These characters do not belong to me, and I intend no infringement upon the rights of the original creators, producers, or anyone associated with Pet Fly, UPN, or Paramount. This is an original work of fiction intended only for the enjoyment of other fans.

This story originally appeared in the zine Senses of Wonder #2 from Black Jag Press.
Many thanks to Dolimir for volunteering to post this for me, and to my wonderful Lurkers for all their encouragement, support and teaching. You guys are truly the best friends a fangal could have. Thanks also to Firefly at Black Jag for giving me a chance to be part of a truly awesome zine.
[Archivist's note: Please send all feedback to Galina at Galina1105@aol.com. I am simply posting this with name so that it can go to the mailing list]

With great apologies to the master bard, JRR Tolkien, I've dared to try my hand at imitating his incredible style and borrowed his immortal Middle Earth in which to allow Jim and Blair to play.

Argemdor sighed softly and rolled carefully out of his partner's embrace. He'd tired of trying to feign sleep for the last hour or more, and decided to get dressed, rekindle the fading embers of last night's fire, and retrieve the horses. He paused, checking that Balanir slept on, undisturbed. Dark smudges remained under Balanir's eyes, and the pale skin of his face was drawn, making him, even in sleep, appear older than his thirty30-odd years. The journey had been hard, and promised to only get harder. These stolen moments of innocent tranquility would soon be nothing more than a fond memory.

The tall, dark-haired man stood stiffly and stretched, listening in the dim light for the distinct melody of the chimes tied to their horses' leathers. The hobbled animals could never wander far, and the murmuring of the tiny silver bells ensured finding them again after a night's amble, foraging for any remaining bits of green and tasty things. After only a moment, he indeed heard the tattling chimes, dressed quickly, then headed off to bring the cherished beasts back to their small camp.

After removing the hobbles, he easily mounted The Grey's bare back, and rode him the few hundred yards back the way he had come, leading Jes and Brute by their makeshift halters. Argemdor refit the three horses' bridles and tied them securely to a tree on the edge of the clearing. He rubbed their coats with an old grain sack, removing any burrs, dirt or dried sweat from the previous day's ride. Next, he checked their legs, feet and shoes, noting that Brute's left hind shoe had lost a nail. They would have to put off that repair until they had reached the safety of Rivendell, and had the leisure to tend to all that had been broken and neglected on this flight through the Wilderland. Satisfied the horses were fit for another long day's ride, Argemdor returned to the small fire, sat down cross-legged, and waited for daybreak. He gazed out over the blanketed form next to him, across the small glade they had found late last evening just as the fading light of the winter sun finally retreated and left them in darkness.

The first red blush of daybreak was coloring the eastern sky, chasing the night mists from the low places on the glade and heralding the start of another day. In the trees surrounding him, a myriad of birds announced the dawn with their bright and various songs, sounding at once loud and cheerful, but also hushed and sweet, like a woodland lullaby, creating in him the desire to close his eyes and doze. For a few stolen moments he rested peacefully, finally, where previously, nothing, not even many days of hard riding and exhaustion held grimly at bay, could produce the desired slumber.

Warmth caressed his face, and the big man slid sleepy eyelids back open, searching for the source of the light touch. The first golden rays of dawn slanted through the oaks, turning the dull brown and muddy red leaves burnished bronze and bright scarlet, and touched his face with their heat and light. He smiled, delighted by the teasing touch and transforming beauty wrought by the simple shafts of light. Next to him, Balanir stirred, slowly coming awake, and rolled over onto his back. His eyes were still closed as he clung hungrily to the last slivers of sleep.

Argemdor watched lazily as his partner, younger by a scant six years, yawned, then got slowly to his feet, allowing the woolen blankets to slide fluidly away from his still blessedly naked body. He remembered their lovemaking of last night, and a familiar warm tingle stirred his insides. While it was always good between them, and last night was no exception, it had felt different somehow, more raw, primal, desperate. Neither man had spoken about his feelings concerning the rise of Sauron, their flight toward Rivendell, and Galadriel's urgent plea for help, but Argemdor began to see now that those feelings were expressing themselves unbidden and even, perhaps, unwanted.

Balanir stretched, rising up onto his toes, arms high over his head. The golden light limned his naked body, creating a halo entirely around him, and taking Argemdor's breath away. "You're so beautiful, you ought to have been born an Elf. You belong in the high and mysterious places they call home."

Balanir turned at the sound of his lover's voice. He smiled teasingly and replied, "And you ought to have been born a poet." His smile faded and concern replaced it. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?

"Yes, some, but probably less than I ought to have." Argemdor frowned and turned his attention toward his mud-spattered boots. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" Balanir's answer mixed with another yawn as he started to pull on his dusty clothing. The deep greens and browns were so road worn that one would be hard-pressed to determine just exactly what color they were.

"Whenever I try to show you how I feel, you find some way to sidestep it." Annoyance colored Argemdor's tone.

Balanir stopped dressing and sighed gustily. He planted his fists against his narrow hips and frowned at the bigger man, not truly angry, but frustrated. "Gem, we've talked about this before. I'm not some wilting flower of a woman who needs poems and pretty compliments to prove I'm loved. I know you love me. You show me with everything you do, every day. And I hope my love for you is equally obvious. I don't want a mooning suitor who pines on my every word or expression. I want you. The strong and fierce, yet sensitive Dunedain I fell in love with ten years ago."

He moved closer and squatted down in front of Argemdor, closing the space between them and bringing himself eye to eye, eliminating the usual six-inch difference in their heights. He said, "You're all I need," and kissed Argemdor firmly and passionately, letting his heart tell what his words could not.

