Boromir to Hedda -

Sitting at the bed with the halo at your head
Was it all a disguise, like Junior High
Where everything was fiction, future, and prediction
Now, where am I? My fading supply.

Forth of July - Sufjan Stevens

It came as no surprise to her that Boromir argued. He was against Sam, Merry and Pippin's untrained, soft hands accompanying them, and he spoke his protests to Elrond when the council was concluded. But it was not just the hobbits, merry, bright and sweet he wanted to leave in Rivendell's halls, but hers as well. Of course, Boromir was the classic picture of a warrior, strong, proud, and he, like so many men she had known, thought her weak. His anger and his mistrust of her likely stoked his feelings just as much now. He was a fool, even as the child he had known she was anything but soft-handed and soft-hearted. Even when he'd given her a blade and taught her how to use it he thought she would only need it to fend off suitors. Perhaps this truth was why he hated her so now.

She stormed toward him and affected an emboldened gaze, not about to show the weakness he imagined. "I would speak with you before you try to throw me from this fellowship". She said through gritted teeth, folding her hand around his elbow. She did not want to be seen so, but the eyes of the council as it disbanded found the action and followed them as she pulled him away roughly into the gardens of Imladris, her feet pounding the pave stones and loose dirt as they found a wilder, more secret corner to speak.

"And I would have spoken with you in the days past, Idis, but you offer nothing but secrets and falsehoods." His voice was rough, mouth turned down and brow deeply furrowed as he shook off her arm, striding ahead of her until they stopped, certain they were alone. "We are children no longer, and this is no mere game in the training yard," he chastised her and she scowled, face reddening softly. He was just past six years her senior, and always when she had known him he had reminded her of that.

"We parted badly, Boromir, do not hold that against me now. The past and slights you imagine do not build our path here. You knew even then how skilled I was with a sword, did you think fifteen years had passed and I would learn nothing more?" She snapped, hating him for trying to shame her, for making her feel so small. "I am not playing, Boromir, and I will do my duty to Frodo and the ring."

He scoffed, turning away from her a moment as if he couldn't bear to look upon his old friend. "Will you?" He spat out, voice a low accusation, meeting her measured gaze. He meant those words as an arrow, aimed straight at her heart, and they cut her to the bone. "Last I knew you, you ran from your duty, you still run from it by Gondor's reckoning, what is to say you will not do the same now?"

"I was a child, Boromir!" She shouted, ashamed at the reaction that ripped through her. She cursed her weakness and her rage when he dared throw her actions in her face. "I was thirteen, Boromir, when you were so young gates were held open for you to explore this world, a sword was put in your hand. When I was so young they were closing, penning me in!" Her breathing came quickly, her every action seeming too loud in the stillness of the garden and she stepped away, breathing deeply to steady herself, laying her hand on one of the grand trees she could not name.

"This is a promise I have made myself, Boromir, and I have offered myself to this fellowship. This time no one has chosen my fate but me." When she spoke again her voice was steadier, affecting a mask of civility, of politeness she had worn for weeks passed in this awful, beautiful place. "I am a friend to this fellowship and to you. Lord Elrond has accepted my shield, so have the dwarves and Lord Legolas. It matters not if you protest."

She delivered that blow, at last, watching his reaction and seeing the outrage clear on his face. Years had passed and she had changed but he was still so similar, the strong young lad he had been laying in his gaze. She had shamed him, humiliated him as a man of court, that much was clear, and she had hurt him again. His face turned down, knowing his argument was done and turned on his heel, leaving her standing alone. She would take his anger, it was easier than his questions. If she were brave enough she'd answer them all, but she wasn't, and hurt was easier to shoulder than the truth.

As frenzied preparation overtook the valley, the girl found herself often seeking solitude. Her companions were pleasant, kind even in Gimli and Legolas's case and she spoke with them when their paths crossed. Often though, they were in the company of their own, Boromir with his men, Legolas his elven friends both Mirkwood and Rivendell, Gimli with his warriors, even Strider was at home here. Each man of the fellowship had their people, even Frodo had his halfling friends, pledged to help him and always looking merry. You chose this, Girl, being alone is easier than being with them.

There was less decadence in the valley now, and she was glad for it. They were feasted, but high tea and polite conversation were not the right salute for ten strangers in all the world as they prepared to cross Middle Earth.

She made no other move to speak with Boromir again, his feelings were clear on his face, warring as they were, anger and hate, affection and sadness daily beating his brow into a new shape. Not willingly was she an early riser, preferring by far the night, the firelight, the moon and stars, but to prepare for her company she took to waking as soon as the sky began to light. She was not about to be caught sleeping while all around her packed up their camp and left her behind on their journey. You have much to prove, Girl, she told herself nightly. Her days she spent training with sword and shield as often as her courtly manners. It would not do to fail in either virtue now.

She set herself beneath a tall tree, curled in its roots and half hidden should anyone pass. She was dressed roughly, clothes soft and unbefitting the princess Idis, but still more grand than any Hedda would have worn. She pulled her blade from its scabbard and her whetstone from her pocket. The blade was beautiful, one of the few things she had which sang of royalty - it was the honour of a shieldmaiden to carry this sword. She oiled it's bronze hilt often, letting the intricate knots with all their meanings and their protections shine, unable to shake her affection for Rohirric art. She sharpened the slim blade slowly, it was not made for weight - such brute strength came from her shield, this was a sword for piercing armour at the joints, for cutting the arteries of beaten foes. Woman's work, she thought to herself with a snicker. The sun rose slowly in the sky, turning the grey light a slow, watery yellow and she stretched, a yawn raking through her and she spoke aloud, trying to wake herself that way, "Weak, Girl, you're too used to comfortable beds,"

"Are the gardens more to your taste than your bed, my lady?" There came a voice through the weak light and there was the ranger, the recluse that spent his hours speaking in the musical lilt of elves, reading or alone. He was dressed in his own leathers again and she was glad to see it, looking up at him from her sword, whetstone still.

