A.N. – I own nothing, least of all Lord of the Rings and my mind, and never
hope to. Though it's a romance, it's rather different; it's a Boromir love
triangle, and neither of the girls is a perfect elf. Actually, neither of
them is either perfect or an elf! It takes place a year and half(ling)
before the council of Elrond. It's book-verse for the most part, though a
bit alternate-universe because of a few encounters not in the books. And
yes, I have Writer's Block From Mordor on In Dreams. I promise I won't
quit writing it, I'm just temporarily blocked and have yet another story
besides this one clattering around in my poor head, which my sanity
abandoned from overcrowding years ago. Anyway, on with the story.
Chapter 1
Demon-Girl
Of all the Valar-cursed filthy nonsense in the world, I had to get stuck in this particular pile of horsedung! Desdemona swore to herself, leaping forward faster than before, clutching her loaf of stolen bread close to her chest. Sleet pelted her like hostile eyes as she sprinted through the streets of Minas Tirith. The young woman was drenched to the bone, wearing an expression like a wet cat, and, like a wet cat, she was in a mood foul enough to kill someone for a glance.
She skidded, whirling around a corner by an exceptionally tall building, and glanced over her shoulder to see if she was still pursued. Or, due to the unkempt state of her long, half-frozen black hair, attempt to see. Her eyes felt hot; she knew they were probably red. As she almost lost her balance, she looked forward again, then tossed her head back once more. This time she could tell there were no pursuers. When she looked forward again a split second later, it was just in time to avoid crashing headlong into someone who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She slammed backwards, nearly letting go of the bread, and looked up into the apparition's face.
Up into deep eyes the color that a thunderhead is when it is so deep that the sun doesn't touch its bottom, and it is impossible to tell whether it is grey or blue.
"Who in all Mordor are you?" she snarled, a moment later than she usually would, and more nastily, because the blue-grey eyes had startled her and she did not like being startled.
"I might better as the same question of you," her waylayer's voice replied, sardonically.
She knew the last time she'd given out her name, naught good had come of it, and, cynical as she was by nature, she was not at all ready to identify herself to someone who appeared at night in pouring sleet without any warning.
"That is for me to know and you to find out!" Her voice snapped like a whip, and her eyes snapped off his, instead looking him up and down, assessing him. She knew he did the same to her.
He was taller than she was, by not quite a head, and wore only a light cloak over his tunic. There was ice in his clothing an in his shoulder-length hair, and on the great battle-horn at his side. He put her in mind of a timber-wolf; built more for strength than speed, but fast enough for his strength to be not just useful but lethal. His only weapon, she thought at first, was a light sword; then she was that his leather booths had pointed tips of metal extending out beyond the toes, like spurs but on the front and built in. She wouldn't like to fight him, but didn't doubt she could beat him if she had to. Eventually.
That only took a second, he replied, determinedly, to her refusal, "And find out I Will. As you were in Minas Tirith and running either scared or guilty, it's my business as a guard to know who you are."
He sounded calm, reasonable, and stubborn, but Desdemona was still suspicious. "My business as a guard", she thought, He does not have the look or bearing of a mere guard.
"You're no guard, Sir Nosy."
"You're no psychic, Lady Thief. I am a guard – I am also Steward Denethor's heir."
Desdemona sputtered, glaring hard at him, but she couldn't exactly sass the man who's someday rule her homeland. She couldn't really just kill him or knock him out and have done with it, but that didn't mean she couldn't run. With a swift intake of breath and a hard bite to her lip, she lunged to the side and whirled around him.
A long silver sword was at her throat, held from behind; and its wielder was far enough back that she couldn't kick him without cutting her own throat in the process of twisting to reach him. She froze.
"Tell me your name and I'll let you go."
"I – I'm Desdemona."
"Thank you. I'm Boromir. And…" he sheathed the sword, reached down into a pouch hanging from the same belt in which the sword rested, and pulled out a handful of something that clinked, "Here's twenty silver pieces, so you won't have to steal your next few meals."
He understated, and he knew it. Desdemona stared at the money in her hand. Twenty silver pieces was more than enough for a few meals, more than her parents had had when they lived, and it had just been handed her by someone who'd just held a sword at her throat. Feeling awkward about taking it, but knowing she could not force it back on him, the girl clutched her money close and loped off, vanishing quickly in the falling sleet, still with the troubling memory of those storm-colored eyes staring into hers, still with the unsettling thought that there was a person in Gondor who was even remotely a match for her.