Balanir's long, wavy hair fell past his shoulder as he leaned into the kiss, and Argemdor brought his hands up into the chestnut locks, relishing the feel of the soft strands against his battle-roughened hands. As the kiss deepened, Argemdor pulled Balanir to him, forcing the younger man to fall onto his knees, rather than toppling over onto their sides. The kiss was ardent, but without the hungry need of last night. After several long seconds, they broke apart and Argemdor found himself gazing adoringly into the luminous blue eyes of his partner.

Balanir held Argemdor's gaze, then smiled gently and said, "You see? You've just proved my point."

Argemdor pushed a stray lock of hair out of Balanir's face. "Yes, I see, but it won't stop me from telling you how beautiful I think you are. You'll just have to bear it."

"Oh, well, if I must..." Balanir rolled his eyes and kissed Argemdor once more, quickly, then stood and shivered in the cold morning air. He wrapped the blankets back around himself, sat down in the middle of their makeshift bed and began gathering his nearly waist-length hair into a braid. Argemdor watched in fascination as the long, slender fingers flew through their task. He loved the younger man's long locks, having always kept his own trimmed to just past his square jawline, which seemed the longest it would grow.

He'd seen Balanir perform this task a hundred times before, but this morning it felt like he was seeing it for the first time. In fact, much about the last few days had the strange quality of newness about them. Like he was cataloguing the minutiae of life, readying it for a time in the future when he could recall every detail with fond enjoyment. With this realization, Argemdor's mood turned somber and he felt he must be sure Balanir truly understood the depth of his love for him. He nearly choked on the sudden rush of emotion, and so stood up quickly to cover his discomfiture.

"Bal, I need you to know--"

"Stop!" Balanir interrupted, pinning Argemdor with a frightened look and a sharp gesture of his hand.

Argemdor tried again, "But--

"Gem, please don't. Not now." Balanir turned his back to Argemdor, picked up his belts and baldric, and began to fasten the straps and buckles. The well-worn leathers fell into place at Balanir's side, as the weight and position of the steel blade settled habitually. In seconds, Argemdor watched Balanir transform from a lean and beautifully muscled young man into a hard and grim battle veteran. The transformation was completely familiar, but today it rankled and had the bitter taste of the ominous about it.

Balanir tossed his long braid back over his shoulder and faced Argemdor squarely. "I know what you want to say, and why you want to say it. Don't you think I feel it, too? The very air shimmers with portents and omens of doom and dire times ahead. I know you're worried about what the future holds, but you know as well as I do, we can't let these worries cloud our judgment now.

"When Galadriel sent word for all the Rangers to join Aragorn for battle with the forces of Sauron, it only confirmed all our worst imaginings. Evil is loose and running ravenously through the land one more time, and all are called to do their utmost to defeat it. We've been warriors too long not to know that many men--good men--will die before the end of this battle, and you're afraid that I'll go to my grave, or worse, be left behind while you go to yours, without knowing how much you truly love me. Let me say it plain, Gem, I KNOW. Please, don't stand there looking at me with those melancholy, sky blue eyes of yours, dreading the times ahead. I need you to be the strong pillar at my back as you have been for these past years. Without that certainty, I know I won't survive."

Argemdor had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest for most of Balanir's rant, but he now let them fall heavily to his sides where his hands curled into tight fists. He bent his head forward stiffly and let his gaze fall momentarily onto the multi-colored leaf strewn ground. "You know me too well," he hissed very softly, then screwed his eyes tightly closed, threw his head back and released a loud, growling shout.

The tethered horses flinched and snorted, breath curling from their wide nostrils, while their heads jerked up, startled by the unexpected outburst of their master. Their large, dark eyes rolled in fright, looking for a possible threat. When none was forthcoming, they shook their heads, tossing long manes and forelocks, and stamped the ground, releasing their nervous energy.

Balanir's hard expression softened seeing his love's anguish, and he returned to stand in front of the taller man. He reached out a gloved hand and laid it on Argemdor's broad chest. "I am yours, and you are mine. Always. Even if our time together on this earth is short, I will still be yours in the world beyond."

Argemdor relaxed his fists, then reached up and stroked his curled knuckles against Balanir's cheek. "There are times in my life, like now, when I marvel at how incredibly fortunate I am." He turned his fingers and slid his hand down to gently cup the back of Balanir's neck, urging the shorter man's gaze up to meet his. He held those serious eyes with his own for several moments, then softly kissed his beloved's forehead, turned and finished preparing to leave camp.

A slow, sad smile curled across Balanir's mouth, then he, too, returned to his morning chores.

Ten minutes later, the little glade held no trace of a camp ever having been there. The Grey and Jes stood saddled and swishing their tails with impatience, while Brute waited, loaded with the journey's supplies and the two Rangers fastened their long, traveling cloaks about their shoulders. The day had dawned clear, but with a deep chill, confirming that winter had a firm grip on the land, even though only frost had blanketed the ground, not yet snow, but warning of colder days, and harder times, soon to come.

"Well, Balanir, son of Sandor, I think we've tarried long enough this morning, and the time to continue this journey has arrived. Rivendell lies still many miles away, and we've another long day ahead of us. Let us be on our way." Argemdor gathered his reins and swung gracefully into The Grey's saddle, settling his long sword at his side.

Balanir sat already aboard his black gelding, Jes. He grinned a lopsided grin and acceptance glowed in his deep blue eyes as he said, "As you say, Gem." Then very softly, almost as a whisper, he added, "Beloved of my heart."

Argemdor's head snapped around, ready to accuse Balanir of committing his own sin, but the young Ranger had already moved along the path ahead of him.

