hearts.”

That earned a soft snort from Legolas, but the weight in his gaze lingered. Not jealousy, not this time. But something more complicated: a sense of wonder, perhaps, at how deeply Feng Jiu had begun to root herself in this world. And in hearts not easily stirred.

“I trust her,” Legolas said finally. “More than I expected to.”

“And if the two of them find something worth holding onto,” Gimli said, shrugging, “then good for them. It might keep us all a little warmer come the cold.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, until the horn of the Hornburg echoed in the stone.

Legolas straightened. “It’s almost time.”

Gimli nodded, gripping his axe. “Aye. And with luck, we’ll all be around when the sun rises. To see if your lady fox is still moon-eyed by dawn.”

Legolas cast him a sideways look. “If she is, I’ll blame you.”

“Gladly,” Gimli chuckled, already moving toward the line of defenders. “But only if I get to give the toast at your wedding.”

Chapter Text

Night had fallen, and with it came a terrible hush over Helm’s Deep. The wind howled down from the mountains, carrying with it the scent of rain and the foreboding murmur of death. The battlements were lined with grim-faced Men—some grey with age, others barely old enough to bear a sword. Along the Deeping Wall, the elven soldiers stood in perfect formation, golden armor glinting faintly under the torches, eyes like stars fixed upon the approaching black tide.

Feng Jiu stood atop the wall, a pace or two behind Legolas and Gimli, her expression caught between awe and grim anticipation. Her red robes fluttered in the wind, and though she wore no visible armor, a soft, silver glow shimmered faintly at her wrists and neckline. She had tied her long hair back in a warrior’s knot. Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the coming storm.

Next to her, Gimli was hopping slightly, grumbling as he tried to peer over the wall.

“Ugh, you could have picked a better spot," he muttered, squinting into the dark.

Feng Jiu covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, though a few giggles escaped. “Do you want me to lift you?” she teased gently.

“No need, my lady,” Gimli huffed. “I’ve got pride, short as it may be.”

Aragorn arrived, his boots echoing against the stone as he passed among the elves. He paused behind them, eyes fixed on the torch-lit swarm slowly advancing from the blackness beyond. The rhythmic beat of Uruk-hai feet and the flickering of fire filled the air with dread.

“Well, lad,” Gimli said, glancing up at Aragorn, “whatever luck you live by, let’s hope it lasts the night.”

A flash of lightning followed by thunder hit the sky.

“Your friends are with you, Aragorn.” Said Legolas, his tone serious but calm.

Gimli grunted, his eyes slightly nervous.

“Let’s hope they last the night.”

Feng Jiu’s smile faded slightly as she looked over the vast darkness stretching toward them, where torchlight bobbed like stars in a sea of shadow. Thunder cracked overhead, and rain began to fall—light at first, then heavier, drumming against the helms and armor of Men and Elves alike.

Far below, the Uruk-hai army halted. Their leader stood upon a rocky outcropping and raised his arm. Silence fell.

Then the Uruk-hai began to drum their spears against the ground, their growls rising in a terrible chorus. The sound was monstrous, like thunder rising from within the earth.

In the caves, the people of Rohan grew restless at the sound. Even the youngest child seemed to sense the dread pooling in the stone beneath their feet.

“What’s happening out there?” Gimli muttered, bouncing on his toes again.

Legolas didn’t miss a beat. “Shall I describe it to you,” he asked innocently, “or would you like me to find you a box?”

Feng Jiu burst out laughing, the sound musical and oddly comforting amidst the gathering storm. “Be nice,” she said, though she was grinning. “He’s very courageous for someone who can’t see.”

Even Gimli chuckled at that. “Flatter me all you like, lady fox, but I’ll need a stool before this is done.”

Aragorn raised his sword and shouted over the roar in elvish, “Show them no mercy! For you shall receive none!” His voice rang with defiance.

The elves raised their bows in perfect unity. The Men followed, arrows nocked and drawn. The wall became a bristling forest of iron and death.

Then—an old man, hands shaking, lost his grip on his bowstring. An arrow sang through the air and struck an Uruk in the throat. It fell with a guttural scream.

“Dartho!” Aragorn bellowed, raising his hand.

But the line had been crossed. The air filled with snarls and deep, guttural growls. The Uruk captain roared, swinging his scimitar down. The horde answered as one, thundering forward toward the walls of Helm’s Deep.

Standing above, Theoden gazed down from the keep, his voice grim.

“So it begins.”

Aragorn, already pacing the length of the Deeping Wall, turned sharply and shouted toward the elven ranks. “Prepare to fire!”

With mechanical precision, the elves notched arrows to their bows. The soft twang of drawn strings echoed like the hum of a loom before war’s tapestry was woven.

Beside Aragorn, Legolas raised his bow and called out calmly to the others, “Their armor is weak at the neck, and beneath the arm.”

“Release the arrows!” Aragorn’s voice cracked through the night like a lightning bolt.

A thousand arrows answered. The sky darkened as the first wave of shafts soared, whistling through the rain and striking with deadly accuracy. Uruk-hai fell in staggering numbers—impaled, tripped, trampled.

Beside Legolas, Gimli peered over the battlements as best he could, his beard damp with rain. “Did they hit anything?” he grumbled, squinting through the downpour.

Theoden’s voice rang behind them, sharp as a drawn blade. “Give them a volley.”

Gamling flung his arm forward. “Fire!”

The call passed down the line—“Fire!” came the echo from the old man earlier, a defiant shout as more arrows flew in a volley of steel and hope.

And beside the line of elven archers, like a jewel burning against the dark stone, Feng Jiu stepped forward. Her sleeves fluttered slightly in the wind, but she paid them no mind. Her nine tails had not reappeared—yet the glimmer of her power shimmered visibly around her.

She raised one delicate hand, fingers splayed. The air around her pulsed with unseen force. With a flick of her wrist, orbs of ethereal fire—half mist, half flame—sprang into existence and soared down the field, weaving through the rain like streaking stars.

Where they struck, Uruk-hai burst into flame—unholy shrieks tore through the air. Some staggered, burning; others fell immediately, clutching at smoldering wounds. Elves nearby flinched at the unfamiliar sight, but quickly recovered and resumed firing.

From the rampart beside her, Legolas stole a sideways glance, lips twitching in something not quite amusement—perhaps admiration. But he said nothing, simply loosed another arrow into the heart of the darkness.

Behind the wall, Aragorn shouted again, this time to the archers gathered along the lower defenses. “Full volley!”

A full volley—arrows descended like a second rain, cutting into the front lines of the Uruk-hai, who staggered but pressed forward without fear.

And amidst it all, Gimli jumped up, barely able to see over the wall, waving his axe with increasing impatience. “Send them to me!” he bellowed. “Come on!”

Beside him, Feng Jiu laughed aloud, the musical sound piercing the storm like chimes dancing in fire. The contrast between thunder and the rain, and her joy was almost absurd—and yet, somehow it lifted the tension from the air for a moment, as if even the gods were watching and smiling.

A new sound filled the storm-soaked air—a sickening twang of crossbows. From the shadows beyond the torchlight, the Uruk-hai had begun to fire back.

Elven archers cried out as black-fletched bolts pierced through armor, several collapsing where they stood. Feng Jiu’s ears flicked at the sudden change in rhythm, her gaze narrowing. With a flick of her wrist—no chant, no visible shield—a pulse of unseen power swept across a small arc of the wall. Several arrows, mid-flight, twisted unnaturally in the air and veered away, harmlessly striking stone or thudding into the mud below.

One elf blinked beside her, stunned. Feng Jiu didn’t explain—she never did.

Below them, the Uruk-hai let out a unified roar—and the first siege ladders began to rise, pushed by heaving arms and driving war cries.

“Pendraith!” Aragorn shouted. “Ladders!”

“Good!” Gimli barked, baring his teeth.

The Uruks on the ladders were the worst of their kind—massive berserkers, wild-eyed and armored, lifted like battering rams to the top of the wall. Some roared as they ascended, axes and swords ready.

“Swords! Swords!” Aragorn called to the elves.

At once, elegant elven blades sang free of their sheaths. Aragorn met the first berserker with a roar, cutting him down as he lunged over the wall.

Feng Jiu raised a hand toward two ladders farther down, fire spiraling between her fingers. With a flick, she launched a phoenix-shaped fireball—glowing embers trailing like tails. One ladder shuddered and burst into flames at the base—the fire licking upward with unnatural speed. The second quivered midair, then twisted violently, as though struck by invisible claws, and toppled sideways, the Uruks on them howling as they fell, some crashing onto their comrades below in a tangle of bodies and scorched timber.

A third ladder clanged into place nearby—too close. Feng Jiu turned, blade materializing in her hand in a flash of light. She met the next berserker with a whirl of flame and steel, her tails flashing once into view before she hastily dismissed them again with a muttered hiss.

On her right, Gimli cleaved an Uruk’s knees from beneath it, letting the creature topple face-first into the stone.

“Legolas!” he shouted, raising his axe high. “Two already!”

From a few paces down, Legolas loosed another arrow with impeccable calm, the shot spearing through a snarling Uruk’s throat before it even reached the battlements.

“I’m on seventeen!” he called back with a half-smile.

“What! I’ll have no pointy-ear outscoring me!” Gimli snapped, whirling and catching a berserker just as it pulled itself over the edge. It fell with a gurgle, dead before it could land.

Legolas fired again—twice—barely glancing before both arrows struck true. “Nineteen!”

Gimli growled, spitting into the wind.

From above, Feng Jiu landed between the two, having vaulted from her previous position to cover a breach. Her blade swept in an arc of white-hot fire, knocking back a trio of Uruks at once. She glanced between the dwarf and the elf with a smirk. “Do I get to join the game?”

Legolas blinked in surprise, then gave a soft laugh. “Only if you keep score properly.”

“I’m on six,” she said, tone airy, “but they were large.”

“And flaming,” Gimli added with a huff, shaking a bit of scorched Uruk off his axe. “That’s got to count for something.”

They turned back to the wall as another wave began to climb, all three moving in sync now—axe, bow, and magic working as one. For all their differences, they stood side by side against the dark.

And below them, Aragorn threw his full weight against a ladder, sending it crashing down into the horde below. The impact crushed a half-dozen Uruks, but more came.

The skies over the Anduin had turned to ash.

The procession made its way across the war-ravaged plain, a grim line of Gondorian soldiers escorting the hobbits and Gollum—now bound with rope—toward the battered city of Osgiliath. Dust clung to their boots, smoke trailed in the distance, and the air was thick with the distant echo of war: steel clashing on stone, the roar of siege engines, the cries of men locked in desperate battle.

Faramir led the group in silence, his eyes ever fixed on the rising columns of smoke ahead. Frodo stumbled slightly beside Sam, the weight of the Ring dragging at his every step. Gollum whimpered softly, slinking low and muttering curses under his breath, though none paid him mind.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers halted and pointed toward the river.

“Look!” he cried. “Osgiliath burns!”

Another soldier muttered, voice taut with dread. “Mordor has come.”

Ahead, the broken towers of the city flared with bursts of red and gold—flames licking at their stone ramparts, the dark shapes of orcs swarming over walls once held by Gondorian steel. Even with reinforcements rallied to defend it, Osgiliath stood on the edge of collapse.

Frodo stared at the burning city, tears pooling in his eyes. The Ring pulsed against his chest, hungry, eager for the chaos ahead.

He turned, voice raw. “The Ring will not save Gondor,” he said, meeting Faramir’s gaze. “It has only the power to destroy. Please… let me go.”

Faramir slowed, footsteps faltering. The others watched, uncertain.

For a heartbeat, something changed in his face—doubt, perhaps, or regret. He looked from Frodo to the smoking horizon beyond, where his men bled and fell to defend ground long contested. A city his brother had once fought to reclaim. A city his father still demanded he hold.

But there was no time for decisions born of mercy.

Faramir’s jaw tightened. He turned away.

“Hurry,” he commanded.

The soldiers seized Frodo and Sam again, pushing them forward. Frodo resisted, twisting around even as he was dragged along the road.

“Faramir!” he cried, desperation clawing through his voice. “You must let me go!”

But the Captain of Gondor said nothing.

He walked ahead, silent, eyes fixed on the doomed skyline—where duty, blood, and ruin awaited.

The clash of steel and roar of war drums thundered through the ruined streets of Osgiliath. Arrows screamed through the sky as orcs poured through the broken walls, met by Gondor’s desperate resistance. Reinforcements had arrived—Boromir at their head—his sword already red with the blood of Mordor’s beasts.

Amid the din, Boromir’s eyes locked on two small, ragged figures being led under guard across the fractured causeway. He surged forward, sword flashing as he cut a path through snarling orcs, disbelief and hope burning in his chest.

“Frodo?” he breathed.

The hobbits turned at the familiar voice. Frodo’s eyes widened, stunned. Sam blinked, mouth agape.

“Boromir!” Sam cried, his voice breaking in relief.

Frodo hesitated—but then nodded, lips trembling. “You’re alive…”

Boromir crossed the rubble in long strides, sheathing his sword, his brow furrowed not from battle but from something deeper—older. Guilt hung heavy on his shoulders despite the weight of his armor. The hobbit stood stiffly, uncertain, his hand brushing against the chain around his neck.

“By the Valar… I feared the worst when we parted,” Boromir said as he knelt before the hobbits, “Forgive me, Frodo—for what I tried to do in the woods.”

Frodo hesitated, then nodded. “You came back.”

“I did,” Boromir said, voice thick with emotion. “To fight for Gondor. To stand with my people.” He paused, remembering the painful memories. “I was not myself, but that is no excuse. The Ring... it poisoned my thoughts. I tried to take it from you. I betrayed your trust.”

Sam, standing beside Frodo, narrowed his eyes at Boromir warily. But Frodo slowly looked up—really looked—at the man who had once been a protector and a friend.

“I know,” Frodo said at last, voice quiet but sure. “And I forgave you a long time ago.”

Boromir’s eyes flickered with disbelief. “You did?”

Frodo nodded, his expression heavy with sorrow. “You weren’t yourself. The Ring does that—it twists even the best of us. But you—what you did after... you gave your life for us. For Merry and Pippin. I know that now.”

Boromir exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. The burden he had carried for so long—of shame, regret, the belief that Frodo must surely despise him—lifted, if only slightly.

“Thank you, Frodo,” he murmured. “That means more to me than you know.” He sheathed his sword with a grunt. He turned to the nearest soldier. “Unbind them. Now.”

Faramir appeared beside them, grim-faced and battle-worn, bow still in hand.

“They’re prisoners, Boromir,” he said tightly. “They carry the weapon of our enemy. I was taking them to our father. With the Ring, we may yet turn the tide.”

Boromir froze. Slowly, his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword again—not in threat, but in disbelief.

“No,” he said. “You can’t. You’ve seen what it does. What it nearly did to me.”

Faramir’s jaw tensed. “And yet here you stand—because you survived it. Because you came back. And still you say we should do nothing?”

“This isn’t about doing nothing,” Boromir shot back. “This is about doing what is right. Let them finish what they were sent to do!”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed. “And what of Gondor? You would ask me to cast aside the one thing that might save us? That might restore Father's faith in both of us?”

“You speak of Father, but this isn’t about him,” Boromir replied sharply. “This is about you. You want to prove yourself. To him. To me.”

Faramir’s jaw tightened. “And would that be so wrong?”

“Faramir, listen to yourself!” Boromir shouted. “This is the same road I walked—and it led me to ruin. Don't make the same mistake!”

“I am not you!” Faramir shoved him back. “You failed. I won’t.”

Boromir stepped closer, shaking his head. “We can't trade Frodo's life—anyone’s life—for Denethor’s approval.”

Thunder cracked above as catapults smashed into Osgiliath’s battlements. Soldiers shouted as orcs pushed harder into the city. Still, the tension between the brothers thickened, like a bowstring drawn too tight.

“I must take it,” Faramir said, voice low but desperate. “Please, I don’t want to fight, brother.”

“Then don’t make me stop you,” Boromir replied, drawing his blade. “You know what you’re doing is wrong.”

There was a long pause—just long enough for the wind to carry the shriek of a Nazgûl overhead.

Then, Faramir lunged. In a flash, swords rang out as the brothers clashed— steel ringing against steel amid the chaos of battle in a scuffle more born of grief and desperation than true enmity. Their blades clashed violently, steel ringing against steel amid the chaos of battle.

Frodo called out, “Please, stop!”

Boromir finally knocked Faramir’s blade aside, breathing heavily. “Let them go, Faramir. Let them finish what we all began.”

Battle still rang through the battered ruins of Osgiliath as Boromir and Faramir broke apart, breathless and bruised. The scuffle had drawn the attention of nearby soldiers, but none dared step between the two sons of Denethor.

Faramir’s eyes were bright with something fierce. Unnatural. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He turned back toward Frodo.

“The Ring belongs in Gondor,” he said, voice rising. “For us. For Father. For you!”

Boromir’s expression darkened. “Listen to yourself,” he said, stepping forward. “You’re starting to sound like I did—before the Ring took hold of me.”

“I am nothing like you were,” Faramir hissed.

Boromir's eyes flared, but it was not anger that spurred him—it was fear. He saw the Ring’s tendrils wrapping around his brother’s heart.

“Then forgive me for this,” Boromir muttered, and without warning, he slammed the hilt of his sword into Faramir’s side—an armored, calculated blow that knocked the wind out of him without breaking bone. As Faramir staggered backward, gasping, Boromir grabbed the front of his tunic.

“Wake up, Faramir,” he growled. “This thing doesn’t want to save Gondor. It wants to burn it.”

Faramir clutched his ribs, the blow having jolted more than his body. His gaze cleared slightly—confusion and pain warring with the desire still tugging at him. But before either brother could speak again, a sudden stillness settled over them.

Sam’s hand twitched at his side. He glanced toward Frodo—and froze.

A low, distant shriek pierced the sky.

Frodo was gone.

“Frodo?” Sam’s voice cracked as he caught sight of the hobbit stumbling dazedly out into the open. “Frodo! Where are you going?”

Frodo did not respond. His eyes were glazed, his steps slow and uncertain, as if drawn forward by an unseen hand. Above him, the shadow of a fell beast passed over the war-torn city, and the screech of a Nazgûl rent the air.

“No—no, Frodo, don’t!” Sam cried, racing after him.

From their vantage on the stone stair, both Boromir and Faramir froze in horror as Frodo climbed a broken parapet. The Ring shimmered at his chest, catching the dying light. Frodo raised his hand toward the sky—toward the creature descending on leathery wings, drawn to the presence of the Ring.

The Nazgûl shrieked, talons outstretched.

Frodo closed his eyes, his fingers curling around the chain.

“Frodo!” Boromir shouted, breaking into a run, but Sam was already there.

With a desperate cry, Sam tackled Frodo from behind, dragging him away just as the beast lunged. A moment later, an arrow soared upward. Faramir stood below, bow drawn, eyes locked on his target. His shot flew true, piercing the Nazgûl’s mount in the shoulder. The creature shrieked in fury and veered off, wings beating furiously as it soared back into the darkened sky.

Sam and Frodo tumbled down the stairs in a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths. They hit the ground hard—a heap of tangled legs and arms—until Frodo rolled, a powerful instinct driving him to pin Sam beneath him. He drew Sting in one trembling hand, pressing the blade’s edge to Sam’s throat.

Sam’s eyes, round with panic, met his. “It’s me!” he blurted, voice hoarse and trembling. “It’s your Sam. Don’t you know your Sam?”

For a heartbeat, Frodo’s grip didn’t waver. Then, slowly—so slowly—realization dawned. His arm slackened. The fight fled his body, leaving him drained and trembling. Sting clattered from his fingers and fell to the ground, the blade ringing against the stone.

He slumped back against the cold wall, the sweat on his brow cold now as the air hit it. Sam sat up, worry and fear etched deep in his face.

Frodo’s voice broke as he whispered, “I can’t do this, Sam.”

Silence fell. The battle still raged in pockets across the city, but here in this moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Boromir stepped toward his brother, his voice low but steady. “Look at him, Faramir. That’s what it does. That’s what it did to me.”

Faramir lowered his bow, staring at Frodo, then at his own trembling hand. He swallowed hard. “I see it now.”

Boromir nodded once. “Then let them go. Let them finish what we could not.”

Though the battle still raged in the distance, the immediate threat had passed. The Nazgûl had retreated, and the city seemed to hold its breath. Frodo and Sam, shaken but alive, remained at the foot of the stairs, huddled together, their eyes wide with the fear of what they'd just faced.

Faramir, his bow still in hand, gazed down at the hobbits, his mind torn. The weight of his father’s legacy pressed on him, but the sight of Frodo and Sam—of the burden they carried—made the decision clearer than it had ever been before.

“You know the laws of our country. The laws of your father,” Madril said, his voice grim. “If you let them go, your life will be forfeit.”

Faramir’s heart tightened, but he did not waver. The Ring’s whisper was faint now, its call receding like a dying echo. In that moment, he felt the truth of it—his life, his brother’s life, his father’s commands, were nothing compared to the fate that awaited these two small hobbits. His gaze lingered on Frodo and Sam, and in their faces, he saw the same determination, the same hope that had been in Boromir’s eyes before the Ring had consumed him. He saw the same unyielding spirit that had driven him to seek his father's approval—to seek glory.

But glory, he realized, had no place in this fight. The true battle was not for Gondor’s crown, but for the Shire. For the world beyond the walls of his city, beyond his father’s gaze.

Faramir’s jaw tightened as he made his choice. “Then it is forfeit,” he said, his tone resolute.

“No,” Boromir said, stepping forward, voice iron. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Faramir looked at his brother, surprised but not displeased. Boromir continued, speaking so only his brother could hear, “I have stood at the brink. I know what the Ring can do. Let Father rage. I’ll not see you punished for doing what is right.”

Faramir looked into his brother’s eyes. Boromir, always protecting him, even now, even after he had made the first strike in their scuffle. He nodded, and then turned to his men.

“Release them.”

They moved quickly through the battered ruins, Frodo, Sam, and Gollum close behind. Smoke curled from broken towers, and the echo of distant battle rumbled like an oncoming storm, muffled by the stone around them. Though the fighting had not ceased, it had shifted—enough for this moment of escape.

Faramir led the way through the winding remnants of the city's old sewer system, Frodo, Sam, and Gollum trailing behind. Boromir brought up the rear, sword in hand, ever watchful.They stopped at a moss-laced tunnel mouth. Faramir turned and gestured down the dark corridor.

"This is the old sewer," he said, breath catching slightly from exertion. "It runs beneath the river and opens into the woods beyond the city."

Boromir nodded grimly. "No one uses it anymore—barely remembered but still intact. It’ll be your safest passage out while the fighting holds their attention."

Sam looked at both brothers, his voice shaking with emotion. "Captain Faramir… you have shown your quality, sir."

Faramir blinked, touched despite the urgency. Sam stepped forward, earnest eyes meeting his.

"The very highest," the hobbit added.

A faint grin lifted Faramir’s mouth. "The Shire must truly be a great realm, Master Gamgee… where gardeners are held in high honor."

Sam flushed pink but said nothing more.

Faramir stepped back, giving the hobbits space as Boromir moved beside him. The elder brother cast a glance upward, tension still tight in his frame.

"Are you sure this is the only way?" Boromir asked Frodo.

Frodo glanced at Gollum, who fidgeted at the tunnel entrance. "Gollum says there’s a path—near Minas Morgul—that climbs into the mountains."

Faramir’s expression darkened. "Cirith Ungol?"

At the name, Boromir stiffened. He turned sharply toward Gollum, suspicion flaring in his eyes. Faramir grabbed the creature by the neck and shoved him against the wall.

"Is that its name?" he demanded, voice like iron.

“No!” Gollum cried, shaking his head wildly. “No!”

Faramir’s grip tightened.

“Yes!” Gollum gasped. “Yes!”

Still gripping the creature, Faramir turned to face the hobbits. “Frodo…they say a dark terror dwells in the passes above Minas Morgul. You cannot go that way.”

“It is the only way,” Gollum wheezed, as Frodo remained silent. “Master says we must go to Mordor. So we must try.”

Faramir looked long and hard at Frodo.

At last, the hobbit nodded. “I must.”

Faramir released Gollum with a shove that sent him sprawling. He turned to Frodo. “Then go. Go with the goodwill of all Men.”

Frodo bowed his head. “Thank you.”

He turned, walking into the sewer’s mouth. Sam followed after a brief glance at the brothers. Gollum crept after the hobbits, slinking along the damp stone and skirting the wide edge of the tunnel wall, trying to avoid the attention of either Gondorian brother. But Boromir was watching.

Without a word, he stepped forward, seized Gollum by the scruff of the neck, and yanked him back. The creature let out a startled hiss, limbs flailing in protest.

Boromir’s grip tightened, his voice low and edged with warning. “May death find you quickly if you bring them to harm.”

He hurled Gollum forward into the darkness of the tunnel. The creature tumbled, caught himself on all fours, and scurried after Frodo and Sam, muttering in pain, one hand clutching his throat.

Boromir watched them go in silence. “Do you think he’ll find his way back?” he asked, nodding after Gollum.

Faramir scoffed. “The creature’s too stubborn to die. Whether he leads them to salvation or ruin... that is in the hands of fate.”

“But you gave them a chance,” Boromir said. “That’s more than most would.” He drew his sword, glancing back toward the stairs. “Come. There’s still a city to defend.”

Faramir gave a grim nod, and together they turned back toward the thundering clash of steel and the war cries that echoed through the ruined streets above, their boots quickening as they ascended once more into the fire of Osgiliath.

Gimli roared triumphantly atop the Deeping Wall, his axe a blur in the rain-soaked dark.

“Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one!”

Uruks fell from the ladders like sacks of meat, their snarls silenced by the dwarf’s ruthless swings. The wall slicked with blood and rain, and still the enemy surged upward.

Then came a different sound—a rhythmic thudding on stone. Aragorn’s head snapped toward the causeway.

“Causeway!” he shouted, running through the line of elves, pointing. “They’re coming for the gate!”

Shielded Uruks advanced in tight formation up the causeway, protected from arrows on all sides by heavy, overlapping shields. A grim chant echoed from them, steady as a war drum.

Feng Jiu, still striking down Uruks with her flaming blade, turned just in time to glimpse two pairs of Uruks pushing something toward the base of the wall—spiked, round objects of dark metal. Explosives. And behind them, a lone berserker sprinted, clutching a blazing torch in his claws.

Aragorn saw them too, and his eyes widened. “Bring him down, Legolas!”

Legolas turned instantly and loosed an arrow. It struck the berserker in the shoulder, staggering him—but he kept running.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Aragorn shouted again.

Legolas’s second arrow hit true, but the Uruk, bellowing, dove forward—straight into the culvert.

Feng Jiu stretched out a hand, trying to twist the last moment with her power—to tug the fire away or shatter the fuse. But it was too late.

The explosion shattered the night.

A deafening roar. Masonry split like thunder. The Deeping Wall erupted in a geyser of fire and stone. Water and bodies flew skyward.

As the shockwave burst outward, she was hurled from the wall—but she twisted in midair, tails flaring like bright streamers, and landed lightly on her feet, sliding back a few paces on the wet stone as debris rained around her. The earth trembled beneath her boots. Flame and smoke surged up in a tidal wave of chaos.

Below, where the breach yawned wide and smoke and water billowed, Gimli was already moving. He let out a bellow, raised his axe, and leapt from the wall into the maelstrom.

He landed with a great splash in the flooded trench, teeth bared as Uruks poured through the breach. With a roar, he struck the first one cleanly, his axe cleaving through armor and bone. A second fell before he had time to scream. A third charged him—larger, armored in jagged iron. Gimli met him head-on.

But this one was faster.

The Uruk slammed into him with brute strength, knocking him backward and under the water with a mighty crash. Gimli sank beneath the surface, limbs flailing briefly—then nothing. The Uruk trampled forward, unaware of the dwarf he left in the water's churn.

Feng Jiu didn’t hesitate. She launched from the edge, leaping into the air with a sweep of her sleeves that shimmered with latent fire. She dived like a striking falcon, cutting clean through the smoke and wreckage.

The water met her in a cold rush, but she was already reaching—her hands glowing as she grasped Gimli beneath the surface. She pulled him up with surprising strength, dragging him above the waterline. He coughed and wheezed, sputtering into consciousness, blinking up at her through soaked lashes.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered, tightening her grip. “You still owe me a kill count.”

Above them, Legolas saw her. He had no breath to speak, but his eyes didn’t leave her—not as she lifted Gimli, not as she turned and drew her blade again, her sleeves soaked, her hair trailing like a dark veil in the rain.

Haldir saw too—from the other side of the battlement. He froze for half a beat, stunned—not by her presence, but by the way she moved. Grace and fury, elegance and savagery fused. Her blade danced like wind-fire, leaving streaks of flame as she carved through Uruk after Uruk. She wasn’t just fighting—she was art in motion.

Legolas loosed another arrow as an Uruk lunged toward her back. The creature dropped before it could land a blow.

She didn’t even glance back, but Legolas smiled.

Feng Jiu surged forward, joining Aragorn as he rallied the elven archers.

Arrows rained from the walls, felling dozens of Uruks.

Legolas moved without hesitation. He grabbed a shield from a fallen Uruk, threw it down the stairway, and leapt—sliding down the steps while firing arrow after arrow, each one a fatal whisper. He landed, the shield slamming into an Uruk’s chest, skewering it.

Back at the breach, Gimli had recovered and stood again at Feng Jiu’s side.

“Well,” he huffed, coughing up another mouthful of water. “You fly. You fight. I might start believing those tales of yours, lass.”

Feng Jiu flashed him a grin. “Only just now?”

But even as the elves and men fought with desperate resolve beneath the shadow of the ruined wall, a fresh wave of Uruk-hai stormed through the breach, relentless and many. The sound of steel, the screams of the dying, the hiss of arrows—Helm’s Deep rang with chaos.

From the overlook, Theoden’s grim voice cut through it.

“Aragorn!” he shouted. “Fall back to the Keep! Get your men out of there!”

Below, Aragorn turned, face bloodied, hair matted to his brow with sweat and rain. He saw what Theoden had already accepted: the Deeping Wall could not be held.

“Nan Barad! Nan Barad!” he cried. “To the Keep! Pull back to the Keep!” He looked up to the wall’s edge. “Haldir! Nan Barad!”

High above, Haldir heard him. He nodded, lips pressed in a tight line, and gestured urgently to the remaining Galadhrim. “Nan Barad!” he called. “To the Keep!”

Legolas and another elf grabbed Gimli—still dripping, still growling—as he kicked in protest

“What are you doing?” Gimli bellowed. “What are you stopping for? Put me down! I’ll cleave twenty more yet!”

But Haldir stayed behind, holding the line until his kin could retreat. He turned just in time to drive his blade through the throat of an advancing Uruk. Its corpse fell away at his feet. But another came from behind, unseen, its jagged blade thrust low.

The tip plunged into his side.

Haldir gasped, staggered, and looked down—his gloved hand pressed to his side, coming away slick with blood. Pain lanced through him, sharp and sickening. His vision blurred.

But before the second Uruk could finish him with a strike to the back, there was a sudden flash of warmth and gold.

Feng Jiu appeared out of the air, not with a leap, but a shimmer—one instant, she was nowhere; the next, she stood between the Uruk and the wounded elf, her blade sweeping down like fire from heaven.

She parried the blow with a clang of steel, then turned in one fluid motion and slit the creature’s throat. Blood sprayed across the stone. The Uruk crumpled at her feet.

The moment the threat was gone, Feng Jiu staggered back with a wince. A pulse of magical feedback rippled through her body—a sharp, cold warning that made her breath catch.

She had interfered. Not just in the battle, but in fate. Her meddling rang out in the tapestry of destiny like a snapped string.

Still, she shook off the shiver and stepped toward Haldir, catching him as he nearly fell. Her hands, glowing faintly with suppressed power, steadied him.

“You’re not dying here,” she said lowly, voice tight.

Haldir looked at her, eyes wide with surprise and pain. “You… should not have done that.”

“I do a great many things I shouldn't,” she replied, forcing a small smile, even as her knees trembled.

She slung his arm over her shoulder and began pulling him back, step by step, toward the Keep. Uruks surged behind them, but the elves held the line long enough for her to reach the inner courtyard. Blood trailed from Haldir’s wound, and her own power flickered at the edge of exhaustion—but she did not falter. Not yet.

As the Keep’s gates loomed ahead, she tightened her grip. “Come on,” she whispered. “You’re not finished.”

The massive gate shuddered under the relentless pounding of the Uruk-hai's ram. With every strike, splinters flew from the wood, and men staggered back with grunts of effort as they braced themselves against it.

Theoden stood just beyond the melee, eyes locked on the gate.

“Brace the gate!” he bellowed.

Gamling and the others rushed to reinforce it—shoving beams into place, dragging debris for makeshift barriers. The Uruks slammed the ram forward again with a deafening boom that echoed through the stone halls of Helm’s Deep.

“Hold them!” Theoden cried. “Stand firm!”

Inside, the sound of battle was muffled only slightly by thick stone. The flickering torchlight lit the antechamber where Feng Jiu had dragged Haldir, lowering him to the floor against a pillar. His breath came in short gasps, but he remained conscious, clutching his side where blood still seeped between his fingers.

“You should have left me,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’m not in the habit of letting people die because I’m supposed to,” Feng Jiu replied, already pulling his hand away to examine the wound.

It was deep. Too deep for mortal medicine.

She drew a slow breath, pressing her palms over the torn flesh. Light gathered beneath her hands—pale gold with flickers of fire, like embers dancing through mist.

Haldir winced, jaw tightening—but then the pain began to dull. He watched her closely, brow furrowed.

“What… are you doing?”

Feng Jiu didn’t answer at first. Her face was pale with effort, her lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. The healing light pulsed brighter, deeper, as it wove into his skin, threading bone and sinew, repairing what had been broken.

Then suddenly, she gasped—and coughed. A burst of blood stained her lips.

Haldir sat up, alarmed. “My lady!”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, wiping it away before he could reach her. Her other hand still glowed faintly against his side.

“I interfered,” she said quietly, her voice raw. “And now I pay the price.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You don’t need to.” She leaned back slightly, breath ragged but steadying. “I chose it. It was worth it.”

Haldir’s gaze searched hers, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. For the first time, the elf who had once thought her merely strange and aloof saw something else entirely—someone who burned with a quiet, fierce purpose. Someone who did not bend to fate… even when it hurt her.

He said nothing. But he did not look away.

And Feng Jiu, sensing his stare, allowed herself a brief, tired smile. “I’ll survive,” she murmured. “You better do the same.”

The pounding at the gate thundered louder now, the wood groaning under the assault. She stood, slowly, brushing blood from the corner of her mouth with a swipe of her sleeve.

“Stay here until you can walk.”

“And if I don’t?” Haldir asked.

Her smirk returned, faint and fleeting. “Then I’ll carry you again. And you’ll never hear the end of it.”

She started toward the passage that led back into the heart of the battle. But this time, Haldir pushed against the pillar, straining to rise.

“Feng Jiu,” he called softly.

She paused mid-step, her back still to him.

“You’re still wounded,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “And that backlash… What if it worsens? You shouldn’t go alone.”

A long silence followed. Then, without turning, she said quietly, “I’m not alone.”

Outside, she could feel it—Legolas still fighting near the wall, his arrows cutting cleanly through the dark. Aragorn’s fury, bright and burning. Gimli’s battle cries. Theoden’s commands. Her friends were out there, holding the line, bleeding for this world.

And Legolas—he was always keeping an eye on her, even when she didn’t ask him to.

“I have to help them,” she said, softer now. “It’s who I am.”

There was a flicker of something unspoken between them—understanding, admiration, and a quiet ache. Haldir leaned back against the wall, defeated not by injury but by the reality of who she was.

And still, he whispered, “Be careful.”

Feng Jiu smiled to herself as she stepped back into the firelit corridor, her silhouette briefly catching the glow of the torches.

“I always am,” she murmured, and then she was gone.

The massive iron ram slammed against the gates again with a deep, shuddering boom. Soldiers scrambled, pressing their shoulders against the thick wood, jamming spears and stones into any crevice to hold back the tide. The doors creaked, cracking in their hinges with each thunderous impact.

Above, Legolas loosed another arrow and watched it bury itself cleanly between an Uruk’s eyes. His keen gaze swept the wall and the courtyard below—where Aragorn and Gimli were still fighting on the causeway, isolated as grappling hooks began to arc through the air toward the battlements.

One soared high, rope trailing behind it like the tongue of some metal beast.

Legolas drew, aimed, and fired. The rope snapped in midair, sending the hook tumbling harmlessly to the stones below.

Another launched upward—then suddenly sputtered in its arc and fell short. Wind whistled around it unnaturally. A shimmer of foxfire flickered through the dark.

Feng Jiu had arrived.

She alighted on the battlement wall, her pink robes—mud-stained and blood-slicked—whipped behind her like flame. With a sweep of her arm, another three ropes already hooked on the stone walls burst into fire. Uruks below cried out as their means of ascent crumbled to ash.

“Legolas!” she called.

He turned as she knelt, extending a hand over the edge. Aragorn was climbing now, his sword slashing at anything that got too close. Gimli clung below him, muttering curses as he fought and scrambled upward.

Feng Jiu leaned out, her hand glowing faintly as she reached for Gimli’s collar. “Hold still, Master Dwarf.”

“I am holdin’ still!” Gimli snapped, just as she yanked him bodily over the lip of the wall. He hit the stone with a grunt, rolling onto his feet as Legolas helped pull Aragorn over beside him.

“Thank you,” Aragorn panted, brushing wet hair from his face. His eyes flicked to Feng Jiu. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she answered quickly, before turning to Legolas.

He studied her face carefully, eyes narrowing. “You’re pale.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Feng Jiu—”

“Focus on the battle,” she cut in, voice gentle but firm. “We’re not finished yet.”

Legolas hesitated, clearly not convinced. But another roar from below drew his gaze back to the gates, where the Uruks had regrouped with renewed fury. The great ram slammed against the doors once more. The wood cracked visibly now.

Theoden’s voice rang out over the courtyard.

“Fall back! Into the Keep!”

Soldiers began retreating, moving in staggered waves through the inner doors. Legolas and Aragorn both turned, shouting for the archers to move. Gimli growled and began stomping toward the last of the defense line, eager to finish a few more enemies before he was dragged inside.

Feng Jiu lingered for one more breath, her eyes scanning the darkness beyond the wall—searching for the next threat.

Then she vanished into the Keep with the others, firelight trailing in her wake.

The scent of peach blossoms lingered faintly in the air, though there were none to be seen. The light that filtered through the tent was soft, diffused by layers of linen that swayed gently with the breeze. Bai Qian stirred, her brow furrowing before her eyes fluttered open, pupils adjusting slowly to the filtered light above.

“About time,” came a familiar voice—warm, dry, and laced with subtle amusement.

She stirred, slow and groggy, her fingers twitching against the edge of the quilt. Her breath hitched as awareness returned to her body. Pain bloomed behind her eyes—dull, deep, and foreign. She tried to sit up, but her limbs protested, heavy and stiff.

“Easy now,” said the voice.

