I first see her standing behind a stall, her hand cupping her eyes against the sun. I cannot see them; her fingers shade them. I find myself wondering what colour they are. Brown, I guess first, as her skin is gold, like honey, like the raw sugar that I spoon into my coffee by the bucket load in the mornings.
Green is my next thought, since her long black hair is straight and her smile is slow, almost feline. She gives the smile freely, and I feel a strange stab of jealousy for each man who receives it.
I make my way to her, my feet almost moving out of their own volition. The crowd parts for me; they know who I am. She, I realise, does not.
She waits, one hand on her hip, her other fingers tapping against the wooden table in front of her. I stare, dumbly, for she is beautiful. She is long and lean; though still a head shorter than me. Her face is soft, her cheeks are flushed pink in the sun and her mouth is like one of the paintings in Father's study: a rosebud mouth, a kissable mouth.
Slim hands and long fingers spread in front of her. She wants to know what I want, though she lacks the words and instead asks me what I desire. My eyes immediately fall to the swell of her breasts under the drab, brown gown.
"What do you desire, my lord?" she asks again and I swallow, then think.
"The usual fare," I reply and she raises a slim, black eyebrow.
I know what she is thinking: a Gondorian, asking for the normal fare served in this eating place that I know is run by an old woman with skin as dark as this goddess' hair. She is thinking that I am mad, or looking for trouble, or both.
She shrugs, walks out from behind the table and pulls out a chair for me by a small bench in the corner.
"Wait," she says, her accent thick and heavy. I nod. I will wait.
I watch her as she serves the other patrons; some are honey skinned, like her, and others are men like me, though they are older and I know they have tasted the Southern food that is served here from the very source, in times long passed.
Her hair is loose, a scandal in the White City, where some matrons pull their hair up so tightly that their eyes bulge. A disturbing sight.
I wait, like she has instructed, and take in the way her apron clings to her waist, the way her bare ankles reveal themselves when she reaches above her head for more wine or boxes of this and that.
I wait, until she disappears through a door, into the kitchen. She emerges with a tray and I lean back in my chair, appreciate of the way her lips curve into her catlike smile. She sets the tray down on the vacant bench beside me and unloads a bowl of stew that is a dark, rich red. Next is a plate of rice, drizzled with melted butter. My mouth waters and I nod my thanks, feeling famished.
She smiles again. I can almost believe that the smile is for me alone, as she waits for me to take a bite before she leaves, waits to see my eyes close in satisfaction.
Her lips part when I knock my fingers against the wood.
"Good," I pronounce and I am not only referring to the food.
"Good," she smiles widely.
Her eyes are blue.
I return to the eatery three weeks later, this time under the cover of night. I have a new wound, a cut above my eyebrow, from a bastard who thought that my sword would not reach him. It did.
What possesses me to return? I do not know, though I have spent many nights tossing and turning, unable to sleep properly for my dreams of this woman, this enchantress, this temptress.
I bring Faramir along with me, who is, by some miracle, back from Ithilien in time for my birthday.
"You want to eat here?" he asks as we arrive at the stall in the middle of the markets that line the third lowest wall of the city.
"There's someone I want you to see," I reply, ignoring his answering groan.
"If you wanted a woman, you could've gone down to the last walls. No need to drag me into it."
I stop, run a hand through my hair. "She's not… It's not…" I try feebly. We begin walking again.
"Boromir," says Faramir, his eyes fit to bust. "Not a Southern woman?"
By this time we're standing in front of the stall, but I can't see her. I turn to my brother.
"It's nothing. But I want you to see her, see if I'm being an idiot."
"Of course you're being an idiot," he states. "But I'll come anyway. I'm starving and curious."
I clap him on the back and we enter, ignoring the surprised looks from the Southern men and our own, paler Gondorians. There's no one to greet us, so I head to the back and we sit at the table she gave me before.
The noise reaches a deafening level again, as the rest of the customers slowly get over the shock of seeing the two sons of the Steward sitting a few feet away from them.
Glasses are clinked, some with dark red wine, others with mead, and a few with a drink called liquid fire, a Southern liquor that slaps a man in the face with its aniseed flavour.
We sit and wait, and begin to talk.
"What about Adrahil?" Faramir says, as we go through the list of recruits that have changed hands recently. Some can't handle a Ranger's life, others prefer it, and so it is not an out of the ordinary conversation.
"A prat of the lowest order," I dismiss the new arrival before looking for a redeeming quality when Fara frowns. "But good in archery. Sent him off to train under Hirgon. And Eradan? Can he handle it? Sorry for palming him off to you," I shrug, "but he had no idea what he was doing. Father was convinced he would improve, said he had good lineage, in case that means anything in front of a sword. Who's his father again?"