Instead he smiled warmly, lovingly, and answered, also in a whisper, "And of mine." Then, the big man collected the lead rope for the pack horse, Brute, and asked The Grey to move forward with his heels. Rivendell, their future, and the future of all men waited.

Balanir fought to keep his eyes open, finding it much too easy to give in to his body's pleas for rest and to slide out of his saddle and onto the hard, cold ground. His horse Jes continued to put one foot wearily in front of another, carrying him along with the rest of the allies from Helm's Deep inexorably on toward Minas Tirith.

His clothes were crusted with dirt from the road and stiff with the blood of Orcs. The nightmarish images behind his half-closed eyelids were the only things that kept him from actually slipping into slumber. The memory of the writhing, stinking sea of Orcs massed for battle just beyond the walls and gates of Helm's Deep forced him to keep his eyes open. So many Orcs! Seemingly endless ranks of twisted, black bodies stretching across the valley and beyond, where his merely human eyes could not see the end.

Then the hellish cacophony of their battle cry and the deafening rush of attack, laced with the rumble of clambering, iron-shod feet, booming thunder, and mighty stone falling, as the foe advanced and broke through ancient battlements. Balanir had swung his sword again and again, felling Orcs to his left and right in numbers too great to recall. The pelting rain mixed with foul blood, and coated all the defenders of Helm's Deep with its reek. Through the long, wet night he fought, unwilling to think about what the wan light of morning would reveal.

But it was not his day to die.

For with the dawn came The White Rider and the hosts of Erkenbrand, and together with the Riders of Rohan, they drove the enemy back out into the Deeping Coomb and against the trees. Trees where none had stood the day before, and all who fled into that sinister forest never saw the light brought by dawn that day.

The battle for Helm's Deep was ended and the allies could claim a tremendous victory over Saruman, his venomous creation the Uruk Hai, and the throng of Orcs spawned in the pits of Isengard.

But their victory was short lived. Barely given time to tend to the wounded and pay their respects to the dead, Aragorn had urged anyone still able to mount their horse and follow him. For though the battle had been fierce, and the victory dearly paid, the war was anything but over. Minas Tirith awaited, and the final battle for Middle Earth.

Balanir swung his weary eyes sideways, seeking the comfort of finding Argemdor beside him, astride his own wearily plodding mount. As the battle raged, Balanir had ever been aware of Argemdor at his side, mirroring his own actions in the fight to repel the invading Orcs. Their actions so complemented each other, one who had the leisure to watch them would marvel that they were not one mind in two bodies. Long years of companionship and practice had refined their movements in battle to a fine tandem, and spelled certain doom for most who dared to face them. And while the press of this battle had reduced their usual finesse to crude hack and slash tactics, it had not removed their skill and deadly prowess, worn into comfortable but grisly habit.

As if feeling eyes upon him, Argemdor raised his head and met Balanir's searching gaze. He smiled, not with his mouth that was drawn in a grim line by long hours in the saddle, but with his adoring eyes. The love there warmed Balanir more than any fire could.

His thoughts slid to the memory of the rueful conversation the two men had shared only a short six weeks ago, wherein he'd been too afraid to tell Gem of his fears about this confrontation with the minions of Sauron. The easy, almost nonchalant days that had ultimately led them to Aragorn and the realities of this war had been the last, pleasant moments Balanir feared he'd ever have again. Why hadn't he allowed Gem to tell him his feelings that beautiful, golden morning? He knew he'd crushed something tender and glorious inside his life's love that day, but was only now learning how much he mourned it's loss.

Now, there was no time for confessions, admissions or apologies, only the grim determination to live another day and hope against rising uncertainty that Sauron could be defeated. He clung to the past, the well-worn comfort of days and nights in each other's arms, and hoped it was enough.

"Bal, are you falling asleep on me?" Argemdor's voice startled Balanir out of his reverie.

"No, Gem. Just thinking," he answered, pulling his eyes up and onto the sweat-streaked face of his partner.

"About what?"

Balanir thought a moment, wondering if he should tell Gem exactly what he'd been thinking. They were both tired and saddle-sore, more than ready for a rest. Was this the best time to bare his soul? Would there ever be a good time to do so?

Balanir sighed in answer, unable to put voice to his heart.

Argemdor frowned and urged The Grey to move closer to Balanir, until they were stirrup to stirrup. "What's wrong, Bal?"

Balanir tried to clear his face of gloomy emotions and pasted on an unnatural smile. The effect came out more gruesome than jovial, with the sweat, dust and blood still clinging to most of his face, and Argemdor reeled back slightly. Seeing this, Balanir dropped his pseudo smile and tried to gather his thoughts.

"I wish I knew, Gem. I don't understand what's happening to me. I've never felt this desperate or hopeless in battle before, not especially after a victory."

Argemdor's expression softened and he spoke softly, trying to keep their conversation private, or as private as one could in the middle of a column of mounted warriors. The noise of more than one hundred horses and their riders was probably enough to muffle any snatches of conversation that escaped the intimate circle he had created. "It was a close thing, Bal. If not for the White Rider and his allies arriving at dawn when they did, I'm not sure we could have held on much longer. I don't know when I've ever seen so many Orcs, and now I hear that they were only a fraction of the armies Sauron has amassed. Saruman tried to wrest Middle Earth from his master's hand, and paid for it with his failure, and his sanity, I fear. Our only hope now is that Sauron feels his chances for victory have been diminished by the loss of Saruman and his armies."

Balanir stared thoughtfully at Argemdor for several seconds, then made a decision. He steeled his nerves and his expression followed suit. "Gem, I'm scared."

Argemdor had the grace to look amused and tried to laugh off the comment, so foreign to the brave, young warrior he had come to know and love. "Scared? You?"