She turned her head toward the sound and found Zhe Yan seated beside her, dressed in robes of muted rose, his long fingers casually plucking petals from a shallow bowl of water at his side. He sat cross-legged beside the bed, pink robes pristine despite the travel-worn atmosphere of the chamber. A clay teapot steamed beside him on a small table, and he raised a brow as she blinked at him.

She stared at him. “Zhe Yan?”

“In the flesh.” He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “You frightened us, you know.” He paused, and then added, “You’ve been unconscious for days, Qian Qian. I was beginning to think you just enjoyed sleeping while the rest of us ran around Middle-earth chasing after mortals.”

Her brow furrowed, memory returning in fragments—darkness, flame, screams—and then Boromir. Her heart clenched.

“Where is he?” she rasped. “Boromir—was he…”

“Alive,” Zhe Yan said gently, already anticipating her question. “He’s alive. Whole and breathing, though his sense of self-preservation still leaves much to be desired.”

Relief crashed through her like a wave. She closed her eyes and exhaled shakily.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.”

Zhe Yan watched her, concern still etched in the fine lines around his eyes. “You exhausted yourself nearly to breaking. You were foolish to use a Soul Gathering Lamp here.”

“I had no choice,” she murmured. “He would’ve died.”

Zhe Yan poured tea with practiced ease. “And what would he have done if you died in his place? I swear, you Qing Qiu foxes are more dramatic than dragons.”

Bai Qian tried to sit again, and this time Zhe Yan let her, though he steadied her back with a gentle touch. Her hair had come loose in sleep, trailing down her shoulders in dark waves. She looked paler than usual, and worn thin by the strain of mortal magic and injury. She accepted the teacup he handed her and took a slow sip, savoring the warmth that steadied her shaking fingers.

Zhe Yan exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping idly on the rim of the teacup. Then he gave her a look—half-exasperated, half-fond—that made her stomach tighten.

“Of all the reckless, fool-headed—gods, Qian Qian. That relic is not meant to be used lightly, much less in a foreign realm where your spirit is already untethered,” Zhe Yan sighed and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms

“I knew what I was doing,” she said quietly.

“No, you didn’t,” he said, not unkindly. “You knew what you wanted to do. There’s a difference.”

She flinched, but didn’t argue.

He studied her for a moment, then reached out and lightly tugged a tangled strand of her hair like he used to when she was young and pretending to be brave.

“You were half a breath from losing yourself. Do you think you’re the only one who remembers what it cost Ye Hua to meddle with life and death?” His voice gentled. “You scared me.”

The words struck deeper than any scolding.

“I had no choice,” she repeated. “He would have died.”

“Maybe,” Zhe Yan said softly. “But maybe that was not your burden to carry.”

She didn’t respond.

Zhe Yan stood and smoothed his sleeves. “I’m not angry with you, Qian Qian. I just—” He broke off, then shook his head. “I’ve already lost you once. Don’t make me watch it happen again.”

Bai Qian’s throat tightened. He was referring to the time when he found her amongst the peach blossoms, bloodied. And unconscious. She had jumped off the Zhu Xian Terrace, as SuSu—the mortal, and it had spit her out in the phoenix’s peach blossom orchard.

She reached for his hand, and he let her take it.

“I’ll be more careful,” she promised, voice hoarse.

“You’d better be.” He squeezed her fingers. “I haven’t come all this way across time and space just to scrape you off the floor again.”

For the next few moments, they sat in silence.

Bai Qian took another sip from her cup. “You saw him?” she asked again, quieter now. “Boromir?”

“When I first arrived in this world,” Zhe Yan nodded. “He was with another man, his brother, Faramir. And just recently I met two halflings. Frodo and Sam.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Frodo… the Ring-bearer?”

“The very same,” Zhe Yan confirmed. “And they were alive. A little worse for wear, but alive.”

Relief spread across her face again—but it was fleeting. Her hand clenched around the teacup.

“Where is Boromir now?” she asked.

Zhe Yan sighed, almost as if he didn’t want to concern himself with such matters. “I overheard some of the rangers speaking—there was talk of an attack. A place called Osgiliath.”

Bai Qian immediately shifted to rise, the teacup forgotten as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Zhe Yan caught her by the wrist, eyes hard now.

“Don’t,” he said. “You’re in no state to charge into a battlefield, not with your cultivation so low. You can barely stand.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, even as her legs trembled beneath her.

Zhe Yan stood with her, not letting go. “You’re not. You can barely gather energy. What will you do then? Make Boromir watch you die this time?”

She flinched, his words a slap of truth.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, her shoulders dropped and she sat back down, breathing hard.

“I just… I can’t sit here while he’s in danger.”

Zhe Yan softened. “And I’ll never ask you to. But wait a little longer, Qian Qian. Let your strength return. There will be more battles to come—this war is far from over.”

Her eyes dropped to her hands, curled in her lap. “Promise me he’s safe.”

“As of the last I heard,” Zhe Yan said. “And knowing Boromir, if Osgiliath has yet to fall, it’s likely because he’s holding the line.”

A flicker of a smile returned to her lips, faint but true. “That sounds like him.”

Zhe Yan poured another cup of tea and set it beside her. “Rest while you can. You’ll need every ounce of your power in the days ahead.”

Bai Qian didn’t argue this time. She leaned back slowly against the pillows, still troubled—but steadier.

Zhe Yan watched her in silence for a moment longer, the lines of concern deepening around his eyes. Then he folded his arms within the wide pink sleeves of his robe and tilted his head in that infuriatingly perceptive way of his.

"Now, tell me, Bai Qian," he said, voice quiet but steady, "why are you doing this?"

She blinked, taken off guard. “Doing what?”

"Running into war. Risking your soul, giving up your cultivation. Intervening in a world that is not yours, that you have no ties to—no duty to." His eyes searched hers, not unkindly. “Don’t pretend I haven’t noticed. I can still feel the echo of it clinging to your aura. That kind of backlash doesn’t just pass with a bit of sleep.”

Bai Qian looked away, jaw tightening.

Zhe Yan’s voice softened. “You have always had a heart too big for your own good, but this…” He let out a slow breath. “This is more than compassion. So tell me—what binds you to this realm so fiercely?”

She sat back, the question cutting more deeply than she expected. She tried to summon words, but they resisted her call.

“I saw the marks,” Zhe Yan said gently. “The backlash you’ve suffered from crossing worlds, channeling your power where it doesn’t belong. You’ve been in pain. And you knew it would happen.”

Still, she was silent.

Zhe Yan’s gaze sharpened as he reached out, fingers brushing just above her chest, over the spot where her robes were perfectly arranged—too perfectly. She stilled beneath his touch.

“You stabbed your own heart,” he said quietly, not a question, but a knowing.

She looked away.

“To anchor his spirit. To preserve the vessel long enough for the soul to return.” His voice darkened, the weight of millennia steeped in each syllable. “That’s no minor trick, Qian Qian. You pulled him back from the threshold, and paid for it in blood and soul light. It was one thing to do it in Qing Qiu with Mo Yuan, it’s another to do it here in a mortal realm.”

Zhe Yan stepped closer, crouching before her like he used to when she scraped her knees as a child. “You are Bai Qian, Queen of Qing Qiu. High Goddess. Daughter of Fox Mountain. Not a wandering spirit with no anchor. So tell me, little fox—what happened? What did he do to make you burn like this?”

Bai Qian looked at him then, truly looked—and in his eyes, there was no judgment. Only the weight of care, the burden of one who had seen her rise and fall and rise again across ten thousand years.

“It was the only way,” she said, her voice soft and tight. “There was no time. His soul was already unraveling, slipping away—”

“I know,” Zhe Yan cut in, not unkindly. He exhaled slowly. “I would have done the same, if it had been someone I—”

He stopped himself. She looked at him.

His expression softened, fond and weary at once. “But you didn’t just risk your cultivation. You carved into your own essence. You bled your spirit for a man not of this world. And now you ask me why I worry?”

Her shoulders slumped under the truth of it.

“He reminds me of us, Zhe Yan,” she said. “Of all that we’ve lost. He walks with sorrow etched into every breath, but he still chooses duty. He carries guilt like a sword at his side, and still—he protects. Even when the world has already decided to end.”

Zhe Yan didn’t interrupt. He let her speak.

“He didn’t ask me for help. He never once begged to be spared. But when I looked at him, I saw someone breaking under the weight of fate. And I—” She paused, throat tightening. “I couldn’t bear to watch another good man fall and be forgotten.”

Her hands clenched in her lap.

“He doesn’t know or understand what I am. He doesn’t ask for anything from me. But he sees me. Not as Su Su, not as Si Yin, not as a high goddess. Just as...Bai Qian.”

Zhe Yan was still for a long while. Then he exhaled and stood again, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, “I suppose if you must fall for a mortal, it may as well be one carved from granite and guilt.”

She let out a quiet, strained laugh, and he gave her a small, knowing smile.

“Just remember,” he added, “if you set your heart on this path, it may not end where you think it will. But I’ll walk it with you, no matter how foolish it becomes.”

That made her eyes sting.

“Thank you, old phoenix.”

He sniffed. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you, fox.”

Bai Qian exhaled slowly, the weight of her emotions settling into something quieter, more resolute. She looked around the small, sunlit chamber—simple, unfamiliar, but calm. Here, at least for now, the world was not ending.

“I will meditate,” she said softly, drawing her legs beneath her. “If I want to be of any use, I need to rebuild what I’ve burned.”

Zhe Yan arched a brow. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since waking up.”

She didn’t argue. She simply folded her hands into her lap and closed her eyes.

Zhe Yan moved to sit nearby, quiet as falling snow. He watched her breathe—slower now, steadier. Her inner force was faint, a dim flicker beneath the surface, but there. She hadn’t destroyed herself, not entirely.

A lesser immortal might have needed centuries to repair such damage.

But this was Bai Qian. A high goddess.

He waited until her breath fully settled into meditation, until her spirit calmed and opened itself to the world again. Then, wordlessly, he raised his hand, palm glowing with soft peach-colored light—his own cultivation shimmering in warm waves.

“You reckless little fox,” he murmured fondly. “You’ll never stop giving your heart away, will you?”

With great care, he pressed his palm to her back.

The transfer was subtle, quiet—no burst of divine light or thunderous flare. Zhe Yan had done this before, long ago, for another wounded soul who refused to rest. He let a current of his power flow into her, anchoring her fractured energy, restoring balance where hers had thinned to near collapse.

Bai Qian stirred, her brow twitching—but she didn’t wake. Her body accepted the gift without resistance, and the dim spark within her flared—faint, but stronger now.

Zhe Yan closed his eyes and sat beside her in silence, steady as a mountain, the warmth of his presence like an old hearth fire on a bitter night.

“You don’t have to save every world you walk into, Qian Qian,” he said quietly, voice no louder than a breeze. “But I know better than to try to stop you.”

He stayed there as the sun slipped further across the sky, watching over her like he always had—and always would.

Chapter Text

The banners of Saruman flew from the walls of the Hornburg, black flags bearing the white hand of the traitor. Daylight bled across the ravaged stone as the Uruk-hai brought forth their ram, battering the great doors of the Keep. Inside, the last defenders scrambled to brace them, dragging beams and debris to hold back the flood of death.

Theoden stood motionless in the Great Hall, eyes dull with despair. "The fortress is taken," he murmured, as if speaking to ghosts. "It is over."

Aragorn rushed forward, Legolas at his side, both bearing more timber to reinforce the barricade. His voice rang out over the thunder of the ram.

“You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it. They still defend it. They have died defending it.” He turned to Theoden, voice sharper now. “Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?”

Theoden looked down, silent.

Gamling stepped forward, reluctant. “There is one passage. It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far. The Uruk-hai are too many.”

Aragorn clasped Gamling’s shoulder. “Tell the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance.”

Theoden’s voice was distant. “So much death...What can Men do against such reckless hate?”

Aragorn stepped closer, a light flaring in his eyes. “Ride out with me,” he said. “Ride out and meet them.”

Theoden turned toward him slowly. “For death and glory?”

“For Rohan,” Aragorn said, voice fierce. “For your people.”

Behind them, the doors groaned and cracked—each blow from the ram jarring the very stone. Gimli stood nearby, leaning on his axe, a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “The sun is rising,” he muttered.

Theoden laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “Let this be the hour when we draw swords together.”

Gimli lifted his head, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Yes!”

Theoden looked up, his voice low, reverent—like a man calling on the ghosts of kings. “Yes… Yes… The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep… one last time.”

The door began to splinter.

Feng Jiu stood near the shadows of the Hall, her pink robes streaked with dust and her braid disheveled from battle. Blood smeared her sleeve where she had helped the wounded. She watched them, heart thundering with dread.

As the men began to prepare for the final charge, Haldir approached her. He looked weary, his fair face streaked with grime, but his eyes were calm. “It is almost time.”

“You should be with your kin,” she said quietly.

“I will be.” Haldir offered a faint smile. “But I wished to see you before I went.”

She hesitated, searching his face. “You don’t have to do this.”

“We came to fight beside Men—and I will not abandon them now.” He glanced to the shattered doors, then back at her. “I will try to stay alive.”

“Haldir…”

He reached out and gently touched her arm. “Do not mourn me yet, Lady Feng Jiu.” And then he was gone, slipping into the tide of warriors gathering behind Aragorn and Theoden.

A quiet step behind her drew her attention. Legolas approached, the light catching his golden hair and the sharp curve of his jaw. His expression softened when he looked at her.

“You’ve not left the field,” he said gently.

“You didn’t either,” she replied.

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Would you have forgiven me if I had?”

Feng Jiu’s throat tightened. “No.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Soldiers moved about them, Gamling was shouting orders, and men were preparing the horses.

Legolas stepped closer. “When we ride, I will not look behind me. I would rather believe you are safe.”

She blinked fast. “Then don’t look.”

His fingers brushed hers—just a graze, a promise unspoken—and then he turned to follow Aragorn.

“Stay close to Gimli,” he called over his shoulder. “He bites.”

“I heard that!” the dwarf barked, stomping over. “She’s safer with me than you pretty-faced elves!”

As the last defenders braced within the keep, the sound of crashing wood echoed through the stone walls—the inner doors were breaking. Gimli turned, breathless, glancing toward the stair.

“I’ll sound the horn,” he told no one in particular, before disappearing into the dim corridors of stone.

Feng Jiu watched him go, then followed quickly, silent on her feet. She passed into a narrow battlement high above the gate, the wind tugging at her robes as she stepped onto the open ledge. From here, she could see it all—the sea of black-armored Uruk-hai swarming the causeway below, a grotesque tide of steel and shrieking rage.

Then she heard it. The deep, ancient call of the Horn of Helm Hammerhand. A sound carved from ages past, mournful and mighty, echoing off the mountains like a storm awakened. She gripped the stone railing as the great doors behind her shattered. From the keep’s hall, Theoden’s voice rang out like thunder.

“Fell deeds, awake! Now for wrath… now for ruin… and a red dawn!”

A tremor passed through her.

Below, Aragorn drew his sword. Theoden lowered his helm into place. Horses reared and snorted as they prepared to charge into the mouth of death.

“Forth Eorlingas!” the king roared.

And they charged. The gates exploded open, and the last of Rohan’s defenders thundered forth in a blaze of desperation and courage. Theoden. Aragorn. Legolas. Warriors who refused to fall quietly.

Feng Jiu raised her hand, fire flickering to life along her skin. She clenched her jaw, calling it forth—not in anger, but in fierce protection. From her palm erupted a spiraling blaze of golden-red phoenix fire, arcing over the charging riders and down into the mass of Uruk-hai that blocked the causeway. It hit like a comet, clearing a searing path through the enemy ranks. Screams rose. Smoke surged.

And the riders broke through. The flame danced in the wake of their charge, shielding their flanks, forcing the beasts of darkness to stumble and scatter. Steel sang. Hooves pounded like war drums.

But Feng Jiu faltered, gripping the stone railing for balance. Her breath came shallow. Her skin felt clammy. That burst of power had pulled deep from her reserves—too deep. Stars danced at the edge of her vision. She steadied herself, refusing to fall.

Below, the riders clashed with the horde. Gimli’s horn sounded again—one last cry of defiance—and the tide of battle surged forward, for better or worse.

High above the battlefield, dawn broke over the ridge like a sword drawn from shadow. Light spilled across the valley in molten gold, cutting through the mist that hung over the blood-soaked stones of Helm’s Deep.

Aragorn staggered back from the battlements, sweat and ash clinging to his skin. He turned suddenly, as if called—not by sound, but by something older and stronger. A light flared in the corner of his eye. He looked up.

The first light of dawn broke over the jagged peaks of the White Mountains, casting long golden rays across the crimson-streaked fields of Helm’s Deep. The battle still raged below, but Aragorn paused atop the stairs, his breath catching. He turned his gaze upward—and there, like a vision out of legend, stood Gandalf the White, radiant upon Shadowfax at the crest of the hill.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn whispered, hope flooding his voice.

Theoden looked up, blinking into the light.

Gandalf raised his staff, white robes billowing in the wind.

“Theoden King stands alone.”

A beat later, hooves thundered behind him. Éomer rode up beside Gandalf, helm gleaming in the dawn. "Now alone," he responded, unsheathing his sword and raising it high.

“Rohirrim!”

Behind him, a host of Rohirrim crested the ridge—riders exiled, but unbroken. At their leader’s call, they rallied like a wave preparing to crash.

At the foot of the battlements, Theoden’s his eyes widen in surprise and relief. “Éomer…” he breathed.

“To the King!”

The Rohirrim surged forward down the steep hill, the horses sure-footed even on the treacherous slope. The Uruk-hai, momentarily stunned, began to regroup. Shields locked. Spears bristled. A dark line formed to meet the charge—death waiting in serried ranks of iron.

Feng Jiu, still standing above the gates of Helm’s Deep, saw it all. The charge. The spears. The rising sun catching the points of every weapon poised to meet the oncoming riders. Her eyes narrowed.

Some of the Uruks, already blinded by the dawnlight, flinched. But others held steady, spears angled to gut the first horses that broke their line. She lifted her arm, sleeve torn and singed, and whispered a word of old power. Her eyes flashed, and with a cry like a phoenix reborn, flame spiraled from her hand. A stream of fire—not wild, but precise—arched over the battlefield and struck the front rank of the Uruks.

They screamed, shields melting, spears shattered. Horses would not fall this day.

From the saddle of his charging steed, Éomer saw it. A column of flame cutting through the Uruk line like the wrath of the Valar. And atop the gate, a figure wreathed in wind and embers—robes fluttering like wings, her dark raven hair a banner.

His breath caught—not in fear, but recognition.

It was her. The fox spirit with the blazing eyes and nine impossible tails. The one who had stood between spears and strangers, a princess from a land unknown to him. What was her name again?

“Feng Jiu,” Éomer murmured under his breath, sword still raised. The wind whipped past him, catching the edge of his cloak.

She had not fled with the weak or hidden in shadow. She stood defiant and regal on the edge of ruin, unleashing fury on the enemies of Rohan as though this land were hers to protect. And in that moment, Éomer felt the tide shift—not just in battle, but within himself. Not love, not yet. But awe. And something more dangerous: curiosity.

The Uruk-hai buckled.

Then came Gandalf. The White Wizard lifted his staff, and a blinding light burst from it, dazzling the Uruks, searing through the remnants of their line. The Rohirrim smashed into the stunned horde like a divine hammer. Hooves trampled. Blades cut. The cries of Men and beasts filled the valley.

From the gates, Theoden rode forth with Aragorn at his side, their blades singing in answer. The charge was complete.

And above it all, Feng Jiu watched, the fire fading from her hands. Her chest rose and fell as if in rhythm with the beating of the war-drums. She did not smile. But her eyes were steady.

The last of the Uruk-hai broke and fled, their iron discipline shattered under the onslaught of Rohirrim riders, the blinding light of Gandalf’s staff, and the fury of phoenix fire. They scrambled over one another in panic, tossing aside weapons, armor, anything to run faster. No longer a conquering host—now only a rabble of beasts driven by fear.

The sun had fully risen behind the hills, casting a pale golden light over the field of ruin. Smoke rose from craters, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the sound of hooves and steel.

From the gates of Helm’s Deep, Théoden rode forth at last, his armor scorched but unbroken, sword gleaming with the blood of his enemies. Aragorn galloped beside him, grim and silent, and Legolas followed, bow still in hand. Their mounts thundered across the battlefield as they gave chase to the fleeing horde.

Ahead of them, the Uruk-hai ran—until they faltered.

A forest now stood where none had been before. Dense. Dark. Ancient. It had grown in the night, impossibly fast, the trees pressed close together like watchful sentinels. The light could barely pierce the canopy, and the edges shimmered with shadow, as if the wood itself breathed.

The Uruks paused at the edge, unsure—then desperation overruled instinct, and they plunged inward.

Éomer, bloodied and fierce, suddenly wheeled his horse and galloped to the front of the column.

“Stay out of the forest!” he bellowed, sword raised high. “Keep away from the trees!”

The riders reined in hard. No one moved forward. Together, the men of Rohan stood and watched as the last of Saruman’s army disappeared into the unnatural forest. Silence fell for a heartbeat. And then—

Screams.

Shrill, guttural, terrified.

The trees moved.

They closed in like jaws, trunks bending, branches stretching with slow, deliberate menace. Leaves rustled not with wind, but with wrath. No blade gleamed from within. No enemy escaped. One by one, the cries were swallowed by the wood.

Even the most hardened warriors felt the hairs rise on the backs of their necks.

Legolas whispered something in Elvish, gaze fixed on the shifting trees. Aragorn remained still, jaw clenched. Théoden crossed himself with a murmur under his breath.

Only Gandalf watched without fear. “The Old World still has teeth,” he said softly. “And some wrongs are remembered.”

The wind swept across the battlefield, carrying away the last of the fire’s smoke.

They rode back through the ruined gates of Helm’s Deep, past the bodies of the fallen and the shattered stones. Smoke still drifted in the air, mingling with the scent of blood and damp earth. The cries of the wounded echoed against the carved rock walls as healers moved among the survivors.

Atop the ramparts, just above the great gate, Feng Jiu stood where she had conjured her second phoenix fire. Her pink robes fluttered gently in the rising breeze, her fox-spirit glamor subdued but not gone—just enough to shimmer around her like heat haze. She smiled when she saw them return, waving one hand in mock salute.

But Aragorn’s sharp eyes narrowed. Legolas, too, watched with a tilt of his head, a flicker of unease crossing his face.

“She’s smiling,” the elf murmured, “but she sways.”

Indeed, as she turned from the ledge to descend the stairs, a tremor passed through her limbs. The strain of the twin fires—summoned back-to-back with raw will—had stolen more than energy. The light in her eyes dimmed. Her foot missed the first step, and before she could catch herself, the world tilted. Darkness bloomed at the edges of her vision. She crumpled forward.

“Feng Jiu!” Legolas shouted.

But before her body struck stone, a horse’s cry split the air. Éomer wheeled his steed beneath the rampart with uncanny speed. In one smooth motion he rose from his saddle, arms outstretched.

She fell into them.

The impact drove the breath from his lungs, but he caught her—one arm braced around her back, the other beneath her knees. Her head lolled against his chest, a soft exhale escaping her lips. Her skin was cold, her expression slack.

“Feng Jiu!” Aragorn dismounted swiftly and ran to his side. Legolas followed silently, his hand flexing once at his side before clenching into a fist.

“She’s alive,” Éomer said tightly, pulling his horse around with precision. “But she’s spent.”

Aragorn laid a hand on her brow. “The cost was great.”

Gimli puffed up beside them, looking between the unconscious celestial and the silent prince of the Woodland Realm. “She’s a marvel, that one. Fire and fury, and still smiling at the end. Like a woman after my own heart.”

Legolas gave him a sharp glance.

Aragorn suppressed a smirk.

Above them, thunder cracked—and not from the west. All eyes turned eastward, toward the dark horizon. The clouds over Mordor swelled with malevolent light, red as flame and foul as ash.

Gandalf had not dismounted. His eyes were fixed on that distant storm, his voice a low murmur.

“Sauron’s wrath will be terrible. His retribution swift.”

Lightning split the sky. It was as though Mordor itself had awakened in fury, the Eye turning its baleful gaze toward the West.

“The battle for Helm’s Deep is over,” Gandalf said gravely. “The battle for Middle-earth is about to begin.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened. “And what of Frodo and Sam?”

Gandalf’s reply was quiet, but resolute.

“All our hopes now lie with two little Hobbits… somewhere in the wilderness.”

As the others gazed into the distance, Éomer guided his horse toward the gate, still cradling Feng Jiu in his arms. Her weight was light, but something about it made him aware of every breath she took. He looked down at her face—pale, delicate, utterly still.

Legolas watched them go, eyes shadowed beneath the golden gleam of his hair.

Beside him, Gimli nudged Aragorn. “I give it a week before someone gets possessive.”

Aragorn didn’t answer. He was already smiling.

The flickering torches cast long shadows against the stone walls as the healers moved about the chamber. The worst of the wounded had already been tended to, the dying made comfortable, the dead mourned. But here, at the heart of the fortress, one bed remained the subject of puzzled whispers.

Feng Jiu lay beneath a thin woolen blanket, her pink robes folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She looked untouched by war, as if sleep—not battle—had claimed her. Her breathing was steady, her skin cool. But she did not wake.

The head healer, a weathered woman named Edyth, sighed as she tucked a poultice against one of the small scrapes. “There’s nothing more I can do,” she said, brushing back Feng Jiu’s dark hair. “No fever, no wound to blame. Her body is whole.”

Gandalf stood nearby, his staff in hand, watching the fox spirit with narrowed eyes. “Then it is her spirit that is weary,” he murmured. “She drew on power not meant for this world. Such fire does not come without a price.”

“She saved us all,” Aragorn said softly from the doorway.

“Aye,” Éomer agreed, stepping forward. “And nearly burnt herself out to do it.”

He hovered longer than necessary, eyes tracing the stillness of her face. She looked younger like this—peaceful, fragile, no trace of mischief or fury. He hesitated, then turned away, boots echoing in the quiet chamber.

Legolas stood silent at the window. “She is not like us,” he said. “She burns brighter. But even stars fall.”

Aragorn gave a nod to the healers. “Let her rest. We will watch over her.”

Feng Jiu still had not awakened.

She lay as she had for days—silent, unmoving, her face serene but pale. A single strand of hair curled against her cheek, rising and falling gently with each breath. Though her wounds were long dressed and her bruises fading, she remained beyond reach.

The healers worked in respectful silence, touching her lightly as though afraid she might vanish. They murmured among themselves in hushed tones, their confidence gradually giving way to unease.

“I do not understand it,” said Edyth, the elder healer. “There is no wound grave enough to hold her here. Her injuries were minor—scrapes, bruising, a cut to the thigh easily treated. Nothing that should have left her like this.”

Éomer stood nearby, arms folded tightly across his chest. “You said the same two days ago.”

“And I will say it again, Lord Éomer,” she replied gently. “This is not an ailment of the body.”

Théoden stood at the foot of the bed, his face somber. “Then what holds her?”

Gandalf’s voice came from where he leaned against the far wall, his staff resting beside him. “Magic,” he said simply. “Old magic. And not of this world.”

At that moment, the door to the healing wing opened. The room turned as Haldir stepped inside. His posture was as straight as ever, though there was a faint weariness in his movement—an aftershock of battle and the healing that had followed.

“I heard she had not yet awoken,” he said softly. “I came to see her.”

“Haldir,” Aragorn greeted, surprised. “You live.”

“Thanks to her,” he answered, his gaze never leaving the slumbering figure on the bed.

Legolas stepped forward. “You should not have survived your wound.” He had watched the other elf get struck by the Uruk-hai.

“No,” Haldir admitted. “I was struck down by a Uruk-hai when the retreat was called. The blade caught me in the side, and I fell before I could reach the Keep. I saw another one bearing down on me with an axe—I had no strength to raise my sword.”

He paused, his voice lower. “And then fire. White fire, blinding. She leapt between us. Drove the Uruk back. She hauled me into the Keep and healed me.”

Gimli’s brow lifted. “She carried you?”

“She did,” Haldir said with quiet conviction. “Though she winced with every step. When she finished tending to me, I saw her cough into her hand—blood. I asked if she was hurt, but she only smiled and said she had ‘interfered’... and that there would be a price.”

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Legolas and Gimli.

“So it was magic backlash,” Gimli muttered. “Like Lady Bai Qian.”

Legolas nodded slowly. “But not the same. Bai Qian defied death itself. Feng Jiu prevented it from claiming him at all.” Then, a thought occurred to him. “If that magic saved Haldir... does that mean his death was already written?” He looked to Haldir. “Were you meant to die on that wall?”

Haldir’s mouth set into a grim line. “I do not know.”

“I do not pretend to know the rules her kind live by,” Gandalf said, voice low and serious. “But such power has balance, as all things do. To save a life so claimed by fate is to invite the scales to tip elsewhere.”

Éomer shifted beside the bed, his eyes unreadable. “Is she dying?”

“No,” Gandalf answered after a moment. “But her spirit walks a narrow road now. Between what is and what was meant to be. It is not death, but it is not safety either. Power like hers is not drawn without cost. She has not broken herself—but she has taxed her spirit deeply. This is her body’s way of forcing her to rest.”

Théoden stepped closer to Feng Jiu and looked down at her. “She stood with us in the darkest hour and did not falter. I would see her on her feet again, walking the halls of this stronghold.”

“As would I,” Haldir said. “I told her I would survive—and she ensured that I did. I wanted her to see that I kept my word.”

There was a silence.

Éomer remained beside her, unmoving, his face unreadable. But Théoden placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder—steady, grounding.

“Let her rest,” Gandalf said. “She will find her way back to us in time.”

They said no more after that, and left her to the quiet. The crackling fire and faint stir of wind through the stone windows were the only sounds left in the room—save for the gentle rhythm of her breath.

Morning broke pale and cold, the sun struggling to shine through the smoke that still drifted over the Deep. The fortress buzzed with motion—repairs, burial rites, supply counts—but the company of the Ring gathered once more in the hall where Théoden had once made his stand.

Théoden himself sat quietly on his throne, eyes weary but clear. Beside him stood Éowyn, offering water and orders with equal grace.

“I will remain here with my uncle,” she said, her voice strong. “He needs rest, and Rohan needs rebuilding. But you must finish what was begun.”

Aragorn nodded. “We must ride for Isengard. Saruman has not yet answered for what he’s done.”

Gimli grunted. “About time we knock on that twisted tower.”

“Ents may already be knocking,” Legolas added with a faint smile. “If the trees at the edge of the Deep are any sign.”

“That forest wasn’t there before,” Éomer said grimly. “And it devoured every Uruk-hai that fled. I don’t trust anything that moves without wind.”

“They are not enemies,” Gandalf replied. “They are the earth's oldest defenders. But Saruman’s crimes go beyond even their patience. Come—let us ride, before he slips through our fingers.”

“Should we wait for Feng Jiu?” Gimli asked, his tone unusually quiet.

They hesitated.

“She would say not to,” Aragorn said finally. “She would tell us to finish what we came to do.”

Legolas did not look away from the hall's arched windows. “She would also insist on joining us the moment she woke. Perhaps we leave word... and trust her to find us.”

“She always does,” Gimli muttered. “One way or another.”

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the stone floor, dancing along the carved arches and high-vaulted ceilings of Helm’s Deep’s inner chambers. The air smelled of dried herbs, damp linen, and the iron bite of distant forge-smoke. A quiet hush lingered here, broken only by the soft rustle of cloaks and murmured conversation.

The morning sun had barely cleared the peaks when preparations to ride began. Though the ground still bore the scars of battle—scattered armor, broken spears, dark blood staining the stones—the air had shifted.  Within the courtyard of Helm’s Deep, men moved with new energy, repairing what could be mended, aiding the wounded, and loading wagons. Theoden stood at the heart of it all, speaking with captains. Nearby, Eomer adjusted the saddle on Firefoot, his expression thoughtful but wary.

Aragorn and Legolas stood side by side near the gate, watching as Gimli oversaw the loading of supplies—and grumbled when two men tried to take his axe by mistake.

That was when the wind changed.

A strange ripple passed over the stones, subtle as a breath. A scent followed—crisp mountain air mixed with the faint perfume of plum blossoms. It didn’t belong here. From the path winding down the cliffs came a lone figure.

He moved with the grace of someone who had never known urgency—long, dark robes swaying with every step, as if the wind made way for him. His hair was dark and silky, half tied back with a simple ornamental clasp, and though his expression was serene, his ambeeyes missed nothing.

At once, the guards bristled. A few of the Rohirrim reached for weapons, stepping forward defensively.

“Who approaches?” one of them called out. “State your name and purpose!”

The stranger’s gaze swept over them—unthreatened, mildly amused. He lifted a single brow.

“I was invited by none of you,” he said coolly. “But your greeting is noted.”

Éomer stepped forward, hand still on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed. “He is not of any kingdom I know.”

“No,” Legolas said, taking a step closer, his voice calm. “But he is kin to her.”

“Feng Jiu,” Aragorn added, studying the figure. “He has her colors. Her bearing.”

But Gandalf, standing to the side, gave a faint smile. “Ah. The fox’s kin,” he clarified.

The stranger stopped just within the gates, eyes scanning the keep with unhurried ease. When he saw the three of them—Gandalf, Legolas, and Aragorn—he inclined his head slightly.

“I am Bai Zhen of Qing Qiu,” he said, his voice soft but unmistakable. “Feng Jiu is my niece.” His gaze flicked calmly over the armored warriors around him. “I sensed phoenix fire and followed it here.”

Theoden approached then, regal and grave. “You crossed leagues of war-torn land alone?”

Bai Zhen turned his gaze to him, polite but unmoved. “Distance is not my concern, nor danger. My only concern is her. Where is she?”

Aragorn gestured for him to follow. “She’s resting inside. Come—we’ll explain everything.”

As Bai Zhen moved to follow, Eomer stepped closer, scrutinizing him. “You carry no weapon. You walked through shadowed lands without a guard, without fear.”

Bai Zhen’s mouth tilted in a faint, almost amused smile. “I carry what I need, Captain of the Mark.” Then, with a glance up toward the high windows of the keep, his smile vanished. “Now…take me to my niece, please.”

Éomer, still uncertain, looked toward Gandalf. “Is he to be trusted?”

“If he meant us harm,” Gandalf said, “we would be having this conversation from our backs.”

Éomer gave a nod, though his jaw remained tight. “Then he is welcome.”

Bai Zhen turned to him, inclining his head. Then, almost without effort, he drifted past them, robes trailing like mist. His steps took him unerringly toward the healing wing, drawn by the thread that tied him to the sleeping fox he had once helped raise.

The others watched him go. For a long moment, no one spoke.

“Well,” Gimli muttered, breaking the silence, “he’s certainly not subtle.”

Aragorn allowed himself a small smile. “No. But I think she’ll be glad to see him.”

“Let’s hope she wakes soon,” Legolas said, his voice low, eyes still on the path Bai Zhen had taken. “Before he burns a hole through the mountain looking for her.”

The interior of Helm’s Deep was quieter than the battlements outside, though the walls still whispered of pain. The torches burned low in the halls where the wounded were kept, flickering shadows over stone and straw. Bai Zhen’s steps made no sound as he followed Aragorn and Gandalf, though Legolas walked beside him with watchful curiosity.

“She collapsed shortly after the battle,” Aragorn said, voice low but respectful. “From the ramparts, she fell—Eomer caught her before she struck the ground.”

“She had stood alone against a tide of flame and death,” Gandalf added. “And called upon power few here understand.”

Bai Zhen’s expression flickered—barely a furrow of his brow—but it was enough. He said nothing at first, but his pace quickened. They entered a quiet chamber set apart from the others, where Feng Jiu lay still upon a narrow cot, wrapped in clean cloth and soft linen. Her breathing was even, though her color was pale.

The immortal prince of Qing Qiu knelt without hesitation, his sleeve gliding over the edge of the cot. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with reverent fingers, gaze sharp and searching. For a long moment, he remained there—silent, focused, utterly still.

Aragorn watched him closely. Legolas did not move. Even Gimli, who had followed out of curiosity, lingered in the doorway and remained respectfully quiet.

Bai Zhen finally placed two fingers over her wrist, eyes half-lidded as he reached beyond mortal senses. A breath passed. Then another.

He exhaled softly, and a faint smile touched his lips. “She will be fine. Her spiritual energy is intact, only weakened. She is resting naturally—her body is recovering.”

Relief washed through the room like a breeze.

“She will recover,” he added, more gently now. “I was…concerned she might have overstepped her limits.” He sat back on his heels and allowed himself a quiet sigh of genuine relief. “It is good she is not like Bai Qian was.”

Aragorn’s head snapped around. “Bai Qian? You’ve seen her?” His voice was suddenly tight with urgency. “Where is she? How is she?”

The rest of the Fellowship fell silent at his tone.

“My sister is recovering in Ithilien,” said Bai Zhen, “Although her condition was far worse than Feng Jiu, having brought back you friend from death.”

“Boromir,” Aragorn breathed, looking at him sharply. “Then he is alive?”

Bai Zhen inclined his head. “He lives. Thanks to my sister.”

Aragorn let out a long, quiet breath—relief softening his features.

“Thank the Valar,” Legolas murmured, and even Gimli gave a short grunt of approval.

“She saved him,” Bai Zhen continued. “But the cost was steep. She tore him back from the brink—perhaps from beyond it. It nearly destroyed her. But she is recovering now.”

“I knew she would endure,” Aragorn said quietly, but his eyes held emotion.

“We both did,” Legolas added.

“And you say Boromir’s alive,” Gimli said, tugging at his beard. “That’s a rare bit of good news.”

Gandalf’s gaze flicked to Bai Zhen, measuring. “And now you’re here, having sensed your niece’s fire.”

“Phoenix fire,” Bai Zhen said. “The rarest kind. I felt it even across the veils. I followed it here.”

Gandalf’s gaze lingered on Feng Jiu. “She carries her own strength. No less than her aunt’s, I think.”

“She does,” Bai Zhen agreed softly. “But her path is gentler. Bai Qian once called a soul back from death and nearly paid with her own life. Feng Jiu interfered before death could claim the elf—Haldir, you said?”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes. She got him to safety and healed him inside the Keep.”

“That difference is key,” Bai Zhen said. “That’s why she’ll recover faster. She skirted the edge, but did not cross it.” He thought for a moment. "I should tell Zhe Yan where she is."

Theoden, who had entered quietly, finally spoke. “Your family has fought well for us, though you owe Rohan nothing.”

Bai Zhen gave him a slight bow. “We do not fight for reward. But we do fight for those we care about.”

The king nodded, gravely. “She saved many lives that night. Hers was not a sacrifice in vain.”

Eomer, standing at his king’s side, said nothing, but his gaze moved to the pink-robed form on the cot once again.

Gimli folded his arms. “Strange how these foxes keep showing up right when we need them most.”

“Aye,” muttered Legolas. “And disappearing when we don’t want them to.”

Bai Zhen chuckled softly. “That’s the nature of foxes.”

“We’re glad you came,” Aragorn said. “She’ll wake to familiar company.”

“She will,” Bai Zhen agreed, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “And I’ll be here when she does. But first, I must fetch our phoenix healer.”