"Some noble in Lossarnach," Fara answers and I roll my eyes.
"Anyway, I thought you might be able to get your men to drum some sense into him. Thought he might work better with a knife instead of a long sword, as he can throw well. Have they? Drummed sense into him?"
Fara grins wolfishly. "They have," he confirms and I can't hold back a guffaw.
My stomach rumbles and I look around again, searching for her, when my breath catches at the familiar sight of a river of black hair. I nudge my brother.
He turns, only slightly, ever a man of stealth. I hear his low exhale, which I echo when I see that she is wearing a different dress. This one is blue, still in the same no nonsense shape but for some reason it's better.
I can clearly see the outline of her waist and backside, as she has her back to us. She's stretching on her toes, her hands ferreting around for something in a top cupboard until she comes back down to earth with two glass jars of spices.
My enchantress looks as beautiful as ever in the light of all the torches. She has no adornments, no jewelry but her tanned skin glows, and her hair is loose, falling down her back. I am struck by an urge to go to her and I half rise in my chair until Fara pulls me back down.
She looks up at the movement. I see her blink, black lashes covering her blue eyes.
She walks over, slowly and steadily, her hips swaying; not in the suggestive, exaggerated ways of the women of the walls below us, but in a natural way, as if she was born to roll her hips in front of me. My trousers are suddenly all too tight; I am grateful for the cover of the bench.
She doesn't ask us what we desire. I dare to imagine that her past words were only for me, because she laces her fingers together and asks what we want to order.
"Whatever is cooking," I say, unable to stop my mouth from curving at the corner.
"Wine or ale?" she asks next and I pause.
Fara asks if they have any liquid fire left. Her cheeks colour and she nods, disappearing back into the kitchen.
"Liquid fire?" I question him with raised eyebrows.
He shrugs. "Long day."
I nod my head slowly and say nothing. We have come from a meeting with Father, who was as hot and cold as ever. Father's relationship with the two of us is a strange one. He is closed off most of the time, though sometimes he'll say something that makes me remember when he was kind and happy. Now, I often see him emerging from his study with a glass eyed look, and he is short with the both of us, though more so with my brother.
"So?" I turn our conversation back to the reason why we are here.
He looks right at me and shakes his head. "She'll consume you."
I agree, though I am surprised by Fara's words. He is the half that I lack – the calmer, level headed, politer half. I agree, but I do not dare to admit that I do not want to have her just to sate myself. I want to have her and keep her, for me, for my eyes only. She has stirred something in me, a desire I thought I did not have. Turns out I do and it rears its head with a vengeance as I take a deep breath in and smell the remnants of her scent, clinging to the air where she has stood. Rosewater on her skin, lavender on her clothes.
"She'll consume you," Fara repeats.
"How?"
"Look at her," he says and I do. She has come out with one tray balancing against her hip and the other in her hand. Her keen eyes take in how we are seated and she smiles.
"Brother?" she asks me as she unloads the food and drinks. Grilled meat this time.
I feel my words stick in my throat – I haven't thought that she may return my half crazed longing, haven't thought that she might return my interest.
"Yes," Fara extends his hand courteously, as if she is a noble woman and he might kiss her knuckles. She doesn't know what to do with it. She stares at it, until he laughs and lays it down on the table.
"You're hurt," she says to me, her brows knitting together in a frown as she looks at the gash above my eye. I notice her hand reach out, as if she wants to run a finger over the cut, but she tucks it behind her back.
"No," I shake my head and I don't miss how she looks relieved.
She takes another look at my brother and I, and I see how she is assessing us, wondering why we have come together. Fara's politeness will be the death of him one day, but it's done us well because she joins her hands again, smiles at us and walks back to the table at the front of the stall.
"Consume me?" I return to his previous words.
"Look at you," he grins. "You're a mess already, and you don't even know her name."
I have to nod, everything he says is correct.
"Besides," he continues, "how long has it been since you have even had a proper conversation with a woman?"
I think. I have to think much longer than I should, truth be told. "A while," I admit finally.
"Well then," Fara leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He is the picture of smugness. "I look forward to learning about how all of this," he waves a vague hand in the air, "eventuates."
"If it does," I mutter glumly, but I feel my bad mood evaporating when she smiles shyly at me from the front of the stall.
"Oh, it will." Fara is sure. "It will. And Father will skin you alive."
Three nights later, Faramir and I are walking around the city, talking about our dream. It was a disturbing dream, all the more so because we both have had it.
I catch a glimpse of familiar, straight black hair disappearing behind a corner and suddenly I feel the need to give chase. I offer Faramir a hurried farewell and dart to the end of the alley, to see the skirt of a blue dress whipping around the bend at the end. The ghost of a laugh reaches my ears, puncturing the warm stillness of the summer night.