Balanir's expression stayed steely, words hissing from a grim mouth, "I'm not saying this in jest, Gem. It's been a long time since I felt fear before a battle, and I hate that I am now; but please believe my words, I need you to hear me."

Just then the line captain called a halt for water and rest. The column murmured a collective groan of thanks and began to dismount. They had pulled to within a hundred yards of a small stream, and the first sections of the column were already allowing their anxious mounts to slake their thirst. Jes and The Grey could smell the water, too, and were not pleased at being made to wait. Argemdor and Balanir waited their turn, fighting their mounts' urgent desire to push through the other horses and get at the water.

Jes tossed his black head fractiously while Balanir fought to soothe him. "Easy, Jes. Take it easy. Your turn will come. Mustn't be rude, now." Jes was not interested in good manners, but bent to his master's will and stood still. "Good lad," Bal whispered and stroked Jes's sweaty hide.

As they shuffled forward, nearing their turn at the water, Balanir began speaking in a very quiet voice, confident that Argemdor could hear him. The man's hearing was unlike any other's, and Balanir often secretly envied his love's ability. "Gem, I think I know what's causing my fear, and because of it, I think I owe you an apology."

Argemdor just frowned, puzzled, in response.

"I realize now that I should have let you have your say that morning we broke camp before coming to Rivendell. Now, I fear, too much has happened and too much time has gone by to recapture that moment."

Argemdor continued to frown, obviously confused by the younger man's confession, but not yet understanding its meaning. Slowly, his expression changed from contemplation to comprehension, then at last to gentle amusement. "Say it plain, Bal. What do you really mean?"

Balanir raised sad eyes to meet his partners. "I should have let you tell me how much you loved me."

"And?"

Balanir could see the thinly disguised amusement on the bigger man's face, and relaxed slightly. "And I should have told you how much I love you."

Argemdor took a small breath, intending to crow an "I told you so," but was interrupted by Balanir charging ahead verbally, effectively stopping Gem in his triumphant tracks.

"But do you understand why I wanted to stop you? It's like calling down the Fates, giving them the excuse to snatch one of us away, leaving the other standing there tearfully thanking them for allowing him one last chance to profess undying love! I don't want to give Fate any possible reason to take either one of us away. I prefer to go on blithely believing we're immortal, along with our love. Gem, the odds are stacked against us. I don't want Fate hiding in there, too."

It was finally their turn at the water and the horses waded several feet into the stream avoiding the shore where the other mounts had churned up the mud, rendering the water unpalatable. The men knelt and drank deeply as well, then attempted to wash some of the grime from their faces and arms. The water was cool and refreshing, but their turn in its depths all too brief. They led the horses from the shallow water and back up the short bank, torn up by the passage of so many feet. They moved slightly away from the rest of their comrades in arms and sat down, waiting for the call to re-mount.

Argemdor sighed, then stared seriously at Balanir. "Since when are you superstitious?"

"What? When have you not known me to be superstitious?"

The comment was made with such blatant honesty that Gem was forced to stop and consider the veracity of it. It didn't take him long. "All right, I stand corrected, but then why are you letting it gnaw at your bones this way? Aren't you doing more harm to your frame of mind by worrying about Fate, than I would by telling you how much you mean to me?"

"Maybe. Probably. Oh, I don't know! All I know is that I need to keep convincing myself this is like any other battle, not one that will decide the future of all Middle Earth. You'll be at my back, and I'll be at yours, and we'll get through it," Balanir agonized.

"Why would that change?" The slightest flush of anger began to color Argemdor's words and face.

Balanir swallowed and considered ending the conversation, without the true confession in his soul, but knew he couldn't do that to his beloved. Very softly he said, "Because I fear I would be more focused on keeping you alive for me, than I would be on winning this battle, and that loss of attention would get you and many others killed."

"So you're saying loving me is a distraction?" Gem was definitely angry now.

Balanir winced at the cutting tone but plunged on, knowing it was too late to take anything back. "No! Gods no, Gem!" He paused, took a deep breath and whispered, "But I am saying I'm scared."

Gem only stared at him for several long seconds, and just when Balanir couldn't stand that hard look any longer and opened his mouth to recant everything he'd tried so hard to convey, the line captain shouted, "Mount up!" Without a word, Gem rose to his feet, mounted The Grey and joined the already moving column.

Balanir sat frozen, watching Gem's tunic blend into the mass of riders, dust flying up at the passage of so many feet, and silently mourned.

"I'm sorry, Gem," Balanir whispered, knowing Argemdor could hear him clearly. He allowed an impassive expression to fall across his face, joining the exhaustion already living there, and it sucked the light from his eyes. He sought for and found the cold, stoic warrior he usually kept buried in his psyche, and donned the personality with the ease of practice and need.

"I will not let you die, Argemdor, son of Argen. This I vow." He rose, mounted his horse, and despite his body's cries for rest, sat tall and straight in the saddle. He joined the moving column of men and beasts, moving ever onward to Minas Tirith, the Pelennor Fields, and Fate.

Balanir believed he had never felt so exhausted in his life. His whole body screamed with pain as he fought to swing his sword again and again. He tried, but was failing to ignore the agony his existence had become. His muscles streamed urgent messages to his brain saying that they had long since lost the power to lift the heavy blade, but somehow it continued to ring against the crude iron of his innumerable enemies. Accompanying every stroke was a guttural grunt and desperate gasp for air. The gory blade still found and opened enemy flesh, but less and less often, and he knew the next attack he failed to parry would be his last.