The sun hung low over the crumbling ruins of Osgiliath, casting long shadows across fractured stone and pools of riverwater turned to muck. The men of Gondor moved with the weariness of soldiers who had fought too long and rested too little. Along the riverbank, campfires burned low—cooking pots simmered, the scent of scorched lentils wafted through the air. Blades were being sharpened, arrows fletched. Some men cleaned their armor in silence, others sat back-to-back, dozing in patches of quiet.

From beneath the arches of a broken wall, Boromir crouched with his sword across his lap, quietly inspecting the edge. His eyes, sharp and shadowed, flicked up as he heard footsteps approach.

Faramir strode through the ruined corridor, his cloak trailing in the dust, Madril just behind him.

“It’s been very quiet across the river,” Faramir said, his voice low but alert.

Madril nodded, not looking up from the scroll he was marking. “The Orcs are lying low. The garrison may have moved out. We’ve sent scouts to Cair Andros. If the Orcs attack from the north, we’ll have warning.”

Boromir rose from where he knelt, his brow furrowed. “They’re not gone. Not entirely. Orcs don’t retreat unless they’ve been given something better—orders, or prey.”

Faramir gave his brother a sidelong glance. “You still trust your instincts over a report?”

Boromir smiled without humor. “I’m still breathing. That’s reason enough to trust them.”

Across the river, nestled in the reeds and shallow current, something stirred.

Orcs, hunched and silent, rowed in black boats—their oars moving in eerie synchrony. At the head of the formation, a grotesque orc with pale, mangled flesh and one lip curled in permanent scorn leaned forward from the prow.

Gothmog.

“Quiet,” he rasped. His red eyes gleamed.

Back at the ruined walls, a group of Gondorian soldiers hefted crates and redistributed arrows.

“We need ten more for the eastern post,” one called out, checking a half-filled supply cart.

Boromir moved through the shadows, scanning the horizon just as a gust of wind carried the faintest ripple across the water. A flicker of something wrong.

Then—

A sharp cry.

One of the soldiers atop a ruined wall saw them. His warning didn’t come in time.

Thwack.

An orcish arrow struck his chest, and he toppled backward, crashing through the supplies and into the arms of the men below. Gasps and cries echoed across the courtyard.

Faramir and Madril heard the thud of the body before the scream, and broke into a run. They rounded a corner just as Boromir reached the fallen soldier first. He knelt swiftly, pulling the shaft from the man’s chest with grim recognition.

Faramir hissed through his teeth. “That’s no northern arrow.”

“They’re not coming from the north,” Boromir growled. “To the river—quick, now!”

“Move!” Faramir barked. “To the waterline!”

“Go, go, go!” Damrod shouted, rallying the men into motion.

Across the river, Gothmog’s voice rose in guttural command. “Faster!”

The orcs’ boats cut hard across the current, speeding for the banks.

“Draw swords!” The orc warchief snarled.

The black hulls scraped against Osgiliath’s riverstones. Orcs began to leap from their boats, weapons raised, snarling.

Behind the crumbling pillars, Boromir, Faramir, and their men waited in tense silence.

“Steady,” Boromir said under his breath, fingers tightening around his sword hilt.

Then—

“Hold!” a soldier cried as the first wave slammed into them.

“Hold them!”

Steel clashed. Screams rang out. The orcs came fast—faster than before, faster than any of them had hoped.

The men of Gondor fought with desperate strength, but they were outnumbered, forced into close-quarters between broken arches and debris-choked courtyards. Every blade swing felt heavier. Every shout was met with a dozen howls in return.

And still—they held.

Boromir fought at the front, his shield raised, teeth bared as he drove back two attackers with a single sweeping blow. Faramir’s arrows sang through the chaos before he joined the melee himself, blade flashing in the gloom.

But more boats were coming. More orcs. More death.

Osgiliath groaned beneath the weight of war once more.

Zhe Yan sat on a smooth stone just outside the cave, legs crossed, his pink robes entirely unsuited for the grim, battle-worn earth beneath him. His sleeves trailed through the grass like falling cherry blossoms, and a jug of wine sat unopened at his side. He wasn’t drinking. Not today.

Inside the cave, Bai Qian sat in stillness. Her breathing was shallow, deliberate—each inhale drawing in energy, each exhale releasing remnants of pain. Her hands rested atop her knees, fingers glowing faintly with the wisps of spiritual fire, barely visible. Her cultivation was not broken, but frayed. And she was stitching it back together with every heartbeat.

Zhe Yan watched the horizon but didn’t stir when the breeze shifted. He had already felt the presence.

From between two trees, a figure stepped soundlessly into view—robes of deep grey, etched with celestial threads that shimmered only when they caught the light. His hair was tied back in a formal knot, a narrow scroll case strapped across his back, and his face bore that familiar expression of tired annoyance wrapped in timeless grace.

Zhe Yan did not look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m precise,” Si Ming replied, his gaze sweeping the glade. “You sent for a reader of fate. I arrived when fate was ready to be read.”

Inside the cave, Bai Qian slowly opened her eyes. She heard the voices. She felt the shift.

Her aura flickered in the dim space—gathering itself, folding away her focus. With a steady breath, she stood and emerged into the fading daylight, still barefoot, her robes soft with travel but touched with a faint golden gleam.

“Si Ming,” she greeted, her voice steady but cool. “I thought I felt you approaching.”

Si Ming offered a respectful bow. “Your Highness.”

Zhe Yan glanced up, surprised. “You’re done meditating?”

“For now,” Bai Qian said. “It seems I should be listening.”

Si Ming’s expression softened slightly. “Then I will not waste time.” He withdrew the scroll from its case and unrolled it with a whisper of silk. Ink flowed like living water across the parchment, elegant and clear—until it wasn’t. Whole sections were blurred, or struck through, as if rewritten multiple times. Some lines were faded at the edges, as if time itself had reconsidered them.

“The Song of this world is no longer whole,” Si Ming said. “When I attuned my scrolls to Ilúvatar’s design, the melody began as it should. The Ringbearer. The fire. The king who would return. It was clear. But now…”

He touched a smudged line with one finger. “Frodo was supposed to be captured. Faramir was supposed to break. Boromir was meant to be… gone. And yet—”

“He lives,” Bai Qian said quietly.

“He lives,” Si Ming confirmed. “And fate bends around that. Just as it bent around Feng Jiu’s fire at Helm’s Deep. The scroll continues to write—but the harmony fractures. The melody contradicts itself. If either of you acts again…”

“The world may reject it,” Zhe Yan murmured. “Or shatter trying to adapt.”

Bai Qian stepped closer to the scroll, her eyes scanning the broken stanzas. “Is it broken?” she asked.

“No,” Si Ming said. “But it’s changed. Your interference has created… branches. The end of the Song is no longer guaranteed.”

Bai Qian was silent for a long moment. Then she looked to Zhe Yan. “Would you have done anything differently?”

“No,” he answered without hesitation.

She nodded once. “Neither would I.”

Si Ming said nothing—but the weight of it hung between them.

Bai Qian looked out past the trees toward the distant smoke of Osgiliath. “They fight now. Boromir. Faramir. The tide may rise again. If I sit here and do nothing—will that make the Song any more stable?”

Si Ming’s gaze held hers. “It may. Or it may not. That’s the danger. Fate is no longer a path. It is a field of scattered stones. Every step you take moves one.”

Zhe Yan spoke then, quietly but with unmistakable weight. “You can step into a stream once. Perhaps even twice. But if you stand in it long enough…You change the river.”

Silence followed. And then, Bai Qian slowly nodded, as though accepting not just the truth—but the burden of it. She turned without another word and stepped back into the cave, trailing the weight of fate behind her like a second shadow. The silver light returned to her fingertips as she knelt once more on the worn stone floor, her breathing steady, her posture firm.

The light was beginning to fade beyond the trees, casting long golden shadows across the glade. Smoke from the battle at Osgiliath still lingered at the edges of the breeze, a grim reminder of how close war pressed against this quiet pocket of earth.

Si Ming rolled the fate-scroll shut with precise care, the gold-flecked ink still faintly pulsing beneath the parchment. He returned it to its case and slung it across his back, rising to his feet with the grace of someone accustomed to moving between realms.

“I’ll return to the Nine Heavens,” he said. “There are still many fates to attend to—and more than a few I’d rather not see twist again.”

Zhe Yan arched a brow. “Don’t trip on any threads.”

“I don’t trip,” Si Ming said dryly. “I observe creative entanglement.”

Bai Qian stood nearby, her gaze distant but present. “You’ll let us know if anything else… changes?”

“I always do,” he said with a small, meaningful bow.

But before he could take more than two steps, the wind rippled unnaturally—swift and sharp.

A fox’s step.

From the foliage at the edge of the glade, Bai Zhen emerged—his white robes marked with dirt from travel, his hair slightly disheveled, though no less regal for it. His arrival, unlike Si Ming’s quiet grace, was a sudden gust of presence. His eyes swept the glade and locked instantly onto Zhe Yan.

Zhe Yan immediately straightened. “You found her.”

“I did,” Bai Zhen said. “Feng Jiu’s alive, and resting—but her spiritual strength is still depleted. She collapsed after the fire she summoned at Helm’s Deep. It was her second time drawing from the phoenix soul, and she hasn’t recovered. The healers don’t understand her condition, and even I can’t stabilize her aura.”

Si Ming glanced between them but remained silent.

Bai Zhen hesitated, then gave Si Ming a faint nod of acknowledgment. “You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

“I saw the possibilities,” Si Ming replied. “She defied a death meant to pass. Now the world pauses to see what price it will demand.”

Zhe Yan nodded, already pulling his sleeves back into place. “Let anyone who dares stop us try,” he said, not with anger—but certainty that could crack mountains.

“I’ll come too,” Bai Qian said before either could object.

Zhe Yan glanced at her, surprised. “You’ve barely finished restoring your own strength.”

“I don’t need to fight,” she replied calmly. “I just need to see her.”

Bai Zhen didn’t argue. “Then let’s not waste time.”

Si Ming observed this quietly, then gave Bai Qian a final look.

“You tread carefully now, your Highness,” he said. “But don’t forget—there’s still music left in the Song.”

Bai Qian offered a faint smile. “Let’s hope it ends on a good note.”

With a final nod, Si Ming vanished into the breeze, stepping back toward the stars and scrolls that awaited him.

Moments later, Zhe Yan, Bai Zhen, and Bai Qian disappeared into the trees—three immortals bound for Helm’s Deep, where a sleeping fox waited to wake.

The fires had died down. The smoke had thinned. Helm’s Deep still bore its wounds, but the morning sun cast long beams of gold across its battered stone, as if the light itself dared to restore what darkness had nearly taken.

Outside the hall, King Théoden stood quietly, watching his men prepare the horses. Though the battle had been won, his eyes held no joy—only thought. Éomer paced nearby, issuing commands to the Riders of Rohan, who now saddled their mounts and loaded supplies with practiced efficiency.

Inside the main hall, Aragorn tightened the strap of his bracer, his posture steady but grim. Legolas stood near the open window, stringing his bow with elegant precision. Gimli, perched on the edge of a stone bench, grumbled with folded arms.

“Isengard,” Aragorn said quietly. “Gandalf believes there is still danger in letting Saruman linger behind his walls.”

“Treebeard may have handled the tower,” Gimli muttered, “but I’d rather see for myself what’s left of the snake.”

“Gandalf intends to,” Aragorn replied. “We ride at noon.”

Legolas glanced toward the archway. “Better to press now while our strength holds. And before Saruman’s reach grows deeper than we know.”

Théoden entered the hall then, nodding once. “Rohan will ride with you. Saruman owes this land a reckoning.”

But before Gimli could grumble again, a gust of wind pushed through the high windows—unnatural in its stillness, charged with something more than air.

A presence rippled through the stone walls. And then the guards at the outer gate cried out—not in alarm, but in confusion. Three figures walked through the shattered gates of Helm’s Deep.

Bai Zhen led, his pristine white robes marred only slightly by the road. His silver gaze swept the ruined fortress, familiar with its layout.

At his side was, pink robes flowing like petals over stone, a fan twirling lazily in one hand.

And between them—

Bai Qian.

Her dark hair caught the dying light, cascading over her shoulders like silk. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each step composed with an innate grace that needed no announcement. Though no crown sat upon her head, she wore her power like one.

All eyes turned.

Théoden’s jaw tightened slightly—not in suspicion, but in sudden awareness. Éomer, ever wary, took a step forward, gaze locked on her with the wariness of a seasoned horse rearing to attention.

The men at the door stepped back as the trio passed.

Aragorn turned, drawn by a feeling before he heard a word. The moment he saw her, the breath in his chest left him. Legolas froze. Gimli’s expression collapsed into disbelief.

“Lady Bai Qian.”

“You live,” Aragorn said.

Bai Qian stopped a few paces from them. “I do.”

“We feared—” Legolas began, but stopped himself. He couldn’t finish it.

Gimli scratched his beard. “Well, we sure as stone didn’t expect to see you walking again, lass. We barely had hope left when we put you and Boromir to the river.”

“You had reason to doubt,” Bai Qian said gently. “But I endured.”

Theoden stepped forward, his bearing that of a king, but his tone respectful. “My lady… I do not know your name. But I feel I would be remiss not to offer you the greeting due a queen.”

Bai Qian inclined her head, voice calm as moonlight. “I am Bai Qian of Qing Qiu. Aunt to Feng Jiu, who fought beside you in your darkest hour.”

Éomer’s brows furrowed, but he nodded slowly. “She burned like the sunrise. That flame… it shook the earth.”

“And it cost her,” Bai Zhen said. “She sleeps still. My niece is strong, but she gave more than you realize.”

“I came to help restore her,” Zhe Yan added, his tone lighter but not flippant. “I’m told you don’t have proper healers for spirit-burn. Tragic oversight in your military strategy.”

Théoden studied Bai Qian, then glanced toward Aragorn. “You knew she lived?”

“We hoped,” Aragorn replied. “But we had no certainty.”

“And now she walks through your gates,” Éomer said, arms folded, gaze still measuring. “Not as one returned—but as one who never truly left.”

Bai Qian looked at him—not coldly, but without fear. “Because I am bound to those who remain.”

Legolas stepped closer, his voice quiet. “You are not diminished.”

“No,” she said. “Only changed.”

Gimli gave a grunt of approval. “Still fierce. Good.”

Théoden turned back toward the waiting hosts. “We will delay our departure briefly. Give your people time to rest. And let Lady Bai Qian see to her kin.”

Bai Qian’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

Éomer gave her a curt but respectful nod. “Your niece fought for us. You’re welcome here.”

And so the immortal Queen of Qing Qiu stepped fully into the ruins of Helm’s Deep—not as an outsider, but as one of them.

The room was quiet save for the soft rustle of fabric and the low hum of Zhe Yan’s magic, a soothing cadence that rippled like spring wind through the stone walls. Feng Jiu lay upon a cot, her brow damp, breath shallow but steady. Her aura flickered faintly around her—a dim echo of the fire that had once swept the battlefield.

Zhe Yan knelt beside her, one hand glowing as it hovered over her heart, murmuring incantations under his breath. He was focused, brow furrowed—but not afraid. She would recover. He would see to that.

Just outside the chamber, Bai Qian stood with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Théoden, and Éomer, who had lingered in respectful silence since the immortal healer had begun his work. Gimli was the first to speak.

“Will she wake soon?” he asked gruffly.

“She will,” Bai Qian replied, her tone gentler now. “But she poured out more than most could bear.”

The group fell quiet again.

Then Aragorn looked at her—truly looked at her. “You disappeared,” he said softly. “We thought we had lost you for good.”

“I know,” Bai Qian said. Her gaze drifted toward the high window, where the sunlight had begun to spill in across the floor. “You sent me and Boromir downriver. I remember the way the current felt beneath the boat. The weight of his body in my arms.”

Legolas stood still beside her, silent but listening intently.

“I stabbed myself in the heart before you let us go,” she said. “The blade wasn’t meant to kill—but to give. Only a few drops of blood from the heart of a white fox can preserve the body past death.”

Théoden’s expression shifted subtly—his shoulders tensing, eyes narrowing with dawning comprehension.

“I drifted with him for five days,” Bai Qian continued, her voice neither proud nor bitter—only calm. “I fed him my blood each morning and each night, and stood watch over his body. Hoping and praying for the day he would wake and life would return to him.”

Éomer’s jaw clenched. “Alone. All that time?”

She nodded. “Alone. I did not know if he would wake.”

“But he did,” Legolas said, voice low.

Bai Qian nodded. “In Osgiliath, just after we arrived. I could barely lift my head when Faramir and men found us. I remember Faramir's face—but only faintly. I collapsed as soon as Boromir drew breath.”

“Mahal help us,” Gimli muttered, rubbing his brow.

“I woke to Zhe Yan,” Bai Qian said. “And the old phoenix told me everything. I had survived what I wasn’t meant to. Again.”

A long silence followed.

Then Théoden stepped forward, his eyes solemn. “You gave your blood… your life… for a son of Gondor.”

“I did,” she said.

Théoden gave a deep, reverent nod. “Then Rohan owes you a debt it cannot repay.”

Éomer’s voice was quieter, but no less firm. “Boromir was known to us. My uncle respected him. I did too. His strength… his honor… they were not small things. What you did was not small either.”

Bai Qian dipped her head. “He is worthy of far more than what I gave.”

“Still,” Aragorn said, “you gave more than any of us could have asked.”

Legolas’s eyes lingered on her, but he said nothing more. There was no need. He had watched her vanish into the current. Now she stood again, changed, but unbroken.

Gimli cleared his throat roughly. “Fox magic or no, you’ve got a dwarven heart beating in there somewhere.”

That finally brought a faint smile to her lips.

From the chamber, a soft sound stirred.

Zhe Yan looked up from his work. “She’ll wake soon.”

Bai Qian turned back toward the doorway, her expression shifting—hope, concern, relief. All too much at once. She stepped toward it, hesitated.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to face her,” she admitted.

Aragorn placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “You are.”

And at last, Bai Qian stepped forward—to see her niece again.

The flickering lamplight cast long shadows on the stone walls. Outside, the wind moaned faintly through the mountain pass, but inside the room, the world had grown still. Feng Jiu lay beneath a soft woolen blanket, her breath steady now, her color slowly returning. Zhe Yan had finished his healing and stepped out to give them space.

Bai Qian sat on a low stool, her posture composed, though her fingers lightly grazed the blanket at Feng Jiu’s shoulder. “Come on, little fox,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her niece’s brow. “You’ve rested long enough. You always were dramatic, but this time you truly outdid yourself.” Her smile was faint, fond, but her eyes shimmered faintly in the low light. She didn’t try to hide it. Not here. Not for her.

“I’m here now. No more fighting alone.”

At the door, Éomer stood, half-concealed in the corridor shadows. He hadn’t meant to linger—but something about the way Bai Qian sat so quietly, her every movement wrapped in grace and care, kept him rooted. He didn’t speak until Aragorn approached from down the hall, pausing beside him.

“She’s… not like the others,” Éomer said quietly.

“No,” Aragorn agreed. “She isn’t.”

“And the younger one?” Éomer asked. “Feng Jiu. I saw her burn like the heavens fell. No mortal could summon that. Not even a sorceress.”

“They are not mortal,” Aragorn said gently. “Not as we are. But they are not above pain… or sacrifice.”

Éomer’s brow furrowed. “Are they gods?”

“No,” Aragorn said. “But they carry some spark of one.”

Inside the chamber, Bai Qian leaned down, resting her forehead lightly against Feng Jiu’s temple, her voice little more than breath.

Éomer’s gaze softened. “She fought like a storm… and yet she is cradled like something fragile.”

Aragorn gave a small, knowing smile. “She is both. Just like her aunt.”

And Éomer—who had faced down beasts and warbands and wargs without flinching—stood a little longer, watching the woman who burned with phoenix fire… and the queen who whispered her back to life.

Chapter Text

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting golden light over the stone floor. In the hush, even Bai Qian’s breathing had slowed to match the still rhythm of the room. She remained seated at Feng Jiu’s side, her fingers lightly curled around her niece’s hand, her thumb tracing slow, familiar circles against her wrist. She had not moved in hours.

Then, Feng Jiu’s fingers twitched beneath hers.

Bai Qian straightened slightly, her eyes sharpening.

“Little fox?”

A quiet inhale, weak but real. Then lashes flickered, and finally—two red-tinged eyes opened. It took Feng Jiu a moment to focus. The ceiling above her blurred, the lamplight too soft, too far. She blinked again. And then she saw her.

“Gou Gou…?” Her voice was barely there. Cracked. Disbelieving.

Bai Qian smiled gently. “Yes, little Feng Jiu. It’s me.”

Feng Jiu’s eyes flooded in an instant. “No… you can’t—” Her breath hitched. “You were gone. I thought…” Her words dissolved into sobs. She tried to sit up, failed, then clutched at Bai Qian’s sleeve like a child. “You’re real? You’re really here?”

Bai Qian leaned in and gathered her into her arms, cradling her close, rocking her gently like she used to when Feng Jiu was small and waking from nightmares.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

Feng Jiu wept into her shoulder, years of fear and love pouring out in a single, broken flood. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” she choked. “I thought you were lost. That you gave everything.”

“And yet you still stood up,” Bai Qian murmured, her lips against her hair. “You carried on.”

Feng Jiu hiccupped through a watery laugh. “You were always the brave one, Gou Gou. I just wanted to be like you.”

Bai Qian pulled back slightly to look at her, eyes shimmering. “You’re stronger than I ever was, little fox.”

Feng Jiu’s lip trembled at the sound of it—her aunt’s old name for her, spoken like a balm, like a homecoming.

Outside the room, Éomer lingered only a moment longer at the door. He said nothing. But he stood straighter when he left, a man marked by something ancient and quiet and fiercely beautiful.

Inside, Bai Qian held her niece close again and whispered, “Rest now. You don’t have to be strong by yourself anymore.”

And for the first time since their split at Amon Hen, Feng Jiu allowed herself to rest.

The stone walls breathed with silence, as if the fortress itself dared not disturb them. Bai Qian remained seated at Feng Jiu’s side, her arms still loosely wrapped around her niece, who had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep—breath soft, brow smooth, no fire in sight but the faint warmth of life returning. The door creaked gently behind her, and Zhe Yan stepped in, slower this time, his usual flair softened.

The morning sun crept over the cliffs of Helm’s Deep, casting long beams of gold across the scorched stone. Though the scars of battle remained, the air now stirred with movement—horses saddled, armor fastened, quiet anticipation for the ride to Isengard. Just beyond the courtyard, Bai Zhen and Zhe Yan stood in calm contrast to the bustle around them. The wind tugged at the sleeves of their robes, though neither seemed inclined to rush.

“We should return before things become… complicated,” Zhe Yan said, tapping his fan once against his palm.

“We’ll come when called,” Bai Zhen added, inclining his head to Bai Qian and Feng Jiu.

But before either could vanish—

A whisper of divine energy shimmered in the sky above the courtyard. A portal spiraled open, delicate silver-violet light blooming outward like unfolding petals.

Gimli swore under his breath. “What's this? A glowing rift in the sky?”

From the portal descended a small, glowing cloud—and seated primly atop it, eyes wide with excitement, was a boy no older than six. A-Li, the Crown Prince of the Eastern Forest. His soft black hair was brushed neatly into a high crown bun, and his snow-white robes were trimmed in pale blue. His face was round and fair, his dark eyes lit with joy and recognition.

“Mother!” he called, his voice high and clear.

Bai Qian turned at once, her entire expression softening as he floated down. She opened her arms without a word. A-Li hopped off the cloud and ran the last few steps on foot, robes flapping, tiny shoes barely making a sound. He reached her and flung both arms around her waist, pressing his cheek into her robes.

“I missed you, mother,” he said softly.

Bai Qian knelt to meet him, brushing his hair from his face. “My little A-Li… you came all this way?”

He nodded, still hugging her. “Uncle Li Song helped. I was good the whole time.”

From behind him descended Li Song, looking more harried than princely. “He broke two wardings and a perimeter seal. I had no chance.”

Bai Qian gave A-Li’s nose a gentle tap. “Did my little rice-ball sneak out?”

“I wanted to see you, Mother,” he said with a shy smile. “I had to,” he added softly. “I had to tell you.”

She pulled back slightly, searching his face.

“It’s Father,” A-Li said, eyes shining. “He’s back.”

Bai Qian drew in a slow, trembling breath. Her fingers curled in his robe, grounding herself. “Ye Hua…”

Li Song had approached, his expression far gentler now—stripped of his usual princely composure. “It’s true,” he said softly. “Ye Hua has returned. The moment his soul stabilized, Mo Yuan felt it. We confirmed it through the lotus spring. There’s no doubt.”

Bai Qian turned slowly, still holding A-Li close, her gaze locking with Li Song’s.

“Is he—?” Her voice caught.

“He’s well,” Li Song answered. “Still regaining strength. But he lives. You don’t have to wonder anymore.”

Her breath shuddered out of her. She closed her eyes for just a moment, holding her son tighter, the ache in her chest finally breaking like thawed ice.

Behind them, the Fellowship watched in stunned silence.

Aragorn, who had seen Bai Qian fight through hell itself, felt something shift in his understanding. A mother. She was a mother. And yet she had stayed here—risked everything—for Boromir. He couldn’t help but wonder.

Gimli blinked. “That’s her son?!”

Legolas tilted his head. “He has her bearing," he said.

“She has a child,” Aragorn murmured. “And still she did all she did…”

Éomer took a cautious step closer, eyes wide. “He’s… that child is hers?”

They all were watching Bai Qian, who stood with her son cradled in one arm, the other hand pressed over her heart.

“She never told us,” Legolas said, voice unreadable.

“She didn’t need to,” Gandalf answered, stepping up behind them. “Some burdens we carry without words. And some devotions… defy explanation.”

A-Li suddenly turned his head—and spotted Feng Jiu, who had woken up during the commotion and wandered out.

“Gou Jiu!” he squeaked.

Her eyes widened. “A-Li?”

He ran to her next, little feet padding lightly over the stone. Feng Jiu caught him easily, sweeping him into her arms with a joyful laugh.

“You’ve grown taller since I last saw you!” she said.

“I’ve been drinking my medicine every day!”

“Really?”

“Yes! Even the bitter ones!”

Feng Jiu blinked, mock-impressed. “That’s true courage.”

A-Li nodded solemnly. “And I practiced my writing, and I learned the stars over the mortal realm so I could find you.” He peeked up at all of them and gave a perfect little bow from Feng Jiu’s arms. “Good morning, everyone.”

Gimli blinked twice. “He bowed again.”

“I like him,” Legolas murmured.

Li Song stepped back, giving her space—but his next words were measured. “That’s not the only reason we came.”

Bai Qian looked up slowly.

“You’re needed,” he said gently. “Now that Ye Hua has returned, everything is shifting. Father’s already stirring. There are… expectations. Questions.”

Her expression flickered—joy clouded by something else. Something deeper. “Of course.”

“And,” Li Song added, looking to the side in mock-casual fashion, “I was also sent to retrieve a certain other fox who’s been gallivanting across war-torn continents without so much as a proper chaperone.”

Feng Jiu blinked. “Dong Hua Dijun sent you?”

Li Song sniffed. “He didn’t say anything directly. But the moment he heard Si Ming mention you were in danger, he tightened his grip on the teacup. Cracked the rim.”

Feng Jiu looked mildly alarmed. “…That’s serious.”

Bai Qian, still holding A-Li, gave a soft laugh—but it was brief. She turned her gaze toward the towers of Helm’s Deep in the distance. “You came to take us back.”

Li Song nodded. “Yes. He doesn’t know I brought A-Li, but I suspected you might not come otherwise.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Feng Jiu looked at her aunt, brow creasing. “Gou Gou?”

“I’m happy,” Bai Qian said quietly. “Overwhelmed. But happy. I knew in my bones he couldn’t be lost forever. But…” She looked away. “…Middle-earth is breaking. Boromir lives because I brought him back. And now he defends this world with everything I gave him. I cannot abandon it. Not yet.”

A-Li looked up at her with wide, golden eyes. “Then can I stay and help?”

She smiled softly, smoothing his hair. “No, my little riceball. I want you to return home. Tell your father I’m alive. Tell him... I remember the peach blossoms."

A-Li nodded solemnly and wrapped his small arms around her neck again. “I will.”

Li Song exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair. “I knew you wouldn’t come. I just thought I’d try anyway.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He shrugged. “Hopeless romantic, remember?” Then with a crooked smile: “Also, I’m already interrogating Si Ming. He’s been stammering in metaphors for days. Something about threads, starlight, and a river made of maybe.”

Bai Qian laughed. “Good. Keep squeezing him.”

Feng Jiu rolled her eyes. “You always did enjoy poking fate.”

Li Song grinned. “Someone has to.”

As the Riders made final preparations and the Fellowship gathered their gear, Bai Qian turned her gaze to the horizon—not toward home, but forward. Toward the war she had chosen to finish.

The trees of Fangorn loomed tall and ancient, their branches twisting like sleeping giants. Light broke through the canopy in golden shafts, and the air hummed with something old—watchful. The Riders of Rohan moved cautiously along the winding path, flanked by Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and the rest of the Fellowship. At the head of the company, riding gracefully atop Aragorn’s horse, was Bai Qian. A magnificent white nine-tailed fox—her fur luminous in the filtered light, her bearing elegant and serene. She sat poised before Aragorn, nestled with quiet dignity between the reins and the rise of his shoulder, her many tails curling lazily behind her.

On Legolas’s horse was Feng Jiu, a brilliant red nine-tailed fox perched lightly, her fur like flame against the green of the forest. Her brow bore the soft shimmer of a phoenix-feather-shaped birthmark, glowing faintly with every flick of her ear.

Legolas rode smoothly, unbothered, his posture regal—but even he lifted an eyebrow when she stood on his saddle mid-trot.

“What is she—?” Éomer began, from the next line over.

Before anyone could stop her, Feng Jiu launched herself into the air. Her tails arced like a silk banner at war—beautiful, ridiculous, unstoppable. She landed squarely in front of Éomer, neatly atop his horse’s saddle, directly between him and the reins. The horse didn’t flinch, but Éomer did.

“What in the name of Bema—” he started, but was immediately cut off as Feng Jiu chirped at him—a sharp, cheeky little bark that vibrated like laughter.

“Fox spirits,” Gimli muttered behind Legolas, shaking his head. “First she leaps between canoes on the river, now she’s mounting men mid-ride like we’re stepping stones.”

Aragorn tried—and failed—to hide a grin.

Legolas allowed himself a faint smile. “She prefers the dramatic route.”

Feng Jiu curled herself around Éomer’s forearm with zero shame, letting her tails flick idly over the saddle. The Third Marshal grumbled under his breath but didn’t push her off. “If she sheds on my cloak, I will have words with someone.”

The white fox ahead turned her head slightly—Bai Qian clearly heard—and gave a slight flick of her ears, amused.

Gimli leaned forward and jabbed a thumb toward the red fox. “She’s been trouble since the river, I tell you. Pretty trouble, but trouble nonetheless.”

“She is listening, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf said mildly from his own mount.

Feng Jiu chirped again, this time smugly. As the company moved deeper into Fangorn, laughter lingered in the trees—light, unexpected, and precious.

The deeper they rode into the forest, the thicker the canopy grew. Leaves whispered overhead in a language older than Men or Elves, and the path narrowed until the riders moved two by two.

The chatter had faded into silence. The only sounds were hooves against mossy earth… and the occasional, pointed swish of nine silken tails. Feng Jiu, still nestled on Éomer’s horse, had curled herself up neatly now. Her red fur glowed warmly in the sun-dappled shade, her bushy tails draped lazily across Éomer’s lap. He’d stopped grumbling. Mostly.

Legolas, riding a little behind them, didn’t say anything. But his eyes hadn’t left her for the last half-mile.

“She seems comfortable,” he said at last.

Éomer kept his eyes ahead. “She’s made herself at home.”

Feng Jiu’s ears twitched.

“She was with me earlier,” Legolas added—too casually.

“Not anymore,” Éomer replied.

The silence stretched.

From behind them, Gimli leaned toward Aragorn and whispered, “What’s this then? A fox between two prides?”

Aragorn smirked but kept his gaze forward. “Watch closely. Elves don’t get ruffled often. But when they do…”

“…it’s worth the show,” Gimli finished.

Ahead, the white fox—Bai Qian—still rode easily with Aragorn, her tails shifting with every movement of the horse, her ears flicking toward the sound of the men behind her. She made no comment, but if a fox could smirk…

Legolas finally spoke again. “She shouldn’t exhaust herself.”

“She’s not,” Éomer said tightly. “She’s resting.”

“She jumps from horse to horse mid-gallop,” Legolas countered. “Resting wouldn’t be my word of choice.”

Feng Jiu finally lifted her head—just enough to glance over her shoulder at the elf. Then she yawned. A little fox yawn. Daintily done. And then rested her head back down against Éomer’s chest.

Éomer, after a beat, reached up to scratch behind one of her ears. “She’s fine.” He looked away too quickly, as if the softness of her fur had startled him more than her leap.

Legolas’s jaw flexed.

Gimli, nearly falling off his horse from the effort not to laugh aloud, muttered, “Mahal save us. We’ve got ourselves a triangle and two-thirds of it can’t even talk right now.”

Smoke curled lazily over the blackened ruins of Isengard. The tower of Orthanc still stood tall and cold, but its grounds were flooded—broken stone, churned earth, and the aftermath of Entish wrath stretched in every direction.

The company rode through the breach in the wall, hooves squelching in shallow water.

And seated quite comfortably on what remained of a stone outcropping, Merry and Pippin lounged with utter contentment—barefoot, faces smudged with soot and mirth, a feast spread out before them. Merry looked up as the riders approached, then stood with a flourishing bow.

“Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!”

Gimli blinked. “You…you young rascals!” he shouted at them, pointing a finger, “A merry hunt you’ve led us on—and now we find you feasting and… and smoking?!”

Pippin, half-lidded and absolutely relaxed, bit into a hunk of smoked meat, then grinned with a mouth full of bread. “We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts.” He lifted the chunk of meat. “The salted pork is particularly good.”

Gimli’s eyes glazed over, as if dreaming. “Salted pork…?”

Gandalf shook his head, a slight chuckle on hi lips. “Hobbits…”

Merry waved a half-eaten apple. “We’re under orders from Treebeard, who’s taken over management of Isengard.”

Pippin, cheerful, added, “Very strict manager, you know. Wants us well-fed.”

A flash of light burst along the flanks of the company as the two foxes leapt lightly from their horses—not riders, but foxes. As they landed, their forms shimmered with divine grace and became human once more. Bai Qian, robes pale as snow, her dark hair falling like silk, landed beside Aragorn with the poise of a queen. Feng Jiu, radiant in red and gold, touched down just behind Eomer—only to squeal with joy as she spotted the hobbits.

“Merry! Pippin!”

She didn’t even make it three steps before her joy overloaded her glamour. Nine red tails exploded behind her, flaring out like a starburst of wildfire and warmth and waving like banners in the wind.

Merry stood dumbfounded for half a beat—then ran forward, laughing. “Lady Feng Jiu?!”

They collided in a whirlwind of hugs, nearly knocking her over as Pippin caught up and latched onto her side.

“You’re alright!” Pippin beamed. “You’re really alright!”

Feng Jiu ruffled both their curls and squeezed them tighter. “You two left me behind! I ought to singe your toes for that!”

“You try being kidnapped by Uruk-hai and staying in one place,” Merry retorted. “We didn’t mean to!”

Behind them, Éomer blinked. “Her tails came back out.”

Gimli muttered, “When don’t they? This one’s more dramatic than a thunderclap.”

Legolas, eyes soft, said nothing—though his gaze lingered on the sight of her laughing freely, her eyes bright with joy. Aragorn watched Bai Qian from the corner of his eye. Her expression had not changed, but her hands—clasped before her—tightened ever so slightly.

After laughter had faded and stories dwindled into silence, the warmth of the sun spilled over the broken stones of Isengard. The company sat in quieter clusters now, basking in a peace they hadn’t known in days.

Feng Jiu lounged with Pippin, fussing over a braid in his hair, her voice laced with amusement as he animatedly tried to explain Entish drinking habits.

Merry approached Bai Qian slowly, the remnants of a half-eaten apple in his hand. She turned her head before he spoke—already sensing him.

“You’ve grown, Merry,” she said gently, voice calm but not cold.

He smiled a little. “You say that like I’ve done something impressive.”

She arched a brow, the corner of her mouth curving. “You’re upright. Breathing. After everything… I’d call that impressive.”

He tried to laugh—but it didn’t last. “I’ve been wondering,” he said, eyes flicking down. “Boromir. We saw him last at Amon Hen. He… protected us. He kept fighting even after those arrows—” His words caught.

From across the ruin, Pippin sat up straighter, quiet now.

Bai Qian stepped toward him, her movements soft, unhurried. She reached out and gently placed a hand over his, steadying it. “He is alive,” she said simply.

Merry’s eyes snapped up.

“I was with him when he fell,” she continued, her voice like a slow-moving stream—measured and clear. “And I would not let him go. I brought him back."

Pippin was on his feet now, crossing the distance quickly. “He’s really alive?”

“Yes,” Bai Qian said.

Merry blinked rapidly, his throat working around a knot. “We didn’t know what happened. After the Uruks took us, we thought he might have…”

“You left with the memory of his fall,” she said, her eyes softening. “Let me replace it with this—he lives, and he remembers you both.” She crouched slightly, letting her robe fold beneath her knees as she met their eyes.

Merry chuckled shakily, the weight in his chest finally beginning to ease. “He was always the strongest of us. You know, back then.”

“He still is,” Bai Qian replied. “You gave him a reason to fight. I merely… guided him back.”

Without another word, both hobbits flung their arms around her, burying their faces into the silk and warmth of her robe. She stiffened only for a heartbeat, then let herself lean down and wrap her arms around their small shoulders.

From a distance, Aragorn stood with Gimli and Legolas, quietly observing.

“She spoke of him like he never left,” Aragorn murmured.

Gimli exhaled through his beard. “She never let him.”

Legolas’s gaze lingered not on Bai Qian, but on Feng Jiu, who now watched them with a faint smile, her expression unreadable.

The broken gates of Isengard creaked beneath the weight of water and ruin as the riders passed through. The land was unrecognizable—a flooded basin of shattered stone, steaming mud, and churned earth. Trees leaned in like sentinels, still and somber.

Treebeard stood nearby, moss clinging to his bark and wisdom steeped in every word. “Hoooom, young master Gandalf, I’m glad you’ve come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master… but there is a Wizard to manage here, locked in his tower.”

The company came to a halt before the black tower of Orthanc. The water still lapped against the base, reflecting the grim sheen of its obsidian walls.

Gandalf urged his horse forward. “Be careful. Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous.”

Gimli grunted. “Well, then let’s just have his head and be done with it.”

“No,” Gandalf said firmly. “We need him alive. We need him to talk.”

Aragorn looked up toward the tower. “Show yourself.”

Above them, on a high balcony, Saruman stepped into view. His white robes hung heavy, and though diminished, his voice still echoed with disdain and false civility.

“You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterward. Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?”

Théoden's face hardened. “We shall have peace… when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows—we shall have peace!”

