Dol Amroth
October 3011 TA
"What is this about Umbar? Have there been incursions recently? There have been no reports of such in the City." Boromir had arrived in Dol Amroth yesterday, at Denethor's request, to attend the annual council of the southern fiefs. Much of the council discussion had centered around taxes and the rebuilding of the coast roads, and Boromir was largely indifferent to it. But his interest increased as the council turned its mind towards Gondor's defenses.
"No, not exactly." It was Imrahil who spoke, shifting in his seat uneasily. "There was a village near the Ethir Anduin that was attacked a month ago. It was not even an attack, really. . . just a raid, but a house, and several fishing boats were lost." Imrahil sighed. "The situation is not exactly . . . dire yet." Imrahil chose his words carefully, and Boromir noted that a number of the lords shifted uneasily.
"Yes, but neither is it to be taken lightly." Hirluin, the lord of Pinnath Gelin spoke, an edge of anger to his voice. The people of the falas are simple, Captain. One attack from the Corsairs can easily become an invasion in the minds of the people, with an entire fleet of Black Ships."
There was much murmuring and agreement around the council chambers. "Yes, it is true. Though this attack was small, still it is proof that the Corsairs grow ever bolder, and you cannot make light of our concern, Lord Boromir." Golasgil of Langstrand added. "If there is no answer from Minas Tirith, we will assume we are abandoned. And we would be right to think so!"
Boromir felt his anger grow at Golasgil's words, but labored to keep his voice polite, his tone even. "And what do you think the answer should be, my lord?"
"We need more soldiers here. The Swan Knights may be sufficient for Dol Amroth, but what of the rest of the falas? We have barely enough men to defend our own lands, much less the entire coast. You could always reduce the numbers in Anorien and send some of those men to Pelargir. . .or to other places in the South."
"But the strength of Mordor is focused on the City, and the attacks usually come from the East, and from the North. It would be not be entirely wise for all strength to be turned south." It was Angbor of Lamedon who spoke, his voice quiet but steady. Boromir had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation. He was known for being a man of few words, but with a great cleverness that belied his quiet nature. Boromir sent the man silent thanks for giving voice to Boromir's own sentiments.
"Not wise? Perhaps we should reconsider the wisdom of sending so many of our men to the City!"
This prompted more angry words from others around the room, and Boromir noted that what had begun as a staid and dull meeting of the lords had become much more tense and contentious.
"My lords!" Boromir raised his voice, making sure he was heard clearly in all corners of the hall. "Peace. Rest assured that the Steward does not take your concerns lightly. Indeed, if our lord did not worry over your concerns, he would not have sent his High Warden to speak on his behalf. I will be certain to relay your concerns to the Steward, and a decision will be made that will satisfy all here. Is that not so, my lord Prince?" Boromir turned to Imrahil, who nodded agreement and then began to speak himself, steering the lords away from the subject of Umbar.
"Perhaps we can move on to other matters of concern to the falas. . ."
Boromir sank heavily into the chair offered to him, dusting a little sand off his boots. He held out his now-empty goblet for more wine.
"That council meeting was more. . .difficult than I expected, Uncle."
"Indeed," added Imrahil, rubbing his temples, "but that was expected, I think."
Boromir observed his uncle carefully, noting that although he still seemed quite young, there were now many more strands of silver in Imrahil's hair, many more lines and wrinkles on his face.
"I have not known the falas lords to be so restive before."
Imrahil chuckled. "No, I suppose they are not usually. But they are right to be, I think. After all, it is not every day that Denethor sends his son to one of our council meetings. Tell me, Boromir, does the new Prince of Dol Amroth pass your inspection?" Imrahil's expression was genial, but there was an edge to his voice that made Boromir uneasy.
"It is not meant as an inspection, Uncle. It is just that I wished to see the realm for myself." And because Father suspects, perhaps rightly, that you do not always tell him all you know.
Imrahil was silent for a moment, fixing Boromir with a steady gaze. Then, he relaxed and his mien became less serious. "Well, I am glad you came, Boromir, whatever the reason. We do not see you often enough in Dol Amroth."
"No, that is true. I wish that I could be here more often, but my duties often keep me in Osgiliath or the City."
"You have duties here as well. You and Faramir are to inherit much of your grandmother's lands here, and you should see to that. . .perhaps appoint someone to oversee the property." Imrahil was about to continue, but was interrupted by a soft voice.
"That is certainly good advice, Imrahil, but I am not dead yet, and I think you should wait just a little while longer to dispose of my properties."