She curled up behind a few emptied crates, against a wall, sheltered somewhat from the wind and driving sleet, and closed her lids. Those blue- grey eyes…
Chapter 1
Demon-Girl
Of all the Valar-cursed filthy nonsense in the world, I had to get stuck in this particular pile of horsedung! Desdemona swore to herself, leaping forward faster than before, clutching her loaf of stolen bread close to her chest. Sleet pelted her like hostile eyes as she sprinted through the streets of Minas Tirith. The young woman was drenched to the bone, wearing an expression like a wet cat, and, like a wet cat, she was in a mood foul enough to kill someone for a glance.
She skidded, whirling around a corner by an exceptionally tall building, and glanced over her shoulder to see if she was still pursued. Or, due to the unkempt state of her long, half-frozen black hair, attempt to see. Her eyes felt hot; she knew they were probably red. As she almost lost her balance, she looked forward again, then tossed her head back once more. This time she could tell there were no pursuers. When she looked forward again a split second later, it was just in time to avoid crashing headlong into someone who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She slammed backwards, nearly letting go of the bread, and looked up into the apparition's face.
Up into deep eyes the color that a thunderhead is when it is so deep that the sun doesn't touch its bottom, and it is impossible to tell whether it is grey or blue.
"Who in all Mordor are you?" she snarled, a moment later than she usually would, and more nastily, because the blue-grey eyes had startled her and she did not like being startled.
"I might better as the same question of you," her waylayer's voice replied, sardonically.
She knew the last time she'd given out her name, naught good had come of it, and, cynical as she was by nature, she was not at all ready to identify herself to someone who appeared at night in pouring sleet without any warning.
"That is for me to know and you to find out!" Her voice snapped like a whip, and her eyes snapped off his, instead looking him up and down, assessing him. She knew he did the same to her.
He was taller than she was, by not quite a head, and wore only a light cloak over his tunic. There was ice in his clothing an in his shoulder-length hair, and on the great battle-horn at his side. He put her in mind of a timber-wolf; built more for strength than speed, but fast enough for his strength to be not just useful but lethal. His only weapon, she thought at first, was a light sword; then she was that his leather booths had pointed tips of metal extending out beyond the toes, like spurs but on the front and built in. She wouldn't like to fight him, but didn't doubt she could beat him if she had to. Eventually.
That only took a second, he replied, determinedly, to her refusal, "And find out I Will. As you were in Minas Tirith and running either scared or guilty, it's my business as a guard to know who you are."
He sounded calm, reasonable, and stubborn, but Desdemona was still suspicious. "My business as a guard", she thought, He does not have the look or bearing of a mere guard.
"You're no guard, Sir Nosy."
"You're no psychic, Lady Thief. I am a guard – I am also Steward Denethor's heir."
Desdemona sputtered, glaring hard at him, but she couldn't exactly sass the man who's someday rule her homeland. She couldn't really just kill him or knock him out and have done with it, but that didn't mean she couldn't run. With a swift intake of breath and a hard bite to her lip, she lunged to the side and whirled around him.
A long silver sword was at her throat, held from behind; and its wielder was far enough back that she couldn't kick him without cutting her own throat in the process of twisting to reach him. She froze.
"Tell me your name and I'll let you go."
"I – I'm Desdemona."
"Thank you. I'm Boromir. And…" he sheathed the sword, reached down into a pouch hanging from the same belt in which the sword rested, and pulled out a handful of something that clinked, "Here's twenty silver pieces, so you won't have to steal your next few meals."
He understated, and he knew it. Desdemona stared at the money in her hand. Twenty silver pieces was more than enough for a few meals, more than her parents had had when they lived, and it had just been handed her by someone who'd just held a sword at her throat. Feeling awkward about taking it, but knowing she could not force it back on him, the girl clutched her money close and loped off, vanishing quickly in the falling sleet, still with the troubling memory of those storm-colored eyes staring into hers, still with the unsettling thought that there was a person in Gondor who was even remotely a match for her.
She curled up behind a few emptied crates, against a wall, sheltered somewhat from the wind and driving sleet, and closed her lids. Those blue- grey eyes…