Saruman’s expression twisted. “Gibbets and crows! Dotard!” His gaze shifted to the wizard standing among them. “What do you want, Gandalf the Grey? The key of Orthanc? The keys of Barad-dûr itself? Along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards?”

Gandalf remained calm. “Your treachery has already cost many lives. Thousands more are now at risk. But you could save them, Saruman. You were deep in the Enemy’s counsel.”

Saruman smirked as he held aloft the Palantír, the dark sphere glinting like a wound. “So you have come for information. Very well. Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth—something you have failed to see.” He gave a cruel smile. “But the Great Eye has seen it! Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon.”

His gaze swept over the gathered host—Men, Elf, Dwarf… and then stopped.

A sharp intake of breath.

His eyes locked on Bai Qian and Feng Jiu—unmistakable even in their mortal guises. A glint of greed bloomed behind his disdain.

“But wait… what is this? Two flames not born of this world.” His tone shifted—curious, almost reverent. “The fox… and the moonlight sovereign. I had heard whispers.”

Gimli frowned. “He knows who they are?”

Saruman’s gaze lingered on Feng Jiu, narrowing. “A creature cloaked in fire, who dances between forms and scorches the battlefield with her blood. Sauron knows of you, little fox. He does not take kindly to interference.”

Feng Jiu’s eyes flared with anger for the briefest moment. Her tails appeared behind her, before vanishing into the wind. Legolas moved subtly, fingers brushing her forearm, grounding her.

Saruman turned to Bai Qian next, and his expression changed again—confusion creeping in beneath calculation. “You… I mistook you at first. Veiled Maia, perhaps? No. You are not of Valinor. And yet—so poised. So ancient. Power unspoiled by time or death.” He leaned slightly forward, hungrily. “What are you, Lady of the Qing Qiu Fox Tribe? Queen? Or a weapon?”

He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, voice dark with temptation.

“Sauron senses you… but cannot name you. That makes him wary. Or curious. Perhaps he would make you his—if you would allow it.”

Aragorn stepped forward, instinctively moving to place himself between Bai Qian and the threat above. But Bai Qian did not move. Her robes hung still, and her eyes rose to meet Saruman’s with chilling calm. Her voice, when it came, was soft as snowfall—and sharp as moonlight.

“You speak as though you understand power, Saruman. You see the surface and think you know the depth. I have walked through ages you could not survive. I have bent the fabric of time to protect what you would destroy for pride.”

She tilted her head as she gazed at the wizard through half-lidded eyes.

“You are not Sauron. And even he would tremble before what I truly am.”

A hush fell over the company—neither challenge nor threat, but something older. Something vast. Saruman's fury ignited. With a cry, he raised his hand and cast a bolt of flame—not at Gandalf, but at Bai Qian.

She did not flinch. She lifted one hand, fingers curving slightly. The fire struck an invisible veil of light—rippling outward like moonlight on still water—and vanished without sound or smoke. Her eyes gleamed.

“Was that your strength? Then you have nothing left.”

Gandalf’s staff struck the stone. “Enough. Come down, Saruman, and your life will be spared.”

“Save your pity and your mercy. I have no use for it!” Saruman cried, casting another bolt of flame. Gandalf raised his staff again—the fire broke harmlessly against it.

Then Gandalf spoke again, quiet but absolute:

“Saruman… your staff is broken.”

With a crack like the shattering of fate, the staff burst apart in Saruman’s hand. He staggered backward, white robes smoking. Behind him, Wormtongue appeared—pale, torn between loyalty and loathing.

Théoden’s eyes softened when he saw the man. “Gríma!” Théoden called. “You need not follow him! You were not always as you are now. Come down!”

Saruman sneered. “A man of Rohan? What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll on the floor with dogs?”

Théoden ignore the sting of the words.  He gazed up at Grim once more, eyes resolute. “Gríma! Be free of him!”

“Free? He will never be free!” Saruman snapped.

But Gríma’s eyes had already changed. “No,” he whispered. Drawing a dagger from within his cloak, he lunged. Two sharp thrusts—the dagger struck home in Saruman’s back. Saruman gasped, turning with a strangled sound. Legolas’s arrow followed a breath later, piercing Gríma clean through the heart. With a cry, Gríma fell on his back.

Saruman fell, landing on the rusted wheel below. The Palantír slipped from his sleeve and vanished into the flood. Within seconds, the water began to churn.

Treebeard rumbled. “The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees. Wild trees.”

Gandalf turned, eyes grim. “Send word to every corner of Middle-earth that still stands free. The enemy moves against us. We must know where he will strike.”

As Pippin moved toward the edge of the pool, his eyes locked on something beneath the surface. A dark shape. A glimmer.

The Palantír.

He hopped off of the back of Aragorn’s horse he had been seated on and thrust his hands into the water.

“Pippin!”

He brought the Palentir up and out of the water, cradling it in his hands.

Treebeard gasped. “Bless my bark!”

Gandalf rode up swiftly. “Peregrin Took!” he said, before reaching down with his hands, “I’ll take that, my lad. Quickly now.”

Pippin handed it over, sheepish and wide-eyed. Gandalf wrapped the stone in his cloak—but the look in his eyes was distant.

The plains of Rohan stretched wide beneath a blue sky as the riders returned home. The sun shone warmly on the golden grasses, and the sound of galloping hooves echoed joyfully through the hills. The company crested the ridge, and beyond them stood Edoras, its golden roof gleaming in the distance.

Inside the city, banners fluttered in the wind. The people of Rohan gathered to welcome their warriors, their king, and the champions who had brought them victory. Music rose faintly in the air, and the great doors of Meduseld opened to receive them. At the Golden Hall, Éowyn stood on the parapet, watching the company approach with bright eyes. Dressed in white and gold, her long hair braided back, she moved with purpose as she descended the steps to meet them.

The scene changed as the celebration began within the hall. Fires crackled, mead flowed, and laughter filled the air. Rohan's warriors toasted and sang, the hall alive with music and movement. Éowyn knelt before King Théoden, offering him a goblet of wine with quiet reverence. He took it gently, and she stepped back, standing proudly behind him.

Théoden rose slowly to his feet, lifting the goblet high. "Tonight," he declared, his voice carrying through the great hall, "we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country." He raised the goblet higher.

"Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" the hall echoed, every voice lifted.

Bai Qian stood not far from Aragorn, dressed in soft silver robes that shimmered like moonlight. She held a cup of mead in one hand but sipped it sparingly, her posture composed, her gaze quiet. The firelight flickered in her dark eyes, but her poise never wavered.

Feng Jiu, seated beside Gimli and Pippin, was more animated. Her laughter rang clear as she recounted something that had Gimli chuckling and Pippin wide-eyed. She held her drink lightly, cheeks flushed with cheer, but still very much herself.

From across the room, Legolas watched with a faint, amused smile, while Éomer glanced once at Feng Jiu and shook his head with a half-grin, muttering something under his breath that made Aragorn chuckle.

A roar of laughter erupted from the far table as Gimli raised a tankard in the air.

"No pauses," Éomer warned, grinning broadly. "No spills."

"And no regurgitation!" Gimli added triumphantly, lifting the tankard to his mouth. Cheers followed.

"So... it's a drinking game?" Legolas asked, raising a brow.

"Aye!" the Rohirrim around him answered, laughing.

"Last one standing wins!" Gimli declared, then drained his tankard in one long pull.

"To victory!" someone shouted.

"To victory!" echoed the rest.

Feng Jiu giggled into her cup, watching the exchange with sparkling eyes. "You know, the younger me would have joined them," she whispered to Bai Qian.

Legolas, with his keen elf ears, heard Feng Jiu and slightly lifted his brow.

Bai Qian gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You'd have outlasted them all."

Tankards slammed onto tables. Gimli burped and grabbed another, declaring loudly, "It’s the dwarves that go swimming with little, hairy women!"

Legolas had also finished his. He blinked, fingers flexing. "I feel something. A slight tingle in my fingers. I think it’s affecting me."

Éomer arched a brow. 

"What I tell ya, he can’t hold his liquor!" Gimli slurred, eyes crossing before he slowly toppled backward off his stool.

Legolas calmly set down his empty tankard. "Game over."

More laughter followed, and soon Merry and Pippin were up on a table, dancing and singing. Their feet clapped in rhythm, mugs swinging in hand.

"Oh you can search far and wide, you can drink the whole town dry..."

But you’ll never find a beer so brown, as the one we drink in our hometown!"

Gandalf watched them with a smile, eyes crinkling with rare mirth. Bai Qian joined him, her presence calm beside him as she too watched the hobbits with a faint, genuine smile.

"You can drink your fancy ales, you can drink them by the flagon," they sang.

Pippin paused, glancing nervously at Gandalf. Merry nudged him.

"Pippin!"

Pippin grinned, recovering.

"But the only brew for the brave and true comes from the Green Dragon!"

Cheers and applause rang through the hall.

Aragorn stepped beside Gandalf, his voice low. "No news of Frodo?"

Gandalf's smile faded. "No word. Nothing."

"We have time. Every day Frodo moves closer to Mordor."

Gandalf turned, eyes searching Aragorn's face. "Do we know that?"

Aragorn looked at him for a long moment. "What does your heart tell you?"

A pause. Then Gandalf smiled again, softly.

"That Frodo is alive. Yes… yes, he’s alive."

Beside them, Bai Qian looked toward the fire, the flicker of its light reflected in her eyes.

"Then hope endures," she murmured.

Later that night, the hall lay in quiet. Shadows stretched long across the floor where the fires had burned low. Most had fallen into a deep, well-earned sleep.

But not Pippin.

He stirred, blinking up at the rafters, then carefully pushed aside his blanket. Rising slowly, he glanced around to make sure the others slept.

"What are you doing?" Merry's voice was a low whisper in the stillness.

Pippin jumped and turned guiltily. "Nothing," he mumbled, but he kept walking. He approached Gandalf, whose cloak was bundled tightly around a shape in his arms. The wizard's eyes were open. Pippin waved his hand in front of them. No reaction.

"Pippin!" Merry hissed, sitting up.

But the hobbit ignored him. He picked up a nearby jug, hesitated as Gandalf muttered in his sleep, and quickly switched the bundle in Gandalf's arms for the jug.

"Are you mad?" Merry whispered harshly.

Pippin gently set the bundle on the floor and unwrapped it—revealing the Palantír.

"I just want to look at it," he murmured. "Just one more time."

"Put it back," Merry urged, panic rising.

But he didn't listen. He placed both hands on the Palantír. Almost instantly, his body stiffened. Orange light burst from the stone, the eye of Sauron flaring to life. Pippin shook violently.

"No!" Merry cried, scrambling to him.

Pippin's hands were fused to the stone. His mouth opened in a soundless scream and he fell to the ground, writhing.

"Help! Gandalf! Help!"

Gandalf awoke as Aragorn and Legolas burst in. Bai Qian, already alert, moved with startling speed across the hall, her robes whispering against the stone. Pippin collapsed to the ground, still locked to the Palantír, his eyes shut tight. Before Aragorn could reach him, Bai Qian extended a hand, her fingers glowing faintly with a soft, silvery light. She touched the Palantír—and in an instant, the room shifted.

A low hum filled the air. The fire dimmed. The Eye flared within the crystal, its burning gaze redirected. But this time, it met her.

Bai Qian stood perfectly still, hands upon the stone. Her eyes narrowed slightly as a gust of wind stirred her hair. The Eye pulsed, fire rippling around it, trying to consume her. And then she spoke.

"You look far, Dark Lord. But not far enough."

The Palantír glowed violently—before dimming. As though Sauron had blinked. Confused. And then recoiled.

With a whisper of breath, Bai Qian released the stone. The Palantír rolled from her grasp. She stepped back, her hand trembling only faintly before she stilled it.

Gandalf rushed forward and tossed a blanket over it. "Fool of a Took!" he snapped at Pippin, but his eyes were fixed on Bai Qian, surprise etched across his features. He turned back—Pippin lay still, eyes open. He pushed Merry aside and knelt, placing one hand on Pippin's forehead, the other on his chest. He murmured something low.

A breath later, Pippin gasped and blinked.

"Look at me," Gandalf said.

"Gandalf, forgive me!" Pippin whimpered.

"What did you see?"

"A tree... a white tree... in a courtyard of stone. It was dead. The city... it was burning."

Gandalf's eyes sharpened. "Minas Tirith? Is that what you saw?"

Pippin nodded. "I saw him. I heard his voice. He hurt me. He asked my name... I didn’t answer."

"And what did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?"

Pippin just looked at him, wide-eyed and silent.

The next morning, the hall was quiet save for the steady voice of Gandalf as he addressed Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Theoden, Bai Qian, and Pippin.

"There was no lie in Pippin’s eyes," Gandalf said. "A fool, but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring."

Gimli exhaled with relief.

"We’ve been strangely fortunate," Gandalf continued. "Pippin saw in the Palantír a glimpse of the enemy’s plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith." He looked to Aragorn, then to Theoden.

"His defeat at Helm’s Deep showed our enemy one thing—he knows the Heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still. Strength enough, perhaps, to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of Middle-earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of men."

At that, Bai Qian lifted her gaze, her tone clear and calm. "Then he intends to break the heart of Gondor while it still beats."

The silence that followed her words was thick. Even Theoden turned slightly toward her, his expression unreadable.

"He would reduce the white city to ash not out of strategy, but fear," she added. "Fear of unity. Fear of hope."

Gandalf regarded her for a moment, then gave a faint nod.

"If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."

Theoden frowned. "Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?"

Aragorn stepped forward. "I will go!"

"No!" Gandalf interjected quickly. "They must be warned."

"Then let me—"

Gandalf leaned closer, his voice low. "You must come to Minas Tirith by another road. Follow the river. Look to the black ships. Understand this—things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I ride for Minas Tirith."

He turned—and his gaze fell on Bai Qian.

"And I won’t be going alone."

Bai Qian stepped forward. "I will ride with you. Boromir is there."

Feng Jiu stood beside her in an instant. "Then I’m going too."

Bai Qian’s eyes flicked to her niece, a warning poised behind her words. "Stay with the others, Feng Jiu. This road may not be safe."

Her niece did not flinch. Her voice was lower, more resolute than it once might have been.

"I’ve lost you once. I won’t risk it again. Wherever you go, I go."

A quiet passed among them.

Bai Qian regarded her for a moment longer, then inclined her head. "Very well."

Gandalf gave a single approving nod. "Then make ready. We leave within the hour."

Later that morning, as the company prepared for departure, the air outside the hall was brisk with the scent of horses and distant pine. The sounds of saddles being fastened and armor checked filled the space with a quiet energy.

Aragorn stood at the stables, adjusting the girth of a horse when he noticed Bai Qian alone by the fence, her gaze turned toward the east. He approached her quietly, hands resting on his belt.

"You ride to Minas Tirith not only for war," he said softly.

Bai Qian didn’t look at him right away. The wind tugged at the ends of her sleeves.

"No," she replied, her voice even. "I ride for him."

Aragorn studied her a moment. "You have a son. A realm. A bond to another, if I understood correctly."

Bai Qian turned then, calm as the still waters of a deep lake. "All true. And yet—my son is safe. My realm watches the skies. And as for my bond..." She paused. " What bound us was duty. What binds me now… is something I chose."

Aragorn gave a faint nod, his tone gentle but direct. "Boromir is a good man. Fierce in loyalty. Fiercer still in love."

Bai Qian’s lips lifted slightly. "He tries to hide the second part. He does not succeed."

A small chuckle escaped Aragorn. "No, he doesn’t."

There was a pause before he spoke again. "He would not have come back without you. That much is clear. But this path will be no easier now."

"I know," Bai Qian said. "But I walk it of my own will."

Aragorn looked at her with quiet respect. "Then may the Valar guide your steps. And bring you both home."

They stood in silence a moment longer, companions in understanding.

Aragorn hesitated for a breath. "Is it right, though? What you’re doing—leaving your son and betrothed behind?"

Bai Qian looked at him fully now, her voice quiet but certain. "I'm not leaving him behind. Ye Hua has always been my other half. He knows where I am—he always has. Time moves differently in my world. One day in the Nine Realms is hundreds here. What to you may seem a swift unraveling is, to me, the long unfolding of choice. When the time comes, I will answer for it. But not yet."

He nodded, and together they walked back toward the hall.

Feng Jiu stood a little apart from the bustle, adjusting the red sash at her waist. The morning light caught the faint shimmer of her phoenix feather birthmark, almost glowing against her skin.

Legolas approached, silent as always, but she turned toward him before he spoke.

"You walk lightly, but you do not hide."

He inclined his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "I find it difficult to surprise you, my lady."

Feng Jiu smiled faintly, then turned her gaze toward the line of horses being prepared. "It’s because I know how to listen for things most others don’t notice."

There was a pause, and then Legolas spoke, voice quieter now. "You once mentioned a man—Dong Hua."

Her lips twitched. "Because of the pale hair, the stoic silence, and the elegance under pressure?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "I was wondering... now that I’ve seen your aunt with her son—and learned of her betrothal—" He hesitated, and Feng Jiu met his eyes directly, curious. "Do you have someone waiting for you as well?" he asked. "An intended?"

Feng Jiu exhaled, but it wasn’t discomfort. Her voice was soft but honest. "No. There is no one waiting for me. I tried once—very hard—to win the heart of someone I thought I was destined for. But I failed. He never looked at me the way I hoped he would." She glanced down briefly, then back up. "And then my father tried to betroth me to someone else. I made my feelings on that quite clear—by destroying a statue of him. The man I was to marry, that is." She looked away for a moment, the wind teasing strands of her hair.

"So, no. I have no intended. And I don’t know what awaits me when I return. But I know what I must do while I’m here."

Legolas nodded slowly. "You’ve changed since Amon Hen."

She glanced at him again, her voice teasing now. "Is that your way of saying I was a mess back then?"

"No," he said, a corner of his mouth turning upward. "Only that I see more of who you are now. And it’s... not unwelcome."

Feng Jiu tilted her head, smile widening. "Good. Because I’m not done surprising you yet."

They stood there a moment longer, the hush between them threaded with something unspoken.

Legolas looked at her more intently then, his voice quieter. "If you had someone now—someone who truly saw you—would you let yourself be chosen this time?"

Feng Jiu met his gaze, surprised by the shift in tone. For once, there was no teasing in his voice, only sincerity. Her answer came slow, but certain. "I might. If they truly saw me, and didn’t ask me to be anything else."

A silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward—it was full. Legolas reached for her hand briefly, fingers brushing hers with barely-there warmth.

"Then perhaps... we’ll see what surprises remain," he said.

Feng Jiu’s breath caught, and then she smiled—not coy, not playful, but soft.

"Perhaps we will."

Before Legolas could speak again, both he and Feng Jiu glanced up to see Éomer passing through the courtyard nearby. His gaze briefly found Feng Jiu, and he offered a small nod—which she returned with quiet poise.

Legolas tilted his head, then said with an almost too-casual tone, "You seem to have made quite the impression on the Third Marshal of the Riddermark."

Feng Jiu turned to him, arching a brow with a hint of mischief. "Are you jealous, Legolas?"

He didn’t answer at once, though the edge of his mouth twitched. "I’ve never seen a man look quite so perplexed and impressed all at once."

Feng Jiu’s smile widened, teasing. "You’re not answering the question."

"That’s because I’m still deciding if the answer would amuse you too much," he replied dryly.

She gave a light laugh, clearly enjoying the game. "Fair enough. But for the record—I enjoy perplexing men. Especially ones with very serious faces."

A short silence followed. Then Legolas stepped back slightly, his expression composed but warm. "I should see to my gear. The road ahead will not wait." He gave her a small nod and, without another word, turned and walked toward the gathering riders—leaving Feng Jiu standing alone, thoughtful, as the sound of hoofbeats began to stir the air.

Éomer approached, his expression unreadable at first, though his eyes softened when he drew close.

"You ride soon," he said.

She glanced up. "Yes."

He hesitated. "I meant what I said before Helm's Deep. You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I’ve seen warriors with power—but none with your fire."

Feng Jiu arched a brow, surprised but not displeased. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

A faint smile curved his lips. "It is. You have Rohan’s thanks—and mine."

She tilted her head, then offered a hand. "Then may the next time we meet not be in battle."

He took her hand in his, grasping it firmly. "Or if it is, let it be side by side."

Feng Jiu tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "You know, Éomer," she said playfully, "for a man of honor and duty, you’re beginning to show signs of something dangerously close to charm."

That caught him off guard, and he let out a surprised laugh—quiet, but genuine. " I assure you, Lady Feng Jiu… it is entirely accidental."

She smiled. "I doubt that. But I’ll pretend to believe you."

As he released her hand, he looked as though he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He gave her a final nod and stepped back into the crowd. Feng Jiu watched him retreat, then flicked her fingers with the subtlest motion.

A sudden gust of wind tugged Éomer’s cloak dramatically to one side and ruffled his hair wildly across his face. He paused mid-step, straightened, and slowly turned his head back with a knowing look. Feng Jiu offered him the most innocent of smiles.

Éomer shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved on—but a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Feng Jiu turned toward the gates, thoughtful now—just as Legolas, unseen, watched from across the yard.

Chapter Text

Far across the fields, under a sky of shifting clouds, the White Rider thundered across the open plains with a small figure clinging tight before him. Gandalf’s cloak whipped in the wind as Shadowfax raced forward, the very image of speed and grace. Beside, but just slightly behind them, two blurs of motion streaked across the land—foxes, one red as flame, the other white as starlight. Their paws barely touched the ground, their nine tails flowing like banners behind them as Bai Qian and Feng Jiu kept pace with the swiftest horse in Middle-earth. They splashed through a river, water glittering around them.

Gandalf leaned forward slightly and called over the wind, "We have just passed into the realm of Gondor." The trio crested a hill. Below them sprawled a great white city carved into the mountainside, shining beneath the sunlight. Gandalf reined in Shadowfax.

"Minas Tirith. City of Kings."

As they rode down the winding roads and through the gates, the guards and citizens looked on in awe—not just at the wizard and the small creature with him, but at the radiant foxes that bounded beside them, keeping perfect stride. Up, higher and higher they climbed, until at last they reached the topmost level of the city. Shadowfax slowed before a great white hall. Gandalf and Pippin dismounted. The foxes, now still, shimmered with light as Bai Qian and Feng Jiu returned to their human forms.

As they walked toward the great doors, they passed a tree—barren, bone-white, and unmoving.

Pippin’s eyes widened. "It’s the tree, Gandalf!"

"Yes," the wizard nodded, "the White Tree of Gondor. The tree of the king. Lord Denethor, however, is not the king. He is a steward only—a caretaker of the throne."

They paused before the doors. Gandalf turned briefly to Bai Qian and Feng Jiu.

"And you two—best to say little. Your presence alone will draw eyes and questions. Denethor is no fool, but he is prideful and deeply wounded. Tread carefully."

Bai Qian gave a graceful nod. "We understand."

Feng Jiu folded her arms with a sigh. "I’ll try to hold my tongue. No promises about my expression."

Gandalf turned to Pippin and lowered his voice. "Now listen carefully. Say nothing of Frodo, or the Ring. And say nothing of Aragorn. In fact—" He gave the hobbit a firm look. "It’s better if you don’t speak at all, Peregrin Took."

Pippin swallowed and nodded.

Together, Gandalf, Pippin, Bai Qian, and Feng Jiu entered the great hall, their footsteps echoing across polished stone. At the far end, beneath the throne of kings, sat a man in dark robes—stooped, pale, and cold-eyed.

Denethor.

The air grew heavier with every step. Gandalf stepped forward first, his voice steady.

"Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings in this dark hour and with counsel."

Denethor did not rise from his seat. His eyes were shadowed and hollow, fixed on some distant point. His voice, when it came, was low and cold. “You come with counsel,” he said slowly. “My son—returned from the brink of death—yet not as he was. Boromir, the man who once fought with not question for the glory of Gondor, now a broken man with no purpose.”

Pippin, standing just behind Gandalf, shifted uneasily before stepping forward, voice small but resolute. "Boromir nearly died to protect us—my kinsman and me," the hobbit said suddenly, stepping forward. "He fell defending us from many foes. He would have died, had it not been for Lady Bai Qian." He knelt.

"I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt."

Denethor’s gaze snapped to Bai Qian the moment her name left Pippin’s lips. The Steward’s eyes sharpened with sudden scrutiny, and he looked at her as one might a dream—untrusting, suspicious, but too curious to dismiss. His eyes narrowed. “You are the one they speak of. The one my son spoke of,” he said slowly. “The one who calls fire and wind. The one who saved Boromir.”

“I did what I could,” Bai Qian replied.

Denethor rose to his feet. “And what do you want in return for such a miracle? Power? Position? The ear of my son?"

Her expression didn’t falter. “Nothing. Only that he lives.”

Denethor let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. "How noble. And yet, I find it difficult to believe any creature of such power would act without expectation. No one does such things for nothing. Not even the Valar.”

“I am not of your world,” she said simply. “But I saved your son because he was worth saving.”

Denethor’s gaze burned with a cold, private fury. “So you’ve taken my son for your own cause. You’ve bewitched him.”

“No. I only reminded him of who he is.”

A silence stretched between them, brittle as glass. But instead of turning away immediately, Denethor studied her more closely.

"He told me of you," he said at last. "Of what you did. How you brought him back."

Bai Qian remained still. "Then you know why I ask nothing in return."

Denethor’s eyes narrowed. “He speaks of you as if you were divine. As if you held his soul between your fingers.”

“I held his life, no more and no less. And gave it back freely.”

He turned slightly, tension flickering across his brow. “He said... you reminded him of who he was. That you spoke of honor as though it were enough to mend what the Ring broke.”

Bai Qian inclined her head. “It was enough.”

The Steward's voice dropped. “He is changed. I see it. I do not know if I welcome it.” A silence settled. Then Denethor’s expression shuttered again. “I’ve no patience left for riddles and spirits.” He turned his gaze to the hobbit, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched.

"This is my first command to you," he said at last, voice low. "How did you survive, and my son did not? So mighty a man as he is. Why did he fall, and not you?"

Pippin kept his head bowed. "The mightiest man may be slain by one arrow, my lord. And Boromir was pierced by many," the hobbit answered, before adding, "But he did not fall. He returned to us. That he lives now... is a grace few men are ever granted."

Denethor said nothing, but his fingers tightened around the broken horn.

Gandalf stepped forward, nudging Pippin gently to his feet with the end of his staff. "Get up." Turning to Denethor, his tone hardened. "My lord, there will be a time to reflect on Boromir’s fate, but it is not now. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep. As steward, you are charged with the defense of this city. Where are Gondor’s armies? You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons."

Denethor narrowed his eyes. "You think yourself wise, Mithrandir. Yet for all your subtleties, you have no true wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. With one hand, you offer counsel—and with the other, you seek to supplant me." He rose suddenly, anger lighting his face. "I know who rides with Théoden. Word has reached me of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I will not bow to some ranger from the North, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship."

Gandalf’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the king, Steward."

Denethor’s hand clenched at his side. "The rule of Gondor is mine. And mine alone."

At that, Bai Qian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Her voice, when it came, was calm—too calm. " If you must remind others of your rule, my lord… perhaps it is not so certain as you believe."

From behind her, Feng Jiu shifted where she stood, silent but watchful. Her gaze flicked between Denethor and her aunt, hands loosely folded in her sleeves—but the air around her tightened with quiet tension, as though ready to respond should the need arise.

Denethor’s jaw clenched. His gaze lingered on Bai Qian a moment longer—wariness battling curiosity, pride barely holding back suspicion. But he said nothing.

The hall fell into silence, Pippin glancing nervously between the two figures.

Gandalf, catching the shift in atmosphere, turned sharply. "Come."

Without another word, the company departed the hall, the echoes of their footsteps following them out.

That night, the sky above Minas Tirith stretched dark and starless. The city below lay silent in uneasy slumber, torches flickering on parapets and watchtowers. Bai Qian stood along the highest rampart, her sleeves whispering in the breeze. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the black horizon.

Gandalf approached quietly, joining her at the stone ledge. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"It’s so quiet," Bai Qian said at last, her voice barely louder than the wind.

Gandalf nodded, resting his hands upon the parapet. "The deep breath before the plunge."

She turned to him slightly. "Is there hope, Gandalf? For Frodo and Sam?"

Gandalf’s eyes moved eastward, to the shadow stretching from Mordor. "There never was much hope. Just a fool’s hope." He gave her a small smile—brief, but genuine—before turning back to the night. "Our enemy is ready. His full strength is gathered. Not only orcs, but men—legions from the South, mercenaries from the coasts. All will answer Mordor’s call." He gestured with a faint motion to the east. "This will be the end of Gondor as we know it. Here, the hammer stroke will fall hardest. If the river is taken, if the garrison at Osgiliath falls, the last defense of this city will be gone."

Bai Qian stood very still, her profile carved in pale moonlight. She turned to him again, more thoughtful now. "I hope I do not overstep, Gandalf… but I’ve long wondered. Wizard, yes—but what, truly, does that mean?"

Gandalf’s brows lifted slightly, the flicker of a smile behind his beard. "Far enough, sometimes. But not nearly as far as I—or others—might wish."

Her lips quirked faintly. "Your words carry less of pride… and more of patience than I expected."

"Because power without restraint," Gandalf said quietly, "is Sauron’s path, not mine." He gave a soft chuckle. "Sauron has yet to show his deadliest servant. The one who will lead his armies in war. The one no living man can kill." Then, he glanced sidelong at her. "He is the one who stabbed Frodo on Weathertop."

Bai Qian shook her head slightly. "I was not there. That part of the journey, I did not share. But I helped Elrond heal Frodo afterward. The wound he carried was... unnatural." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And I’ve read of the Nine. When I first arrived in this world, I made it a point to study its history. Their power is bound to the darkness they serve."

Gandalf nodded solemnly. "Then it is well you did not. He is the Witch-king of Angmar. Lord of the Nazgûl. The greatest of the Nine."

Her brow furrowed slightly as memory stirred.

"The Witch-king of Angmar," Gandalf said. "Lord of the Nazgûl. The greatest of the Nine."

They stood together in silence, watching the night deepen. The darkness beyond the mountains was no longer still. It waited.

The river city burned.

Ash drifted on the air like black snow, and the screams of the wounded echoed off broken stone. Arrows flew through the crumbling archways of once-proud towers. The second wave had not merely arrived—it had shattered them. Boromir moved like a force of war incarnate, blood streaking his arm and cheek, sword slick from relentless fighting. His shield was battered, dented from blocking blow after blow. And still, he pressed on—his voice rising over the clash of metal.

“Hold the line! To me!”

But the line was breaking. Faramir stumbled through a collapsing archway, panting, blood matting his hair. As he passed beneath the crumbling vaults, a voice called out.

“Faramir!” Madril shouted, limping toward him. The ranger dove out of the way just as a volley of Gondorian arrows hissed past, cutting down a wave of charging orcs in the narrow causeway behind him. Madril grabbed Faramir by the arm. “We cannot hold them! The city is lost!”

Faramir looked back—through firelight and smoke—and saw it was true. Too many dead. Too few still standing. He turned sharply. “Tell the men to break cover. We ride for Minas Tirith!”

At the other end of the square, Boromir drove his sword into the gut of a hulking orc, then yanked it free with a growl. “You heard him! Fall back! Rally what’s left—we move!”

A younger soldier hesitated, eyes wide with terror. Boromir grabbed him by the shoulder.

“There’s still time to fight another day. Go!”

The boy nodded and ran, and Boromir turned back to the breach, sword raised once more.

But then—

A sound like the end of the world.

A screech, high and terrible, tore through the air. It wasn't the cry of anything mortal.

“Nazgûl!” Damrod shouted, pointing skyward.

The shriek of wings and dread pierced the soldiers’ ranks as a fell beast swept over the city, black against the flame-lit sky.

“Take cover!” Faramir roared. “Nazgûl! Fall back! Fall back to Minas Tirith!”

The soldiers scattered, retreating from the river’s edge as the shadow passed over them. Orcs surged in behind them, relentless. Madril turned to run—only to be struck from behind. He fell hard, his leg twisted beneath him, blood already pooling beneath the stones.

“Retreat!” Faramir shouted again, swinging wildly as he covered his men. “Run for your lives!”

Boromir’s breath hitched—but the fight would not wait for mourning. Orcs pressed from every side. He shouted for a retreat and pulled a wounded man to his feet, pushing him toward the path.

Behind them, in the ruined courtyard, Gothmog limped forward with a twisted grin, his malformed hand gripping a jagged spear. He stood over Madril’s broken form, sneering.

“The age of Men is over,” he hissed. “The time of the Orc has come.”

With a brutal thrust, he drove the spear down. Madril gasped once—and stilled.

The next morning, the streets of Minas Tirith stirred with early motion, but tension hung over the city like a storm cloud. Gandalf moved swiftly with Pippin and Feng Jiu at his side, leading them through the winding paths toward the watchtower above.

"Peregrin Took, my lad," Gandalf said, pausing at the base of the beacon tower. "There is a task now to be done. Another opportunity for one of the Shire folk to prove their great worth." He placed a firm hand on Pippin’s shoulder. "You must not fail me."

Feng Jiu stepped forward, brow furrowed slightly. "He won’t be alone. I’ll go with him."

Gandalf hesitated, then gave a brisk nod. "Go quickly."

The two dashed toward the cliffside, Pippin scrambling first up the narrow path, Feng Jiu close behind, more agile and swift. When they reached the top, Pippin climbed the beacon itself, stretching toward the lamp. The oil container tipped as the rope snapped, splashing fuel across the straw.

Feng Jiu, standing below, steadied the base as Pippin reached up and finally dropped the lamp onto the beacon.

Flames whooshed up with a roar. Pippin leapt back in alarm as the fire surged, but Feng Jiu caught his arm and tugged him away from the heat just in time.

Below, guards turned toward the blaze, shouting in astonishment.

"What—?"

From a high parapet, Gandalf watched, eyes narrowing as the flames leapt skyward.

"Amon Dîn," he whispered.

Across the mountains, a distant blaze answered. One after another, the beacons flared to life, stretching toward the horizon.

"The beacon! The beacon of Amon Dîn is lit!"

Gandalf laughed aloud, triumphant. "Hope is kindled!"

Far away, on a hill in Edoras, Aragorn looked up and saw the fire blazing against the morning sky.

The beacons of Gondor had been lit.

The doors of the Golden Hall flew open as Aragorn strode into the great hall, his cloak billowing behind him.

"The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit!"

Théoden and his captains turned toward him. Silence reigned for a heartbeat.

"Gondor calls for aid," Aragorn said, his voice strong.

Théoden looked from man to man, the weight of memory and duty in his eyes. Then slowly, he nodded.

"And Rohan will answer!" he declared.

Éomer bowed deeply and turned to leave, already shouting commands to the guards. A great bell began to ring out, summoning the riders of Rohan. Théoden, now armored, strode through the courtyard beside Éomer. "Assemble the army at Dunharrow. As many men as can be found. You have two days." He stopped and clasped Éomer by the shoulder.

"On the third, we ride for Gondor… and war."

Éomer bowed again, turning sharply. "Forward!" he shouted to the men.

The bells echoed again, louder this time, as riders surged into motion. From one of the stone balconies above, Legolas stood watching the beacon fire in the far distance. His sharp gaze lingered there—and then turned slightly, as though seeing something else.

Feng Jiu.

He allowed himself a small, inward smile.

Éomer, already mounting, paused briefly to look toward the horizon.

His voice was low, almost to himself. "So. We will see her again."

Gamling approached from the rear. "My lord?"

Éomer shook his head. "Nothing. Send the riders to muster."

The call to war had been made. And in the hearts of two warriors, something else stirred—quiet, persistent, and growing.

Éomer turned in the saddle and raised his voice to the gathering Riders, his tone ringing like steel.

"Now is the hour, Riders of Rohan! Oaths you have taken—now fulfill them all, to Lord and Land! Hah!"

With that, the Riders surged forward, hooves thundering as they galloped from Edoras toward destiny.

What remained of Gondor’s defense fled across the Pelennor, running hard for the gates of Minas Tirith. The Nazgûl swooped low, wraith-beasts shrieking, claws ripping into armor and flesh. Some soldiers were snatched into the air, their screams fading before their bodies fell like broken stars.

“Keep going!” someone yelled.

“It’s the Nazgûl—run!”

“Take cover, my lord!”

Faramir and Boromir rode together now, shields raised, ducking low beneath the aerial onslaught.

Then—

A blaze of white light burst across the plain like a star fallen to earth.

Out of the gates of Minas Tirith, a white horse galloped, swift as dawn.

“It’s Mithrandir!” a soldier cried. “The White Rider!”

Gandalf charged into the heart of chaos, Shadowfax gleaming like moonlight on snow. He raised his staff—and from its tip erupted a brilliant light, searing through the dark. The Nazgûl screamed as the light struck them, the fell beasts flinching, reeling back into the sky. The wraiths scattered.

Gandalf wheeled around and rode up alongside Boromir and Faramir. “Well met,” the wizard said, voice calm amid the wreckage. “Let’s get them home.”

Boromir gave a sharp nod. “They’ll follow you.”

Faramir turned in the saddle. “To Minas Tirith—ride!”

And so the White Rider led them, with Boromir and Faramir at his side, into the safety of the city walls—while the shadows howled at their heels.

But not all the Nazgûl retreated. One circled back, its beast diving low, wings thundering.

Before it could strike—

A figure dropped from the air like a falling star, robes streaming, her dark hair catching the light like ink in the wind. Bai Qian struck with the weight of heaven behind her, the Jade Purity Fan ablaze with divine energy. She clashed midair with the Nazgûl, a sharp cry in the ancient tongue splitting the air. Sparks and dark magic burst between them. The Nazgûl shrieked in fury as Bai Qian held her ground, her power pushing it back inch by inch.

Boromir’s horse reared as he looked back. “By the Valar…”

Faramir stared, as if beholding a dream summoned from legend. “It’s her…the lady Bai Qian. She’s awakened.”

They watched as she danced through the sky, graceful yet devastating, striking with the precision of a warrior and the force of something far more ancient. Her fans slashed through the shadows, forcing the Nazgûl into retreat. It let out a furious, defeated cry and vanished into the clouds.

Bai Qian hovered in the sky for a moment, her breathing steady despite the power she had exerted. Then, as the soldiers below stared in stunned silence, she turned midair and descended with the quiet poise of falling silk, drifting back toward the gates as if carried by wind itself.

Boromir looked at his brother, awe written plain on his face. “She came back.”

Faramir exhaled slowly. “And not a moment too soon.”

The gates of the city had just closed behind them, the last rays of the sun bleeding red across the stone. The wounded were being carried off on stretchers, the dead already forming a grim row along the courtyard walls.

Boromir dismounted first, breathing hard, his armor streaked with blood and soot. He tossed his sword to one of the waiting squires without ceremony, but even as he moved, his eyes swept the courtyard. He searched the wounded, the smoke-filled air, the high battlements—for a flash of white, for the glint of jade, for her. Had she returned? Was she safe? The thundering in his chest wasn’t from battle alone. He turned toward the center of the courtyard where Shadowfax stood, shining white amidst the gloom.

Upon the great horse sat Gandalf, tall and composed, his staff resting lightly across the saddle. And in front of him, clutching the mane tightly with small hands, sat a wide-eyed Pippin. The hobbit’s eyes went wide. He blinked—once, twice—then slid off the saddle in a daze.

