It's time for Amon Hen, folks!

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Breakfast the next day was a somber affair. None of the Fellowship spoke much, the argument of the evening before still on their minds.

Boromir sat alone, at a small but noticeable distance from everyone else, staring aimlessly off into the middle distance. There were dark circles under his eyes. Merry and Pippin were talking quietly amongst themselves, casting worried looks at Boromir and Frodo intermittently. The latter kept worrying at the hem of his collar until Sam pressed a piece of Lembas into his hands, which Frodo accepted with a weak smile. Gimli was scattering the ash and half-burnt logs of the previous night's fire in an effort to conceal their tracks from any who were following them. Next to him, Legolas sat, occasionally glancing at Aragorn who stood by the lake's shore and had yet to say a single word.

Robb shifted in his position. Gods, it was as though Aragorn and Boromir were a quarreling couple and the rest of the Fellowship their children.

"The time has come," Aragorn finally spoke up, turning around to face them. Robb's shoulders sagged with relief, the tense silence finally broken. "We must decide where our path next leads us: to Mordor, or to Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor."

Boromir straightened his back, making as if to speak, but Aragorn quickly raised a hand.

"We know your opinion, Boromir, just as everyone knows mine," he said kindly. "But this call cannot be made by me, or any of us here except for the Ringbearer. Frodo—I would have you choose our path forward."

Frodo's eyes widened, his mouth opening for one helpless moment as he visibly struggled to find words. Then, he shook his head, hands tightening where they were clutching his coat.

"I—I need to think about it," he whispered. "Would you give me a few moments?"

Aragorn nodded, his gaze softening. "Of course, Frodo. How does an hour sound?"

"Yes, thank you," Frodo said. He slung his arms around his knees as everyone else returned to their business, a bit of chatter finally starting up.

Robb tied up his bedroll and fastened it to his pack, half-listening to Gimli and Legolas' playful argument about which of their respective homes was more beautiful.

"Your woods are infested with gigantic spiders!" Gimli said, and Legolas lifted his shoulders.

"And your mountain had a dragon living in it."

"Aye, had being the operative word," Gimli replied. "It's been gone for quite a few decades now, as you well know."

Robb stretched his back. Probably a good idea to relieve himself before they set off, right? Lest he held everyone up later on. He got up and made his way across the camp and into the woods beyond it. Although he made sure to stay within hearing range, Robb did take advantage of a small dip in the forest floor. Most of his sense of propriety had left him on this journey already, but if he could avoid being seen while he pissed, he'd count it as a win nevertheless.

Just as he was lacing up his breeches, Robb heard raised voices from somewhere close by. Boromir, he thought, and someone else. He couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but Boromir's agitation combined with the high yelp from the other person sparked a sense of worry in Robb's chest.

He climbed back up the small slope, careful not to slip on the foliage, and, one hand creeping close to the hilt of his sword, hurried in the direction of the voices. The argument became louder and louder, and Robb sped up, past broken statues and ancient ruins.

"Frodo?"

Robb's heart leapt to his throat. Boromir's voice sounded so small.

"Frodo, I'm sorry!"

Finally, the man was within sight. Slumped to the ground with twigs and leaves tangled in his hair, Boromir looked a right mess. Robb slid to a stop next to him.

"Boromir, what happened?"

The man jerked, wide eyes coming to rest on Robb's face. They were filled with tears.

"I— I tried to take the Ring from him," Boromir sobbed. "I don't—"

The breath caught in Robb's throat. "Is Frodo alright?"

"I did not hurt him." Boromir frantically shook his head. "Or at the very least, I do not think I did. I didn't mean to do this, Robb, please, you must believe me—"

Robb swallowed. Closed his eyes. "If Aragorn is right, then this was the Ring's doing," he reasoned, both with himself and Boromir. His hand came up to squeeze the other man's shoulder. "But still, the others have to know. Frodo will be—"

The sound of blades meeting stopped Robb in his tracks. His head whipped around and both him and Boromir listened in silence, hoping they'd heard wrong. But it was unmistakable: snarls of Orcs, metal clanging, trampling steps on the forest floor—they'd been found by the enemy. They were in danger.