"It would seem we have that much in common -" She started, but her jibe was stilled when she knew not how to title him. In truth, her manners failed her when she thought of him. He called her a lady, a false title of course, but she alone knew that. His own… was he Strider, the ranger she had called him, or the king she knew he was in blood? Even if she'd held onto her royal education and titles she likely would not have known what to make of him. "Call me Idis, call me friend - I care not, but I am no lady this early in the morning,"

He chuckled gently at her joke, looking at her with those light eyes so kindly she looked away again, unable to hold them again. To an outsider this would look like a kindness, to her, it was simply another falsehood; Idis was as ill-fitting to her as the sigil she wore now. Her fingers strayed idly to it, embroidered at her collar again as she had in council. His own eyes followed to motion, missing none of her nervous action, but she saw his gaze slide to the loose ties of her tunic, open collar exposing the whorl of her delicate bones beneath her freckled skin and lower, to her rough beige chest wrappings. She had to stop a snicker when his eyes flicked quickly to hers again and found a smirk on her lips - as if he were the first to look too long. Still, it seemed he had seen more than most on her face alone, his eyes lingering on her so often it seemed they never missed a twitch or a frown when her mask itched. Be still, Girl, be patient and poised.

"Then I would have you call me Aragorn, my friend." At last, it seemed his eyes were done with her, flicking away to his own hands where they picked at the bark on the old tree beside him. "You knew of Boromir, the steward's son before this council," He said, watching her reaction for any emotion she let slip. She was lucky, her face was blank, eyes turning back to the cold steel of her sword, fingers tracing its hilt and the knots engraved upon it, following their winding patterns with the tip of her finger and the flat of her bitten, broken fingernail.

"I had known him, many years ago. I called him a friend." She said lamely as if it meant nothing, "Gondor and Rohan have often fostered children in their neighbouring lands," she offered as if the obvious explained it. She grit her teeth hard, knowing he was not fool enough to accept her reasoning. Knowing he would force more from her.

"But you were not fostered, My Lady, Gondor has no place for a Shieldmaiden," his tone was calm, quiet and gentle, assuming nothing of her though they both knew he knew more than that.

"How well you know Gondor," she muttered darkly, frown turning her lips as she picked at the supple leather wrapped around her sword hilt. "Gondor did not foster a shieldmaiden but a betrothal promise." Her hands were white, gripping the hilt of her sword so tightly, though she had hardly known she had moved. "Betrothed but never wed - as you said when we met in the gallery. There's bad blood between our lands because of it. He's right to mistrust me after it, but not to doubt Rohan." She spoke with more force than she had meant, words coming out like a whip. She left no room for him to probe, to question her reasons or ask after her tale, scraping the whetstone sharply over her blade, the grating sound filling the air and her eyes stubbornly down. He was quiet and were she less well trained she would not have heard him come closer, standing just behind her shoulder. It was a task not to straighten her back and fidget under his gaze again, biting her tongue to relieve her nervous energy.

"I only mean to ask what you knew of Boromir, your stories are your own," and his voice was honest and kind, shocking her from her stubborn silence. He sank into a crouch, still taller than her but almost level and she could not look away, eyes tracing the strong line of his jaw, his soft dark hair, looking for the lies there. His hand flattened on her shoulder, warm and weighty and she leaned into the touch without thought. In all her weeks in the valley, any touch had been featherlight and unsure, unwilling to presume to touch her too roughly even on the training grounds. "His words, his wishes for the Ring… I would know if you trusted him with it."

She was quiet, eyes meeting his once more and holding their gaze. He was a rare man indeed if he did not mean to tear her stories out of her, if her past was not his prize and his right. Already he knew more than she had admitted in a decade, but he did not press to know what she would not tell. She sighed, pulling her eyes away again, focusing on a delicate bed of flowers ahead and accepted she would have to trust him; his intentions were too honourable to lie him.

"I was young then, and he was barely twenty himself, but I knew him well I thought." She said, speaking to the flowers, hardly able to feel the warmth of him beside her. "He was a new solider, but he loved his father and his people. I believe still he means only to protect them with his heart and body. I would trust him with my life, Aragorn, but with the Ring, I am less certain." She brought her hand to her unbound hair and pushed it back, squaring her soldiers. "I intend to keep watch over him, aye, but I hope he is as strong as he imagines himself."

With that she dug the point of her sword hard into the dirt, punctuating her words, letting it stand grandly in silver and bronze as she got to her feet. The sun was higher now, shadows long and elves surely stirring as she tugged her sword from the dirt and sheathed it, looking towards the sky as it turned a brilliant orange. The company was expected in the courtyard in a few hours time, and she had supplies left to pack. This was the last day of peace and pampering they would have for some time; when the sun was a little higher they would leave these gates and she would likely never see them again. She nodded her goodbye to him, discontented with her own dark words and dark thoughts and walked a few steps away before stopping once more. Not turning, but raising her voice enough to be heard:

"Aragorn - I should tell you, I hope we all are."

Next chapters written, looking forward to them all having a bit more to do in the wild, I enjoy Rivendell and manners about as much as my girl does.