“Boromir?” he breathed.

Boromir didn’t hesitate. But as he stepped forward, his gaze swept the courtyard—through the drifting smoke and the wounded being ushered to safety. He searched for her—for the glint of pale robes, the commanding calm she carried. His heart pounded with each heartbeat she didn’t appear. He stepped forward once more, arms open just slightly. “Pippin.”

The hobbit all but crashed into him, arms flung tight around his waist. “You were dead! You—you fell—Merry and I—we saw—”

“I know,” Boromir said quietly, holding him fast. “I know.”

Pippin pulled back at last, blinking fast and looking him over like he couldn’t believe he was real. “But… how? We saw you fall, Boromir. We thought—Merry cried for days.”

Boromir’s smile was faint but tired. “I did fall.” A pause. His hand drifted briefly to the center of his chest, as if remembering the arrows.

“I should have died at Amon Hen,” he said, voice low. “And I did. My breath stopped. My body—” He broke off, shaking his head slightly. “But she wouldn’t let it end there.”

Behind them, Faramir approached with Madril’s blood still drying on his hands. His voice was hoarse as he addressed Gandalf. “Mithrandir, they broke through our defenses. The bridge is gone. The West Bank is theirs. They’re pouring across the river.”

Irolas stepped forward, eyes wide with fear. “It is as Lord Denethor foresaw! He knew this doom would come!”

“Foreseen,” Gandalf snapped, “and done nothing!”

Boromir’s arm remained around Pippin, steadying him as the hobbit looked up, overwhelmed.

Faramir’s eyes found his brother’s and held them. “He was right, though. You were right.”

Boromir gave a sharp nod, then looked back to Pippin. “You don’t need to worry about Frodo. Or Sam.”

Pippin blinked. “You’ve seen them?”

Boromir crouched down so they were eye level, voice low. “They were captured. In Ithilien by Faramir. We let them go.”

Gandalf turned sharply. “You saw them? Both of them?”

Faramir nodded, stepping forward. “Two days past. They had a guide—a twisted thing. They were heading east.”

“Toward the Morgul Vale,” Boromir added, his voice hardening.

Gandalf's face grew still, as if he’d turned to stone. “And then Cirith Ungol.”

Pippin’s head turned between them. “What does that mean? What’s there?”

“Both of you, tell me everything. Tell me all you know,” Gandalf said to the brothers, his eyes serious.

They had only just begun to recount what they knew when a hush swept over the courtyard. The soldiers parting near the edge of the square made Boromir's heart seize.

A figure stood among the soot and stone.

Bai Qian.

Her gaze met his—and in her eyes, there was no doubt. No fear. Only recognition. Her robes were scorched at the hem, the silverwork at her sleeves dimmed with ash, but she stood tall among the chaos—composed, whole, and radiant in the shadow of ruin. The wind pulled strands of her dark hair loose, and the Jade Purity Fan was still clasped in her hand, though now it hung limp at her side.

Boromir's words faltered. He stepped away from the gathering without excuse, crossing the courtyard in long, driven strides.

“You’re here,” he said, almost in disbelief.

She took a step forward. “Of course I am.”

For a moment he didn’t move—then he closed the distance, halting before her. He didn't embrace her at once, only looked, as if drinking her in.

“You fought a Nazgûl,” he said.

“It blinked first,” she replied with quiet steel.

That was all it took.

He pulled her into his arms, fierce and trembling, burying his face in her shoulder. She let him, her hand rising to rest lightly at the back of his neck. They stood that way for a long moment, unbothered by the bustle of the city, the soldiers who passed with eyes lowered, or the wind that stirred the ash around them.

“I thought I had lost you,” he whispered—not to war or fire, but to the cost she paid to bring him back. “You gave too much. I saw you, even then. Heard you. You nearly followed me into death.”

“You nearly did,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft.

He pulled back slightly, brushing a smudge from her cheek. “Don’t do that again.”

“You first,” she said.

He huffed a laugh, eyes wet. Then he leaned forward and kissed her brow, gently, reverently.

Behind them, Faramir watched in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, gently, he cleared his throat. "Brother," he said, with the careful tone of someone reluctant to intrude. "Forgive me. But we are summoned. Father will want to hear about what’s happened in Osgiliath."

Boromir closed his eyes for a breath, then looked down at Bai Qian. He nodded once, reluctantly releasing her hand.

"Duty calls," he said softly.

Bai Qian offered a faint smile. "Go. I'll be here."

With one last look, Boromir turned and followed his brother through the courtyard, the weight of Minas Tirith settling once more on his shoulders.

Denethor’s private chamber was dimly lit, the windows shuttered against the ash-blown wind. He sat slouched on the Steward’s seat, hunched over a goblet of wine, the shards of Boromir’s broken horn displayed like a wound upon the table before him. He looked up when his sons entered, eyes narrowing.

“So,” he said without warmth, “the heroes return.”

Faramir stepped forward, his posture rigid with tension. “Father. We come with news—”

Denethor cut him off with a raised hand. “This is how you would serve your city? You would risk its utter ruin?”

“I did what I judged to be right,” Faramir replied, jaw tight.

“What you judged to be right!” Denethor surged to his feet, voice rising. “You sent the Ring of Power into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling! It should have been brought here. To the citadel. To be kept safe—hidden, dark and deep in the vaults. Not to be used... unless at the uttermost end of need.”

“I would not use the Ring,” Faramir said. “Not if Minas Tirith were falling in ruin and I alone could save her.”

Denethor turned his glare on Boromir. “And you. You should have stopped him.”

Boromir stepped forward, gaze calm but unwavering. “He did what I could not. He let them go.”

“You would both defy me?” Denethor’s voice cracked like a whip.

Boromir didn’t flinch. “We serve Gondor, Father. Not your pride.”

Denethor stared at him, face pale with rage and grief. “You were mine! My firstborn. My legacy!”

“I was dead,” Boromir said evenly. “And still I returned to fight for this city. That is what matters now.”

Denethor scoffed, pacing a few steps. “You speak of sacrifice like a peasant. You would not understand the weight I bear.”

“I understand more than you think,” Boromir argued, “I know the Ring nearly destroyed me. You sent me to Rivendell to bring it back, and I tried. It poisoned my thoughts. Turned me against those I swore to protect. I would have taken it from the halfling with bloodied hands.”

Denethor froze, the flicker in his eyes betraying a shadow of fear—or was it desire?

“You speak of ruin,” Boromir continued. “But I have walked to its edge. The Ring offers only corruption. There is no safety in it. Only slow death disguised as power.”

A long silence passed between them.

Finally, Denethor turned away, as though disgusted. “Leave me. Both of you.”

Faramir hesitated, but Boromir placed a hand on his shoulder and gently guided him out, his head held high, unshaken by his father's fury.

The doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing the chamber and the weight of Denethor’s scorn behind stone and iron. For a moment, neither brother spoke.

Faramir exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging as the tension drained from him. “It never changes,” he murmured. “No matter what we do.”

Boromir’s jaw was tight, but his voice came low and steady. “Perhaps it’s not us that must.”

They stood a moment longer in the corridor, silence growing between them—not uncomfortable, but familiar. Then Boromir looked down the hall, his thoughts already pulling elsewhere.

“I need to find her,” he said.

Faramir nodded. “Then go.”

And Boromir did. He strode through the citadel, each step drawing him back toward the courtyards and the last place he’d seen her. Soldiers passed him with nods or wary glances, but he barely noticed. His thoughts churned too loudly, his chest tight with the need to simply know she was still there.

But before he could make it to the outer stair, something collided with his side—fast and fiery. He caught the blur of pink just in time.

Feng Jiu launched into him with a force that nearly knocked him from his feet, her arms wrapping tight around his middle. She buried her face into his chest, breath hitched, hands clutching at his armor like she might never let go.

“Lady Feng Jiu—” Boromir began, stunned.

“I didn’t know if either of you were alive,” she cried, the words muffled. “Not after what happened. No one knew what had become of you or her!”

Boromir froze for only a second before wrapping his arms around her in return, grounding her. “You didn’t lose either of us,” he said gently. “She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. She brought me back.”

Feng Jiu drew back slightly, her eyes red but gleaming with sharp relief. “I know that. But you scared me. Both of you. I… I wasn’t ready to lose my aunt. Not again.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You won’t. Not while I draw breath.”

Feng Jiu gave a soft laugh, watery and shaken, but real. “You know, you say that like she’ll let you make that decision.”

Boromir smiled faintly. “I know better by now.”

The two stood there a moment longer before Feng Jiu stepped aside, brushing at her sleeves with a little more composure than before. “She’s at the western parapet,” she said, quietly. “Watching the sky.”

Boromir nodded his thanks, the words caught behind something thick in his throat. And then he moved again—this time, with renewed purpose. He climbed the stone steps two at a time, the wind rising as he neared the western parapet. Evening had settled over Minas Tirith, casting the sky in pale fire—molten gold fading into indigo. The banners overhead snapped sharply in the wind.

She stood at the edge. Her robes, though mended, still bore faint stains of ash. Her white robes swayed with the breeze. Her long, dark hair was loose, caught up in the mountain wind, and her hands rested lightly on the parapet stone.

For a moment, Boromir paused and just looked at her. Not as a commander. Not as the woman who had pulled him back from death. But simply as herself.

“I was looking for you,” he said softly.

She turned, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then something eased at the corners of her mouth. “Feng Jiu found you first.”

They stood in silence for a beat—then Boromir stepped to her side, leaning against the stone railing, close but not yet touching. “You were radiant,” he said. “On the field when I saw you fight the Nazgûl. I thought I knew how you fought—back at Moria, and at Amon Hen. This was quite different though. You were divine. Godlike. Nothing I’d ever seen before.”

She tilted her head slightly, half-curious, half-amused. “Is that your warrior’s way of complimenting a lady?”

He smiled faintly. “It’s the only way I know.”

She looked away then, back out toward the stars beginning to pierce the darkening sky. “It wasn’t courage,” she said. “It was necessity. Fear has no place when others’ lives hang in the balance.”

Boromir’s gaze lingered on her profile. “You speak as though you are bound only to sacrifice.”

“I’ve been taught that duty is love in action.”

He let the silence stretch before answering. “I never expected to find anything beyond duty,” he said at last, voice low. “But then… I met you.”

She turned toward him, slowly. His eyes searched hers—not pleading, not even questioning. Just open. Honest.

“I’m not asking anything of you,” he added, gently. “I only wanted you to know… I’m glad I came back to a world where you still walk.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she reached out—not to embrace, but simply to place her fingers over his hand where it rested on the stone.

“I’m glad you did too,” she said.

And in that quiet touch, in that simple truth, something passed between them—unspoken, but undeniable.

Later, in the quiet of the city’s upper levels, Pippin sat on a bench in his newly issued uniform of the Guard of the Citadel. His legs dangled awkwardly—too short for the seat—and he kept tugging at the collar of the tunic, as if it still didn’t sit right.

Nearby, Feng Jiu perched lightly on the stone ledge, her long pink robes bright against the pale marble. She watched him with amused fondness, her legs swinging like his.

"I think you look rather dashing," she said with a sly grin.

Pippin groaned. “What was I thinking? What service can a hobbit offer such a great lord of men?”

Feng Jiu tilted her head, foxlike, and began recounting on her fingers. “Well...you survived being kidnapped by the Uruk-kai. You also helped take down Isengard with Treebeard. And, you helped light the beacons with me. If that doesn’t count for valor, I don’t know what does.”

Before Pippin could reply, a voice sounded from the hall behind them.

“It was well done.”

Faramir stepped through the archway, his posture worn but noble. His eyes swept the terrace—then briefly caught on Feng Jiu. It was only for a heartbeat, but his expression shifted—quiet awe breaking through the calm veneer, as though he had not expected such beauty to meet him amidst so much ruin. He recovered quickly, turning to Pippin.

“A generous deed should not be checked with cold counsel.”

Pippin jumped up as Faramir approached.

“You are to join the tower guard,” the captain said with a faint smile.

“I didn’t think they would find any livery that would fit me,” Pippin said.

“It once belonged to a young boy of the city,” Faramir replied. “A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending his studies.”

Pippin’s eyes widened. “This was yours?”

Faramir nodded, brushing dust from the hem and adjusting it with surprising care. “Yes. My father had it made for me.”

“Well, I’m taller than you were then,” Pippin said, grinning. “Though I’m not likely to grow anymore… except sideways.”

Feng Jiu snorted, covering her mouth with her sleeve to stifle her laughter.

Faramir chuckled softly. “It never fitted me either. Boromir was always the soldier.” His smile faded slightly. “They were so alike, he and my father. Proud. Stubborn even. But strong.”

Pippin’s gaze softened. “I think you have strength of a different kind. And one day your father will see it.”

Faramir looked between them, and when his eyes once again met Feng Jiu’s, the faintest smile curved his lips.

“You must be Lady Feng Jiu,” he said, bowing slightly. “My brother spoke of you.”

Feng Jiu blinked, straightening with a flick of her braid. “Did he now?” she said lightly. “I hope he only told you flattering things.”

Faramir’s lips twitched. “He said you liked playing pranks on unsuspecting folk.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Well, then. He’s not wrong.”

And for a moment, among the gathering clouds and crumbling stones of Minas Tirith, three souls found laughter again.

Inside the Great Hall, Pippin knelt before the Steward’s chair, clad in the livery of Gondor. Faramir stood nearby, expression unreadable, while Gandalf, Bai Qian, and Feng Jiu remained in the shadows beyond the pillars. Boromir’s shoulders were tense, his brow furrowed with restrained ire as he watched the proceedings. He had said little on the way into the hall, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed the storm within.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor,” Pippin said, his voice wavering but sincere, “in peace or war, in living or dying… from this hour henceforth until my lord release me or death take me.”

Denethor leaned forward in his chair, a slow smile curling across his face. He rose and descended to Pippin’s level, extending his hand. “And I shall not forget it,” he said. “Nor fail to reward that which is given.”

Pippin kissed the Steward’s ring.

“Fealty with love,” Denethor murmured. He turned and strode toward the table, pouring himself wine. “Valour with honor. Disloyalty… with vengeance.” His eyes flicked toward Faramir. “I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses,” he said, seating himself and tearing a piece of bread. “Defenses your brother long held intact.”

Faramir stepped forward. “What would you have me do?”

“I will not yield the river and the Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken.”

“My lord, Osgiliath is overrun,” Faramir said tightly. “Our men cannot—”

“Much must be risked in war.” Denethor’s eyes swept the hall. “Is there a captain here with courage enough to do his lord’s will?”

Boromir moved forward, jaw tight. “Father—”

Denethor cut him off with a raised hand. “You are not the one I question.”

Boromir’s fists clenched. “I have seen the loss. The ruin. Faramir speaks the truth—it is overrun. And to send men now is to send them to die.”

A beat of silence.

Bai Qian stepped forward then, calm and composed. “And if both your sons fall? What will you claim then, Lord Denethor?”

Denethor turned to her, eyes glittering with disdain. “Ah. The immortal queen. Come to dazzle us with words.” His gaze turned mockingly. “And if they fail? Will you spill your divine blood again and raise them from death?”

Feng Jiu bristled, her tails, faint but daring to be visible whipped behind her in anger. “How dare you—”

Boromir’s voice cracked across the chamber. “That is enough!” He stepped forward, eyes burning. “You dishonor yourself and this hall, Father. She saved my life—at a cost I cannot begin to repay. That Gondor cannot repay. Do not mock what you do not understand.”

Gandalf stepped forward, voice steel. “Lord Denethor, you risk all for pride and shadows. You must not send them to certain death.”

Denethor stood. His voice rang like a verdict. “Osgiliath must be reclaimed. Let Gondor see that its bloodline has not grown soft. Faramir, you will lead the charge.” His tone left no room for argument. His gaze shifted coldly to Boromir. “And you. You will not go. I have a different task for you.”

Boromir straightened.

“Find the halflings,” Denethor said. “Bring me the Ring. No more excuses. No more failures. Do not return empty-handed.”

A beat of silence.

Faramir’s voice was low. “You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived.”

A pause. Then-- 

“Yes,” Denethor said flatly. “I wish that.” He ignored the ripple of shock, turning back to his wine.

“I will do what I can,” Faramir said, bowing deeply. “If I should return, think better of me, Father.”

“That will depend on the manner of your return,” Denethor replied coldly.

Faramir turned and left the hall. Boromir stood frozen for a moment, then slowly followed.

Gandalf’s gaze lingered on Denethor, dark with contempt. Behind them, Bai Qian’s face remained unreadable—but her eyes had turned to fire.

The heavy doors thudded shut behind them, sealing the chamber and Denethor’s cruelty in silence. The stone corridor beyond was cool, but the fury burned hot between them.

Bai Qian stood waiting, her composure razor-thin. “You can’t obey him,” she said at once. “Either of you.”

Faramir hesitated, but Boromir said nothing.

Feng Jiu stepped beside Bai Qian, arms crossed. “He’s sending you to die—and for what? His pride?"

“We have no choice,” Faramir said quietly.

“You always have a choice,” Bai Qian said. “You are not boys. You know what waits across the river.”

“We are his sons,” Boromir said softly. “Whatever we may think, he is still the Steward of Gondor.”

“No,” Bai Qian said, her voice firm. “He is your burden. And burdens can be set down.”

Boromir looked at her then—really looked at her. “I thought if I came back… if I stood whole before him again, he would see. He would understand.”

“And he didn’t,” Feng Jiu said. “So why keep proving something to a man who’s already decided you’ve failed?”

Boromir’s jaw clenched. “Because now he sends me after Frodo. And he sends Faramir into the fire. I’m to remain here, and chase the Ring across lands we’ve already forsaken.”

Faramir looked away.

Bai Qian stepped closer, her voice gentling. “You don’t have to do this,” she said to the younger brother. “You’ve done your duty. You have nothing to prove.”

Faramir looked at her and gave a soft, crooked smile. “Two beautiful women pleading my case,” he said with quiet warmth. “I ought to feel more fortunate.” The smile faded. “But I am a son of Gondor. And my father—whatever his faults—remains the Steward of this city. If he asks this of me, I will go.”

Feng Jiu gave a small irate sound. “Even if it means your death?”

“Even then.”

Feng Jiu looked away, lips pressed tight.

Faramir turned and left, and Bai Qian turned to Boromir, whose expression was a mix of concern and conflict.

“I will not let him fall,” She said to him quietly, fiercely.

Boromir turned to her, pain flickering behind his eyes. “And I ask you—don’t let yourself be lost trying to save us. You’ve already done that once. I can’t lose you again.”

She didn’t speak after that, but her silence burned between them like a vow.

In the shadows just beyond the hall, Pippin paused before leaving. He looked back at her—at Boromir’s retreating form, at the brothers divided again—and swallowed hard.

The next morning, the bells tolled as the gates were drawn open. The people of Minas Tirith stood along the streets, watching in quiet dread as the soldiers rode out. Flowers were thrown under the hooves of the horses—a farewell and a lament. Boromir stood to the side, armor polished but his hands clenched at his sides. He watched as Faramir rode at the head of the company, solemn and unflinching.

“Faramir!” Gandalf called, pushing through the crowd.

The younger captain turned as the White Wizard approached.

“Your father’s will has turned to madness. Do not throw your life away so rashly.”

Faramir looked to Gandalf with calm conviction. “Where does my allegiance lie if not here? This is the city of the men of Númenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom.”

Gandalf could only watch as the horses began to move again. “Your father loves you, Faramir,” he murmured softly, almost to himself. “He will remember it before the end.”

Boromir didn’t move. His eyes never left his brother.

Bai Qian appeared at his side.

“He shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Boromir murmured.

“No one should,” she said quietly.

He turned to her, torn between duty and despair.

“I could ride after him. I could protect him.”

“And what then?” Bai Qian asked. “You’d fall together?”

His jaw tightened, pain flashing across his face.

“I won’t let him die.”

“You can’t stop death by charging into it,” she said, stepping closer.

From behind them, Feng Jiu approached, her tone urgent. “Then we ride, too—”

“No,” Bai Qian said firmly, without turning.

Feng Jiu faltered, brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because we are not yet strong enough. And you know it.” Her gaze touched her niece. “If we fall now, we lose all chance to help them later.”

Feng Jiu looked frustrated, but said nothing.

Boromir looked between the two women—one fierce and ready to charge into fire, the other standing like a still flame beside him.

He exhaled, then nodded. “Then I’ll stay. For now.” But his heart was already on the battlefield.

Night had fallen over Minas Tirith, soft and cold as ash. The White City gleamed beneath the moon, her battlements casting long shadows across the stone. Boromir stood on one of the outer terraces, alone but for the wind. Below, torches flickered along the ramparts, and far beyond the walls, the fields of Pelennor stretched toward the dark horizon like a breath held too long.

He didn’t hear her approach, but somehow, he wasn’t surprised when Bai Qian joined him at the parapet. Her presence was quiet—a whisper of silk and stillness—and when she stood beside him, she didn’t speak at first. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full of things unsaid.

“They’ll reach Osgiliath by morning,” he said finally.

“Yes,” she answered.

Boromir looked down at his hands, calloused and bloodstained. “He shouldn’t have gone.”

“I know.”

A long pause.

“You were right,” Boromir murmured. “About duty. About burdens. About walking away.”

She turned her head slightly, studying his profile. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

Boromir gave a weary half-smile. “Because I’ve spent my whole life doing what my father asked. It felt... wrong to ask Faramir not to. Hypocritical, perhaps.”

Bai Qian's voice was softer now. “And if he doesn’t return?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her. She stood in the moonlight like something not of this world—beautiful, ageless, composed. Yet in her eyes, he saw a depth of sorrow and strength that mirrored his own.

“I thought I had lost you,” he said at last, voice low. “Not at Amon Hen. After. When you gave of yourself to bring me back. I saw you in that moment, suspended between worlds. And I thought… no one could return from such a place without leaving something behind.”

Bai Qian turned to face him fully. “I did leave something behind.”

His brow furrowed.

“My certainty,” she said. “My solitude. My detachment. I built a life on knowing exactly who I was and where I stood in the cosmos.” Her voice caught faintly. “Then I met a man who would not yield to darkness. Who fell, but rose. And in doing so, made me question what I wanted—for myself. For the world.”

He took a step closer. “And what do you want?”

She didn’t flinch. “You. Alive.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

He looked down, voice tight. “I am alive. Because of you.”

She reached up then, brushing his cheek. Her fingers lingered there, cool and light.

“I didn’t bring you back so you could be broken again,” she murmured.

“I’m not broken,” he said. “Just… changed.”

A pause.

Boromir chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. “I dreamt of you. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just wanted to.”

She tilted her head. “And what did you dream?”

“That you spoke to me. That you gave me something when I had nothing left.” He looked down at his hands. “And that I failed you, too.”

Bai Qian shook her head. “You didn’t fail me. You found your way back.”

His eyes met hers. “And if I fall again?”

“Then I’ll find you again.”

He stepped closer, drawn to her like a tide to the shore. Her breath caught—but she didn’t move. Boromir reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, fingers lingering.

“You changed everything,” he said. “And I don’t know what’s to come. But before anything else, I needed you to know—” He leaned in slightly, his eyes on hers. She didn’t flinch. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them.

But at the last moment, he paused.

She reached up, placing her hand over his. “Not yet,” she said softly.

He nodded, his forehead resting briefly against hers. “But soon.”

And they stood together in silence, the city sleeping below them, and war just over the horizon.

That evening, Bai Qian and Feng Jiu stood upon one of the high terraces overlooking the plain. From afar, they could see the fires smoldering on the horizon—Osgiliath. The wind carried no sound—but the sky felt braced, as if holding back a scream.

“He’s not coming back,” Feng Jiu whispered, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Bai Qian didn’t respond at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the jagged line where smoke met sky, her hands folded before her, knuckles white.

“We should have stopped him,” Feng Jiu repeated, voice breaking. “We should’ve done more.”

“We did try,” Bai Qian said softly. “But he is a son of Gondor. His duty was already set in stone the moment he was born.”

Feng Jiu’s eyes shimmered. “That doesn’t mean he has to die for it.”

“No,” Bai Qian murmured. “It doesn’t.”

A long silence stretched between them. The wind picked up, tugging at their robes—a warning, or a farewell.

Then, a new presence stirred the air.

Zhe Yan arrived first, in a swirl of rose-colored robes, landing as lightly as a feather. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, troubled. Bai Zhen descended beside him in quiet elegance, his white robes untouched by the breeze. A breath later, Si Ming appeared, scrolls tucked under one arm, his expression dry and faintly exasperated.

“You felt it too,” Bai Qian said without turning.

“It’s hard not to,” Zhe Yan replied. “Even the skies tremble. War like this stains the air between realms.”

Si Ming rolled his shoulders. “And I brought them before your former lovers declare a celestial war just to retrieve you.”

Feng Jiu choked. “Dong Hua is not my lover.”

“And Ye Hua,” Bai Zhen added mildly, ignoring her correction with a teasing glint.

Bai Qian finally turned, facing them with calm exhaustion. “War is coming to Minas Tirith. I cannot stand idle.”

Zhe Yan’s brows drew together. “And yet your strength—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “It’s not what it once was.”

Si Ming stepped forward, unrolling a scroll that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. “The threads are in motion. Victory for the light… but not without heavy loss.”

Feng Jiu’s voice was quiet. “We only want to protect them. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

Zhe Yan glanced at Bai Zhen, then sighed. He raised one hand, and a golden pulse shimmered in his palm, threads of light unfurling like vines from his fingertips.

“Then you’ll need strength,” he said. “Just enough to hold your ground. Nothing more.”

He stepped forward and let the energy drift toward Bai Qian—a luminous offering, gentle but potent.

“Do not let emotion blind you,” he warned. “This is not your war.”

“But they are our friends,” Bai Qian replied. “And their war has become ours.”

The divine light curled into her palms, sinking into her skin like breath returning to a still body. She exhaled, steadying herself. Feng Jiu, wide-eyed, reached for her aunt’s hand. Bai Qian tightened her grip in return.

“We’ll keep them safe,” she said. Her voice did not tremble. “Even if it breaks us."

Chapter Text

The gates of Minas Tirith groaned open beneath the press of wounded hooves and weeping hearts. Through them rode the remnants of the charge to Osgiliath. The sun had not yet fully risen, but light crept along the stone walls like a ghost reluctant to return. And at the head of the battered column—slumped in the saddle, barely held upright by two soldiers—was Faramir. His armor was scorched and dented. Blood soaked one side of his tunic. His eyes were closed.

A hush fell over the courtyard.

Boromir was already moving before the gates had fully opened. He was already halfway down the steps when the gates began to open, already moving before he could think. His feet hit the stone as Faramir’s horse stumbled into view.

"Faramir!"

The soldiers holding him aloft tried to dismount gently, but Boromir was there first, reaching for his brother, steadying him as he slid from the saddle into his arms. Faramir’s head lolled against his shoulder, his face pale and drawn.

"He’s alive," one of the men gasped. "But only just."

Bai Qian stood just behind the crowd, her hands clenched at her sides. She took a step forward—but Gandalf’s staff came gently across her path.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on Faramir.

“I could help,” she said, voice low.

“I know,” Gandalf said. “But your power is still unbalanced. Zhe Yan granted you strength—not license. Do not burn your soul for a man who yet lives.”

From the upper balcony, Denethor stared down, his face unreadable.

Feng Jiu stood beside Bai Qian, her lips parted, eyes wide. “We could save him.”

“No,” Bai Qian murmured. “Not here. Not now.”

Healers swarmed the square. Boromir carried his brother toward them, refusing help, his face a mask of control that trembled at the edges.

“Make way! Houses of Healing!” someone cried.

And then Faramir was gone, carried into shadow.

Denethor remained unmoving for a long time. Then he turned, slowly, and vanished into the upper halls.

Boromir followed after the healers but paused as he reached the threshold. His eyes went to the empty Steward’s chair above—and then to the stone steps that led upward. He knew. He found Denethor in the chamber behind the throne, seated at a long table spread with cold food and untouched wine.

“You sent him to die,” Boromir said.

Denethor did not look up. "He went willingly."

“He went because he still hoped you would love him.”

A pause.

“Do you not see what you’ve done?” Boromir stepped closer. “You cast aside your only loyal son—your heir. The man who has carried your banner without thanks, without rest.”

Denethor finally lifted his eyes. They were dull, as if turned inward. “It is over, Boromir. The city will fall. Sauron is too strong. I sent him to die because there is no hope left.”

“No.” Boromir’s voice hardened. “You sent him because you were too afraid to die yourself.”

Denethor stood slowly. “The rule of Gondor is mine. You forget yourself.”

“I remember everything,” Boromir said. “Including who I am now. And I will not let you destroy what remains of this city.”

Denethor stepped forward suddenly, eyes wild. “You speak as if you are no longer my son.”

Boromir did not flinch. “I am your son. But for Faramir’s sake, I wish I weren’t.”

The air between them tensed, like a bowstring drawn too far.

Denethor slammed his goblet onto the table, the wine spilling like blood across the maps. “You would dare defy your Steward in this hour?”

“I would defy any man who trades his son's life for despair,” Boromir growled. “Faramir deserved better. We all did.” He turned on his heel, voice still echoing against stone. “You’ll answer for it. If not to Gondor, then to me.” He left Denethor standing alone, red-faced and breathless, the shadow of madness thickening behind him.

The bells began to toll.

Minas Tirith prepared for war.

Boromir found Bai Qian alone in one of the upper chambers of Minas Tirith, a quiet place overlooking the Pelennor Fields. The wind tugged gently at the silk of her sleeves, stirring the fine strands of her dark hair as she stood by the open archway, watching the distant fires. He paused in the doorway, silent for a long moment. Then—

"You see it too," he said.

She turned, just slightly. "I see the end drawing near. One shape or another."

Boromir crossed to her side. The city below them groaned under preparation: the clatter of armor, the grim voices of soldiers, the hammering of barricades. But here, above it all, time seemed to hold its breath.

"Faramir may not wake in time," Boromir said quietly. "My father no longer commands anything but ruin. That leaves me."

Bai Qian looked up at him. Her eyes were steady, unreadable. "Then you will lead."

He gave a low laugh. "A captain of Gondor. Once disgraced. Now reborn by grace I did not earn."

She said nothing. Only looked at him. Boromir reached out then, gently—fingertips brushing hers.

"I once told you I would honor your gift," he said. "That your light would guide my sword. But that was not all I meant."

He turned toward her fully now, the weight of the war, the grief, and the hope all caught behind his eyes. "I love you, Bai Qian," he said, his tone heavy, "I tried not to. I told myself you belonged to another world—to another man, even. But the truth is… my heart made its choice long before I could stop it."

The wind caught the silence between them.

Bai Qian did not move away. "Boromir..."

"You don’t need to answer," he said quickly. "I ask for nothing in return. But if this is our last night, I would have you know."

She reached up, slowly, her hand brushing against his cheek. "You foolish man," she murmured. "To love me now, when I can promise you nothing but sorrow."

"Even sorrow would be sweeter with you in it," he said.

And then he kissed her. It was not a desperate kiss. Nor was it timid. It was the kiss of a man who had died once, and was living now only because she had dared to break the rules of heaven to save him.

When they parted, she rested her brow against his. "Wherever you go," she whispered, "I will follow."

Boromir stepped back then, reluctantly, his hand still lingering at her waist. “Not this time,” he said, “I need to hold the line.” His smile was soft. "Stay. Just until it matters most."

High upon the battlements, Denethor stood, gazing beyond the ramparts with sunken eyes. His fingers clutched the cold stone, as if it might anchor him to a reality slipping away. The catapults of Mordor fired their first volley. The sky darkened with ash and stone. Massive boulders arced like falling stars, trailing smoke, crashing into the white towers and walls of Minas Tirith. Screams rang out as the city trembled.

“Rohan has deserted us!” Denethor cried, voice rising like a shriek above the chaos.

Below, Boromir stood beside Irolas on the lower battlements, scanning the horizon. At his father’s words, he turned sharply, jaw clenched.

“Théoden has betrayed me! Abandon your posts—flee! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!”

Soldiers faltered. Confusion rippled across the ranks. Some turned toward the gates. The line wavered.

Boromir stepped forward, fury in every line of his body. “Hold fast!”

But before he could say more, a white blur moved beside him.

Gandalf.

The wizard swung his staff with purpose. It cracked across Denethor’s face, sending him stumbling back. Then another blow to the gut, and Denethor collapsed, gasping. But Gandalf did not pause. “Prepare for battle!” he commanded, voice booming. “To the walls! Defend the city! Rally to your posts!”

Boromir moved quickly beside him, voice hoarse from command. “Archers—nock your arrows! Siege crews to position!”

The defenders surged, shaken into action by the presence of command. The chaos slowed. Courage kindled anew.

Boromir cast a final glance at his fallen father, then turned to the men. “To arms!” he bellowed. “You are soldiers of Gondor—sons of the White City! Minas Tirith does not fall today!”

The ranks steadied. Formation returned like iron cooling into form.

Gandalf mounted Shadowfax and rode the length of the battlements, his staff gleaming. “Send these foul beasts into the abyss!” he called.

Boromir took up his place at the parapet, sword drawn. The fields of Pelennor below crawled with the enemy—endless, merciless, black.

And Gondor stood.

The courtyard shuddered beneath the thunder of stone.

High above Minas Tirith, black boulders soared through the sky like cursed stars, crashing into towers and shattering walls. Screams echoed across the levels of the city as rubble fell in clouds of white dust. Fires kindled along rooftops. Soldiers scrambled, hauling water, dragging the wounded away.

Boromir stood atop the battlements beside Gandalf, his voice raw from shouting orders.

"Brace the northern flank! Move the archers to the second tier—go!"

Gandalf’s staff glowed briefly as he directed men to safety. Shadowfax reared and turned beneath him, unnerved by the constant barrage.

Below, in the plains, the enemy surged forward. Lines of orcs, trolls, and siege engines crawled toward the white walls, unrelenting and vast. The fields of Pelennor had vanished beneath shadow and steel.

From the top of the city, a horn rang out—piercing, defiant.

But then the air changed.

A deep, resonant boom echoed across the battlefield, slow and methodical, as though some monstrous thing were being dragged from the pits of nightmare. The rhythm grew louder, matched by the heavy march of trolls. And then, through the ranks of the enemy, it appeared. A towering siege ram, crowned in twisted iron and adorned with the snarling visage of a wolf.

Grond.

It rolled forward, drawn by massive beasts, each footfall sending tremors through the stone.

Boromir’s eyes widened. "They bring out the battering ram."

Gandalf’s face hardened. "Grond. Hammer of the Underworld."

A fresh wave of panic moved through the defenders on the wall.

Boromir turned. "Archers! Bring down the beasts! Focus your fire!"

A volley loosed, raining upon the massive creatures hauling Grond—but their hides were armored, and the arrows bounced harmlessly off the thick plates.

"It's no use!" a soldier cried. "It keeps coming!"

Boromir drew his sword. "Then we hold. We hold until Rohan comes. Until the end if we must."

Gandalf’s voice rang clear behind him. "You are the son of Gondor, Boromir. Let them see your strength."

And Boromir, grim and resolute, raised his sword high.

"Defend the gate!"

Above them, the sky began to darken with unnatural clouds. The Eye turned its gaze.

And Grond crept ever closer.

The walls trembled. Dust fell in fine cascades from the vaulted ceilings, and the stained glass in the hallway windows quivered with every distant explosion.

Bai Qian stood at one of the narrow balconies overlooking the city. Her white robes fluttered in the wind, her silver hair ribbon already loosened by the rising gales. Below her, the city was chaos: fires burned, bells rang, and the sky itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of darkness.

Feng Jiu stood a few paces behind her, one hand gripping the hilt of her dagger. Her brow was furrowed, her crimson sleeves smudged with soot from earlier efforts to help move the wounded.

“They’re dying,” she whispered. “I can feel them slipping—one by one.”

Bai Qian didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the black silhouette on the horizon: Grond. The wolf-headed ram creaked forward like a thing summoned from a forgotten age.

“That thing…” Feng Jiu murmured. “That’s not of this world.”

“It isn’t,” Bai Qian said, her voice tight. “There’s power in it—dark, ancient, and fed by fear.” Below, the battlements roared with shouts. She could make out Boromir’s voice through the wind, his commands sharp, his courage unbroken. He stood among the defenders like a flame refusing to be extinguished.

Feng Jiu stepped forward, watching her aunt. “We can help now. Zhe Yan gave us back enough strength. We don’t have to stand here doing nothing.”

“Zhe Yan said not to interfere unless absolutely necessary,” Bai Qian said, though her fingers tightened around the balustrade. “If we act too soon—if we disrupt the weave of this world again—we risk more than our own lives.”

“Tell that to the people dying in the streets,” Feng Jiu snapped.

Silence fell between them.

Then Bai Qian exhaled. Her gaze did not leave the wall where Boromir stood, sword raised like a lone star.

“If that gate falls,” she said quietly, “we will intervene. But not before. We do not move until it is beyond their strength.”

Feng Jiu turned away, lips pressed into a line.

“You love him,” she said at last.

Bai Qian’s eyes flicked toward her. “It doesn’t matter.”

Feng Jiu gave a bitter smile. “It always matters.”

With a shattering roar, Grond struck the gates of Minas Tirith. Stone splintered, iron groaned—and with the fourth blow, the great doors burst inward. Fireballs rained down upon the city. Walls crumbled. Towers cracked. Orcs surged through the broken gates, blades gleaming, teeth bared. Women screamed, children fled, men fought and died.

Gandalf wheeled Shadowfax around. "Retreat! The city is breached! Fall back to the second level! Get the women and children out. Get them out!"

Boromir echoed him, his voice sharp. "Fall back! Hold the inner gate!"

Soldiers herded the people up through the inner archways. Others held the lines, buying time with blood.

Gandalf’s eyes burned as he raised his staff. "Fight! Fight to the last man! Fight for your lives!"

Boromir slashed down an orc bearing down on a fleeing mother, then turned at the sound of pounding footsteps.

"Gandalf!" Pippin came charging through the smoke, his face white with panic. "Gandalf! Denethor has lost his mind! He’s burning Faramir alive!"

Gandalf seized Pippin by the arm, his face turning pale. "What?"

"He’s taken him to the tombs! He thinks he’s dead—but Faramir’s still alive!"

Boromir’s sword dropped slightly.

"What did you say?"

"He’s going to burn him! You have to stop him!"

Boromir’s face went rigid, horror dawning in his eyes. He looked to Gandalf.

"Go," the wizard ordered. "Go to your brother. I’ll hold the wall."

Boromir didn’t wait. He turned and ran, vanishing into the corridors of the city, cloak streaming behind him as Minas Tirith burned around them. Just as he reached the arched stair that would take him down to the tombs, a distant sound stopped him cold. It was faint at first—carried on the wind like a memory. But then it rose again.

A horn. Bold. Ancient. Echoing across the Pelennor like the cry of some long-forgotten god.

The Horn of Rohan.

Boromir froze.

Gandalf turned sharply from the battlements, eyes lifting to the horizon.