"Grandmother!" Boromir rose to greet Lady Hareth, kissing her cheek and helping her into a large chair by the fire. "You are well?"
"I am old, Boromir. It hardly matters whether I am well, only whether I am alive."
Boromir chuckled. Her speech had lost none of its sharpness, but he noted with dismay that she had grown much older and more frail in the year since his grandfather's death. "You will live forever, Grandmother. Even Mandos himself is frightened of you."
She waved off the jest with a grimace. "Tell me, what news of the City? Denethor, Faramir. . .they are well?"
"Yes. They send you their best wishes. I am to apologize on Faramir's behalf. . .he very much wanted to be here, but he had other things to tend do."
"Other things? Why do you not just say plainly that things are bad in Ithilien? Do you think I am a fool?"
"I think your age is beginning to interfere with your good humor, Mother."
Hareth seemed not to care what Imrahil thought and focused her attention on Boromir. "Tell me of the City, Boromir. Of what is spoken in the streets. Of what the ladies say at the parties."
"Ah, Grandmother, you are asking the wrong grandson. Faramir would know more of what is spoken in the streets. He finds such things more interesting than I do. As for the parties, you may see for yourself at year-end, when you are in the City."
"I will not be there, not if I have my way." Then, she laughed. "But I might be tempted to come, if there were some grand event. A wedding, perhaps."
Boromir raised an eyebrow at her. "That is a good plan, Grandmother. I will let Faramir know that he is to begin looking for a bride as soon as possible."
"You jest, Boromir. But you leave too much to chance. There is a great deal of intrigue in the City, and if you do not marry soon . . ."
"Please. Not this argument again. I have no wish for a wife." Boromir's discomfiture was only increased by the sight of Imrahil smirking, trying to keep from laughing out loud.
"All right, Boromir. I will stop for now, but you will hear more from me on this matter, you may be assured. What do you plan for the morrow?"
"I am to help Elphir inspect his men. I was surprised he asked me."
"He looks up to you, you know. . . admires you greatly."
"Do you think me unworthy of Elphir's admiration, Grandmother?'
Hareth rose, came over to where Boromir was sitting, and stroked his hair. "No, lad. You are a great captain, and a good man. You are worthy of everyone's admiration, perhaps even of a lady's."
Boromir rolled his eyes and was about to protest, but Hareth held up a silencing had. "I am to take a walk in the gardens. Would you like to join me?"
"Yes, Grandmother."
It had been a long walk through the gardens, and afterwards, Boromir wandered the grounds, through places and hallways he had not seen in years. He recalled how, as children, he and Faramir would run all over the keep, looking for interesting things, secret hallways, and places to hide. The thought filled him with melancholy, making him long for the past, and making his tread heavy and slow.
He walked aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they would, and soon found himself in a series of small connected rooms lined with books from floor to ceiling. Uncle's library! How long it's been since I was here! There was a series of children's books in the library on the great Sea Kings and their ships, and when he had been a young boy, Boromir had spent hours looking at the pictures, imagining himself aboard the ships, leading great battles at Sea. I wonder if those books are still here.
The hour was growing late, and Boromir could see a few candles lit in the library. At the far end of each room of the library was a large bay window through which Boromir could see the sun setting over the Sea. He began to search for the books, but soon found himself lost. The books were arranged differently than in the archives in the City, and he could not quite figure out where they might be. He looked around for someone to help him, and at last saw a girl sitting at a table by the window.
The girl was writing something in a large book, the table around her littered with brushes and pigments and inks in small glass bottles. Her head was bowed over the page, and she was obviously deep in concentration. Boromir shuffled his feet noisily, so as to alert her to his presence, but not startle her, but she did not seem to notice. So he drew closer and gently cleared his throat. The girl finally looked up, and straight into Boromir's eyes.
He forgot the words he was about to speak. Indeed, he forgot where he was and perhaps even who he was. All he remembered were the sounds of the Sea, and words learned long ago, but long since forgotten . . .
Though all to ruin fell the world
and were dissolved and backward hurled,
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good, for this,
the dawn the dusk, the earth the sea,
that Lúthien on a time should be.
--
Author's Notes:
This story was inspired by a post from Gwyneth at the Brothers of Gondor forum, suggesting a non-AU story featuring Boromir in love. The lines of poetry are from the Lay of Leithian, as are the major themes of this story: love, choice and fate. I have tried to make the story as canon-friendly as possible. If you disagree with that, please let me know.
This story owes its existence to very insightful commentary and suggestions from a number of BoG regulars (you know who you are!). Special thanks to Cressida for all her careful beta-editing and her excellent feedback, but mostly just for listening!