Chapter 4
Minas Tirith, early November 3011 TA
Boromir jumped off his mount, handing the reins to one of his men. He was dirty and very tired, and a cold wind blowing in from the north cut into his skin and made his eyes water. He was, however, far from dispirited as he began the climb to the upper levels of the City. The turrets of the Citadel loomed ahead, forming a silvery silhouette against the darkening winter sky. As always, the sight of the City filled Boromir with great awe and pride, his weariness falling away at the thought of finally being home.
The journey from Dol Amroth had been interesting. Boromir had traveled the length and breadth of the realm many times before, but this time, he had made a point of stopping in many of the smaller cities in the south, making sure to speak to people and ask after their concerns, trying to see Gondor not just as a soldier, but through the eyes of a ruler. It had been different from walking through the City, where all knew and loved him but rarely paid him much attention. In these small outposts, Boromir had been greeted like a hero, a well-loved prince as if just returned from battle. This part of the journey had been Faramir's idea, and though Boromir had been reluctant at first, he had to admit Faramir was right. He had learned much about parts of the realm that he had not known before, and the people had been reminded who looked after their welfare.
Boromir was almost as far as the Citadel when he was stopped by a messenger from the Tower.
"The Steward sends word, Captain. He wishes you to see him on the morrow, at six bells, and asks that you have your reports ready for him then."
Boromir nodded, dismissing the messenger as he crossed the short distance to the Steward's house. He was a little surprised that his father did not want to see him immediately, but also glad that he had a few hours to wash and rest. And dream...
----
Boromir was on his way down to the third circle. It was good to be clean again, and he had managed a few hours of restful sleep. He had considered working on his reports for the morning meeting with Denethor, but then he had spied the note, a hastily folded scrap slipped under his door.
There is a stench in the air, so you must be back. I will be at The Keys when you are through being a slug-a-bed.
There was only one person in Gondor who could have written the note, and the thought of meeting Faramir at their favorite tavern was more than sufficient to make Boromir forget all about his reports. Boromir hummed softly to himself as he trotted down the street, nodding politely to those who stopped to greet him, but not stopping to speak to anyone until he reached the tavern.
Boromir pushed open the heavy wooden door, and entered a small, dimly lit room with low ceilings, simple wooden furniture, and sawdust covering the floor. It was not in the least bit grand, but The King and the Keys was one of the City's oldest establishments, famed for both the quality of its ale and the sharp tongue of its owner. Mistress Almiel had been the tavern's brewmistress for as long as Boromir could remember, and she treated Boromir and Faramir exactly as she did her other patrons, with great disdain, which suited the brothers just fine.
"Ah, Captain! You are returned from your sojourn."
"Aye, Mistress, and it will please you to know that I have traveled all over the realm, but have not yet had a brew to rival your own!"
"Flattery will not save you, Captain. You still have to pay for what you drink. And what that brother of yours drinks as well!" She pointed her chin at a table in the corner where Faramir was sitting, apparently having finished a large plate of food and the better part of two tankards of ale.
"I see you started without me, brother."
Faramir grinned in response and lifted his tankard in a mock salute. "I bought this one for you, but you were late. Your loss."
Boromir chuckled, dragging a chair over to the table and waving down one of the tavern maids to bring him his ale.
"When did you arrive, Faramir? I thought you were in Ithilien!"
"I was, but I came about ten days ago...you know how Father is."
Boromir nodded. Denethor liked to have at least one of his sons no more than a short ride away at all times. With Boromir away in the south, Faramir would have been summoned back to the City, to be on hand for whatever tasks Denethor needed help with.
"I thought it a good time to return anyhow. Supplies are low in Ithilien, and I want to make sure the men are provided for before the weather turns. But leave that! Tell me of Dol Amroth!"
"Dol Amroth is a city in Belfalas, along the . . ."
Boromir had to stop when Faramir kicked him not-so-gently in the shin. "All right, all right. All is well with Uncle and his family. Lothíriel is grown since you last saw her, and she talks and talks, about everything!"
Faramir laughed. "And what of Grandmother? Is she well?"
"Yes, she's just fine. Her usual self, although I suspect she misses Grandfather a great deal." Boromir paused for effect, and gave Faramir a wide grin. "Oh, and she wishes you to be married soon."
Faramir almost spat out a mouthful of ale. "Me? To be married soon? Did she really say that?"
It was funny to see Faramir's discomfiture, but Boromir sighed, suspecting he could not prolong the jest more. "No. In truth, she wishes me to be married soon."
Faramir nodded, but did not respond immediately, making Boromir uneasy.
"Think you that I should marry, then, Faramir?"
"I think," Faramir paused, rubbing his chin as he pondered the question. "I think you should do as you wish."
Boromir glared at him. "That's a very helpful answer."
Faramir ignored him and continued, "But you have naught to worry about at any rate, for no lady in her right mind would have you!"
Boromir kicked Faramir under the table, and Faramir made a great show of yelping and pretending to be hurt, drawing the attention of the few others in the tavern. "When you are through acting the fool, tell me what has passed in the City since I left."
"Naught of importance. The harvests have been good this year, and I expect we may be sending grain to some of the other fiefs. . ."
Boromir let Faramir speak, content to just listen and observe those around him. There were not many patrons in the tavern, mostly soldiers talking quietly to one another. A few were from the garrison at Osgiliath, and they nodded in his direction and then went about their business. The tavern maid who had served them was wearing a plain woolen dress, almost exactly like the one Míriel had been wearing when he first saw her. Míriel . . .
The thought of her made Boromir feel oddly happy, a sort of untainted joy he had not felt since he was a child. He thought now of their meeting in the gardens, and of the one moment when she had looked into his eyes, and into his heart, and seen all that he was; of how when he had finally met her gaze, he had seen things he had not imagined.
…The tremulous starlight of the skies
was caught and mirrored in her eyes.
He smiled to himself, wondering if he had only dreamt it all, and only then realized he was no longer paying attention to Faramir.
His brother was watching him intently, a strange expression on his face. "Boromir, are you . . . I mean, did you . . .?" Faramir shook his head, as if to clear his mind. "Is there . . . is there something you wish to tell me?"
Does he know? No, he cannot. It is not possible. "No . . . it is nothing. I think I am still a bit weary from the long journey."
Faramir fixed him with a stare, his expression reminding Boromir keenly of their father, but then he shrugged and added, "Perhaps we should return to the house, then. I leave for Ithilien on the morrow, and if I am drunk and tired, it will be a long day!" He rose, pushing his chair away from the table and leaving coin for his dinner and their ale.
Boromir stood, pulling on his cloak. "Aye, and for my part, I have to meet with the Steward in the morning and still have reports to write. Will you be joining us?"
"Yes, I think so. After all, I can hardly go without taking my leave of him, and I should like to hear what you have to say."
Faramir stopped as they were leaving the tavern, a smile on his face. "Boromir, will there be breakfast, do you think?"
Boromir laughed. Faramir was widely accounted the hungriest man in all of Minas Tirith. "He said naught about that, but I doubt he will turn us away without food!"
They left the tavern and headed back to the Steward's house, their voices and laughter mingling with the cold night air.