I walk briskly through the alley, under houses whose balconies cover half of the street. I am not wearing my armour, and some recognize me but most do not give me a second look. I walk and walk, until I reach the bend, and then I stop.
The tiny, stone street is empty. I have lost her.
And then I hear a soft, whispered giggle and I turn, and find her mere inches from me.
I stagger back, feeling a laugh erupt and let it pour out of me as I catch her waist and pull her to me. Her body hits me hard – I can feel the curve of her breasts against my chest, her thighs against my own.
This is… I cannot find words, so I push until her back is against the opposite wall and I am before her. She bites the corner of her lip, drawing my eyes to her mouth. She smiles and I am undone.
I bend my head to hers and smile when I see how she is watching me. At first, I brush her lips, a mere graze, to gage her reaction. She does not disappoint me. When I move to pull away, she shakes her head and buries her long fingers in my hair, pulling my head back down.
This time it is she that captures my mouth, and for a long moment I am disarmed as her warm lips move clumsily over mine. I feel a groan escape my throat at the taste of her – sweet, with a dash of strong, bitter tea and mint.
I cannot get enough. With boldness I thought I would not have with her, I tug on her lower lip with my teeth, feeling victorious when she takes the hint and opens her mouth. Her tongue moves slowly, too slowly, and I press harder against her, my fingers gripping onto her waist. I want to reach my hand up and move a thumb over her breast, but for an unfathomable reason, I feel the need to savour the feel of her, so I let my hands become lazy, tracing the lines of her waist and hips.
Her own fingers are knotted in my hair, though I soon feel one tentatively moving to lie on my chest. Her fingers claw at the collar of my tunic and her nails are scratching the bare skin at my neck.
I want to taste every inch of her skin. I cannot, I know, but against my better judgement I break away from her mouth and revel in the low, disappointed sigh that hitches when my lips move to her neck. I cannot decide what I want to do the most, so I do everything. I bite her skin, lick her collarbones, pepper kisses over the breasts that are now barely contained as she arches her back to bring herself closer to me.
I return to her mouth, cupping her face tenderly with my hands. I don't know what I want her to take from this, but I know what I am giving – I feel as if the essence of my heart has left, swallowed by her mouth and taken deep into her own chest. She returns the kiss, and somehow I know that she understands in the way that her hands grip onto my shoulders, as if she does not want this to end.
I know that almost an hour has passed, though I do not care. I lean my forehead against hers, tracing her cheeks with my thumbs. I am intoxicated. She is breathing heavily, and her eyelids flutter.
"I leave tomorrow," I whisper eventually. I realise she understands more than she speaks because she nods, and a shadow crosses her face.
I want her to understand.
"I do not know how long I will be gone for…" I trail off. At once she takes a hold on my wrists and firmly places them on her waist in an unspoken offering. I shake my head, though I know I will regret it later.
"When I return, I will come to you," I vow. Something inspires me, then, and I shove a hand into my pocket and fumble around, finally fishing out something I keep with me always – a leather tag, engraved with the initials of my mother.
"Take it," I say firmly and place it into her palm and close her fingers around it.
"Wait for me," I urge her.
When she finally nods, I know then that given the chance, I will love her. I will love her, and let her consume me.
She nods again and shyly opens her mouth. "Boromir," she sounds out quietly, and I realise then that she has known all along who I am, as her tongue so sweetly twists over the name that is as foreign to her as hers is to me: Sura.
My face breaks into a triumphant grin and we are laughing again, though I stop laughing after only a second and kiss her open mouth, pulling her flush against me. I want her to wake with invisible tracks on her body from where my hands have touched her; I want her to remember me.
We kiss and kiss and kiss until I hear Faramir clearing his throat, finally having found us. I touch her cheeks, wondering at the deep pink blush that spreads from her neck to her face. I take her hand and kiss her knuckles, before pulling her to me again and crushing my mouth to hers.
When at last I finally leave, I raise a single hand in farewell from the end of the tiny street. She mirrors my action, her lower lip quivering. I cannot help it; I jog back and kiss the offending lip, ignoring Faramir's laugh that is growing louder as I kiss her eyelids, then her jaw that is clenched. She is grinding her teeth together, to stop tears.
I step away again. This time she does not let her mouth shake. She draws herself up taller, and I am ensnared by her all over again. I rake a hand through my hair and wave again. Faramir has to drag me around the bend.
"Happy, brother?" he asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
I let out a loud, disbelieving laugh.
"Look out for her," I turn to him, suddenly wanting to know that he will. He nods.
"And together we will deal with Father upon your return," he grins wolfishly and we walk back up the winding streets, arm in arm.
.
.
.
Thank you, a thousand times over, to freudianprincess and annafan for reading this over.