He saw only the movement of sword, lance and club as they came seeking his life, not the frenzied, evil faces wielding them, and relied on long years of experience to combat the never-ending attacks. His entire life had condensed down to this moment in time, and this battle. He had always been here on the Pelennor Fields fighting the filth spewed out by Sauron, and he always would. The life he had known as a Ranger in the far, northern reaches of Arnor was like a fondly remembered dream, and the man fighting at his back who had meant more than life to him had become a silent sentinel, tantalizingly close but infinitely far away.

Since that fateful afternoon by the river, amazingly few words had passed between the two Rangers, only the required, cursory comments involved in caring for the horses, setting up camp or planning strategy. Each time Balanir had summoned up the courage to speak words of apology or contrition, Gem had seemed to sense it and found some obscure chore to perform--always at that moment, and always away from Balanir. The blank, hard expression never wavered, and too often it was the only part of himself Argemdor would deign to share with his partner. Argemdor had given Balanir no excuses to feel motivated by love, and in so doing had broken the younger man's heart.

It seemed impossible that just two days had passed since Gem had turned his back to Balanir in anger. Aragorn had pushed them to ride unceasingly, conveying dire urgency, dour silence and a need to press ever forward. Could it have been only this morning that they had taken the ships of the Corsairs of Umbar down the silver Anduin and arrived on the Quays of Harlond? Their eyes had only mere hours ago beheld Gondor and the very doorstep to Minas Tirith. The Pelennor Fields were filled with the creatures of Middle Earth, good and evil. All of them fighting furiously to determine who would win the right to inhabit every corner of the world, the fair, free folk or the dark slaves of Sauron.

As the black- sailed ships swept down the great river, the hearts of free men were filled with despair, thinking fresh forces for Sauron had arrived, sealing their fate. But how that despair was turned to joy and pride upon seeing the banners of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, fabled King of Gondor at their fore! And a tremendous battle cry rose from the throats of the allies already on the field, sending fear and terror into the forces of Sauron.

Joining their shouts to the battle cry, Balanir, son of Sandor, and Argemdor, son of Argen, had charged down the quays and on into the mighty battle. They fell naturally into their tandem style of fighting, back to back, blades slicing through enemies with a fresh flush of fervor and power, never taking a moment to discuss it, each knowing instinctively where the other was; and thus they had continued until this moment when Balanir found bitter tears flowing down his stained and blood splattered face, leaving white trails of clean skin in their wake.

He had no energy left. He had been relying on sheer grit and force of will to keep the sword in his numb hand, but now, even that tactic was failing. There were just too many. Too many clubs, spears and swords to beat back. Too many foes fighting just as fiercely for their future as he was.

He knew Gem was at his back, fighting on as doggedly as he was, but a mental wall had risen between them, and the loss of their connection, his support, was defeating Balanir as effectively as a well- placed sword thrust would.

Again a sword flashed down at Balanir forcing him to dodge, jumping to his right and back. He intended to step forward on his left foot, taking back the ground lost in his dodge, but the blood-soaked grass gave him no purchase and he slipped, lost his balance, and fell hard onto his backside, bumping into Gem as he went down. Gem reacted routinely, moving away slightly to allow Balanir more room for maneuvering. Balanir immediately pushed up onto one knee, attempting to recover and protect himself. His Southron foe took advantage of the fallen man's position and moved to get in between Balanir and the larger Ranger, again jostling Gem. Gem moved again, adding a few more yards to his retreat, carefully keeping his back to where he supposed Balanir to be.

Desperately, Balanir compelled aching muscles to obey his command and raised his sword once again, but it was too sluggish and too feeble to defend him entirely from the huge blow aimed at his exposed head. He caught most of the blow high on his blade, forcing it to slide down to the quillion where it stopped for a second, then continued through the abused metal. The energy of the blow was redirected, but not diminished as it forced his sword backward and away from his neck. The blade tore through the leather armor on his left shoulder and found the vulnerable flesh below.

"GEM!"

But the Ranger fought on, unable to hear his partner over the incredible din of the battle raging all around them.

His foe loomed smiling over him, ready to deliver the killing blow. Using both hands, the dark man arrogantly raised his sword high over his head.

Suffused with power born of pain and rage, Balanir brought his sword tip up, braced the pommel against the betraying ground, and aimed directly for the Southron's belly. The foolish creature realized his doom too late, and fell upon the blade, forcing it straight through his powerful body. He was dead before he hit the ground, pinning Balanir beneath him.

Wriggling to free himself from the crushing weight of a death so nearly his own, he succeeded in clearing his torso. Balanir sat up and pushed distastefully at the dead Southron, cursing his injured and currently useless left arm. He pulled his legs from under the body, stood shakily, then looked around frantically for his partner in the fighting throng. He could see Argemdor's back, now fully twenty yards away, fighting still, apparently convinced Balanir was faithfully behind him.

Balanir tried again, "Argemdor!" but his ragged voice lacked the strength to carry over the tumult.

It was happening.

His worst nightmare was becoming reality right before his disbelieving eyes as Gem was swept away from him into the pandemonium and unceasing gore of the battle.

Incredibly, a giggle slipped past Balanir's cracked and bleeding lips. The giggle became a chuckle, then a full laugh as hysteria consumed the utterly spent young Ranger. He laughed maniacally, nearly choking, for many miserable seconds until the laughter morphed into uncontrollable sobbing, and Balanir, son of Sandor, swung his ruined sword blindly, at foes imagined and real, as now Fate, not Gem, stood at his back.

Argemdor's blade bit into flesh once again and another dark creature fell, as so many had already fallen. The number of dead was too great to count, and possibly too great to spend too long in pondering. If he gave himself over to thinking about his circumstances, the enormity of the battle would surely overwhelm him.

