Chapter 2
Boromir stood rooted to the ground, unable to form a proper thought, feeling as if he had been bewitched. As if from far away, he could just barely hear a voice, but the words made no sense.
"My lord?" The voice was persistent, and it took Boromir a moment to realize the voice was speaking to him, and still another moment to realize that she was speaking to him.
"My lord, are you all right?" The girl rose, pushing her chair away from the table, and the sound of wood dragging against stone finally forced Boromir into reality.
"Yes, I . . . I was just . . ." Although his tongue was finally unstuck, Boromir's heart was beating a little faster than usual and the words formed slowly in his mind. He felt strange, and could not recall the last time he had felt this way, or been at a loss for words.
Boromir gestured in the direction of his own cheek. "You . . . you have ink on your face." He was beginning to feel a bit foolish, but the spell was broken, and he schooled himself to remain as calm and unflustered as he usually was.
The girl cocked an eyebrow at him, and then gave him a winning smile, as she pulled a handkerchief almost out of nowhere. She dipped the kerchief into a little water pot on the table and scrubbed at her cheek. "Indeed," she said, holding out the piece of cloth for Boromir to see, stained now with a smudge of green pigment.
"I thank you, my lord, for pointing that out." She paused for effect, and Boromir noted that she seemed very amused. "Is there something I can help you with? Or did you come all the way here just to tell me that I have ink on my face?"
"No, I . . .I was just. . ." It suddenly struck Boromir that he could not ask her to find the book for him. A grown man asking for a children's book. Fool!
"I was just wandering."
"Ah. The keep is a wonderful place for wandering. I prefer the gardens to the libraries myself, but to each man his own." She smiled at him, and Boromir found himself chuckling, in answer to the teasing glimmer in her eyes. Such lovely eyes too, clear and sparkling.
"Forgive me. I have disturbed you in some task." Boromir gestured at the table and the book the girl had been writing in.
"No, no. It is getting dark anyway, and it is harder to do this as darkness falls. Would you like to see?"
Boromir walked to her table slowly, curious to see what she wished to show him, but wary of being too close to her. He glanced at the book, and noticed some familiar lines on the page, surrounded by pictures in the margins, some of which were still incomplete. "It is one of Almariel's Histories, is it not?"
"Yes, it is!" she answered, clearly pleased that he had recognized the work.
"And you are copying it out?" She was looking at the book, and not at him, and Boromir was torn, for he liked looking at her eyes, but not having to meet her gaze made it easier for him to speak to her.
"Oh, no. There is no need to do what others have already done. My task is to draw the pictures, and color them with ink, if needed. It makes the book much more interesting, don't you think?"
"Yes, very much," Boromir added, thinking idly that her presence alone would make any book more interesting than he had ever found it before. No! Be sensible!
She moved away and began to pull other books out from a stack behind her, obviously eager to show him more of her handiwork. Boromir let out a sigh of relief and allowed himself to watch her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed for the first time how tall she was, and that there was something regal and slightly distant about her manner that spoke of noble birth, if not high station. She seemed young to him, but not too young. Probably close to Faramir's age.
She was dressed very plainly, in a dark wool dress, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hair pulled back rather severely. He wondered if she was someone who served Imrahil. An archivist, or perhaps one of Uncle's scribes? When she came back to the table with a few books and began to turn the pages, Boromir noted with dismay that there was ink under her fingernails and various pigments stained her fingers and her dress.
"Why do you add the pictures? It is only scholars who read these books, and they do not need pictures to explain, do they?" He did not particularly care about her answer, but wished to keep her engaged in conversation a little longer.
"Ah, these pictures are not for explanation, my lord. They are for humour!"
"For humour?" Boromir was confused. As far as he could remember, there was nothing particularly humorous in Almariel's works.
"The Histories can be quite dull. The pictures can help the reader see everything less seriously, and that helps give new meaning to the text!"
Boromir was not sure this was true, but suspected the girl expected him to agree. "Yes, I can see how that might work."
She seemed to sense his doubt. "I think, my lord, you will understand better if you read for yourself," she said, holding one of the books out for him.
He took the book from her, and then realized she did not know who he was. "I am remiss. We have been speaking so long, but I have not introduced myself. I am . . ."
"I know who you are, Lord Boromir." The teasing note had returned to her voice, and she was looking into his eyes once more, making Boromir uneasy.
"How do you. . ."
"It is simple enough, my lord." She tapped the design of the White Tree on his tunic, surprising Boromir with her familiarity. "You wear this." She smiled, the smile quirking a little in amusement. "And the whole keep has spoken of naught but you for days now."
Boromir found himself grinning back at her, delighted by her amusement. She is lovely, when she smiles. This thought disturbed him, and he tried to shake it off. I cannot think like this. I should go.
He held up the book and retreated a few steps from the desk. "I thank you then . . . for the book, and the lesson." She gave him another bright smile and bowed her head politely.
He was almost to the door when he suddenly remembered something. He turned back towards her. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."
She smiled, and said nothing at first. Boromir wondered at that, thinking that she was testing him somehow.
"Míriel, my lord."
----
Boromir drained the tankard of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was in the keep's kitchens, eating a late breakfast with Elphir, after he had helped with the inspection of Elphir's knights. In truth, they were not proper knights, but rather new and untrained men who hoped to become knights one day. It had been Imrahil's idea to put Elphir in charge of these men, and Boromir had to admit the idea was a good one. A captain-in training with men-in-training. The men had been fairly raw, and Boromir suspected, in need of a little discipline, but Elphir was doing well as their captain. It had been years since Boromir had seen the lad, and he was quite impressed.