Frodo was in danger.

Robb stumbled to his feet, pulling Boromir with him.

"Later," he said, and Boromir nodded.

"Later."

Together, they ran toward the sounds of battle. Voices echoed through the forest, leading them to their companions.

"Hey! Over here!"

"This way!"

Oh, gods, Merry and Pippin. Robb ran faster, and Boromir overtook him still.
When they finally arrived, Orcs—bigger, stronger ones than any they had encountered before—were pouring over every hill, appearing from behind trees and boulders and ruins. They were almost upon Merry and Pippin, too, and Boromir only barely managed to stop the first one from killing them right then and there. Robb joined him only moments later, his blade glowing a bright blue when he drew it. The time to test it had come.

The only thing that saved them were the trees. Had it not been for them, had the Orcs been able to attack all at once and from all sides, they would have been overwhelmed within seconds. As it were, Robb and Boromir held out, keeping the two Hobbits as safe as possible between them. As soon as there was a lull in the fighting for just a moment, Boromir ripped the horn from his belt and blew it. Then, the battle raged on. Robb hoped the others would arrive soon.

A dull thwack and a pained gasp from Boromir had Robb almost catching a blade to the chest, thrown off his rhythm. Merry and Pippin's cries of terror made it worse, but Robb managed to behead his Orc and, in the moment before the next one made impact, caught a glimpse of Boromir with a thick black arrow buried in his shoulder.

A cold hand clenched around his heart, but Robb couldn't afford to be more distracted than he already was. He raised his sword again and tried to keep both Boromir and the Hobbits in his peripheral vision. If Boromir—

Well. Best to be prepared to cover three people at a moment's notice, was all.

Robb clenched his jaw, kicked an Orc in the knee and slashed another from shoulder to navel. He stabbed the one with the injured knee, gutted the next one and—

Thwack.

Twin cries from Merry and Pippin accompanied yet another anguished grunt from Boromir. Robb saw the man sink to his knees.

No, his mind screamed, no, no, not again!

He cast his frantic gaze around, trying to spot the archer, left hand fumbling for his dagger while he fought off more Orcs with his sword in the other. Next to him, Merry and Pippin were throwing rocks, and, thank the gods, it distracted the Orcs just enough for Robb to finally spot him.

He already had another arrow nocked and ready, dark, beady eyes trained on Boromir's struggling form.

Dread pickling in his throat, Robb threw the dagger—but the weight was off and he was right-handed and the dagger sailed harmlessly by the Orc's head, hitting a tree with a pling before dropping to the ground. Robb gasped.

No.

The Orc's eyes turned to him. The arrow flew before Robb could even blink.

There was a piercing pain in his side and Robb was back at the Twins. A soft whimper escaped his throat. No, not again. Please, anything but this.

He stumbled back, tripped over something, fell to the ground. It jostled the arrow in his side and made tears shoot to his eyes. His breath came faster and faster.

Every noise around him was muffled. He could make out faint cries of his name, but they blended together with his mother's. Sounds of battle, sounds of slaughter, sounds of—

"Robb!"

A stinging pain on his cheek brought everything rushing back.
Boromir, white as a sheet, was on his knees in front of him. Two arrows stuck out of his torso, one in his shoulder, the other low in his side. His hands, wet, framed Robb's face and neck, thumbs resting on his cheeks.

"Are you alright?" Boromir—Father—Boromir gasped wetly, teeth stained with blood.

Robb's eyes widened and he corralled the man to lie back on the ground.

"I'm fine," he replied when Boromir kept resisting, pushing his hands away from where they were trying to pat down his body. "I'm fine, Boromir, you're the one with the arrows in your—gods—"

What was he supposed to do? Was pressure on those wounds good? Bad? He knew he couldn't move the arrows, but—

Robb leaned over Boromir. Wood clattered against wood. Robb's own side flared up with pain. Wheezing, through tears in his eyes, he looked down his body.

Oh.

A hysterical giggle escaped his throat.

"Twinsies," he mumbled, his voice too high and too cracked. Once again, there was an arrow sticking out of his side. He couldn't say that he had particularly missed the sensation.