He pulled the great steel blade free and turned to face the next foe. But this time, none faced him. He spun, knowing there must surely be others moving up to take advantage of his blind spot, but again, there were none. Confusion pulled the lines on his face downward as he paused to look beyond the ten-foot circle of battle that had consumed his attention for so long. He gasped for breath as he stood staring unbelievingly at the empty space all around him. Could it possibly be over?

None stood to face him because none were left. For yards and yards around him, not one enemy was left standing. It was like suddenly being thrown from a galloping horse--one moment life was careening past, and the next it screeched to a halt with a painful lurch to the hard ground.

In the lull, Argemdor's long neglected body demanded his attention. Sweat stung his eyes, tearing pain lanced his shoulders, back and arms, and exhaustion threatened to consume him on the spot. He allowed the tip of his blade to fall to the ground, leaned heavily on the battered sword and stood swaying for many minutes, regaining his breath and what was left of his strength. He took stock of his wounds, which were few and minor but burned now that he paid attention, then he looked, really looked around him.

The sky was painted red with the palette of the setting sun, a sun they hadn't seen in many days thanks to the dark magic of Sauron. Fascinated by the colors, Argemdor realized the day was at its end, both poetically and literally. As far as he could see, the ground was dark with the bodies of the fallen. Here and there a bit of color broke up the monotony where a garment still showed amid the carnage. Tattered standards fluttered in the evening breeze, their staves hastily thrust into the ground at odd angles. And in between the grim darkness on the grass, an even more gruesome shine wetly reflected back the sky's crimson.

Those whom he did see still standing were clearly the defenders of Gondor, all equally astonished that it was they and not the foe that remained. He saw their mouths move, calling out in greeting or wonder, but could not hear them. He realized he had so lowered his ability to hear he was nearly deaf. The din of battle had been too much for his sensitive hearing to bear, and he had unconsciously toned his ability down to a point with which he could function. His hearing returned gradually, but not deafeningly. It was, in fact, quiet. Gone were the guttural cries of the Southron, the clash of metal blades, and the pounding of galloping horses' feet. A strange hush had fallen on the Pelennor Fields, and with it a powerful feeling of accomplishment. Victory!

Argemdor turned to share his elation with Balanir, but found he, too, wasn't there. He stood straight and cast his powerful eyesight about, searching for his partner. He saw many weary but joyous faces nearby, but none were Bal's. He widened his search, easily seeing men several hundred yards away from him, then threw his hearing on top of vision, straining for a clue as to Balanir's location.

He spent several tense moments searching faces and voices, but could not find Balanir. His stomach sank nauseously as he realized the younger man was not in range of his formidable senses.

"No..." he breathed, defying the ghost of warning that slipped into his awareness. Adrenaline born of pure terror burned through his veins and drove the exhaustion from every part of his body. His mind cried out, "Run! Now! Find him!" but he fought down the rising panic and forced himself to stop and think.

To remember.

But what came first to mind was anger. Anger and annoyance as Balanir seemed to obliviously jostle and bump into him. After the first time, Argemdor had moved away slightly to allow Bal the greater range he seemed to need, but after the second time, Gem had perceived the bump as carelessness, and moved even further away. Fueled by anger, Argemdor had fought on, forgetting about the added distance he'd put between them and the diminished hearing he'd adopted.

"Fool!" he berated himself.

Taking several deep breaths, Argemdor closed his eyes and looked with the eyes and ears of memory, searching for the last trace of his love. He flashed back through thrusts, parries, attacks and dodges until he clearly saw Balanir at his back, mirroring his moves. He estimated the vision was little more than an hour old, thankfully.

He slowly moved the memory forward, looking for the events that had separated them, and then found what he had feared; Balanir hadn't been jostling him, he'd fallen! From the corner of his mind's eye, Argemdor saw the upraised arms of the huge Southron, poised for a killing blow.

"GEM!"

The urgent plea struck Argemdor as if he himself had taken the blow, and a pain born of fear and regret took up residence in his heart.

He'd known. Somehow, Balanir had known, and now Argemdor had to admit to the truth of Balanir's fears. Truth or not, he refused to believe the young Ranger was dead. He couldn't be. Without knowing why, Gem felt confident he would know if Bal had died on the field, and every fiber of his being rang with the certainty that his lover lived.

Balanir had sometimes spoken of feeling connected to him on an unconscious and primal level, but Argemdor had laughed it off as nonsense. He dealt best with the things his senses could decipher; this scent meant a wild boar had been nearby, that sound revealed a snake hunting mice, the beat of wings far off in the distance betrayed an enemy trying to sneak up on him. These were the real, tangible things he knew best. Not feelings and nuances. Those had always been Balanir's domain.

And yet, it had been Balanir who had refused to allow Argemdor to speak of his feelings. When Gem had pressed, he had gotten his feelings hurt, and chose instead of trying to draw the younger man out, to turn away and isolate himself. Feeling confused and rejected, Argemdor had lashed out with silence. He knew Balanir had tried several times to apologize, but he'd been too full of stubborn pride to stay and listen, even once. They'd joined the battle still at an impasse, and fell into ingrained habits, no words ever necessary. Arrogantly, he'd allowed two days to go by without any words of resolution between them; two days he'd never retrieve and now it was possibly too late.

Argemdor realized belatedly that he was walking, searching for his partner. He didn't remember deciding to move, but here he was retracing his steps of the past hour or so, scouring the faces of both the dead and the living for the one he cherished. He let his senses range out ahead of him, opening them all fully so as not to miss any indication of Balanir's presence.