"But what does it really mean to lead men, Boromir? To be their captain?" Elphir spoke softly, and with an air of seriousness more fitting someone far older. Something about him reminded Boromir a little of Faramir. "What if I have trouble with them?"
"That would depend on the sort of trouble, I suppose. I don't worry too much about things like fighting, or drinking. Tavern brawls are common for soldiers, Elphir. You are better off turning a blind eye to such things. I tell my men that I expect they will always be sober while they are in the field, and that they will be respectful to one another, and to other people. The rest follows easily."
"What about other things, when they are dishonest? What if they steal?"
"Stealing? Have you had that problem with your men?"
"No, not here! The Prince pays decent wages, and I think my men would not stoop to stealing. But I have heard of it happening in other places."
Boromir considered this for a minute. It was not an uncommon problem, particularly in the smaller, less wealthy fiefs. Soldiers were often men of good family, but not always. And in fiefs where the wages were low, there was sometimes not enough left to keep them from theft. But it was a mean thing, and when theft was discovered, it often wreaked havoc with morale. Boromir knew he was fortunate to not have had to tackle the issue, but he had faced enough matters of a similar nature to know that tough punishment was the answer.
"If they steal from their lord, then I think the men should punished, for that is disloyal, and should not be encouraged. If they steal from the common folk, then that should be punished as well. You don't want the common folk to think the soldiers who mete out the lord's justice are not subject to it themselves."
"True enough. But what if they steal from each other? Which men do you punish? And how to punish without seeming cruel, but still do justice?"
"I think the ideal punishment is to do what is best for your men, for the unit they fight in. If it were left to me, I would dismiss the men, for men who would steal from each other should not be soldiers."
"But is not the whole unit hurt, if I dismiss some of the men? They have learned soldiering together, after all."
"Yes, and it is important that your men fight together as a unit. But at the same time, if one man is stealing from another, perhaps they will lose trust in one another, and then they will not fight together, and I do not know if such men can be trusted to be ready for battle."
Elphir nodded, and then shrugged, giving every indication he would come to his own decision, regardless of what Boromir had to say on the matter. "What do you for the rest of the day, Boromir?"
"I am to meet with Lord Angbor and the Prince. To discuss how to resolve the issue of more soldiers in Pelargir." Boromir sighed. "In truth, I am not at all fond of all these meetings."
Elphir chuckled. "No, nor I. But I think of it this way: I would rather spend hours speaking to Father about taxes than be chattered at all day by Amrothos and Lothiriel!"
Boromir laughed, nodding his agreement. Then, as Elphir rose to leave the table, Boromir decided to ask Elphir about what had been on his mind all morning.
"Who is the archivist here, cousin?"
Elphir looked surprised, and then laughed, a deep and rich sound that reminded Boromir of his grandfather. "We do not even have an archive, Boromir. What would we need an archivist for? Father does have a nice collection of books in his library, but . . ."
Boromir interrupted him. "A scribe, then." She has to be someone who serves in the keep!
Elphir shrugged. "There are many. You've seen one of them, the old man, Thorondir, who attends the Prince at council meetings. Have you need of a scribe?"
Yes, one particular scribe, with the most amazing . . .Enough! Boromir was appalled at the direction of his thoughts, and cautioned himself to stop acting like a fool.
"Yes, I think I will need some help, Elphir. I need to prepare reports on the council to send to the Steward."
"Well, let's go find Thorondir then. No sense delaying reports to the Steward!"
----
Later that evening, after a meal peppered with questions and conversation from Lothíriel and Amrothos, Boromir stepped out for a walk. He had considered going back to the library to find Míriel, but decided he was not that interested in tempting fate. Instead, he had walked out of the keep, and into the gardens, and then towards the outer walls that surrounded the keep.
Night had fallen, and the moon had taken shelter behind a cloud, leaving everything shrouded in grey. He stood now at a low wall, the feel of the stone under his hands reminding him of Minas Tirith. The thought of the City filled Boromir with a great longing and an even greater sadness. He knew there was nothing more beautiful in all of Arda than his City, and he suspected it was made more so by its closeness to that most vile of all Darkness. In the City or in Osgiliath, he often purposely faced East, as if he could banish the Enemy with only his stubborn will.
But this was not the City. As he looked out from the wall, he could see the Sea stretched out before him, dark and calm, yet filled with an unknown power. The Sea has always been the undoing of us, as it was for the men of Númenor. He shivered, finding the Sea sinister and forbidding. But so are we drawn to it, like moths to a fire. There are those of us who cannot be parted from it. This thought saddened Boromir, reminding him of his mother. As the years had passed, memories of her had faded, so that he could no longer remember exactly how she looked, or just how her voice sounded. But he remembered certain things as distinctly as if they had only just happened. He remembered the way she spoke of the Sea, with such longing, as if she could not bear to be parted from something so beautiful.
It is beautiful, thought Boromir. In the pale and clouded moonlight, the Sea seemed like a vast grey-green blanket, speckled with bright light here and there. The color reminded him of Míriel's eyes, and he thought once more of something out of the great poems.
Endless roll the waters past!
To this my love hath come at last,
enchanted waters pitiless,
a heartache and a loneliness.
He shook himself, ordering himself to cease this foolishness. Love? She is just a girl . . . and she is not for you! He reminded himself that the lesson of the Sea was that those who sought what was not theirs came to a bad end, and he knew that was not his fate.