And there—on the crest of the eastern ridge—the Riders of Rohan had come. Row upon row of glinting helms, banners whipping in the wind. The sunlight—shrouded for so long by shadow—broke through the clouds as if summoned by the will of kings. At their head, Théoden King, mounted in golden armor, gazed down at the carnage below. His face was grim, proud. Behind him, thousands of Riders readied their charge, their silhouettes a wall of fury and valor.

The horns blew again, louder this time, and the earth seemed to answer.

Gandalf exhaled, a sound halfway between relief and awe. "Theoden…”

Boromir's chest rose with a sudden breath—as though, for the first time in hours, he remembered how to breathe. Hope flared behind his eyes. "Rohan. They came," he whispered.

But the moment was fleeting. The horn faded into the smoke, and the fire around him returned to focus. He turned, breath catching.

"Faramir."

Without another word, Boromir broke into a run, vanishing into the fire-lit corridors of the city. His heart thundered louder than the drums of Mordor.

Above, the gates burned.

Below, his brother burned.

And behind him, the Rohirrim thundered into legend.

The horn blew across the fields like a thunderclap of hope, echoing through the chaos of fire and blood.

From the heights of Minas Tirith, Feng Jiu and Bai Qian stood at the edge of a battlement, the cold wind snatching at their robes. Ash and smoke curled into the morning sky. Below them, the Pelennor burned, and the city groaned beneath the weight of war.

But then, through the haze of despair, they heard it—the horn of Rohan.

Feng Jiu gasped, her fox-like ears twitching at the sound. She leaned forward, eyes wide. “They came,” she whispered. “They came!”

In the far distance, rising like a wave cresting the hill, the Rohirrim lined the ridgeline. Flags snapped in the wind. Armor gleamed in the pale light. And at their head, golden and regal atop Snowmane, sat King Théoden. Beside him, Éomer.

Her heart skipped. And then surged. She turned to Bai Qian. “I have to go.”

Bai Qian did not look at her immediately. Her gaze lingered on the distant cavalry as they began to move—slowly at first, then building to thunder. The earth shuddered beneath their charge.

“Are you certain?” Bai Qian asked, her voice calm but heavy.

Feng Jiu nodded. “I won’t disrupt. I swear it. But I can help. And I want to see them safe.”

Bai Qian’s eyes finally met hers. There was no resistance in them—but there was warning.

“Then remember what Zhe Yan said,” she said softly. “Do not give yourself over to recklessness. Do not fight more than you must. You are not the phoenix, Jiu’er. You are still healing.”

Feng Jiu smiled faintly, though her eyes burned with unshed tears. “You always call me that when you’re worried.”

Bai Qian stepped forward and touched her niece’s forehead briefly, the gesture more tender than words. “Go. Be swift. Be safe.”

Without another word, Feng Jiu leapt from the stone ledge. Mid-fall, her form shimmered—furred tails flaring in red fire—and her nine-tailed fox shape tore through the air, descending in spirals before vanishing into the smoke below, streaking toward the field of war.

Bai Qian remained, the wind tugging her pale robes and high-crowned hair. Alone once more, she turned her gaze to the east, toward the Eye, toward the shadow swelling on the horizon.

“Come then,” she murmured. “Let’s see if the light truly prevails.”

The golden light of dawn shattered the darkness as the horns of the Rohirrim split the sky. From the ridge above the Pelennor Fields, King Théoden's voice rang like a clarion.

"Arise, Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"

The men of Rohan raised their spears in answer, their shouts a thunderous echo.

And then they charged.

Hooves thundered down the slope, a wave of gleaming armor and flashing blades.

The orcs screamed as the Rohirrim smashed into their ranks, scattering the front lines like leaves in a gale. Théoden and Éomer fought side by side from horseback, carving paths through the chaos.

"Drive them to the river!" Éomer shouted.

The Rohirrim surged forward, chasing the fleeing orcs. Merry and Éowyn—still veiled in her disguise—rode amidst them, striking true with blade and courage.

Théoden turned in the saddle. "Make safe the city!"

But then—

A low horn, long and terrible, shattered the air.

Théoden turned, and his eyes widened.

From the south, shrouded in dust and shadow, a line of Mûmakil advanced. Towering beasts with tusks like battering rams, their backs bristled with spiked towers and archers in crimson. A Haradrim commander blew a bone horn, and the beasts began to charge.

"Re-form the line!" Théoden cried. "Re-form the line!"

The Rohirrim wheeled about, struggling to regroup before the avalanche of tusks and muscle.

"Sound the charge! Take them head-on! Chaaaarge!"

With a roar, the riders surged forward.

The Mûmakil came crashing in.

Tusks swept through the lines, sending horses and men flying. The Rohirrim rode between the beasts' legs, loosing arrows, slashing at armored hides. But the Haradrim rained death from above, and the field turned red.

"Cut him down!" a Rohirrim captain shouted, pointing at one particularly vicious Mûmak steered by a grinning Haradrim.

Éomer fought with feral precision, trying to cut a path through to Théoden—but a shriek from behind made him turn.

Firefoot screamed.

A mumakil bore down on Éomer and his steed, tusks lowered. There was no time.

Then a blur of red.

A streak of fur and flame slammed into the beast’s face, claws glowing, wind swirling. Feng Jiu, in her fox form, struck the mumakil’s eyes with a blast of foxfire. The beast reared back, blinded and disoriented, crashing sideways into another.

Éomer’s horse reared, but he held on, staring at the crimson blur that landed gracefully beside him.

Feng Jiu shifted midair, landing lightly in her human form, nine red tails unfurled behind her, the phoenix mark on her brow glowing.

Éomer blinked. "Feng Jiu."

She smiled at him over her shoulder, cheek flushed from exertion. "Did you miss me, Third Marshal?"

Before he could reply, she vanished again in a whirl of fire and wind, leaping toward the next mumakil.

The Pelennor Fields were awash in chaos. Screams of men and beasts mixed with the clang of steel and the groaning of war machines. The sun—barely visible through the smoke—glinted off the tusks of the charging Mûmakil.

Éomer’s horse weaved through the carnage with practiced precision, but the Third Marshal’s gaze never left the Haradrim commander who loomed atop the largest of the monstrous beasts. Dressed in blood-red armor, the Haradrim howled in triumph, raising a curved blade to urge his beast forward through the Rohirrim ranks.

Éomer narrowed his eyes. He gripped the long spear at his side. And then, with a powerful cry, he hurled it. The spear soared across the battlefield, a silver arc slicing the sky. It struck the Haradrim through the chest, lifting him off his perch. He crumpled backward, his hands slackening. As he collapsed, his weight pulled hard on the control ropes.

The Mûmakil shrieked. Its massive head yanked sideways from the sudden pull on its sensitive ear. Blindly, it turned—straight into the beast beside it.

There was no avoiding the impact.

The two great beasts crashed into each other, tusks splintering, towers toppling. With a groan that shook the earth, both Mûmakil collapsed in a heap of armor, limbs, and dying cries. Riders nearby scattered, some crushed beneath the falling towers.

Cheers broke out from the Rohirrim nearby—but the battle raged still.

Feng Jiu darted between their shadows, her twin blades flashing silver through the blood-soaked haze. Her movements were a dance—fluid, lethal, beautiful. Each step was light, her red robes trailing behind like the flame of her namesake.

An orc lunged at her from behind.

Without looking, Feng Jiu spun low, one blade slicing cleanly through the tendons of his leg, the other burying into his chest. She sprang upward, and a burst of foxfire erupted around her in a crimson halo, incinerating two archers perched on the flank of a smaller Mûmakil.

From the battlefield’s edge, a mounted Rohirrim barely caught sight of her. “A spirit!” he gasped. “A fire spirit fights for us!”

Feng Jiu only smiled.

Another Haradrim atop a Mûmakil raised his bow to strike her down. She leapt skyward in a flash of red and gold, her form blurring midair as she spun. Her blade struck the base of the tower, cutting its supports. It groaned and tipped, sending the Haradrim tumbling down in a scream.

When she landed, it was before Éomer again.

He blinked, breathless, blood running down the side of his face. “Remind me never to anger you.”

Feng Jiu wiped blood from one blade, glancing up at him. “Only if you remember to watch your flank next time.”

Boromir raced through the stone corridors like a man possessed. Smoke bled through the cracks in the walls, the air thick with ash. The roar of catapults still sounded behind him, but his heart beat louder—matching the frantic sound of his boots pounding the flagstones. When he burst into the tombs, the scent of oil and burning wood struck him like a fist.

Faramir lay atop a funeral pyre, pale and still, his brow damp with fever, breaths shallow but present, and dressed in ceremonial white. Kindling and pitch had been piled beneath him. The fire had not yet reached him—but it would soon.

And standing above the flames, torch in hand, was Denethor.

The guards—half uncertain, half dutiful—watched as the Steward whispered half-mad prayers to the flames.

“Stop!” Boromir’s voice cracked like a whip. He stepped into the chamber, sword sheathed but hands clenched. His gaze locked on the pyre, on Faramir, and then on his father.

Denethor turned slowly, his face ghastly in the flickering firelight. “You should not be here.”

“I should be with my brother,” Boromir said, voice like gravel. “This madness ends now.”

“You abandoned your task,” Denethor snapped, stalking forward with the torch. “The Halfling, the Ring—you were to find it, and return it to Gondor. You were our salvation.”

“I was your weapon,” Boromir shot back. “But Gondor has no need of poisoned blades. My duty is here. To Gondor. To him.”

Denethor’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. “No. You returned not with glory, but as a shadow, led by a witch. That Bai Qian—does she whisper in your dreams still? Does she fill your head with lies, with promises of life beyond death?”

Boromir’s voice cut through the smoke like a sword. “Do not speak her name.”

Denethor raised the torch higher, fury burning brighter than the fire. “Why? Because you would shame yourself before her? You grovel before a creature not of this world and call it love?”

“Because you are not worthy to say it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The torch wavered in Denethor’s hand, flames licking dangerously close to the edge of the pyre. “He is already dead, Boromir. Just as you had been. I will not let him be taken by orcs, nor will I raised him from the dead. I will grant him honor.”

“He breathes!” Boromir shouted. “Look at him! Look!”

But Denethor would not. He turned to his guards, voice sharp and regal. “Hold him.”

There was a pause. And the guards… hesitated. Two stepped forward toward Boromir. But two others stayed behind, eyes darting between father and son.

“Will you obey me?” Denethor barked. And then, without warning, he threw down the torch.

“No!” Boromir lunged.

The torch struck the kindling and ignited. Flames roared to life, licking up the pyre’s edge.

"You should have stayed dead at Amon Hen,” Denethor spat, his voice fraying with madness. “You shame me. Both of you. I gave everything—everything—and you return only to betray me.”

The soldiers gasped. One of them—one who’d raised a sword at Boromir—dropped it with a clatter.

With no thought but for his brother, Boromir threw himself into the fire. His cloak caught at the hem, but he reached Faramir, tore him free, and rolled them both off the pyre. Faramir gasped weakly—barely—but alive.

Then, Denethor charged, shouting in incoherent rage.

Boromir rose and met him, grabbing his wrists mid-strike and shoving him backward—hard.

The old Steward stumbled. His robes caught the edge of the fire. They went up in a gout of flame. He screamed. But even as he flailed, he looked—and saw. Faramir’s eyes, fluttering. A chest rising.

“No…” Denethor whispered. “Faramir…”

The madness broke. Just for a moment. Then, with a guttural cry, Denethor turned and fled. He raced up the steps, fire trailing him like the tail of a comet. Guards backed away as the Steward burst through the tomb’s upper doors and out into the open.

Boromir surged forward but was too late.

Denethor, burning, leapt from the highest ledge. He fell like a meteor into the abyss below.

Silence returned, pierced only by the flicker of the dying flames.

Boromir knelt beside his brother, hands cradling his head gently.

“He lives,” he said softly. “He’s alive.”

One of the guards stepped forward. “Lord Boromir. We did not know. We followed orders.”

“Then follow mine,” Boromir said, rising to his feet. “Gondor needs soldiers who can see clearly. Help me get him to the healers.”

The guards—one by one—nodded, breaking ranks with Denethor’s shadow. They lifted Faramir gently, carrying him from the chamber.

Boromir paused once, looking back at the pyre. Then he turned and followed, walking into the light—leaving the madness behind.

The smoke from the lower levels still hung thick in the air, curling in the wind like the breath of a dying beast. Boromir’s boots echoed faintly down the corridor as he returned from the tombs—his face dark with soot, a long gash above one brow crusted with blood. His cloak was torn, armor dented, and his shoulders bore the weight of exhaustion and something heavier: grief.

She was waiting for him at the archway.

Bai Qian stood with her arms folded, her white robes stained gray with ash, her silver circlet glinting faintly in the firelight. Her hair was pulled back, face calm—but when her eyes met his, the stillness shattered.

"He's safe?" she asked quietly.

Boromir nodded, pausing just before her. “Barely. He still breathes. For now.”

“And Denethor?”

A beat of silence. Then: “Gone.”

Bai Qian didn’t ask how. She didn’t need to. She stepped forward, close enough to see the fresh wounds hidden beneath his collar, the tremble in his hands.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” she asked gently. “On the riverbank, when you woke for the first time.”

Boromir’s gaze flicked away. “Many things.”

“You said you had hoped,” she murmured. “That in me, you saw peace. That I had reminded you of it.”

His jaw clenched. “And I still do. Even now.”

She reached for his hand, dirt and blood smeared across his knuckles. “Then hold to that hope, Boromir. Because your people still need you.”

He looked at her finally, and for a moment, his eyes betrayed everything: sorrow, fury, the weight of love unspoken. “Gondor stands at the edge. If the West falls… this city burns.”

She nodded, her grip tightening slightly. “Then we hold the line.”

A pause.

Then, her voice dropped. “I want to fight.”

“No.” His answer came sharp, instinctive. He stepped back. “You’ve already given too much. If you fall again—”

“I’m not so fragile,” she said, lips curving in dry humor. “And I’m not a child.”

He exhaled hard. “No. You’re not. You’re a force the gods themselves should fear.”

She said nothing. Then quietly: “Then don’t ask me to stay behind while you bleed for this world.”

He stared at her—at this immortal queen who had nearly died bringing him back, who still bore the weight of other worlds on her shoulders. And for the first time, he didn’t see a goddess. He saw an equal.

“Then stay close to me,” he said hoarsely. “No heroics. No sacrifice.”

“No promises,” she said, and for the first time, smiled.

By the time the first light of dawn tried to pierce the smoke, Boromir stood again upon the ramparts, a fresh bandage wrapped around his brow, his sword reforged and his voice unshaken.

“Archers to the eastern wall! Reinforce the breach with anything you can carry—furniture, doors, stone!”

The courtyard moved with urgency. Gondorian soldiers ran under his orders, the last of the wounded pulled back behind the inner gates. The sound of hammers rang out as barricades were built, while ash drifted like snow.

Gandalf stood nearby, speaking softly with a group of officers, eyes flicking often to the horizon.

And just beneath the tower steps, Pippin had returned—face grim, helmet slightly askew, clutching his sword with both hands.

Boromir spotted him.

“You came back.”

Pippin nodded. “Someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed. Besides… I made an oath.”

Boromir gave a faint smile. “Then see it through.”

On the upper platform, Bai Qian approached Gandalf. She wore her celestial robes—white silk streaked with ash, the delicate embroidery of lotuses and cloud scrolls flickering faintly with her inner light. The wide sleeves moved like mist, and though she bore no helm nor steel, the Jade Purity Fan shimmered faintly at her back—less a weapon and more a promise.

“You mean to fight,” Gandalf said, tone unreadable.

“I mean to protect,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

He studied her. “Zhe Yan gave you power to endure. Not to interfere.”

Bai Qian’s voice was low but resolute. “I walk the line.”

A long moment passed between them. And then—without breaking her gaze—Gandalf nodded once.

Below them, the horns began to sound again. Orcs had begun massing beyond the walls.

Boromir’s voice rang out: “Hold the line! Every man to his station!”

Bai Qian stepped beside him.

He glanced down at her once, then nodded.

Together, they turned to face the storm. Over the city of Minas Tirith, the sky darkened beneath the shadow of wings. The Witch-king of Angmar soared high on his fell beast, its ragged wings slicing through the mist.

Below, another deep boom reverberated through the stones as a troll, massive and snarling, pounded at the gates of the inner level with a spiked mace. The door groaned with each blow, wood splintering, hinges shrieking.

On the other side, Gondorian soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, faces pale, hands white-knuckled on spears and swords. Among them, Pippin sat beside Gandalf against the cold stone, gripping his sword tighter than he’d ever held anything in his life.

“I didn’t think it would end this way,” Pippin whispered, his voice barely audible above the chaos.

Gandalf glanced down, and for once, his face softened—not the grim commander nor the wise Maia, but something warmer. “End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take.”

Pippin looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back,” Gandalf continued, voice gentle and deep, “and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.”

“See what?” Pippin asked, quietly. “Gandalf?”

“White shores,” Gandalf said, a faint smile breaking across his face, “and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

Pippin blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled too. “Well… that’s not so bad.”

“No,” Gandalf murmured. “No, it isn’t.”

Farther up the tier, Boromir stood on the battlements beside Bai Qian. Her white robes trailed in the wind like banners of moonlight. The light of her cultivation pulsed quietly beneath her skin, and though she bore no steel, there was steel in her gaze. They had watched the Witch-king’s shadow pass.

“He’s coming,” Boromir said. “He knows this city is on the edge.”

Bai Qian didn’t answer at first. She was watching the gates shake with every strike. “And the edge either holds…”

“Or it breaks,” Boromir finished grimly. He turned toward her. “You should stay back.”

She tilted her head. “If I were one to stay back, you would not be standing here.”

His lips quirked slightly. “Fair point.”

Soldiers rushed past them, arrows drawn, defenses manned. From across the courtyard, Gandalf called: “Stand firm! Every man at his post!”

Boromir turned and addressed his captains. “Reinforce the gate! Archers to the parapets! If the beast breaks through, we meet them here!”

Pippin rose to his feet, his small form nearly swallowed by his armor. He looked toward Boromir and Bai Qian, then squared his shoulders. “I want to fight beside him,” he whispered to Gandalf.

“You will,” Gandalf said. “But remember what we fight for. Not for glory… for the living.”

Another blow from the troll rocked the courtyard. The doors buckled.

And above them all, the Witch-king turned and screamed into the wind, signaling the next phase of the siege had begun.

The inner gate groaned beneath the weight of the troll’s onslaught. Blades clashed, shields splintered, and the cries of battle rang through the marble halls of Minas Tirith. Gondorian soldiers held their ground, flanked by Boromir and Gandalf, rallying the defenders to the last.

Boromir’s sword was slick with black blood as he drove it into another orc’s throat. He shoved the corpse away with a grunt and turned toward the barricade. “Hold the line!” he shouted. “Do not let them through!”

Near him, Bai Qian stood calm amidst the chaos, her white robes catching the torchlight like snow in flame. Her gaze was locked on the broken gates ahead—on the flood of orcs pouring in, and the shadow above them.

With a breath, she raised the Jade Purity Fan. The air shimmered. In an instant, the fan lengthened, reshaping into a sword of divine light—elegant, radiant, humming with otherworldly power.

Boromir turned just in time to see her step into the fray.

She moved like wind across stone, cutting through orc after orc, her sword weaving patterns too swift for mortal eyes. Where she struck, the ground trembled. She did not shout—she did not need to. The calm fury of her expression was command enough. And yet, something in her shifted. She looked up sharply—beyond the gate, beyond the walls.

The Witch-king’s fell beast shrieked across the sky.

Bai Qian’s eyes widened. She saw the Nazgûl break away, streaking toward the Pelennor Fields—and in that moment, she felt it.

Feng Jiu.

Her niece was in danger.

“Feng Jiu…” she whispered, already pivoting.

But before she could take off, a hand gripped her arm—firm, urgent.

Boromir.

He stood before her, blood and ash on his face, his chest heaving. “You can’t go alone,” he said hoarsely. “Stay. Stay with me. We need you here.”

Her heart twisted. “I have to. She’s out there. Feng Jiu is—”

“I know,” he said, the words aching. “But you’ve only just returned to me.”

She touched his chest gently, her palm over the old wound where he once died. “You have my heart. And my promise. I’ll return.”

His jaw clenched. “Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

He looked at her—truly looked—and something within him broke free.

Before she could pull away, he kissed her. It wasn’t frantic or desperate—it was grounding. His hands framed her face, holding her as though to memorize the shape of her in case she never came back.

When he pulled away, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Come back to me.”

Bai Qian nodded once. And then she stepped back, sword still glowing, and leapt skyward—her figure rising through the smoke and fire, wind sweeping her hair and robes behind her like comet trails.

Boromir watched her go, heart pounding—not just from the battle, but from the terror of letting her go again.

As the gates groaned beneath another blow, he turned back to the chaos and raised his sword once more.

“Hold the gate!” he roared. “For Gondor!”

And for the woman he had just let fly into darkness.

Éomer’s sword cut down a charging Haradrim with practiced precision, his golden hair flying like a banner behind him as he turned to call out—only to see a flash of red streak past his horse.

Feng Jiu vaulted over a fallen orc, twin blades flashing, slicing clean through another attacker before landing with foxlike grace beside him. Her red robes flowed with every movement, marked now with soot, blood, and streaks of glowing foxfire.

“You’re falling behind, Third Marshal,” she teased between strikes, her breathless tone somehow still playful.

Éomer barked a laugh. “Am I now?”

Another orc lunged. Feng Jiu ducked, spun, and carved a searing arc of flame through its chest. “Mm,” she hummed, flicking blood from her blade. “Or perhaps you’re just trying to impress me.”

Éomer grinned even as he slashed his sword across another enemy’s throat. “Have I succeeded?”

Feng Jiu tilted her head coyly. “Ask me after you’ve survived.” She moved like wind through fire. Her twin blades sang as they danced through flesh and armor, her foxfire flashing bright against the gloom. Wherever she moved, enemies fell—burned, slashed, or knocked senseless by the sheer momentum of her strikes. A ripple of awe followed her wherever she passed. But even in the heat of war, her ears were attuned to something… else.

She turned her gaze skyward. Above the chaos, the clouds darkened into bruised ash. A shriek, shrill and full of malice, echoed across the battlefield.

The sky.

The wind.

A wrongness.

She froze for half a second—just long enough to feel it. A keening, wretched sound on a frequency too ancient for men to hear. Her eyes tracked the shape—vast wings slicing the sky, a deathly mount ridden by a hollow helm of black steel. The Witch-king of Angmar, the shadowed fist of Sauron himself, was descending.

And he had seen Théoden.

“Feng Jiu?” Éomer’s voice cut through, but she was already moving.

Ahead, King Théoden raised his sword, calling to his men. “Rally to me! To meeee!”

The fell beast dived.

Feng Jiu’s entire form blurred as she raced across the blood-slicked ground. Flame burst from her feet as she propelled herself forward, leaping just as the beast’s claws descended. Faster than wind, faster than the breath before a scream, she launched herself forward, foxfire trailing like a comet. The Witch-king's fell beast dived, its maw open in anticipation. Théoden’s horse reared in panic, hooves flailing—

A blast of foxfire erupted from her palms, slamming into the creature’s head and knocking it off course. The beast shrieked, its wings flailing as it spiraled out of control and crashed into the earth. Théoden and his horse toppled but were spared a fatal blow.

Feng Jiu landed between the king and the smoldering remains of the impact. The very air rebelled at what she had done.

Her knees buckled.

White-hot pain shot through her chest, and she gasped—then choked. Blood sprayed from her lips, staining the ash-covered ground.

Théoden pushed himself to his elbows, breath ragged. He stared at her, stunned. “Lady Feng Jiu… you saved me.”

Feng Jiu forced a faint smile, eyes hazy with pain. “Not all debts… are paid in words, my lord.”

He reached a hand toward her as she staggered. “You’re hurt—”

“I’ll survive,” she rasped, though her fingers trembled.

And then the shadow loomed.

The Witch-king stepped from the wreckage, his black cloak fluttering without wind, sword in hand. His presence chilled the air, and every living thing nearby seemed to flinch.

Éomer, galloping toward them now, saw the black figure rise—and Feng Jiu standing alone before him, one knee bent, twin blades crossed, face pale and bloody.

She turned slightly toward the king and whispered, “Stay back, my lord. I've got this one.”

The Witch King’s presence darkened the very air around him. The fell beast hissed behind him as he stepped forward, his black blade drawn. The wind around him howled like voices long dead.

Feng Jiu straightened slowly, wiping blood from her chin with the back of her hand.

“I may not be your fate,” she said coldly, her voice low and trembling with fury, “but you are mine to face now.”

And with that, flame ignited along her swords, casting red light against the darkness.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with blood and ash. Blades clanged, arrows sang, and the cries of men and beasts mingled with the thunder of war.

Feng Jiu stood alone. Her twin blades glimmered in her hands, foxfire crackling faintly along the hilts. Her breath was shallow, her body aching from the earlier backlash of disrupted fate. Blood still clung to her lips, but her eyes—bright as embered topaz—never left the shadow descending upon her.

The Witch-king reined in the beast before her, black cloak fluttering like rotted banners in the wind.

"You dare stand before me," the Nazgûl hissed, voice an echo of death itself. "Do not come between the Nazgûl and his prey."

Feng Jiu didn’t flinch.

She shifted into a defensive stance. Her fox tails curled behind her, glowing faintly, her power tempered and steady.

Then the beast struck. It moved far faster than she had anticipated—its enormous frame hiding a deceptive speed. Its claws crashed into the earth where she had been standing a moment before, and only a burst of foxfire allowed her to roll free. The creature whirled, shrieking, snapping its jaws at her with savage fury.

Feng Jiu leapt, twisting midair to land a blow along the beast’s flank—but her blade only scratched its hide before she had to dodge again. The Witch-king raised his mace, the air around it warping from dark sorcery. She ducked, barely avoiding the crushing blow, but the force sent her skidding back through the mud.

Her chest heaved.

Too fast. Too strong. Every block rattled her bones. Every evasive step cost her strength she no longer had to spare.

The beast came again—swooping low, maw open wide, fangs aiming for her head.

Feng Jiu spun, twisting with a dancer’s grace to avoid the snap of its jaws, her blades slashing across its exposed neck—but again, it wasn’t enough. The creature screamed and twisted in fury, its tail sweeping low.

She blocked, but the impact sent her flying. She crashed into the ground, blades spinning from her hands, breath knocked from her lungs.

The fell beast dove for the final strike.

And then—

Steel flashed. With a clean, brutal stroke, the fell beast’s head snapped sideways—and dropped. The mount crashed into the earth with a shriek, its body skidding across the blood-soaked ground before falling still.

Feng Jiu staggered, turning toward the one who had saved them. A cloaked rider, sword still raised. She blinked against the smoke and blood in her eyes—and recognition dawned. She smiled, despite the pain. “Éowyn…”

The rider froze.

Feng Jiu stepped closer, wincing with each breath. “You can’t fool me, my lady. I saw how you rode and fought atop of the horse with Merry. I know your heart.”

Éowyn’s grip on her helm faltered.

“You don’t need to hide anymore,” Feng Jiu said softly, her voice thick with pride and weariness. “You are not just your uncle’s niece. You are the shieldmaiden who stood before death.”

A long moment passed. Then Éowyn pulled off her helm. Golden hair spilled free, and her face—resolute and fierce—met Feng Jiu’s gaze.

“There you are,” Feng Jiu whispered.

Behind them, the Witch-king shrieked in fury as he stepped from the wreckage of his slain mount, towering in armor, sword drawn.

Feng Jiu, breath shallow, planted her blades in the dirt and pushed herself upright. “You’ll have to go through us.”

Éowyn raised her sword beside her.

They stood side by side—a daughter of Rohan and a fox immortal from the stars—as the Witch-king bore down on them, dark and wrathful.

They moved as one.

The Witch-king lunged.

Their blades met his in a clatter of sparks. Feng Jiu parried low, sweeping to the left, while Éowyn spun to his flank, her strikes swift but uncertain. They were fast—trained. But he was something else entirely.

A blade of flame streaked from the Witch-king’s hand, forcing Éowyn to leap back. Feng Jiu ducked low beneath his mace, only for the tail of his cloak—enchanted, cold, and alive—to lash out like a serpent, catching her off balance.

She hit the ground hard.

The breath left her lungs, her limbs heavy from both fatigue and lingering backlash. Her twin blades scattered into the dirt.

Éowyn cried out, driving her sword toward the Witch-king’s back—but he turned with unnatural speed, striking her aside with a blow that sent her sprawling, golden hair streaked with mud.

From across the smoke-choked field, Éomer’s eyes had been locked on Feng Jiu.

The moment her crimson silhouette wavered—blades dropped, her body folding under the weight of the Nazgûl’s power—his heart seized. He kicked Firefoot into a gallop, roaring her name, “FENG JIU!”

But it was when the wind lifted her fallen companion’s hair that the scream died in his throat.

Golden. Long. Not just any Rohirrim soldier.

His sister.

“Éowyn,” he breathed.

The ground dropped out beneath him.

He stared, unable to move, his helm seeming to constrict around his skull as the scene crystalized before him: Éowyn bruised and bloody, lying in the dirt. Feng Jiu staggering, coughing up blood. The Witch-king towering over both of them like some herald of death.

His mind reeled. How long had she hidden herself in plain sight? How had he not seen? His little sister—his only family—was here, in the thick of the slaughter, facing the very terror that had felled kings.

“NO!” Éomer’s shout cracked the air. His sword flashed as he urged Firefoot forward. “EOWYN!”

But he would not reach her in time. He knew it. And the knowledge ripped at him like a blade to the gut. His sister. His friend. The woman he was beginning to care for far more deeply than he dared admit—both about to die before his eyes.

Then the wind shifted.

The Witch-king paused.

A figure descended like moonlight given form—robes billowing, hair loose and gleaming like starlight.

Bai Qian.

Éomer yanked Firefoot to a halt, stunned, breath shuddering in his lungs. The Witch-king turned his gaze—but so did he. To her.

To the one who had fallen with Boromir into the river.

To the woman who had returned wielding grace like a sword.

And for the first time that morning, Éomer’s heart steadied.

Just enough to let him believe—for a moment—that the tide had not yet turned against them.

She landed lightly between her niece and his sister and the Nazgûl, drawing herself to full height, her robes whispering with power. She did not draw her fan. She did not speak. She simply looked at her opponent.

And the Witch-king hesitated.

The unnatural chill around them deepened—but Bai Qian raised a hand, and the shadows around him recoiled.

“Your dominion ends here,” she said softly.

Feng Jiu coughed weakly. “Gou Gou…”

Bai Qian didn’t look back.

“You are not of this world,” the Witch-king growled.

“No,” she agreed. “But I will not let it fall.”

He raised his sword—

And she summoned the Jade Purity Fan, catching it in her hand as it shimmered into a blade of divine light.

Feng Jiu watched through bleary eyes, hope igniting behind her pain.

And Éowyn—sitting up now, her face bloodied but burning with resolve—gripped her sword once more, inspired anew by the woman who now stood between them and death.

Steel screamed as Bai Qian matched his blade with her own. Magic rippled from every swing, distorting the air. Her strikes were graceful, precise—but the Nazgûl was relentless. Blow for blow, he forced her back, and she matched him with serene wrath.

But when her sword finally found purchase—driving through the gap in his helm and into what might have once been flesh—a wave of necrotic energy burst outward.

The black breath surged.

Bai Qian gasped, her back arching in pain. Shadows licked up her arm from the point of contact, searing through skin and soul alike. She staggered, falling to one knee, her blade dragging in the dirt. Her strength faltered. The backlash of ancient evil twisted through her veins.

The Witch-king reeled but did not fall.

Éomer arrived just in time to see Bai Qian slump forward, and the Witch-king raise his sword once more—this time to finish them all.

Feng Jiu reached for her swords, her breath ragged, blood on her lips. Bai Qian knelt before her, shoulders heaving, black breath eating at her spiritual veins. Neither could rise fast enough.

The Witch-king loomed.

And then—

A sound, soft as the first breath of spring wind, shimmered through the battlefield.

The Witch-king’s blade halted.

The light shifted.

Behind him, space itself seemed to fold inward—cool and serene as a moonlit pool. A ripple of divine pressure swept the plain, quiet and immense. From the heart of that light, two figures stepped forward.

The first was tall, robed in flowing black layered with starlight silver, hair like night ink gathered in a high crown. His face was calm, impossibly young and yet ageless. His dark eyes flicked to Bai Qian, and something in them cracked.

“Qian Qian.”

Ye Hua knelt at her side instantly, lifting her gently into his arms. His hand, warm and steady, cupped her cheek, brushing away the blood from her lips. His divine energy surged into her, stabilizing the damage the black breath had caused.

She blinked up at him, dazed. “Ye Hua…?”

“You’re safe now.” His voice was low, a whisper meant only for her. “I’m here.”

The second figure stood still as frost behind them. Pale lavender robes rippled in the wind like silk mist, and a faint shimmer of phoenix-white gathered at the cuffs. Long silver hair cascaded down his back, eyes half-lidded in disdain as he looked upon the Nazgûl as one might regard a fly.

Dong Hua Dijun.

He turned his head slightly, voice like frozen steel. “You call yourself a king.”

The Witch-king spun with a shriek of rage, blade lashing toward this new intruder. But Dong Hua didn’t move. A flick of his sleeve and the Nazgûl’s blade snapped in half midair, struck down by a glint of invisible force.

Dong Hua raised one finger, and the sky itself groaned. A thousand strands of starlight coiled into a blade—not forged of iron or fire, but something older. Primordial power. Time and stillness and inevitability.

“You cannot kill what is beyond death,” hissed the Witch-king, trying to retreat.

Dong Hua stepped forward. “I do not need to kill you,” he said.  He raised the Canghe Sword—and unmade him. The Witch-king didn’t fall. He unraveled.

His scream echoed across the Pelennor as his form shredded into shadow, devoured by a light not of this world. One moment he stood—a creature of wrath and terror—and the next he was nothing, not even dust.

Silence.

Then a gust of wind blew through the grasses. The battle raged on elsewhere, but here—amid the corpses, the shattered beast, and the three immortals—it was still.

Ye Hua stood slowly, Bai Qian in his arms, but she pushed gently at his chest.

“I’m alright,” she said. “He didn’t win.”

Ye Hua looked her over once more, unwilling to let her go so soon. “He nearly did.”

Nearby, Feng Jiu finally lowered her blades, and staggered to her knees. “Dijun,” she said breathlessly, looking up at Dong Hua. “Took you long enough.”

Dong Hua quirked a brow. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

Feng Jiu coughed. “I nearly died.”

“And yet,” he replied dryly, “you didn’t.”

Across the smoke-cloaked battlefield of the Pelennor Fields, chaos still raged. Mumakil thundered through the fray, orcs swarmed in relentless tides, and the surviving Rohirrim fought with unyielding ferocity.

Theoden, bloodied but unbowed, rallied his men beside Eomer. "Hold fast! Keep the line!"

Then, a distant cry pierced the air not of fear, but of astonishment.

Heads turned.

From the ruined docks of the Anduin, sails had risen like ghostly wings. Ships, black and grim, glided over the river. But it was not orcs that disembarked.

Aragorn leapt from the prow of the first ship, Anduril blazing in his hand. At his back were Legolas and Gimli, and behind them. The dead. Pale and spectral, the Army of the Dead poured out onto the field, a swirling tide of vengeance. They flowed through the orc ranks like wind through leaves, crumbling their enemies with every touch.

The tide of battle shifted in an instant.

Eomer, astride Firefoot, gaped. "What sorcery is this?"

Theoden's eyes shone with sudden hope. "It is not sorcery. It is the sword of Elendil returned."

Elsewhere on the field, Feng Jiu lifted her head, eyes going wide. "They're here," she whispered, and not far behind, Bai Qian stood atop a shattered siege tower, robes rippling in the wind. Her breath caught at the sight of the shimmering green tide.

Aragorn surged through the battlefield, cutting down orcs left and right. Beside him, Legolas was already counting.

"Fifteen, sixteen," the elf muttered, loosing arrows with fluid precision.

Aragorn turned. "Legolas!"

Mumakil bore down on them. Legolas didn’t hesitate. He sprinted forward and leapt, catching the creature’s tusk. With inhuman grace, he swung up onto its back leg, climbing rapidly via embedded arrows. He crested the beast’s back, slaying two Haradrim and kicking a third into the air.

"Thirty-three, thirty-four."

He grabbed a rope and swung down the flank of the beast, slashing at the leather harness. The platform above collapsed, spilling its riders. He clambered back to the top and loosed three arrows into the creature’s skull.

With a groan, it fell.

Legolas rode the trunk down like a sliding ramp, landing gracefully in front of Gimli.

Gimli scowled. "That still only counts as one!"

Legolas gave a faint smirk. But his eyes shifted, and there, across the ruined plain, he spotted her. Feng Jiu. His heart stuttered, but before he could move, he noticed the white-robed woman standing beside a fallen siege tower. Bai Qian. And next to her stood a tall, silver-haired man robed in imperial black, his features cold and elegant as carved jade. His dark eyes glinted with unreadable power, and atop his brow rested a golden coronet shaped like curling flames. Even in stillness, his aura bent the air—unyielding and ancient.

Legolas tensed. "That must be him," he said to Gimli.

"Who?" Gimli grunted, already hacking into another orc.

“Dong Hua."

Gimli laughed. "The silver-haired fox who’s got your lady all flustered?"

Legolas didn’t answer.

And behind her stood Ye Hua—tall and striking in deep black robes embroidered with silver thread, his long dark hair flowing like ink over his shoulders. A faint silver mark adorned his forehead, and his gaze—quiet, steady—held the weight of lifetimes. Power radiated from him in restrained, regal waves. This was no mere mortal. This was a crown prince of a realm beyond the stars.

It was not just the living who fought for Middle-earth now.

Aragorn tightened his grip on Andúril. "Now," he said, voice low. "We end this." And with the dead at their backs, the tide turned in earnest.

The sun was beginning to rise over the shattered plains of Pelennor. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, carrying with it the stench of blood, fire, and death. Bodies lay strewn across the field—orc, man, and beast alike. And among the wounded and weary, Bai Qian stood alone atop a broken stone outcrop, her robes stained with soot, her hair loosened by wind and battle.

She watched as healers moved swiftly across the battlefield. Somewhere in the distance, Theoden’s voice was being carried away on a stretcher, and Feng Jiu stood with Éomer beside a small company of Rohirrim, her breath heavy but her eyes bright.

Behind her, the air shimmered.

She didn’t turn.

“I knew you would come, eventually,” Bai Qian said softly.

His long dark hair trailed behind him like a river of ink, and the silver crescent between his brows glowed faintly in the morning light. He moved with the stillness of mountains, but there was storm in his gaze. His eyes swept over her slowly, lingering on the blood crusting her lips, the tremble in her stance, the exhaustion she could no longer mask

“You fought,” he said at last, his voice low. “You stood before the Witch King himself.”

She turned to him now. “I couldn’t do nothing.”

His jaw clenched. “And if you had died?”

Bai Qian’s expression didn’t shift, but her voice softened. “Then I would’ve died among people who needed me.”

Silence fell between them.

Ye Hua stepped closer, close enough to reach out—but didn’t. “Why haven’t you come home?”