In his mind, he imagined Bal fighting madly, recklessly, to regain his position at Argemdor's back, but pain, fear and hopelessness keeping him from achieving his goal. Deep down, Argemdor knew his partner would fight with complete disregard for his own safety if he thought the bigger man was in peril, even to the point of sacrificing his life. It was his best and his worst character trait. Never had Argemdor found anyone more loyal and fearless in his devotion, but it often led the younger man into unnecessary danger.

Finding Balanir was proving to take much longer than Argemdor cared to admit. With every passing moment, the ghost of warning he'd tried so hard to banish succeeded in persuading him further and further into thinking Bal was already dead. He drove himself forward with a relentless single-mindedness, stretching his powerful senses to the limit of his ability. He would find his love, one way or the other.

Argemdor's head throbbed with pain born of pushing his senses too hard and tears flowed unnoticed down his face. Minutes turned into most of an hour with still no sign of Balanir. Defeat was breathing down his neck, and despair waited at the door to Argemdor's sanity, until finally, a distant sound caught his straining ears. Shouts. Warnings. He urged his tired muscles faster, toward the commotion.

In the midst of concerned voices was the one he was so desperate to hear. It was hoarse and raw, but it was Balanir's voice. He zeroed in on the cries, wholly able to discern the anguish in the beloved voice. "Let me go! Please, I've got to find him!"

Ahead, a loose crowd of defenders stood all facing the same direction. No weapons were drawn, but the men's postures spoke of a readiness to defend themselves if needed.

He heard a man ask, "What's happening?" Then a rough, gravelly voice answered, "It's a young Ranger, crazy with delirium. Won't let anyone near him even though he's hurt and bleeding bad. He keeps fighting them off and saying he has to find "him." No one knows who he's talking about, and he won't let anyone near to calm him down enough to find out."

Argemdor swallowed a lump which had formed in his throat upon hearing the words "hurt and bleeding," but plunged straight into the ring of men, drawing a few harsh words, then gasped upon finally seeing his love. It was as the man had said. Balanir appeared to be crazed with delirium and bled from a wound to his shoulder. He still clutched his broken sword, trying to threaten the others with it, but Gem could see he was merely moving it from side to side. His eyes were black and unseeing with fever and utter despair. "Bal!" Argemdor choked, and crashed through the last few people between himself and Balanir.

Every face turned in Argemdor's direction as he stumbled into the makeshift circle and moved directly toward the hapless young man at its center. Miraculously, the sword tip came up again and a snarl escaped the parched lips, but neither deterred the big man. Argemdor carelessly batted the blade away and took the younger man's face in both his hands. "Balanir! It's me! Can you hear me? It's Argemdor!"

Slowly, realization dawned in the fevered eyes and they focused on Argemdor's face. A whisper, "Gem?"

"Yes, yes Bal, it's me. You can stop now. I'm here and you can stop now," Argemdor answered, forcing down the sob in his voice and trying to convince his exhausted partner of the truth of his words.

"Oh, Gem, I've finally found you," Balanir rasped. "I'm sorry I got lost, but I fell and when I got back up, you were gone. I tried and tried, but I couldn't find you! Where did you go, Gem? I couldn't find you!"

Argemdor saw panic steal back into Balanir's eyes, and drew him to his chest, embracing him. He pulled the ruined sword from Balanir's cramped fingers and let it fall to the ground. "It's all right, Bal. I've got you now, and everything is going to be just fine."

Balanir pushed away from Argemdor's chest just enough to see the bigger man's face. The beloved blue eyes searched Gem's face. Argemdor blanched seeing the doubt and fear entrenched in the blue depths. "Really, Gem?"

Knowing it was the only way to convince the wounded man, Argemdor mustered all the love he held in his heart for Balanir and banished everything else to the winds. He allowed only love, not his concern, to shine from his own lighter blue eyes, praying it was enough. "Yes, really."

"Good, because I'm so tired..." With that, Balanir's eyes closed and his body went limp.

Argemdor caught him carefully, then swung him up into his arms. "Show me the way to the healers, quickly!"

After what felt like an eternity of enduring the fires of hell, Balanir was finally cool. Soothing breezes caressed his skin, incense fragranced the air, and nearby, someone was speaking softly. The voice was pleasant and comforting and Bal found himself sighing in appreciation. Pleasant, comforting and...familiar.

"Gem!" What he intended as a shout came out a hoarse whisper. He gasped as a tearing pain ripped through his chest. Warm hands eased him back onto the pillow he'd bolted from, while the beloved voice crooned in his ear. "Easy, Bal. Nice and easy. You can't move around that much yet."

In a rush, the whole battle came back to Balanir, along with the grueling fight that had ended with his being wounded. He also remembered Gem's rejection, and the raw pain in his heart had nothing to do with his wound. He wanted to open his eyes, but found the lids as heavy as his sword had become in the last hour of the battle. He gritted his teeth and swallowed past a dry throat, determined to face Argemdor and confront him about the direction their relationship was going to take in the future. He knew how hard the last three days had been on him, and could only hope they had been similarly challenging for Gem. Balanir knew the man was aching inside, he had seen it in his eyes, but he also knew there was no one more prideful or unwilling to admit defeat than his mate.

"Gem," Balanir croaked, surprised by the lack of control he had over his voice.

Argemdor's warm hand slid behind Balanir's neck, gently lifting his head so his lips made contact with the smooth rim of a clay jar. "Shh, drink first," Gem instructed as he held the vessel for Balanir. Cool, wonderful water ran into Bal's mouth and he drank as deeply as Gem allowed. He hadn't realized just how parched he truly was, but the water was already slaking his greedy thirst.

