Author's Note: A niggling idea that wouldn't quite disappear. Would that plot bunnies were easier to capture! Nonetheless, here is my attempt at one of my favorite themes – a Boromir-lives story.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

Ithil wanes, her silver gaze thin on the ground. The stars are better to see by this night, so a lantern I must travel with. I am no Elf to discern long distances easily, nor to read the stars.

My rucksack sits heavily on my shoulders, though little enough it carries. More, I think, the weight of what I am doing – slipping away from the City, as a thief might.

The White City! Long has it been held up in esteem; many are its legends. My story is but one in the larger tale, one small chapter in the story of Arda. I have yet to find whether it is read by the Valar or not; as of late, my life seems cursed by them.

Would I could hear the trumpets call my Lord Captain home! But once did I hear them, and him not yet my husband. Neither of us knew, honestly, the other. Names were exchanged, and that was all, in truth, though I had the advantage. Who could not know of his courage, his prowess on the battlefield? Who did not know the lyrics of the drinking songs, that told of his strength of arm (and more!)?

I knew, but I feared nonetheless. Arranged marriages are never easy, and mine is not. Or was…but I dare not let that trouble my thoughts, with such a difficult time ahead.

If my Lord Steward is to be believed, we are without hope – and therein why I must flee my home. War is coming, and evil has crept in. I have already known thus for some weeks, having escaped one early attempt on my life. Many wish do to me harm, my own sex included. Jealousy is rampant in the Court of the Citadel, despite its glittering.

Impulsively, I clutch at my stomach. Few enough knew who I carried, and why. Fewer still understood the chain of events that leads to my escape. I hope to keep that circle small, until I reach safety.

Safety! My snort fortunately does not carry as I pass quietly down the Circles. Safety there is not much of, in these days of War. Osgiliath fell, our last defence against the evil onslaught. The river is overrun, and I must be careful where I tread. No sword-maiden am I, though I know to use a dagger and knife dangerously.

Nonetheless, leave I must. It is not entirely my choice, but it is my chance at freedom. And survival. The oppressive airs of the City are not conducive to a healthy pregnancy, though I rue the loss of the Healing Ward. Minas Tirith is rumored to be among the best for care before birth.

My breathing rises as I pass the Outer gate. I have not been stopped thus far; many are leaving the City, mostly women and children. The cloak I wear, the one taken from my marriage, is not recognized. I am surprised, but then, my Lord Captain told me it had not seen the light of day for some time. Its midnight blue is well for nightfall, and its furred hood deep. My identity is secret, for now.

It remains secret through the night. I camp near a wain, full of a small family. A farmer, and his wife, and their three children: a daughter, and two young sons, still weaning from the mother (the elder cries when she pushes him aside to nurse the younger). Though I am watched warily, I cause no trouble. I cannot afford to make any.

My cloak serves as a blanket, my rucksack a pillow. The stars overhead are bright and of an impulse, my prayers lift up. I am no devout, but still I need any help. Whither quarter it comes does not matter until I can at last be reunited with my husband.

The night is chilly, but warmer still than the Lord Steward. I had said so more than once to my Lord Captain, and his response was a chagrined smile. "It is War that changes us all," was his reply the last time we spoke.

How long it seems now. Where does he camp? I ask the sky above. Of course, I get no response, but I amuse myself bitterly with imagining he is encamped with a warm supper, at least. Better than my lot.

O, my Captain! My love is with you. As if I could give it to him, I stretch my hand toward the horizon. A kiss, for him who protected me. Honorable and chivalrous are two words that aptly describe his character. Loving, well, for my part, he has it. He had not spoken of any when he left, for his.

The day dawns slowly. Ever does the Shadow creep near, and the dawn darker. This morn, is seems almost red. I think somberly of the commonly held adage – red morning, bloody night. I ruffle the grass back into place; with any luck, my absence will not be noticed until the late afternoon. My schedule prior had me working with the Houses of Healing til' noon, at the earliest, and meeting with my Lord Steward for a brief afternoon tea.

I hate to ask, but I chance the leverage it will give me: "good sir, might I travel with your family for a time? I seek family, but know not whether they are here, or further ahead."

As I did no harm during the night, the farmer nods slowly; his wife is less friendly, but she raises no objection. I wonder whether to confide my pregnancy – I myself found out only when the head Healer approached me tentatively. Every subject to him must undergo rigorous monitoring; as with an absent monthly, he raised concern.