Breathing deeply, Robb pushed down the pain and the fear and the panic. He tried to blink the tears out of his eyes and looked around. Dozens of dead Orcs lay one the forest floor around them. Several more were still up and fighting, although none of them came close to Robb and Boromir. Somehow, Robb had missed the arrival of the others: Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had formed a loose circle around them and were keeping the last of the Orcs away.

But where were—oh no.

Oh, gods, no, where were Merry and Pippin?

Robb's breath hitched as he frantically looked around, trying to spot a hint of curly hair or colourful fabric. He found none. His hand clenched in Boromir's clothes.

"Boromir," he whimpered, "Boromir, where are Merry and Pippin?"

"They took them." Boromir's hand wrapped around Robb's and clutched it tightly. "I wasn't—I couldn't—"

Robb exhaled shakily. "Fuck," he whispered, and then louder, "No, Boromir, you were injured. Are injured."

Finally, he moved his hands to press on each of Boromir's wounds. (—Summarily ignoring his own. He'd live.) Robb didn't know if the pressure would make things worse, but that wouldn't matter if Boromir bled out before anyone could help him properly.

"We'll get them back," Robb murmured, both to himself and Boromir. Gods, if Robb had only pulled himself together for once in his godforsaken life—

"They'll be fine. If the Orcs took the Hobbits, they must need them for something. They won't hurt—" Robb bit his lip, didn't think about his sisters— "won't kill them. We will get Merry and Pippin back."

There was a dull thump as someone dropped to his knees next to them. Robb looked up: Aragorn. A quick glance around confirmed that there were no more Orcs left in sight.

"They took—"

"They took the little ones," Boromir gasped, grasping at Aragorn's hands. Aragorn squeezed them before gently pushing Robb's own hands away from Boromir's wounds and taking over.

"I know," he shushed, "I know, we saw. It's not your fault, Boromir."

"Where is Frodo?" Boromir asked, an even deeper regret blooming in his eyes.

"I let Frodo go," Aragorn answered quietly, opening up Boromir's jerkin with care.

"Then you did what I could not."

Robb closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and sat back on his heels. He wasn't needed here. Aragorn had Boromir's wounds well under control, and surely Boromir would not want an audience to his suffering. No, best to leave them for now. Robb slowly got to his feet and, trying not to stumble when his vision went white from pain, left Boromir to quietly confess his misdeeds to Aragorn.

He shuffled over to the nearest tree and leaned against it. His hand, now free, clutched at where the arrow went through his side. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, but it was well below his ribs and he was wearing several protective layers. The arrow, as it seemed, had almost missed him. Less than three inches to the left and there would be no wound to speak of. With any luck, the arrow had stayed clear of Robb's major organs.

Across from him, Legolas and Gimli were checking whether all of the Orcs were truly dead, straying closer and closer to Boromir and Aragorn as they went along.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Legolas snapped around, arrow nocked and ready, aimed at seemingly nothing. A moment later, Robb heard it too—something was coming at them, fast.

But—

Robb relaxed.

"It's Grey Wind," he croaked. Yes, he could almost feel the crunch of dry leaves beneath his paws as he bounded over the forest floor. Sure enough, only a few seconds passed before a grey blur nearly barreled Robb over, stopping a hair's breadth in front of him.

He whined, softly nudging Robb's stomach with his nose. Robb gave a pained chuckle and buried his fingers in the thick fur between Grey Wind's ears before slowly sliding down the tree at his back until, soon enough, he was sat sprawled on the ground.

"I'll be fine," Robb muttered. "Nothing I haven't had before."

Robb sighed and looked up into the foliage. Warm sunlight shone through the branches to fall on Robb's face. Odd. He couldn't remember the last time he'd consciously acknowledged how good that felt. He must have done in Lothlórien, surely?

Robb didn't remember closing his eyes, but when a shadow fell over him, he opened them again. Legolas was there, kneeling next to him, intently inspecting the arrow in his side.

"Aragorn will be occupied with Boromir's injuries for quite some time yet," he said, one hand coming to rest on Robb's shoulder, the other briefly stroking Grey Wind's head. The direwolf's ear flicked. "But I know a few things about healing myself. Would you allow me to help you?"