The jar was taken away and the warm hand sadly removed, so Balanir sank back into his pillow and tried again to open his eyes. This time the lids slid back slowly against eyes that felt gritty and burned slightly, but he had managed to get them open. The room he laid in was dim, lit by torches flickering along the stone walls, and candles on several small tables. Beside each table was a cot with a blanket-clad figure upon it. Some were awake and speaking softly with friends or loved ones, while many more were asleep or unconscious, unable yet to find the strength to awaken. A small, straight-backed chair sat near Balanir's own cot, with a blanket draped haphazardly across it.

"Are you feeling better?" Argemdor asked, and Balanir stopped his casual surveillance of the room to face him. He was shocked by what he saw. It looked as if Gem hadn't shaved or bathed in days, and his normally expressive blue eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Dark circles beneath his lower lids gave Gem the appearance of one who had lost a fistfight, but Bal knew it's real cause--sleeplessness. Gem was a notoriously light sleeper, and frequently got less rest than he needed, but this was the worst Balanir had ever seen him look.

Aghast, Balanir reached a tentative hand toward his lover and forced his words out, past a still raw throat. "What's happened? Have we lost?"

Argemdor quickly kneeled, intercepted Balanir's hand and brought it to his lips, gently kissing the rough knuckles. A choked laugh escaped past the kiss, and a tear spilled from one of Argemdor's worried eyes. "Always thinking of others before yourself. That's one of your most endearing traits, Bal, and one of the most frustrating."

Balanir frowned, completely confused by this seeming non sequitur, but saw that Gem's expression had softened, and the previous concern had been replaced with something akin to joy. Pure, loving and relieved joy.

"No, my love, we have not lost. In fact, while you slept the whole of Middle Earth has been celebrating our victory over Sauron and all his dark minions. The One Ring has been destroyed. Sauron's evil will never return."

Without thought, Balanir attempted to move his left hand to scrub at his own face, but found he was unable to as it was bound tightly to his chest. A sharp pain stabbed through him for a moment, but quickly subsided as soon as he ceased trying to use the wounded arm. Argemdor saw him flinch and released Balanir's right hand. "You shouldn't try to move that arm, at least not for another week for certain. It's a bad wound, Bal." And with his last words, the pain and worry were suddenly back in Argemdor's eyes.

Balanir looked away, strangely uncomfortable seeing such strong emotion in Argemdor. He used his good hand to finally rub at his eyes and face, unconsciously looking for a way to bridge the uncharacteristic silence between the two men. As his hand moved across his cheek, he was astonished to find much more than a bit of late day whiskers against his fingers, and things began to fall into place in his confused mind.

"How long, Gem?" Balanir asked, allowing Argemdor to intuit the unspoken portion of his sentence.

Argemdor bowed his head slightly and swallowed, then looked at Balanir gravely and answered, "Four days. You've had a fever and been delirious, sometimes seeming to waken, but never for very long nor actually regaining your mind clearly. We managed to get a little water and broth into you now and again, but this is the first time you've truly been with us."

The strange, hellish dreams, the swaddling bandages, and Gem's pensive, worried mood finally made sense. Balanir felt a tense, mental weight lift from his shoulders and a smile spread slowly over his rather haggard face. "You love me," Balanir whispered, purposely not asking.

A sincere, true smile warmed Argemdor's face as he reached out and stroked Balanir's forehead. "Of course I do, you clumsy ass. This was never about love, it was about fear. I had four long days to figure it out and now I understand."

This time it was Balanir who turned serious, the shy smile leaving his face, replaced by a look of sad contrition. "I'm sorry, Gem. So sorry. I allowed my fears of the future to come between us instead of turning to you to allay them. I almost put an end to us, and myself, and for that I am truly sorry, but..." Balanir's words trailed off, unable to finish his thought.

"But what, Bal?"

Balanir fought against the paralyzing fear which threatened to rear up and consume him again, but knew he had to put a voice to it, or forever be held a prisoner by it. He took a deep breath and let it out, steeling his resolve. "But, I'm not sorry I didn't let you tell me. If I had had those words during the battle, it would have given me peace, and I might have been content to let Fate have its way." Balanir paused, allowing his meaning to penetrate, then added, "I'd rather keep things the way they are. We show what's in our hearts by how we live our lives together. It's enough for me, but is it enough for you?"

Argemdor's hand strayed into Bal's hair, where he continued to stroke and comfort his love. He didn't say anything for several seconds, then replied, "Yes, it's enough. You're here with me. What more could I ask? Forgive me for acting like a fool?"

Balanir caught Gem's hand, brought it to his mouth and gently kissed the palm. "Yes."

Both men sighed, blowing out tensions accumulated over many days of confusion, hurt pride, anger and worry. Simultaneously, they reached for each other, sharing an awkward hug due to Balanir's bandaged arm, then moved together for a slow, emotion-filled kiss. When they broke apart, each sported a hungry smile and a lascivious light in their eyes.

Argemdor put voice to both their thoughts, "When you're healed..."

"I'm sure motivation will do wonders for my recovery," Balanir said, then closed his eyes and yawned.

"Motivation aside, I think it's time you went back to sleep. I'll wake you in time for some supper later this evening." Argemdor leaned over and kissed Balanir's forehead, then rose and tucked the wooly blankets back up around his chin.

Balanir yawned again and settled easily into the softness of his pillow and blankets, then smiled sleepily and mumbled, "So, now that the biggest challenge of our professional lives is over, what do we do? Retire? Take up farming?"

Argemdor chuckled lightly as he smoothed the curls around Balanir's face. His eyes stayed closed. "Us farmers? I'll have to think about that. We've had enough of living in dread of the future for now, don't you think? Let's let the future take care of itself. I'm sure as long as we're together, we'll find our place in it."

~finis~

End The Strength of Words Unspoken by Galina: Dolimir@aol.com,Galina1105@aol.com

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