Her dark-eyed stare is enough to warn me off. Perhaps later.

I walk beside the wain, not willing to ride. I do not have forgo this pleasure, at least, not for some weeks. The countryside is almost pleasant, this side of the Anduin, but the further we go, the more grim our glances.

Farms are ruined; barns burnt, earth turned up where crops had been sewn. It explains the lack of abundance at local Taverns, but not the Steward's table. The wealthy can afford it – I stop the cynicism there. After all, until today, I was one. At least comfortably off.

I know the cloak defines me, as it is of a fine fabric. Maybe I will be assumed to be a nobleman's daughter; that will suit me. In the chaos of late, I can use a false name and not be suspicioned.

I could use the pet-name he gave, a name he gave on our wedding night. My hair is of a hue somewhere between brown and black. Indeterminate, really, but no less the lovely (in my opinion). Unable to decide what shade it was, he twisted it idly beneath his fingers and dubbed me, "Amariel".

I reminded him with a sharp gesture how "earthy" I could be. "A wife with humor!" he approved.

It will do.

Introductions are slow, but the farmer and his family warm up to me after I am able to coax the two sons to sleep. His name is Almog, and when I hear it, I see a smile finally pass over his wife's face. Some private joke, no doubt, but better than the surliness of last night.

We speak to pass the time, and to ease the grim reality around us. Their daughter, Methelwen, is twelve, of an age to pepper her parents with questions. I see certain wisdom in their responses, but the unease they share from time to time.

Children are not always a joy to raise, but it seems especially true in this moment. She turns to me and asks why I leave the City.

"To seek shelter from the War," I say, truthfully. "My family would not see me kept inside the City, where the fight will come."

Almog glances over his shoulder. "They are right, Amariel. It does not do for women and children to be in harm's way. We fight for your safety, and sleep better knowing you are free."

I doubt my Lord Captain sleeps well. His errand he hid not from me, not when he woke many a night from dark dreams, including the one with which he went to the Steward. Those nights were hard fought, and my imagination wanders into dim hope that somehow, he will survive whatever came of it.

I ask Methelwen, in turn, "What is it that drives you from the City?"

She shrugs. "We are going to our kin in Dol Amroth. My Lady Princess is a distant cousin, or so I'm told."

Her mother shakes her head. "Distant, indeed. We may yet have to seek home elsewhere, if the Lord Prince spurns our plea. We share great-grandmothers, but naught more."

Dol Amroth! That is well. If there is any place my Lord Steward would not dare step foot, it is that fiefdom. His late wife's family holds him in contempt; loyal they are to Gondor, but no more. It is incredible the gossip that pervades the Court, but my Lord Captain, having served with Dol Amroth's Prince, confirmed this information.

For the first time in many days, I am comforted. I must be doing the right thing if by pure happenstance, I land among kin of the Prince.

My curiousity is sparked for sure. "Kin? But farmers you seem!"

Chuckles all around. "That we are, but we do so by choice. My wife" – Almog gestures with his shoulder – "loves good-tilled earth. A perian she must be!"

She swats him lightly, and I see the good-hearted nature of their marriage. I can feel wistfulness show on my face, and I have to turn to blink tears away.

The next few days are thus similar. We become friends, Almog and his family and I. I take turns with the children, allowing Rhea – she, at last, gave her name – needed rest. Almog pushes himself to guide the wain, and once I spot him limping. It occurs to me suddenly why he is not stationed with the other men in the City – all are necessary to fight.

We are joined by many others seeking the road to the sea-shore, including Swan-Knights on patrol.

I have to duck my head anytime they pass. Of them all, I know of one or two for certain my Lord Captain was close companions with. I do not know what he wrote of me, but until we reach the castle, I must not be recognized.

Ere we reach the city limits, we are covered in dust. Despite clouds overhead, it has not rained, and the very air seems humid. Less heat, but – heavy, as if pressing on the chest. I long for a bath, but do not hope overmuch. We are not the only refugees seeking asylum.

I am nervous. Will I be accepted here? Whom do I trust? Is the Amrothian court similar to the Court of Denethor?

Most of all – where can I seek refuge for myself and the heir to the Captain General of the armies of Gondor?

For clarification, I took "Amariel" from a well-known website that translates names - it means 'earthy'.

-to be continued-