Bai Qian’s breath caught. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then she looked out toward the remnants of the battlefield.

“Because I couldn’t leave,” she said. “Not while Boromir still fought. Not while his brother bled and these people stood against darkness with nothing but courage in their hands.”

“That’s not your duty,” Ye Hua snapped, sharper than before. “Your people are in the Nine Heavens. Your place is there—with me.”

She blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “Ye Hua—”

“You were born among stars. You were not meant to die among swords,” he pressed, voice rising with tightly leashed frustration. “You don’t belong here. These mortals—this man—they don’t understand what you are. They never could.”

Her eyes narrowed, but he continued.

“I came for you once,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll come for you again. How long will you keep me waiting? How long will you keep our son waiting?”

At that, she flinched.

Ye Hua lowered his voice, intense and low. “I thought I’d given you time to decide. But I see now, you’ve been choosing every moment to stay with him.”

Bai Qian’s lips parted, but no words came. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides.

“Tell me,” Ye Hua demanded, softer now but no less fierce. “Tell me that you don’t love him.”

She didn’t answer.

Something flickered in Ye Hua’s eyes—anger, yes, but also pain.

And that was when Bai Qian spoke.

“You married SuSu,” she said quietly.

Ye Hua froze.

“You loved her,” Bai Qian went on. “A mortal woman. You brought her into your realm, into your palace. You defied your station, your fate, for her. Even when she couldn’t remember who you were. Even after she jumped.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “That was you—”

“No,” she said, firm and unwavering. “She was not me. She may have shared my face, my soul. But SuSu was her own person. She lived a life of pain and silence—and you loved her. Even when it cost her everything.”

“I never meant to—”

“I know,” Bai Qian said, her voice softening for the first time. “But she jumped because of you. Because of Su Jin. And you still tried to bring her back.” She looked away then, toward the horizon. Toward the remnants of battle. Toward the fading cries of the wounded.

“So don’t ask me to pretend I don’t understand what this is,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to forget the man who gave everything and asked for nothing.”

She turned back to him.

“You don’t get to have SuSu and then demand I abandon Boromir.”

They stood in silence, the wind tugging at their robes, at the silence stretched thin between them.

Finally, Ye Hua nodded. Once. Slowly.

“I will wait.”

Bai Qian blinked, her eyes suddenly wet.

“I will wait,” he repeated. “For however long it takes. When your time here ends—when he passes from this world—I will be there.”

She stepped forward, voice gentler now. ““One day in our world is a lifetime here. What will you do in the meantime?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Rule.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “Then take care of our realm,” she said. “And I will take care of this one.”

He bowed his head. “As you command, High Goddess.”

And Bai Qian turned from him—not out of disrespect, but to face what still lay ahead.

Feng Jiu stood alone near the edge of a broken siege cart, her blades sheathed at her back, twin tails flickering behind her with restless energy. Her hair was disheveled, her robes smudged with ash, and the phoenix birthmark on her forehead shimmered faintly in the dying light. She watched the horizon with narrowed eyes, as though daring the sky to test her again.

“Are you finished pretending you’re invincible?”

The voice drifted in—cool, quiet, unmistakable.

Feng Jiu stiffened. She turned slowly, and there he was.

Dong Hua Dijun. He stood just as she remembered him—tall and elegant in his pale robes, silver-white hair falling smoothly around his shoulders, the faint curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth barely hiding the calculation behind those dark eyes.

“I don’t remember summoning you,” she said, lifting her chin.

“You didn’t,” he replied smoothly, stepping closer. “But your aunt did. And then, so did you—when you nearly died facing a Nazgûl.”

Feng Jiu scoffed lightly. “That was barely a scrape.”

“Your scrape left you coughing blood onto a battlefield.” His tone was mild, but the look in his eyes was sharp. “Forgive me if I found that... worth investigating.”

She folded her arms. “So you came because you were worried?”

“I came,” Dong Hua said, “because it seems I must keep my eye on you if I don’t want you throwing yourself in front of flying wraith beasts and armies of darkness.”

Feng Jiu blinked. “You sound like someone who cares.”

“I do. But I find your definition of ‘self-preservation’ concerning.”

There was silence between them for a moment. Then, softer: “I thought you didn’t like reckless women,” she murmured.

“I said I didn’t like foolish ones,” he corrected. “Reckless, on the other hand, can be... fascinating. When it isn’t suicidal.”

Feng Jiu turned her face away before he could see the slight flush on her cheeks. “So,” she said. “Now that you’ve come to scold me, will you be leaving?”

Dong Hua tilted his head. “No.”

She glanced back at him, startled.

“I’ve decided to stay for a while.”

“You? In the mortal realm?”

“I’m curious,” he said. “I want to see what has your devotion. And whether it’s earned.” His gaze flickered ever so briefly toward the distance, where Rohirrim soldiers moved among the debris—then paused, ever so subtly, on one particular elven figure. Legolas stood there, not far from Eomer, speaking with Aragorn. The sunlight glinted off his pale hair and carved bow.

Dong Hua’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

She flushed deeper.

“Still avoiding me, little fox?”

“I am not,” she lied, instantly.

Dong Hua’s smile widened, slow and fox-like. “Good. Then we’ll have that long overdue conversation soon.”

“I’m very busy, you know. There are still orcs somewhere. And undead. And—mud. Lots of mud,” she said, grasping for excuses.

“You can keep hiding behind excuses,” he said gently. “But I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

Feng Jiu exhaled slowly, her chest tightening. She didn’t reach for him. Not yet. But she didn’t run either.

And that, for now, was enough.

As the battlefield began to settle, the clang of swords fading beneath the cries of the wounded and the shuffle of men regrouping, Legolas stepped back from a fallen foe, bow still in hand. His keen eyes scanned the field—until they stopped.

Not far off, Feng Jiu was speaking to a tall, silver-haired man clad in pale robes, his hands folded behind his back. The glow of power shimmered faintly around him, as though the world itself bent to his presence. Dong Hua.

Legolas's gaze lingered on Feng Jiu, only for Dong Hua’s head to turn—slowly, precisely. Their eyes met.

There was nothing overt in Dong Hua’s expression. No fury, no sneer. Only the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the faint tilt of his head.

And yet Legolas felt it. That look. That glare.

 “Legolas,” came Gimli’s voice beside him, cheerful despite the grime on his helmet. “That him then? The silver-haired princeling?”

Legolas didn’t answer. His posture tensed.

Gimli followed his gaze. “Hmph. He looks like he’s about to skin you with his eyes. I like him already.”

Legolas narrowed his own eyes slightly. “He hasn’t earned your favor yet.”

“Oh, I don’t like him,” Gimli corrected with a chuckle. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Just then, Aragorn strode up beside them, grim and mud-spattered. He followed Legolas’s gaze and spoke quietly.

“Ye Hua is there too,” he said, nodding toward Bai Qian, who stood not far from Feng Jiu. “Her betrothed.”

Legolas’s jaw clenched slightly.

Aragorn added, “I’ve seen her wield divine power, cut through darkness itself—but I’ve never seen her hesitate. Not until he returned.”

Gimli glanced between the elf and the celestial lord, stroking his beard. “Well, this’ll be fun,” he muttered. “Let’s hope the next battle doesn’t start with two immortals and an elf in a pissing match.”

Legolas said nothing. But his gaze didn’t waver.

And neither did Dong Hua’s.

The smoke over Pelennor still hadn’t cleared.

Ash drifted like snow over the wounded fields. Somewhere in the distance, the cries of the dying mingled with the hurried tread of healers and the creak of carts. Victory had come, but it hadn’t come clean.

Bai Qian stood at the edge of a broken courtyard, robes torn, blood dried along her collarbone, wind catching in her unbound hair. She said nothing as Boromir approached—only turned when his presence filled the silence behind her.

She looked tired. Still regal, still the high goddess of her realm—but worn. And haunted.

He stopped several paces away.

“You didn’t tell me he would come.” His voice was low. Not accusing. But it cut through the quiet like a blade.

Her lips parted. “I didn’t know for certain he would.”

Boromir’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “And yet… he did.”

She looked away. “Yes. That was Ye Hua.”

Silence stretched between them, made longer by everything unspoken.

Boromir stepped closer, but not too close. “You died for me,” he said. “But for him… you lived. You stayed.”

Bai Qian’s breath caught faintly. She turned to face him fully now, the wind tugging at her sleeves. “I chose to stay here. Even when I was weak. Even when he offered to take me back.”

“And why?” he asked. Not bitter—but wounded, deeply. “Because you love me? Or because you didn’t know how to say goodbye?”

Her expression faltered. “I love you.”

“But you belonged to another world. To him. You always did.”

Bai Qian looked at him then, and her voice was softer than a whisper. “But it was you who gave me life.”

Boromir exhaled, sharp and quiet, like the breath had been punched from him. “Maybe I’m a fool,” he said. “To ask a goddess to stay in the dust with me.”

Her voice caught. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” he murmured. “I look at him, and I see forever. I look at us, and I see the end.”

“Not yet,” she said, stepping forward. “Don’t take it away before time does.”

He didn’t speak. He only reached up, as if to touch her—but stopped short, hand hovering beside her cheek before falling away.

“I need time,” he said, voice rough. “To think. To breathe.”

Bai Qian nodded, slowly. They stood there—together, yet not. Close, but changed.

After the chaos of war, the city stood still—its white stone walls scorched, its people weary, and its defenders caught in the echo of what had nearly been their last stand.

Boromir stood atop the battlements, his hands resting on the cold parapet. Below, the courtyard hummed with quiet activity—soldiers training again, carts hauling supplies, healers moving between the wounded. Life had returned, but he felt none of it.

He hadn’t spoken to her since the Witch King fell.

Not since Ye Hua arrived.

Not since the world cracked open again and reminded him who she really was.

He caught glimpses of her at times—crossing the garden paths with robes trailing like mist, or lingering by the healers’ tents—but they hadn’t spoken.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she’d say.

He stood on the ramparts, watching the dawn break in pale gold over the ruins of Pelennor. His sword hung at his side, forgotten, as soldiers shuffled past with bandaged arms and weary steps.

Bai Qian walked the opposite direction, her robes catching faint embers in the wind. For a moment, their eyes met across the corridor of broken stone.

He took one step toward her.

She looked at him—tired, unreadable.

And then she looked away.

Boromir stopped mid-step. His hand fell back to his side.

Bai Qian sat beneath one of the city’s olive trees, where a patch of sun filtered down through broken stone.

She wasn’t alone.

A-Li had appeared at dawn, a streak of white and green bounding through the halls like a tiny whirlwind. The moment he saw her, he'd run into her arms, hugging her tightly and declaring that Ye Hua had finally let him come visit (no sneaking or coercing an uncle necessary). She hadn't questioned how he'd gotten here—some things were better left unspoken when the heart needed them.

Now, he sat cross-legged beside her in the grass, building a makeshift fortress with pebbles and discarded bits of carved stone.

“It’s not very strong,” he said, scowling at a crumbling side. “But it’ll hold if I pretend hard enough.”

Bai Qian brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “Sometimes pretending is all we have,” she said softly. “Until we find something real again.”

A-Li glanced up at her. “Is uncle Boromir mad at you?”

Her breath caught. “No,” she said, after a moment. “Just… sad.”

“Did you tell him you love him?”

She blinked down at him, surprised by his directness.

“I can tell,” A-Li added with a sage little nod. “You always talk softer when it’s him. Like you don’t want to break something.”

Bai Qian looked away, toward the distant towers and the men moving across them like shadows. “I did tell him,” she said quietly. “But maybe not in the way that matters.”

A-Li reached for her hand, slipping his small fingers into hers. “Then tell him again. Grown-ups make everything harder than it needs to be.”

She gave a faint laugh. “We do, don’t we?”

They sat together, sunlight tangled in their hair, as the wind carried the sound of practice swords clashing in the distance.

The light was fading when Faramir found Boromir seated on the steps outside the Hall of Kings, a whetstone scraping softly along the edge of his blade. The steady rhythm of it echoed faintly through the stone courtyard, as if even the walls could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Faramir approached without a word, then leaned against a pillar nearby.

"You missed the meal," he said quietly.

Boromir didn’t look up. “I wasn’t hungry.”

"You were thinking," Faramir said.

Boromir paused mid-stroke. "And brooding, I suppose?"

Faramir gave a small smile. “Well, if the boot fits.”

Silence stretched between them for a time. Then Faramir stepped down and sat beside his brother. After a moment:

“You love her.”

The whetstone stopped. Boromir stared at the blade in his lap. “It’s not simple.”

Faramir’s voice was calm, but sure. “No. But it's still true.”

Boromir looked at him then, his jaw set. “She doesn’t belong here, Faramir. She’s not like us. She comes from something… older. Greater. She has a son, a realm, a man who’s waited longer than I’ve drawn breath. What right have I?”

Faramir’s gaze was steady. “The right she gave you, when she chose to stay.”

Boromir’s hands tightened. “And if I ask her to stay again? If I offer her nothing but war and ruins while another man promises her stars? What if all I do is take?”

Faramir’s reply came gently. “Then let her say so. But don’t deny her the choice.”

Boromir didn’t speak.

“I’ve seen the way she watches you,” Faramir went on. “Not as one who pities, or one who owes a debt. She looks at you like a woman who has already made her decision.”

Boromir slowly sheathed the blade. He looked out over the quiet city. “If I ask,” he said, almost to himself, “and she turns away…”

Faramir stood with him. “Then you face that as you've faced all things—with honor.”

Boromir exhaled, steadying his voice. “It would be easier if I didn’t love her.”

Faramir offered a faint, knowing smile. “But not half so real.”

The sun had almost vanished behind the broken walls of Minas Tirith. A hush had fallen over the courtyard gardens—what little greenery remained untouched by fire or ruin. Bai Qian stood near the edge of a marble balustrade, her gaze distant, robes rippling faintly in the breeze.

Feng Jiu found her there, quiet as snowfall, carrying two cups of tea she'd somehow convinced a soldier to steep properly. She held one out.

“You’re brooding,” Feng Jiu said.

“I’m thinking,” Bai Qian replied, accepting the cup with a quiet nod.

Feng Jiu raised a brow. “That’s what Dong Hua Dijun says when he’s avoiding a real answer too.”

Bai Qian’s lips twitched, but she said nothing.

They stood in silence for a moment, sipping. The wind carried the smell of ash and chamomile.

“You haven’t spoken to him,” Feng Jiu said at last.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I will.”

Feng Jiu leaned against the railing beside her. “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bai Qian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned her cup in her hands, her fingers brushing the ceramic edge.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said quietly. “I didn’t seek it out.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bai Qian looked down. “I love him,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it simple.”

“No,” Feng Jiu said. “It doesn’t.”

She hesitated, then added, “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Like you’re the answer to every question he’s never dared to ask.”

Bai Qian sighed. “And yet… I am not his answer. Not fully. Not without cost.”

Feng Jiu tilted her head. “And Ye Hua?”

A pause.

Bai Qian’s voice was calm. “He is my past. He knows every thread of who I was. And I will always… carry something of him in me. But what I feel for Boromir—it is not born of duty or history. It is present. Living.”

“You don’t owe Ye Hua your future just because you shared a past,” Feng Jiu said, softly. “He chose you once, even when you had no memory of him. Maybe now… you get to choose, too.”

There was a long silence.

Then Bai Qian said, “And if I choose wrong?”

Feng Jiu smiled faintly. “You’ve been alive longer than the foundations of this city, Gou Gou. You made a thousand right choices just to get here.”

She set her cup down gently.

“I think this one will be no different.”

Bai Qian looked at her then, and something in her eyes—something tired, but sure—finally softened.

“I taught you too well,” she murmured.

Feng Jiu grinned. “That’s what I keep telling people.”

The Great Hall of Minas Tirith stood quiet save for the wind whispering through its broken arches. The golden light of the rising sun spilled through the high windows, catching on the polished edge of Andúril where it rested at Aragorn’s hip.

Gathered around a war-torn map were Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Éomer—and now, Boromir.

He stood at Aragorn’s side, one gauntleted hand braced against the stone table, his jaw set in grim resolve.

On the other side of the chamber, Bai Qian lingered with A-Li quietly tucked against her robes. Her son watched the proceedings with wide, dark eyes, clinging to the hem of her sleeve. Feng Jiu stood just behind them, arms crossed, her red cloak torn and soot-stained from Pelennor.

Gandalf broke the silence.

“Frodo has passed beyond my sight.”

He moved slowly across the hall, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his steps.

“The darkness is deepening.”

Aragorn lifted his gaze. “If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it.”

Gandalf’s eyes flicked to him. “It is only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes—but behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy regroups.”

“Let him stay there!” Gimli grumbled, thumping the end of his axe on the stone. “Let him rot! Why should we care what the wretch does behind his gates?”

Gandalf rounded on him, eyes flashing. “Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.”

Gimli fell silent, troubled.

“I’ve sent him to his death,” Gandalf said quietly.

“No.” Aragorn stepped forward. “There is still hope for Frodo. He needs time—and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

Gimli frowned. “How?”

“Draw out Sauron’s armies,” Aragorn answered. “Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength… and march on the Black Gate.”

Gimli choked on his pipe smoke. “You’re mad.”

Éomer’s voice was quieter, but no less pointed. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.”

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn said. “But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s eye fixed upon us. Blind to all else that moves.”

Legolas’s voice cut in, thoughtful. “A diversion.”

Gimli huffed. “Certainty of death… small chance of success… what are we waiting for?”

A laugh escaped Feng Jiu despite herself. “Now that’s the kind of optimism I respect.”

Bai Qian said nothing. She stared at the map—at the great black gate inked into its eastern edge.

“Sauron will suspect a trap,” Gandalf warned. “He will not take the bait.”

Aragorn looked up, gaze steady.

“Oh, I think he will.”

The room fell silent.

Boromir’s eyes slowly slid toward Bai Qian. Her expression remained unreadable. Cool, composed. She hadn’t spoken. Not once.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Beside her, A-Li looked up, worried, sensing something unspoken in the air.

Faramir stood in the shadows near the back of the room. He had said nothing since arriving. But his eyes were on his brother.

Gandalf drew in a breath. “Then it is decided.”

“We march,” Aragorn said. “We give Frodo his chance.”

Boromir turned away first, pulling on his gauntlets. Bai Qian gathered A-Li into her arms without a word. She turned just as Boromir passed her—close enough to touch.

But he didn’t.

And neither did she.

Feng Jiu’s eyes darted between them, brow furrowing. She opened her mouth—then shut it again.

For now, the rift remained unspoken.

But it was there.

The camps outside Minas Tirith were alive with motion. Soldiers sharpened blades. Horses were saddled. Armor clinked like distant thunder. Beneath the smoke-stained skies, war stirred once again. And yet, behind the ruined arches of the citadel’s outer courtyard, a quieter storm was brewing.

Bai Qian stood beneath the withered branches of the White Tree, her robes faded with ash and exhaustion. Her hands trembled slightly—still recovering from the Witch King’s black breath—but her chin remained lifted. Steady. Regal.

Across from her stood Ye Hua, cloaked in silver-threaded black, A-Li at his side. The boy clutched his father’s hand, peeking between the folds of the long robe to glance at his mother.

“I’m taking him home,” Ye Hua said softly. “This realm is no place for a child.”

Bai Qian nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

She dropped to one knee. Not in defeat. Not in weakness. But in love.

Ye Hua’s eyes widened.

“Qian Qian…”

“I cannot go with him. Not yet.” Her voice cracked, and still she looked up at him. “And I cannot fight this final battle. But you can. You have power—strength beyond any who walk this land.”

Ye Hua said nothing. A-Li clutched tighter to his hand.

Bai Qian’s voice softened. “I am not asking this as a high goddess. Or as your betrothed. I am asking as a woman… who gave her heart to both realms.”

She looked toward the east, toward the Black Gate waiting at the edge of ruin.

“He will be there. And I… I will not. I can’t. Please, Ye Hua. Let this be your gift to me.”

Still, Ye Hua said nothing. His expression unreadable. And then, gently, he reached down—touched her shoulder.

“I will take him home,” he said quietly of A-Li. “And then we shall see.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze.

Bai Qian bowed her head, a storm rising behind her eyes.

Just beyond the stone colonnade, Feng Jiu leaned against a pillar, pink robes trailing across the stone. Her twin blades were sheathed at her back, and there was weariness in every line of her body.

Dong Hua appeared without a sound, as if the air itself had drawn him forth. His silver hair shimmered faintly in the half-light, and he surveyed her with calm detachment… though his gaze lingered longer than it should have.

“You look terrible,” he said.

Feng Jiu scoffed. “You say that like I didn’t just fight a flying corpse monster.”

A beat.

Then, without preamble, she pushed off the pillar and stepped toward him.

“Will you fight?” she asked, voice raw. “Not because fate says so. Not because the scrolls demand it. Just this once… will you fight because I love them?”

Dong Hua tilted his head. “Them?”

Feng Jiu narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play coy.”

Another pause. His eyes flicked briefly to the horizon. And then—subtly, unmistakably—they flicked to where Legolas stood in the distance, conferring with Gimli and Aragorn.

Feng Jiu caught it. She folded her arms and raised a brow. “Jealous?”

“No,” Dong Hua said with a serene blankness. “Annoyed.”

She tried to smirk, but her lips trembled.

He didn’t answer. Not yes. Not no.

But when he turned, his coat stirred with power.

And she knew… he was thinking about it.

Chapter Text

The sun had just begun to rise again—soft and pink against the battered towers of Minas Tirith—when the time came for parting. In a quiet garden tucked between the outer barracks and the Houses of Healing, A-Li stood with his small satchel slung over one shoulder, trying his best not to pout. His little brows were furrowed in concentration, determined to be brave. Ye Hua waited nearby, arms folded, silent and patient. But even he seemed slower than usual to rush his son along.

Feng Jiu knelt in front of A-Li, adjusting the tiny clasps of his cloak. “Don’t cause mischief when you get home,” she said with mock sternness.

“I won’t,” A-Li promised, then beamed. “But can I tell Uncle Zhe Yan I saw a giant elephant monster with eight people on top of it?”

Feng Jiu chuckled. “Absolutely.”

Then he surprised her—throwing tiny arms around her neck. “Bye, Auntie Feng Jiu,” he whispered.

She hugged him tight. “Be good, little dumpling.”

A-Li turned next, racing toward a tall figure in green and black armor.

“Uncle Aragorn!”

Aragorn turned in time to catch the boy as he collided with him. A-Li hugged his middle, and the ranger's expression softened. “You were very brave,” he said quietly. “Your mother fights with a lion’s heart. You will, too.”

A-Li looked up, wide-eyed. “Can I be a ranger too someday?”

Aragorn smiled faintly. “One day, you’ll be more than I ever was.”

Next was Legolas. A-Li practically bounced toward him, stopping just short to gape in admiration. “You’re so fast,” he said. “You climbed that giant mumakil like it was a tree!”

Legolas crouched to his level. “Trees are easier.”

“Will you teach me to shoot arrows?”

“Would you promise never to aim them at your father?”

A-Li laughed. “Promise!”

Legolas placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head in Elvish fashion. A-Li imitated him with perfect, giggling solemnity.

Then came Gimli. The dwarf eyed A-Li warily as the boy approached… then startled as A-Li wrapped his arms around his waist.

“You’re funny,” A-Li declared. “I like you.”

Gimli harrumphed, beard twitching. “Of course you do, lad. You’ve got taste.”

A-Li reached into his satchel and pulled out a small, shiny pebble. “For your collection.”

Gimli blinked, touched. “Well. That’s… thank you.”

“Put it next to Uncle Legolas' score.”

Gimli chortled so hard he nearly lost his balance.

Boromir and Faramir approached together, the former still bearing the fatigue of command and war while the latter was clean and bore bandages. When A-Li trotted toward them, their expressions eased.

“You came back for my mother,” A-Li said to Boromir, quiet now. 

Boromir knelt and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I promised her would.”

A-Li tugged on Boromir's dirtied and tattered cloak, causing the Gondor captain to kneel down. The boy then cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, "Do you love my mother?"

Boromirs eyes softened as he looked into A-Li's eyes. “Aye,” he said in a soft voice, only for the two of them to hear. "I love your mother very much, lad."

Faramir smiled down at him as his brother straightened up. “You are your mother’s son,” he told A-Li.

“I know,” the boy grinned. “She tells me all the time.”

“Smart woman,” Faramir said, glancing toward Bai Qian in the distance.

Then A-Li hesitated. He turned, scanning the battlefield, searching—and finally spotted the golden armor and long blond hair of one last friend.

“Uncle Eomer!”

The Marshal of the Riddermark turned, surprised, as A-Li sprinted toward him and stopped with a hop.

“You have the best horse.”

Eomer raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

A-Li nodded seriously. “If I get a horse, I want one just like Firefoot. Fast. Brave. Pretty.”

Eomer, stunned, looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or salute. “That… can be arranged.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A-Li looked at all of them, the brave men who’d stood beside his mother and aunt. He gave a tiny bow. “I liked meeting you all,” he said. “Thank you for keeping my mother and auntie safe.” And then he turned, running back to Ye Hua, whose arms opened without hesitation.

A final wave from A-Li’s small hand. And then, with a swirl of wind and shimmering magic, father and son vanished from Middle-earth. But behind them, every man they left behind stood a little straighter. And perhaps, for a moment, the weight of the coming war felt just a little lighter.

The moon hung low over Minas Tirith, veiled in clouds like a weary eye refusing to close. The city slept in uneasy silence, its breath held before the coming storm. Down below, the camps of Gondor and Rohan stretched in rows of flickering firelight—swords being sharpened, armor checked, quiet murmurs between men who might not see another sunrise.

Above it all, Bai Qian stood alone upon a high stone terrace, her robes whispering in the breeze. The jade-and-amber comb in her hair was half-loosened. She looked toward the east—toward the looming darkness that cloaked Mordor—and said nothing. Footsteps echoed behind her. She didn’t turn. She already knew who it was.

Boromir’s shadow joined hers at the balustrade. He didn’t speak at first, only stood beside her, the wind tugging lightly at the folds of his cloak. Silence stretched—not cold, not warm, but uncertain. Something had shifted between them—after Ye Hua’s return, after A-Li’s farewell. It wasn’t brokenness, but it wasn’t quite mended either. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the stone.

“He’s a remarkable boy.”

She looked at him, puzzled for a beat—until she realized.

“A-Li.”

He nodded. “Bright. Fearless. Polite even when he’s making everyone feel like they’re the children instead.”

That brought the faintest smile to her lips. “He’s a prince of the Nine Heavens.”

Boromir chuckled softly. “That explains the wisdom. But not the heart. That, I think, he gets from you.”

She glanced away at that, touched.

“I never imagined myself with a child,” Boromir went on, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t something I thought was meant for me. My life’s been… swords. Stones. Duty. And yet—” He paused. “When I saw him, following you around like he’d known you forever, it made me wonder. What if there was a different kind of legacy? One not written in war.”

Bai Qian turned toward him slowly. “You would’ve made a good father,” she said.

Boromir gave a slight, self-conscious smile. “You say that like the story’s already ended.”

She hesitated, then reached for his hand. Their fingers met—cool and steady, a silent bridge across the distance between them. “I don’t know what lies ahead,” she said. “But if there is a future for either of us… I want to walk it beside you.”

He looked at her. “Even if that path is short?”

“Even if it’s only tomorrow,” she said. “It’s still ours.”

Their hands tightened together.

“When we ride,” Boromir said, his voice rough with something like hope, “I’ll carry that with me.”

Bai Qian stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his. “Then make sure you return to me.”

He turned to her—no kiss, no declaration—but something even heavier passed between them.

A promise.

And in the hush before dawn, the High Goddess of Qing Qiu and the Heir of Gondor stood together in borrowed peace, holding fast to what little time the world might still give them.

Ash and smoke veiled the sky as the Host of the West stood before the Black Gate of Mordor. They were few, too few—no more than seven thousand Men against a darkness that stretched beyond the horizon. But they stood tall: Gondor’s white banners lifted beside Rohan’s golden sun, fluttering in a wind that reeked of ruin and fire.

Pippin looked out nervously from among the ranks. His small fingers clutched the hilt of his sword.

“Where are they?” he whispered, scanning the barren land before the gate.

Aragorn did not answer. He urged his horse forward, and with him rode Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Éomer, Boromir, and the standard bearer. The riders moved in solemn unity, the crunch of hooves upon blackened gravel the only sound in the choking silence.

The gates loomed like the jaws of a beast, unmoving, until they began to open. A groan split the air as iron parted.

The army tensed.

From the shadow emerged a figure cloaked in dark armor, his twisted helm hiding most of his ravaged face. He rode with disdain, his steed black as coal. When he halted before them, it was with the casual air of one who held all power.

“My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome,” the rider rasped. His mouth moved too broadly, as if torn too wide—grotesque and grinning beneath his helm.

Aragorn and Legolas stared at him in disgust, saying nothing.

“Is there any in this rabble with authority to treat with me?” the creature sneered.

Gandalf rode forward, staff gleaming faintly. “We do not come to treat with Sauron,” he said coldly, “faithless and accursed. Tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.”

A cruel laugh rang out. “Aha… old Greybeard,” the Mouth of Sauron hissed. “I have a token I was bidden to show thee.” He reached beneath his cloak and drew out something silver, something delicate and small. He held it aloft.

A gleaming mithril shirt.

The breath caught in Gandalf’s throat.

From behind him, Pippin cried out, “Frodo!”

And again, louder—“Frodo!”

“Silence,” Gandalf barked, but his own voice shook.

The Mouth of Sauron cast the shirt toward the wizard, who caught it.

“No,” Merry whispered, horror dawning in his eyes.

“I said silence!” Gandalf snapped again—but his voice cracked.

The Mouth of Sauron leaned forward. “The Halfling was dear to thee, I see. Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain?” He grinned with relish. “And he did, Gandalf. Oh yes, he did.”

Tears rimmed Gandalf’s eyes.

There was a tense beat of silence. The air hung heavy.

Then Boromir moved.

He spurred his horse forward and leveled his gaze at the emissary. “You lie,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

The Mouth of Sauron turned to him.

“I was there when the halfling fled Osgiliath,” Boromir said. “I saw the strength in him. You could not break that spirit. Not with flame nor claw.”

The Mouth of Sauron tilted his head. “And who is this? Another heir to a broken kingdom?”

Aragorn’s voice rang out behind him. “He is Boromir, Captain of the White Tower. Son of Gondor. And I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” He urged his horse forward, eyes burning.

The Mouth of Sauron sneered. “Isildur’s heir? It takes more than a broken Elvish blade to make a King.”

And before the last word left his mouth—Andúril flashed. Aragorn drew and struck in one motion. The Mouth of Sauron’s head tumbled from his shoulders, helm clattering, mouth still twisted in its final, mocking grin. His body slumped in silence.

No one spoke.

Until—

“Well,” Gimli said dryly, adjusting his grip on his axe, “I guess that concludes negotiations.”

Aragorn turned back to them, voice calm but fierce. “I do not believe it,” he said. “I will not.” His gaze flicked to Gandalf… to Legolas… and lastly, to Boromir, who gave a grim nod.

Silence lingered—unnatural, almost suffocating—as if even Mordor itself was stunned by Aragorn’s defiance. Then the Black Gate shuddered. A deep, grinding groan echoed across the plain as the great doors began to swing open—slowly, deliberately. From within, a tide of darkness poured forth. Orcs by the thousands. Trolls with jagged blades. Siege beasts. Wargs. A force vast enough to drown them in iron and ash.

Gandalf’s expression darkened. Legolas and Gimli immediately turned their steeds around, galloping back toward their companies. Éomer shouted to the Rohirrim. The signal went out.

“Horses back!” came the call. “Form on foot! Prepare for ground engagement!”

Soldiers dismounted swiftly and with practiced ease, forming ranks with shields raised and spears lowered. The Fellowship followed suit, their horses reined and handed off to the rear as they stepped into the front line. Aragorn dismounted last, sliding from his saddle with the grace of a seasoned warrior. Andúril gleamed in his hand. Boromir was at his side, shield already raised. He gave a short nod—not to Aragorn, but to the shadows growing menacingly with each second, resolve burning in his eyes. 

Aragorn took a step forward, standing now at the head of it all—the last hope of Men. He looked down. For the briefest second, doubt passed behind his eyes. The weight of it. The hopelessness. And then he smiled. Faint, resolute. He turned to the soldiers at his back—Dúnedain, Rohirrim, sons of Gondor. His gaze lingered on Boromir, on Gimli, on Legolas… and then dropped to Pippin.

“For Frodo."

And then he ran, sword poised to strike.

Pippin and Merry surged after him, a fraction of a heartbeat behind—small, wide-eyed, but fearless. Then Gimli, axe bared and teeth clenched. Boromir took one step, then another, shield raised and sword flashing, a low roar building in his throat.

The rest followed. The Host of the West charged as one. Their boots thundered across the scorched plain, the world narrowing to that final, impossible sprint toward ruin. Before them, the armies of Mordor spilled out of the gate like black water—orc after orc, troll after troll, a churning wave of death.

But the Men of the West did not falter. Swords clashed. Screams rose. The world erupted into chaos and steel.

Boromir slammed into the first line of orcs with a savage yell, his shield bashing one aside as he drove his blade through another. He turned, parried, swept wide, covering Pippin’s flank. “Stay close!” he barked, and the hobbit nodded fiercely, blade trembling but raised.

Aragorn fought like a storm. Andúril sang with every strike, cutting down foes left and right. Gimli grunted beside him, counting loudly as his axe bit into orc after orc.

“Thirty-five! Thirty-six!”

Legolas danced through the carnage, arrows spent, now slashing with his twin knives. “Try to keep up,” he called, though his voice was winded with effort.

And still, more poured from the Black Gate. Trolls roared as they lumbered forward, swinging massive hammers. One caught a Rohirrim soldier in the side and sent him flying. Another raised its club toward Aragorn—but Boromir was faster, shoving him clear and hurling his shield like a discus into the beast’s face.

“You’re not dying today,” Boromir snapped.

“And neither are you,” Aragorn said, clapping him on the shoulder as they turned back to the fray.

The Fellowship held fast at the center, but the circle was closing. The army of Mordor surrounded them on all sides now, a ring of fire and shadow, pressing tighter with each breath. The soldiers of Gondor and Rohan bled to hold the line. They fought with desperation, but the enemy was without end.

And then—

The sky shifted.

A sound rolled across the battlefield—not a horn, not a scream, but something older. Primal. A thunderclap of power that made even the orcs hesitate.

Boromir paused, panting, his sword slick with black blood.

“What in the name of—?” Gimli muttered.

Legolas lifted his head sharply, eyes narrowing.

Aragorn looked eastward, past the gate, toward the burning horizon.

From the high terraces of Minas Tirith, where broken stone still bore the soot of siege and fire, Bai Qian stood in silence. The wind stirred her pale robes, tugged at the ends of her long hair. Below, the plains of Pelennor stretched toward the black horizon—where two armies had now met in a storm of dust and shadow. The Black Gate had opened. Death itself seemed to spill from it.

Beside her, Feng Jiu stood with her hands clenched around the parapet, red robes fluttering as she squinted toward the distant battle. Her twin blades hung at her sides, but for once she had no desire to draw them. Not yet.

“Do you think they’ll come?” she asked, her voice quiet, uncertain.

Bai Qian didn’t answer right away. Her gaze never left the smoke-laced horizon. “We can only hope, little fox,” she said at last. 

Feng Jiu looked down, teeth tugging at her lower lip. “They wouldn’t just let them die. Would they?”

“They’re not heartless,” Bai Qian murmured. “But they are gods. Their love has always been weighed against time, duty, consequence.” She said it softly. Perhaps even to herself.

Feng Jiu fell silent. The wind carried the distant roar of battle—the sound of mortal courage meeting impossible odds.

A rustle behind them broke the quiet.

Faramir, who had been resting once the Fellowship had left for the Black Gates, had stirred. He sat now on one of the stone benches in the garden just beyond, a blanket draped over his shoulders, Eowyn beside him. She leaned into him slightly, one hand resting over his heart, her head tilted so her golden hair brushed his jaw. He said something—too low to hear—and she smiled. A real smile, small and tired and utterly unguarded. She reached up and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

Feng Jiu blinked, her breath catching. “They’re… kind of sweet.”

Bai Qian’s eyes softened. “They deserve to be.”

Feng Jiu tilted her head. “You know, Eowyn told me once that all her life she wanted to fight. She wanted to stand where the men stood, prove herself. But when she finally did—when she fought and bled and nearly died—she realized that glory wasn’t what she thought it would be. That being seen… being loved… it could be quiet. Gentle.”

Bai Qian nodded, watching them. “Faramir loved his father. Wanted his approval. But Denethor… he only ever had eyes for Boromir. He called Faramir weak. Foolish. Unworthy. Even when Faramir bled for this city, it was never enough.”

Feng Jiu’s brows furrowed. “That’s awful.”

Bai Qian nodded. “Boromir tried to shield him. To protect him from the worst of it. But that made Denethor resent him, too.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, watching as Eowyn gently rested her head on Faramir’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, and his hand slid into hers.

“Still,” Bai Qian murmured, “there’s something beautiful in how he’s healing. In how she is.”

Feng Jiu smiled faintly. “Maybe they were meant to find each other. At the end of the world.”

Bai Qian breathed a soft laugh through her nose. “Sometimes, the end is where the truest beginnings are born.”

“Maybe,” Feng Jiu said, voice tender. “Maybe they’re what peace will look like when this is over.”

The wind shifted again—stronger, colder, laced with something other.

Feng Jiu straightened, turning back toward the east. Bai Qian’s fingers curled slightly on the stone rail.

Hope was fragile.

But it wasn’t gone yet.

The Black Gate trembled—but not from siege, not from steel. A crack of radiant silver split the sky above Mordor like a divine wound. Wind screamed. Shadow recoiled. Even the Eye itself faltered in its gaze. And from that breach, they descended.

Four figures stepped into Middle-earth like falling stars. Their arrival brought silence, even among the clamor of war.

Ye Hua led them—clad in robes of deep black, stitched with silver clouds and dragons. The crown of the Eastern Green Dragon shimmered against his brow. He moved with an unearthly calm, the sword Cheng Ying glinting in his hand like frozen starlight. Every step was weightless. Every swing, precise. He fought not with rage, but conviction.

Dong Hua followed—pale as moonlight, his long silver hair unbound. Cold and composed, he wielded the Canghe Sword, its blade cutting with the clean elegance of snow falling on stone. He moved like winter’s judgment: efficient, merciless, silent.

Li Song came third, grinning like the chaos itself. With kind eyes and wind-slicked armor, he spun through enemy ranks with poetic ferocity. His sword was swift, unpredictable—matched only by the laughter he carried into battle.

Cheng Yu brought up the rear, her blue robes flaring as she landed in a crouch, spear spinning once before she drove it into an orc’s chest. Lightning cracked from the ground beneath her feet.

The battlefield paused, as if the world had taken a breath. Then came the scream—a Nazgûl, sensing a power it did not understand.

The divine slaughter began.

Ye Hua swept forward like a blade loosed from heaven. His strikes were clean, elegant, final. For every soldier shielding another, he appeared. For every corner where death loomed, he intervened. Orc after orc fell beneath the fluid grace of his sword, no wasted motion, no falter in step.

