The Eolasse Chronicles
Part One: Rebellion
Chronicling the romance of Leanor ap Beregond and Boromir ap Denethor, the ending of the glory days of Gondor, the coming of Eolasse of Rohan to Minas Tirith, and the part played by Bronwynne in the War of the Ring.
His hair was black. Beautiful raven black, shorn to his shoulders. His eyes were eagle-sharp and grey, taking in all his surroundings, and you could tell just from the way he walked that he was a warrior.
If that didn't tip you off, the scars, several cross hatching his hands and the long one that ran down his cheek, would have.
He was slim and tall, and moved with that warrior-grace she'd come to expect in most men.
His face wasn't pretty like an elf lords': his features were chisled, with high cheekbones and a square jaw, and when he smiled you could see the ghosts of a million grins written across his face. It was like the sun coming through clouds.
Oh, I know they sound like fools, but we are all fools in love, aren't we?
From that first day he smiled at her, she knew their fates intertwined into the future like a lover's embrace.
Leanor ap Beregond knew she was in love. She also knew she would rather die than admit it to another soul.
This is their story.
Boromir glanced up at the gleaming stones of Minas Tirith, and felt pride blossom in his heart. Beautiful white city, he thought, cursed is the day i am forced to leave you.
"Brother!" Came a joyful shout from down the street.
Boromir turned to see Faramir making his way towards him, his yet unscarred face gleaming with joy, accompanied by Morholt, Boromir's closest friend, and a soldier like himself.
"Are you not ready to watch the festival, o moon-touched one?" Morholt teased, punching Boromir companionably on the arm
"I'll have your head for that!" Boromir cried in mock anger, smacking Morholt upside the head, "No man calls me a woman! I have forgotten, though. You have yet to make you first kill! It would be dishonorable of me to kill a mere child."
Morholt's ears reddened. "I have too!" he exclaimed, "Last summer, the same as you, steward-boy!"
Boromir grimaced at the reminder of that first battle. "And the stones of the walls were reddened with blood," he intoned the first line of the traditional start to every warrior's saga.
"You'd best hurry, whether you be men or not!" Faramir called, as he had already started up the street. He was grinning, a jeering tone to his voice.
Morholt and Boromir raced up the street, chasing Faramir, although the younger man won, as he knew he would. He had always been more fleet-footed than his brother.
They neared the center of the city, the music and laughter floated down the streets, and citizens of Gondor passed, bright in their festival wear.
The three young men mounted the steps of the terrace, the better to observe the passing crowd. As they passed through the crowd, a cheer seemed to swell from the people of Minas Tirith.
"Boromir!" they cried, "Boromir, the Sword arm of Gondor!"
Boromir raised his right arm into the air, the arm still wrapped in a bandage from the most recent skirmish in Ithilien. He acknowledged their cheers, and leapt onto the rim of a nearby fountain.
"Gondor!" he called, his voice ringing across the stone courtyard. "Glorious Gondor! Long have we withstood the enemy's attacks! And long shall we prevail!" And his people cheered him.
As the hubbub died down, he turned and jumped back to the ground.
"I wish i could do that." Morholt muttered, "This man can't even walk down a street without being mobbed by a people brimming with adoration."
Boromir wasn't paying him any attention. "Who is that?" He asked, and Morholt and Faramir turned to see who or what could have caused such a change in Boromir's manner. There was an awe struck tone to Boromir's voice that he rarely adopted.
"that," Morholt guffawed, "Is Beregond, captain of the Tower Guard."
"I know your tastes may run to grisled soldiers," Boromir replied, a strange intensity in his voice, "but i was referring to the lovely creature beside him."
A smile played over Leanor's full, blood-colored lips, and she tilted her face up to the benevolently glowing sun.
Leanor had always been beautiful. Her clear, creamy complexion, so striking in contrast to the silky straight, night colored locks that fell in cascades down her back, was the object of poetry, most of it hideous, and her large, blue eyes, which reflected the brilliant hues of the sky, with their fringing of extravagant dark lashes, were lovely enough to break a man's heart.
Which they hadn't. The part of her that had broken men's hearts were her perfectly formed lips as they delivered the words of her cruel wit. Those words had driven men to jump off bridges, or drive their shining blades into their aching hearts.
She was dangerously beautiful. And she knew it.
As her eyes swept the surroundings, they caught on the handsome, well-dressed young captain who was staring at her.
She flashed him a flirtatious smile, and asked him playfully, "Well, steward-son, are you to stand there all day, or will you walk with me?"
"Gladly, lady, if i have your consent." Boromir replied gallantly.
Leanor laughed once more, an achingly lovely sound. She could tell that Boromir was used to unending adoration. "Which you haven't. Why should i abandon my duties here to walk with you, Boromir ap Denethor? Give me a reason, and mayhap i shall grant you my consent."
"Only that it would cause me great pleasure, were you to honor me with your company. But i would not deprive you of your merriment, lady."
She tossed her proud head, and gave him a full, ripe smile. Boromir ached to kiss those lips.
"Mayhap i do not live to give you, as you phrase it, pleasure." Her eyes danced with mirth at the confusion and embarassment that was spreading over Boromir's face.
"Leanor." that was Beregond, who surveyed Boromir critically, his dark eyes slighty accusing. "Lord Boromir. You have not met my daughter?"
"No, i have not yet had that pleasure." Boromir replied, stumbling over his words slightly. He had never had the ease with words so gifted to his younger brother.
"May i then present my daughter, Leanor. Leanor, the Lords Boromir and Faramir, the captain Morholt of Gondor."
Leanor nodded graciously, her gaze sliding over the faces of the three young men. She extended one graceful white hand.
"We are honored to make your aquaintence, Lady." Faramir said politely, bowing over Leanor's pale fingers. Boromir remembered his manners and followed his brother's example.
"Until next we meet." Leanor replied, turning from them, "My lords. Faramir." She allowed her flirtatious gaze to linger over Faramir's thoughtful, unscarred face and kind grey eyes, and then turned and wound her way gracefully through the crowd.
Boromir felt the first seeds of jealousy begin to grow in his heart.