Dong Hua swept across the field in pale robes, the Canghe Sword a blur. When a troll charged through the Gondorian lines, he met it head-on, sidestepping its swing and driving his blade through its ribs. His strikes were minimal, exact, devastating. Beside him, Éomer, muddy and bloodied, barked orders to his men. Dong Hua flicked his wrist, sending an orc flying, then turned just in time to see the Third Marshal shield a wounded rider with his own body. The First Heavenly Emperor spared him a glance—enough to see the fury, the loyalty, the fire in the Third Marshal’s heart.

So that was him.

He said nothing. Only nodded once, and then turned to obliterate a charging troll.

On the western flank, Li Song danced into battle beside Boromir. Their swords met the enemy in tandem—grit and grace, Gondor steel and celestial agility. Boromir grunted at the wild stranger beside him, whose blade flicked like poetry.

“Friend of the goddess?” Boromir asked between swings.

Li Song grinned. “Brother-in-law, hopefully.”

Boromir blinked. “What?”

But there was no time for an answer. Across the field, Cheng Yu vaulted onto a troll’s back, used it as a springboard, and speared a Nazgûl rider from the sky. She landed beside Legolas, who fired three arrows in rapid succession.

He gave her a sidelong look. “You’re new.”

She smirked. “You’re not bad.”

“Flattering,” he murmured, loosing another arrow.

Further back, Li Song called out while spinning through a tangle of orcs, “Cheng Yu, remind me again—this is technically a date, yes?”

“In your dreams.”

“I’ve got good dreams!”

“You’ll die in them if you don’t watch your back!”

Amidst the chaos, Aragorn glanced toward the newer divine newcomers. “Why have they come?”

Dong Hua swept past them, slashing down an orc without breaking stride. “We’re here,” he said flatly, “because we were asked.”

Boromir’s head snapped up. “Bai Qian?”

Ye Hua—silent, deadly, unwavering—paused just long enough to nod.

Boromir said nothing. But something in his expression cracked.

She hadn’t just died for him. She had asked her intended—the man who had waited centuries—to come here.

For them.

For him.

Back at Minas Tirith Bai Qian watched. She stood weakly against the wall of a ruined tower, breath shallow, every muscle aching from the black breath and spent power.

And then—she saw them. She saw Ye Hua carve through enemies not for honor or glory or even duty. She saw him protect her world. Fight for the people she chose. She saw him understand.

Her breath caught.

In the heart of the fray, Ye Hua turned just in time to see Boromir, blood streaming from his temple, planting his shield before a cluster of wounded Gondorians. He stood like a fortress of flesh and will, swinging his blade even as his body sagged from exhaustion.

Ye Hua remembered her words.

“One day in our world is a lifetime here.”

And for the first time, he understood what she had given up. What she had chosen.

High atop Mount Doom, the One Ring melted into the lava with a hiss like the final scream of a dying god.

Across the battlefield, the Eye of Sauron dilated in agony—then fractured. A great pulse of fire and sound burst from Barad-dûr. The tower crumbled, cracking apart as if the sky itself had cast judgment.

A silence fell.

And then—

A roar of triumph rose.

Orcs screamed and scattered, fleeing like rats before a flood. The armies of Gondor and Rohan surged forward with renewed fervor, cutting down the last of Sauron’s forces. Legolas raised his bow in silent awe. Éomer let out a cry of victory. Aragorn sank to one knee, Andúril still glowing.

But far behind the front, within the highest levels of Minas Tirith, Bai Qian stood beneath a colonnade, gazing out over the distant horizon. The White City still smoldered, the air heavy with ash and broken banners.

Beside her, Feng Jiu leaned over the stone railing, gripping it tight.

“They did it,” she breathed.

Bai Qian said nothing—but her eyes were wet.

And then—

Mount Doom erupted. The sky cracked open with thunder and smoke. A plume of ash swallowed the heavens, turning day to dusk. Fire spilled from the mountain’s peak, pouring molten rivers down its slopes.

And every cheer died.

“No…” Bai Qian whispered. “Frodo. Sam.”

On the battlefield, Ye Hua’s eyes narrowed. Dong Hua’s gaze lifted. Li Song, still breathless from the fight, looked toward the mountain now trembling like a beating heart in its death throes.

“What is it?” Ye Hua asked, his voice low.

Gandalf turned, face grim. “The Ring is destroyed… but the hobbits—Frodo and Sam—were still inside.”

Boromir’s breath caught. Pippin clutched at Merry. Legolas looked to Aragorn.

“They’re going to die?” Cheng Yu asked, horrified.

“I must fly to them. Let me summon the Eagles,” he added quickly, already reaching for his staff.

But Ye Hua was already moving. “No need,” he said.

Dong Hua stepped beside Ye Hua. “Let’s be quick about it.”

Li Song cracked his neck, flashing a grin. “You two always get the dramatic parts.”

And with that, the three immortals rose. The skies tore open. But this time, it wasn’t darkness. It was light. Three figures shot through the clouds like meteors—Ye Hua in robes of deep starlit black, Dong Hua trailing silver light like storm-wrought silk, and Li Song glinting with golden fire. They pierced the smoke like arrows of heaven.

Beneath the crumbling peak of Mount Doom, Frodo and Sam lay huddled on the rock, barely conscious.

“Glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo murmured, “here at the end of all things.”

And then—

A rush of wind.

A pulse of divine energy.

Frodo’s eyes cracked open just enough to see a shadowy figure land before him—tall, strong, otherworldly. Hair black as midnight. A celestial presence.

Ye Hua.

“Easy, small one,” he said gently, “You’re safe now.”

Dong Hua appeared beside him, cradling Sam with a soldier’s care. “Still breathing,” he said. “Barely.”

Li Song touched down last, smirking. “They really don’t make it easy, do they?”

And in a flurry of robes and radiant power, they rose—carrying the hobbits away from fire and ash.

In Minas Tirith, Bai Qian clutched at her chest.

She didn’t see them.

She didn’t have to.

She knew.

Feng Jiu, beside her, let out a shaky breath. “They went.”

Bai Qian closed her eyes. “They went.”

Across the battlefield, Gandalf looked up.

No Eagles.

No wings.

Just three figures of legend soaring through fire—gods, pulled by mortal faith.

And as Ye Hua held Frodo close, a single thought burned through him:

“One day in our world is a lifetime here.”

And somehow, he knew—

It had been worth every second.

The ash had begun to settle.

From the scorched gates of Mordor to the broken plains of Pelennor, silence returned like a long-forgotten hymn. Orc corpses lay strewn and smoking. Black banners had crumbled. The wind, once howling with war, was still.

Near the edge of the ruined battlefield, beneath the cracked remnants of a watchtower, Bai Qian stood wrapped in her smoke-streaked robes. Though exhaustion weighed her limbs, her posture remained regal. Her gaze stayed on the horizon, even as her breath caught softly in her throat.

Not far behind her, Feng Jiu leaned against a fragment of stone, a tear in her sleeve and foxfire still flickering faintly in her hair. Her twin blades hung at her back, and for once, she did not grin.

They felt them before they saw them.

The wind shifted. Space parted.

Ye Hua stepped forward from the silver mist, his moon-dark robes untouched by ash. His expression, always so composed, held something softer now—etched at the edges with weariness, but also clarity.

Behind him, Dong Hua emerged as well, silver-white hair tousled by the wind, the Canghe Sword still sheathed at his back. For once, his posture wasn’t aloof—it was open, shoulders relaxed, gaze steady.

The four stood in silence for a breathless moment.

And then Ye Hua spoke. “You were right,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on Bai Qian.

She looked at him, her voice a murmur. “About what?”

Ye Hua stepped closer. “You chose a mortal… and now, I see why.”

Her eyes wavered.

Ye Hua’s tone was gentle—but no longer possessive. “He made you want to live,” he said, “Not simply endure.”

Bai Qian bowed her head slightly, as if in thanks—not apology.

Ye Hua reached out, brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear. It was a gesture of farewell, not ownership.

“One day in the Nine Heavens is a lifetime here,” he said. “I will wait for you, Qian Qian.”

She looked up again, and this time, there was no ache between them. Only understanding.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He lingered only a moment longer—just long enough to offer a nod to her heart. Then he turned away, and stepped back, waiting for Dong Hua.

Feng Jiu crossed her arms as Dong Hua approached, her brow raised even as weariness crept into her shoulders.

“I didn't expect you to follow me,” she said.

“You never were good at staying out of trouble.” Dong Hua stopped beside her.

Feng Jiu smirked faintly, though her eyes shimmered. “You followed me across dimensions. Why?”

“Someone has to clean up after you,” he muttered.

They both looked away for a beat, silence humming like a half-played melody between them.

Then Dong Hua added, almost offhandedly, “You’re troublesome. Even in other realms.”

She grinned and then gave a soft laugh. “You’re welcome.” But when she glanced back at him, his gaze hadn’t shifted.

And he said, with a rare softness: “I’m glad you’re here.”

Feng Jiu blinked—caught off guard.

Before she could reply, he reached out and tucked one of her raven tresses behind her ear, much like Ye Hua had with Bai Qian. But Dong Hua’s touch lingered—just for a moment. Then, with that familiar tilt of his head, he stepped away.

The two gods turned without ceremony. Ye Hua and Dong Hua walked toward the edge of the battlefield. Their footsteps didn’t echo. They left no marks in the dirt. And as the sun broke through the clouds above Mordor, the light passed through them—they were gone. Like mist in wind.

Like a dream at dawn.

The sun crowned the White City in gold. From the tiers of Minas Tirith to the shattered plains beyond, all the realm seemed to hold its breath. The bells rang for peace. For kingship. For hope. Before the gathered people, Aragorn stood robed in white and silver, his brow bowed.

Gandalf, solemn and serene, stepped forward with the ancient crown of Gondor in his hands. "Now come the days of the King," he said. "And may they be blessed." He placed the crown upon Aragorn’s head.

Aragorn raised his gaze—not proud, not triumphant, but humbled. "This day," he said, voice carrying across the city, "we are brothers. And Gondor shall never fall while her people stand together."

The crowd erupted into cheers. Flower petals fell like snow.

And standing beside Aragorn—taller, steadier, no longer a shadow of the man who once fell beneath the weight of a Ring—stood Boromir of Gondor. Clad in black and silver, the sigil of the White Tree gleaming on his chest, he bore no crown, but there was no mistaking the nobility in him.

Boromir scanned the crowd once—then he saw her.

Descending the steps behind the line of Elves and nobles, her immortal robes shimmered like woven starlight. A soft wind stirred her veil and silken sleeves, but her eyes never left Boromir.

She was late. Deliberately.

Boromir took a step forward.

She walked the rest of the way.

No bows. No courtesies. She went straight into his arms.

Around them, the cheering faded into something quieter—awed.

Boromir held her like he was afraid to blink.

And then…

A second ripple of movement behind her. Feng Jiu descended next, dressed in luminous red robes stitched with threads of flame, her hair caught in delicate pins. On her left—Legolas, silent as a shadow, gaze unwavering. On her right—Éomer, straight-backed, clearly fighting a smirk.

Both flanked her.

Aragorn arched a brow. "Remind me," he murmured to Gimli, "which one is the consort?"

Gimli squinted dramatically. "The tall one, with the golden hair and smug face," he joked.

Aragorn sighed. "That doesn’t narrow it down."

Feng Jiu smiled sweetly, knowing full well what she was doing.

The gathered soldiers, lords, and Elves all bowed before Aragorn.

But Bai Qian and Boromir stood apart—no longer needing titles or thrones.

She had chosen her place. And he would stand beside her until his last breath.

Feng Jiu? She was going to enjoy this slow war of roses a little while longer.

But for now, in the light of the new king and the dawn of peace, the stories of gods and mortals stood side by side.

And the world watched the beginning of legend.

The courtyard of Minas Tirith bloomed with banners and music. White blossoms fell like drifting stars, carried on the soft wind as the people of Gondor gathered in celebration.

At the far end of the aisle, Aragorn stood crowned—his kingly raiment simple but radiant. And at his side, Arwen Undómiel, serene as moonlight in the presence of stars. Their hands were clasped, foreheads touching. The hush that followed their kiss felt sacred.

But Boromir’s eyes were not on the king. They were on her.

Bai Qian stood across the square, just beyond the ceremony’s heart, luminous even in silence. The breeze stirred the long white sleeves of her robe. Her silver hairpin shimmered against the black of her hair. She was still. Composed. Watching.

Watching him.

Boromir inhaled slowly, as if anchoring himself against the sheer unreality of her presence. After all that had passed—battle, fire, gods walking among men—she was still here.

And still looking at him.

As the applause rippled through the crowd, Bai Qian began walking forward. Her steps were unhurried, but unwavering. She passed beneath the white stone arches, robes whispering across the sunlit floor. People turned to look—but only one man held her gaze.

Boromir stepped forward before he could think. When she reached him, he bowed, as he might have to a queen. A goddess. A woman who had crossed eternity.

But Bai Qian did not bow. She raised her hand—light as a breeze—and touched his jaw. Her fingers lingered there, eyes searching his face.

“I thought perhaps I’d missed the wedding ceremony,” she said softly.

His voice, hoarse from disbelief, barely made it past his throat. “You’re here.”

She gave a faint smile. “Of course I’m here. I never left.”

Boromir’s mouth twitched. “I wasn’t sure. I thought—after all that passed between you and him…”

“You mean Ye Hua.”

He nodded, the name still heavy.

Bai Qian’s expression grew quiet. “He asked me once why I hadn’t come home. I told him the truth.”

Boromir didn’t ask. But the question hung there.

She tilted her head. “Because I had something worth staying for.”

Something in Boromir broke. “I thought I’d lost you again,” he admitted. “Not to death. But to duty. To destiny.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “I lived for centuries fulfilling my duty. But loving you… that was a choice.”

And then she smiled, low and mischievous, a flash of the fox spirit beneath the High Goddess. “So,” she murmured, “when shall we have our turn?”

Boromir blinked, stunned. “What?”

She arched a brow. “The king and his elven bride have set the bar quite high, but I think we could manage something simpler. Less fanfare. Fewer witnesses.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded, until he realized—

She meant it.

He let out a soft laugh, breathless, full of awe and reverence and disbelief. “You would… marry me?”

Bai Qian stepped closer, so only he could hear. “I already did, in all but name. When I chose to live for you.”

He reached for her hand, rough fingers threading through hers. “Then let us begin anew,” he said, voice low, resolute. “As one.”

Behind them, the crowd erupted once more in celebration. And Boromir and Bai Qian stood still in the middle of it all—gods and mortals, past and future—anchored only to each other. And in their stillness, everything else faded.

Across the courtyard, where the feast was beginning to stir with music and firelight, Feng Jiu stood near a colonnade wrapped in white silk and roses. She wore her crimson robes again—cleaned, but still carrying the edge of a warrior’s presence. The sun caught the phoenix shimmer in her hair, and the silver ornaments at her waist chimed softly in the breeze.

Legolas found her first. He didn’t approach at once. Instead, he lingered by the far archway, eyes trained on her as if tracking some rare and dangerous creature. His expression, as always, was unreadable. But the faint lift at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“Your armor suits you,” he said, stepping into the light.

Feng Jiu glanced at him over her shoulder. “You mean the robes you teased me for scorning in the forest?”

His smile deepened. “That was before I saw what you did to a Nazgûl.”

She turned fully now, one brow raised. “And what exactly did I do?”

“You made it hesitate.”

She snorted. “I made it bleed.”

“Even better.”

Before she could offer a properly sharp retort, another voice cut in:

“She also saved my life.”

Éomer. Broad-shouldered, sunlit, dusted still with the remnants of war. His gaze settled on Feng Jiu with something like reverence.

“Firefoot and I would’ve been crushed if not for her.”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed—just slightly.

Feng Jiu looked between them. “I wasn’t aware this was a contest.”

“It isn’t,” said Legolas smoothly, stepping closer to her side. “She’s already chosen her battlefield.”

“And yet she’s here,” Éomer replied, “among soldiers and kings.”

“Among friends,” she interjected.

Neither man moved.

“You rode well today,” Legolas said to Éomer, his voice light but pointed. “Though a few of your archers nearly shot me.”

“That’s because you jumped off a mûmakil onto a burning tower. What were they supposed to do?”

Feng Jiu blinked. “Wait. You did what?”

Legolas gave a modest incline of his head. “A moment of opportunity.”

Éomer looked at Feng Jiu. “I didn’t jump off any towers. But I held the eastern flank while the undead spilled through the western side.”

Legolas turned his head slowly. “You’re bragging about not dying?”

“I’m stating facts.”

Feng Jiu held up a hand, laughing now. “I see what this is.”

Both men looked at her.

“This is a competition,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Silence.

“I save your lives, fight beside you through shadow and flame—and now you’re comparing who can look more heroic in the aftermath?”

Legolas straightened. “It’s hardly about appearance—”

Éomer cut in, “I’d say it’s about intent.”

Feng Jiu narrowed her eyes. “Intent to what, exactly?”

A pause.

“To impress you,” said Legolas plainly.

She blinked.

Éomer didn’t deny it.

The Lady of Qing Qiu looked between them, scarlet sleeves trailing as she stepped back just once.

“I’m not a trophy to be won,” she said, voice soft but clear. “But I am enjoying the view.”

Then she smiled, turned, and walked away—leaving two of the deadliest warriors of the Third Age standing stunned under a rose-draped archway, unsure whether they had just been dismissed… or challenged.

Legolas exhaled through his nose. “This isn’t over.”

Éomer nodded grimly. “No. It really isn’t.”

The Great Hall of Minas Tirith had been transformed. Once echoing with the clang of steel and the screams of battle, it now shimmered with warm candlelight, garlands of green, and silver drapery drawn across the columns like woven starlight. The long banquet tables brimmed with roasted meats, fresh breads, and golden flagons of mead. Laughter rang clear, and music swelled like a balm after storm.

Merry and Pippin stood—of course—on top of a table, stomping to the rhythm of a raucous Shire tune while clapping along with men who had never known such joy before.

At the high table, King Theoden presided with his golden hair bound back, still wrapped in royal green. Faramir sat nearby, soft-spoken and smiling, Éowyn at his side in a white dress embroidered with lilies. Their hands rested close—just close enough to brush when they reached for their cups.

Not far down the table, Éomer had taken up a spot across from Legolas and beside Gimli, his usual place at Theoden’s side surrendered for the night’s more personal business. And that business was, unmistakably, seated between them.

Feng Jiu was draped in crimson and gold, the hem of her silken sleeves fluttering every time she lifted her wine cup. Her phoenix birthmark shimmered faintly beneath the delicate braid of her hair. She was, in a word, luminous—and entirely aware of the attention.

Legolas offered her a glass of the finest Dorwinion.

Éomer countered with a hand-carved horse pendant from Rohan, pressed into her palm with a wry smile.

Feng Jiu leaned back, swirling her wine with amused grace. “Should I worry what else you two are keeping in your pockets?” she mused aloud.

Gimli puffed on his pipe nearby. “You might find an arrow or two if you dig through the elf’s wardrobe.”

“I have excellent aim,” Legolas said dryly.

“And I have excellent horses,” Éomer replied, lifting his brow.

Gimli chuckled, smoke curling from his lips. “Never seen two grown men court a woman so hard they forgot how to eat.”

“If I wanted meat,” Feng Jiu quipped sweetly, “I’d find it myself.”

The laughter around their end of the table grew louder.

But then—

The music softened. The room quieted.

Not entirely. But enough.

Bai Qian had entered without fanfare, and yet the hall seemed to still around her presence. No crown adorned her head. No armor gleamed at her shoulders. But she wore celestial blue robes embroidered in silver, and in the soft lantern light, her every movement seemed to slow time.

She crossed the hall with unhurried steps and seated herself at the end of the long banquet table, where the breeze from the open terrace could kiss her cheek. A goblet of plum wine was placed before her, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks—her fingers curling around it with the quiet elegance only a high goddess could wield. Her dark hair was pinned in a simple half-crown, long and flowing down her back, the silver ornament at her brow glinting faintly like starlight. She did not seek attention. But she held it, effortlessly.

She took a single sip, then looked out toward the gardens beyond the terrace—quiet, self-contained, serene.

Boromir saw her before she ever saw him.

He’d remained near the archway, content to watch from a distance. Dressed in a tunic of midnight blue and a silver-stitched mantle over one shoulder, his eyes found her the moment she entered. And something in him softened.

He crossed the floor without armor or ceremony, just a man who had nearly lost everything—now drawn to the one person who made it all feel real again.

He stopped a respectful distance from where she sat.

“My lady,” he said quietly, “would you care for some air?”

Bai Qian looked up.

Her eyes met his.

For a moment, nothing moved between them—except the unspoken understanding that had always bound them. She rose in a single, graceful motion, her robes whispering across the stone.

She did not speak, but her smile was warm and unwavering. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. And together, they slipped from the feast with little fanfare, vanishing into the cool night beyond the torches and revelry. Heads turned only briefly, but one gaze lingered longer than the others.

Feng Jiu watched the way Bai Qian’s sleeve brushed against Boromir’s arm. The subtle way he leaned toward her when he spoke. The calm grace in Bai Qian’s eyes that hadn’t been there just days ago. It was as if the whole hall had quieted for just that moment—then the music surged again.

At her side, a certain Marshal of the Riddermark cleared his throat.

Feng Jiu didn’t even look at Éomer. She simply reached for her wine. “I thought I’d get some peace and quiet once my aunt left the table,” she said.

Éomer gave her a slow, sidelong glance. “Strange. I thought peace and quiet were the last things you wanted.”

Before Feng Jiu could answer, Legolas set down his goblet with a soft clink.

“I wouldn’t assume she wants anything you can offer, Lord Éomer,” the elf said, voice cool as river water.

Gimli, seated comfortably between her and Legolas, nearly choked on a chunk of honeyed pork. “Oh-ho,” he said, wiping his beard. “Here we go again.”

Feng Jiu, for her part, was sipping her wine like she didn’t notice either of them watching her. Which, of course, meant she noticed everything. She set her goblet down with deliberate care. “Is it just me,” she said lightly, “or is it very warm on this side of the room?”

Gimli snorted into his ale. “Aye, that’d be the tension smolderin’ between these two long-haired roosters. You’d think they were challengin’ each other to a duel—or a dance.”

Éomer leaned forward, voice dry. “I didn’t know elves could blush.”

“I’m not blushing,” Legolas said evenly, though his eyes flicked once to Feng Jiu and then back to his goblet. “It’s the firelight.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Gimli said cheerfully. “Firelight and rivalry.”

Feng Jiu’s lips curled in a faint, amused smile. She reached for a berry on her plate and popped it between her lips without breaking eye contact with Éomer.

Éomer arched a brow. “You favor elven company tonight, Princess?”

“I favor wine. Peach wine, to be precise,” Feng Jiu replied. “But company is a close second.”

“Then perhaps you should share another round with one of us,” Legolas said smoothly. “You seemed to enjoy the last one.”

Gimli glanced between them like a spectator at a fencing match. “And here I thought the lad had no bite in him.”

“I have more than bite,” Legolas murmured.

“Oh?” Éomer leaned back, swirling his wine. “Do elves also growl? Or are you still too shy to court her directly?”

Feng Jiu let out a soft, elegant laugh. “Are you suggesting you’ve been courting me directly, Third Marshal?”

Éomer didn’t flinch. “I’m a rider of the Riddermark. We don’t go in circles.”

“And yet here you both are,” Gimli muttered. “Galloping ‘round in circles like it’s mating season.”

Feng Jiu leaned her chin on her hand, feigning a sigh. “If only one of you would ask me to dance. Then I could judge your coordination with something other than your egos.”

That shut them both up—for precisely two seconds.

Then Éomer stood.

Legolas rose at the exact same time.

Gimli covered his mouth to hide the widest grin he’d worn since Helm’s Deep.

Feng Jiu blinked up at them sweetly. “Well, this should be fun.”

The stone corridors of the citadel opened into a quiet terrace tucked behind flowering archways. Lanterns bobbed gently in the night breeze, casting long golden streaks across the marble floor. Beyond, the stars stretched clear and endless above Minas Tirith—one of those rare evenings when war seemed impossibly far away.

Boromir guided Bai Qian down the steps, his hand resting lightly at her back. He hadn’t spoken since they left the feast, but she didn’t press him. His silence wasn’t heavy. It was simply... full.

When they reached the railing, overlooking the lower tiers of the city and the faint glow of the Pelennor beyond, Bai Qian turned her face to the breeze. Her silken blue robes shifted like water in moonlight. In this realm, she was a vision of another world—but standing here beside him, she was achingly real.

Boromir looked at her, long and hard, before finally speaking. “You asked me earlier,” he said, voice low, steady, “when it would be our turn.”

Her gaze shifted, barely. But she didn’t look away from the stars.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he went on. “More than I’d like to admit.”

Now she turned, watching him closely. And still, he kept speaking—carefully, plainly, the way only Boromir could.

“I’ve fought for Gondor my whole life. Thought I understood duty, sacrifice, what was worth dying for.” He shook his head slightly. “Then you came. And I started thinking—for the first time—what might be worth living for.”

Bai Qian’s eyes softened, but she remained still, letting him speak.

“I know what you are. What you’ve given up to stay. I don’t ask for more than you can give. But if you still mean what you said…” He took a step closer. “If you still want us—then I do too. Without hesitation. Without fear.”

His eyes searched hers, steady and sure.

“I’m not afraid of that anymore. Of what it means to love you. I don’t care if I’m just one heartbeat in your eternity. I would rather have a life with you—however brief—than an entire age without.”

Something flickered in Bai Qian’s eyes. Not surprise. Not doubt. But the kind of emotion that shattered kingdoms and raised them anew.

She stepped closer, her voice softer than the wind.

“Even knowing I’ll outlive you?”

“I pray you do,” Boromir said. “Let your memories carry us when I no longer can.”

Then Bai Qian stepped toward him. Her voice was soft, but clear. “You were never what I expected, Boromir of Gondor.”

“And you,” he murmured, “were more than I ever dared hope for.”

She smiled, slow and luminous, and lifted a hand to his cheek.

He caught her fingers in his, held them there.

Then—at last—he bent and kissed her. Gently, reverently, like the man he’d become because of her.

Her other hand found his chest, just over his heart.

And neither moved for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Time passed, as it always must.

Spring turned to summer, and summer to the golden hush of autumn. And in the White City of Gondor, where marble walls once bore the scorch marks of siege, peace blossomed like the first flower after a storm.

Boromir and Bai Qian wed beneath a sky of scattered stars and silvery banners. No coronet crowned her brow, and yet the people whispered: Queen. Some said she was a Maia in mortal form. Others claimed she was a goddess who had chosen Gondor for her kingdom. The truth belonged only to a few—the Fellowship, Faramir, and those who remembered the fire in her eyes at Pelennor.

Faramir and Éowyn were wed the following spring in the gardens of Emyn Arnen, where elanor bloomed and birds sang with the wind. It was said that she, once a shieldmaiden who craved glory, found a deeper strength in gentleness—and Faramir, so long overlooked, became one of Gondor’s most beloved lords.

Theoden King, weathered but wise, reigned for a handful more golden years, offering counsel to Éomer, his nephew and heir. When he stepped down, he did so not in defeat—but in quiet pride, knowing Rohan’s future was strong.

Éomer was crowned King of the Riddermark, and though he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, there were still moments—rare and private—where his thoughts drifted to a pink-robed fox with a smirk and a sword, and the storm she’d left in his heart.

The hobbits returned to the Shire, full of tales no one believed but everyone adored. Gandalf rode with them, smiling like a man who had finished his greatest task. Merry and Pippin sang for weeks. Sam married Rosie. Frodo—touched by shadow and light alike—smiled less often, but deeper.

Legolas and Gimli, ever the oddest of companions, departed together after all the weddings and festivities. The forests of Ithilien were their haunt for a time—Gimli carving stone halls in the cliffside, and Legolas walking beneath green canopies in contemplative quiet. In the years to come, they would journey together across Middle-earth—toward the sea, toward stories yet untold.

And life went on.

In Gondor’s silver halls, two children were born to Bai Qian and Boromir.

The daughter was named Miriel—for she had her mother’s serenity and her father’s fire. Her dark eyes saw truth like a blade, and her laughter rang like bells over the White City. The son was Boren—tall and quiet, with his father’s strength and his mother’s calm. He did not speak often, but when he did, his words carried the weight of mountains and starlight. They were raised on the songs of Gondor, and the stories of the Nine Heavens. Their bedtime tales were of fox spirits and high kings, of river spirits and roaring Rohirrim. Bai Qian taught them the constellations that only gods knew. Boromir taught them how to wield a sword with honor—and when to put it down.

Faramir and Éowyn were family in all but name. Their son, Elboron, became a companion in mischief and a brother in all but blood.

Uncle Gimli taught them the finer points of orc insults—while insisting that dwarves were far more elegant than elves. Legolas let them ride his elk across the field. Éomer introduced them to Rohan’s swiftest steeds and watched over them like a second uncle, occasionally raising a brow when one of them asked if all foxes could fly.

Feng Jiu visited often, wrapped in her flowing pink robes and cloaked in laughter. She doted on them as she once did on A-Li—who came in bursts of joy, teaching them how to get into trouble... and more importantly, how to escape it.

But time is no friend to mortals.

Boromir aged, as all men did. His beard turned silver at the edges, his body bore the quiet weight of a thousand battles—but his eyes remained unchanged: fierce, steady, and full of love. He and Bai Qian lived their last decades in Ithilien, not far from Faramir’s house. There, among birdsong and green, they found the stillness they had earned. Bai Qian did not change—her ageless beauty more ethereal than even the elves who passed through. Yet in her eyes, the years lived beside him shimmered like sunlit glass.

On quiet evenings, they would walk the garden path, hand in hand, saying little.

And when Boromir grew tired at last—his sword retired, his story nearly done—he sat beneath a tree in the Ithilien breeze, her fingers in his.

“You are the last thing I see in every dream,” he whispered, “and the first in every morning light.”

She kissed his brow.

When the time came, he did not fear death.

For he had already known eternity in her eyes.

The sun rose slowly over Ithilien, casting its golden light across the wildflowers and the vines that curled along the garden walls. In a modest home nestled among trees, the birds were the only ones who dared to sing.

Inside, the room was warm and still. A breeze stirred the linen curtains. Boromir lay upon the bed, his hair silver at the temples, his skin weathered by time. His eyes—still sharp with light—rested on the face of the woman seated beside him.

Bai Qian, resplendent in her quietness, held his hand in both of hers. Her celestial robes—white and blue, rippling like water—glowed faintly in the light. She looked no older than the day they met. But her heart… oh, her heart had lived centuries in the span of one mortal lifetime.

“Your hand is cold,” she whispered, brushing her fingers across his knuckles.

Boromir gave her a faint smile. “I have no more battles left to fight, my love.”

“Then rest,” she said. “You’ve earned your peace.”

His eyes wandered to the open window, to the tree beyond it where Miriel once climbed and fell, where Boren learned to string his first bow. “This is a good place,” he murmured. “To grow old… to love you.”

Her grip tightened.

“I didn’t expect this,” he continued. “Not any of it. I feel as though I've walked a dream.” He paused. "I'm glad you stayed."

“You gave me a world I never knew I needed,” Bai Qian said, her voice quiet but strong. “And children. A home. I will treasure it for all of time.”

Boromir turned his head, slow now, his breath thinner. “Tell them… tell them I was proud.”

“They know,” she whispered. “They’ve always known.”

His fingers curled gently around hers. “You will go?”

She nodded, eyes shimmering. “Yes. But not until I’ve watched the sun rise one more time. With you.”

Boromir’s smile deepened. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his. “It always is. When you are in it.”

He gave her a tired smile. 

"Thank you, Bai Qian. For loving me. For choosing me and Middle earth."  And then, with a soft breath, he was gone.

Bai Qian didn’t move at first. Her head remained bowed, her hand still wrapped in his. The silence stretched. And then—

Her tears fell. Quietly. Like rain from a cloudless sky.

The White Tree stood tall in the courtyard of Minas Tirith. Beneath its silver leaves, Boromir’s body lay in state, dressed in the armor he once wore at Pelennor. His sword rested upon his chest. A single white flower was tucked beside his hand.

Faramir, now an old man with kind eyes and a trembling cane, stood silently at his brother’s side, grief buried deep in the lines of his face. Éowyn, still graceful as ever, held his hand.

Gimli, hair white as snow, placed a single stone from the Glittering Caves at the base of Boromir’s pyre. “A warrior’s rest,” he said softly.

Legolas, unchanged by time, stood apart—head bowed, eyes shadowed. “He would’ve challenged a Valar to keep her safe,” he murmured. “And perhaps he did.”

Éomer arrived in his finest ceremonial armor, silver hair bound back, his face shadowed with sorrow. He had ridden from Rohan at first light. “He was my brother too,” he told Faramir quietly. “In all but blood.”

Miriel and Boren stood flanking their mother. Both bore traces of their father in their eyes, in their posture, in the way they bowed their heads.

And Bai Qian, regal and silent, offered no tears now. Her grief was deeper than tears.

The wind stirred as the flames were lit.

Boromir, Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, was laid to rest.

When the sky was still pink with dawn, Bai Qian stood at the edge of the White City. The streets were silent, save for the faint sounds of gulls on the wind.

Miriel stood before her, lips trembling. “Will you return?”

Bai Qian cupped her daughter’s face. “In dreams. In whispers. In starlight. I am with you, always.”

Boren, his father’s steady calm in him, said nothing. But he embraced her tightly, fiercely.

Faramir looked at Bai Qian with quiet understanding. “You don’t need to explain. We’ve always known.”

Bai Qian stepped forward and embraced him. “Take care of them. Of this world.”

“I will. And we’ll tell them everything.”

Legolas and Gimli stood off to the side. Legolas inclined his head. “They will speak of you for ages to come.”

Gimli grunted. “And they better speak well, or I’ll come back and set them straight.”

Feng Jiu had left long ago. The world was quieter now. Slower. But the wind remembered.

Bai Qian turned toward the horizon. The air shimmered. A silken veil split the sky—a crack of golden light, familiar and soft. The portal to the Nine Heavens unfurled like dawn blooming in reverse.

Bai Qian turned back one last time. Her children watched. Her friends stood tall.

She smiled.

Then stepped through the veil.

And was gone.

Only a single blue petal drifted down in her wake.

The light of the Nine Heavens was gentler than she remembered. Not dimmer—never that. But softer, as though the realm itself sensed she had changed.

Bai Qian stepped through the veil and onto the familiar path lined with pale mist and quiet stars. The wind stirred the long sleeves of her celestial robes, blue as starlight on water. A single white flower was tucked into her hair, its petals resting above her brow like frost kissed by moonlight.

Ye Hua was waiting. He did not speak as she approached, nor did he smile. But his eyes held no anger, no jealousy—only a deep, quiet understanding.

“You came home,” he said simply.

“I did,” she answered.

She stood before him, not as his High Goddess, not as SuSu returned—but as Bai Qian, daughter of Qing Qiu, and widow of a mortal man she had loved more than she ever thought possible.

Ye Hua studied her closely, as if he could see the weight she carried now—not in the lines of her face, but in the shift of her soul. She was still immortal, still radiant. But older. Not in age… in spirit.

“I will give you time,” he said gently. “As much as you need.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

Then another presence swept into view, faster than a breeze and far warmer.

“Gou Gou!”

Feng Jiu flung herself into Bai Qian’s arms, already crying.

Bai Qian held her close, her own tears finally spilling as she stroked Feng Jiu’s hair.

“You’re back,” Feng Jiu whispered. “But it hurts, doesn’t it?”

Bai Qian gave a small, broken laugh. “Very much, little fox.”

They stood like that for a long time.

Later, in quiet moments alone, Bai Qian sat beneath the peach blossoms that she once walked through thoughtlessly, before she knew what it meant to love in mortal years. Now, they seemed brighter. More precious.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she visited her children’s descendants in dreams. One bore her foxfire—an unexpected spark of divine magic blooming in the bloodline. Another was a stubborn, stalwart warrior with a gleam in his eyes that reminded her so fiercely of Boromir, it brought her to tears.

And in her private hall, beyond the veils of starlight and immortality, hung a single Gondorian broadsword. It stood mounted with reverent care, its hilt polished, its blade still etched with signs of use. Beside it, carved in gold by her own hand, were words that none in the Nine Heavens dared touch:

Boromir, Son of Gondor.
The man I chose.

And still choose.

Always.

The peach blossoms were in full bloom that evening, a soft rain of petals drifting through the air as twilight deepened across the realm.

Within the celestial palace overlooking the Jade Pool, everything was still—bathed in the light of a thousand glowing lanterns. At the edge of the pool, delicate golden script shimmered on the surface, marking the boundary of an ancient formation: a spell of deep restoration. A trial, not of love—but of power.

Bai Qian stood barefoot at the water’s edge, her posture serene. That wedding had been beautiful—quiet, intimate. It had not erased Boromir from her heart, but it had honored both the love that was and the life that remained.

She had worn white robes embroidered with silver threads, the silk flowing like mist around her. The gown bore the intricate design of her wedding attire—a layered skirt, fine embroidery at the sleeves and hem, and the graceful, phoenix-shaped headpiece. Pearls and delicate chains danced softly in the light, whispering secrets of devotion and centuries of love.

Ye Hua had stood beside her with grace—not in rivalry, but in reverence. And now, he stood beside her again. He approached, his black robes unadorned, his crown and armor set aside. Tonight, he was not the Crown Prince. He was simply her husband.

“It is time,” Bai Qian said softly, her voice carrying the hush of falling petals.

Ye Hua nodded slowly. His dark gaze lingered on here. Centuries of love and loss etched into the calm elegance of her.

“You don’t have to do this tonight, Qian Qian,” he said at last. “You could wait. Rest.”

Bai Qian’s lips curved faintly. “I have waited long enough.” Her gaze flicked to the spell formation. “My cultivation is too fragmented. My power and cultivation must reflect my title as Crown Princess.”

This was not the path she had walked to become High Goddess, but a restoration—a gathering of power she had scattered across lifetimes.

Ye Hua’s brow furrowed, but he did not argue. Instead, he reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering just a heartbeat longer.

“I will watch over you,” he promised, his voice low but steady.

“I know.”

She stepped forward, and he followed, his steps deliberate, his presence a quiet anchor. Together they moved to the center of the formation. As the golden light began its slow ascent, Bai Qian turned to him one last time.

“You will keep them safe?” she asked softly. “Our family. Qing Qiu. The Nine Heavens.”

Ye Hua inclined his head. “Always.”

A moment passed between them, full of the things they did not say.

Then he leaned in. This kiss was neither claim nor farewell—but a promise, a bridge of centuries between them.

She closed her eyes, the warmth of his lips still on her skin.

When they parted, Bai Qian stepped alone into the heart of the pool. The golden light rose around her like a living mist, cradling her body in weightless serenity.

Ye Hua stood at the edge, his gaze steady.

The formation pulsed once—twice—before slowly dimming.

The High Goddess drifted into stillness.

Unaware that her soul would soon awaken… not in the heavens… but in a colder, crueler world ruled by wolves and dragons.