Author's Note: A double-update for your patience!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, save Amariel, and even she is an inspiration borne of my love for Tolkien's world.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.
The Captain's Wife
A knock interrupts us, and for a moment, the tension eases. If I knew how helpful knocks could be, I would have been knocking away at the table before me. That the knocking would no doubt have irritated that creature is an added pleasure.
The servant who stands at the door looks vaguely familiar, but I don't have enough time to recall her name. She has in hand a small piece of vellum, a rushed note from the Prince, judging by the seal. It is identical to the one Prince Imrahil wears about his head.
Princess Lothiriel takes the note. "From Father, yes?" A nod is all she gets; the poor maid looks as though she will be hunted and struck down at any moment. With a curtsey and an apologetic glance in my direction, she scurries away.
"She did not wait for a response," I observe, knowing as I do it could only mean one thing.
The Princess scans the vellum, and for the first time in my knowledge of her, I see outright nervousness. Though her voice does not shake, her fingers do, and my own fingers twitch, if only to hurry the pain I know must come.
"The Steward calls for your immediate retrieval," she reads. "To not do so is punishable by death, under the judgment of treason."
Erchirion lets out a low whistle. "He is a hard man, our Steward."
His sister continues. "Father says you and Erchi must leave immediately, under cover of the night. But he doesn't say how…" she trails off, turning the vellum this way and that, as if to find answers.
I am dismayed. I am due to have more clothes than this, clothes that will help ensure my – our, I correct myself, thinking of the daughter or son lying unknowing within – survival through the oncoming colder months.
We were meant to prepare me for the boat, so I would get sick as little as possible. The next morning, in fact, I was to try and make myself friendly with the waters, going down to the seashore and offering a prayer to sea god. To provide favor, I am told.
"What must I do?" I ask slowly.
"What?" The princess is startled from her own reverie.
"What must I do? I cannot leave here easily, even if the messenger is occupied. Every-one, including servants, knows I am here."
Little thanks to guard Danaran. But then, I might not have been so fortunate to win the Prince's favor if I had presented formally my complaints. Petty they seem now, framed by the larger War.
"You are with child. Think it through," says Erchirion. It is not a gentle command. Again my hands stiffen, and I regret that I have need of him. He has been nothing but needful, however, and I must pay him the respect he is due.
"Almost four months along does not constitute going into labor," I say, eyeing him. While my mother taught me the…details…of wife- and mother-hood, she did not tell me how difficult the process of carrying a child is. I have little to go on, but for one or two experiences in the Houses.
A hurried pounding at the door stirs my Lord and me from slumber. We had, for once, simply talked before falling into the worlds of our separate dreams, and neither of us had, of yet, awoken from dark thoughts.
I tell my Lord to return to sleep. "It is a healer's aide. The Lady Carmendil must be giving birth."
"Finally," he grunts. "Seems like woman's work takes far too long."
I toss a slipper at him as I leave, and am satisfied at the muffled curse.
The corridors are dark, most lanterns having been snuffed owing to the dryness of the night. The Head Housekeeper told me once that a single ember onto one of the many plants that brought life into the White Halls could spark a large fire. I doubted it, as the Halls were, after all, made of stone, but it was his knowledge, and not mine.
The aide is short, much shorter than myself, and so tiny I suppose one of my hands could encircle her wrist. But her eyes glimmer fiercely in the dark, and I think to myself this is not a woman to disobey.
"Lady Carmendil is through here," she says, ushering me to one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. Indeed, the wailing that was faint during our hurried walk is now loud enough for me to wince.
"You'll get used to it," she says knowingly, with a faint smile. "After all, it might be you someday."
I shudder. "Not for some time yet," I reply, clutching my abdomen. "Though I know the Lord Captain, and most especially his father, desire a strong son."
"I can give you a spell for that," she offers over her shoulder, preparing rags and a bowl of hot water. She hands them to me, instructing that I keep the sweat from Lady's face. "We do not want bad spirits entering into her or the child to come."
"I think I will be well without one, but thank you." I decline the offer solely out of politics, but take the rags and bowl. If there is anything I have learned during my four months here, it is that the Lord Denethor does not approve of any kind of magics – herbal or Wizard. Should he receive word that I accepted – not even used – something of the sort, I might be henceforth banned from the Houses.
I have grown to like the work, challenging and often heartbreaking as it can be. The young girl, whose healer I assisted the first time, barely recovered; in fact, she lost her sight, rendering her worth to the marriage market to practically nothing. She will be a dependant all her life. It will be up to her young brother to marry well, to provide for her and their mother.
That could have been my lot, and my shudder this time has nothing to do with birth.
We enter in at last to where the Lady is prone upon a large mattress. Bits of hay are strewn about, no doubt from frantic movement. Her dark hair is matted and her face shiny. Healer Ioreth is tending her, murmuring things I cannot hear until I approach.
"The Valar be with you, you are strong, breathe in…not like a horse, dear, but deep, like the wind…"
She sees me and clucks. "About time! We need to wash all the spirits away, that this new babe can enter this world freely." She bustles away, for who-knows-what, and I and the aide are left to encourage the straining woman.
As I wipe the sweat – her eyes are closed, and eyelashes cling to her cheeks – I realize this is one of the women who contested my marriage to the Lord Boromir. She spread rumors of my unworthiness, citing that a woman who knew her numbers would be too Mannish for his taste (or then again, perhaps not).
I had responded with a rumor of my own – that a well-renowned soldier was seeking a desirable wife. I did not know then how successful my flippant words would be, as a month after my marriage, she married the same soldier. How now! And she is giving birth.
Any ill will I might have borne disappears as I witness her strength fade with each push. I do not know how many times I use the rag, or how many times the aide refills the bowl, or how many times Healer Ioreth comes and goes with fresh hay. The smell of sweat, tears, and blood mingle to create an odd perfume that clings to my dress and hair.
At long last, Lady Carmendil heaves forward. Eyes unseeing she gasps, "Out – you – come!" and indeed, a baby's thin wail filled the air.
"One more time, if you can, dear, be a lamb," says the aide, so tenderly I was shocked. This was a battlefield; tenderness seems out of place. But the glow on her and Ioreth's faces indicate otherwise.
Healer Ioreth moves forward and I can see the baby, long and red, and covered with- well, parts of Lady Carmendil. In the firelight – for the room has been stoked and hot – I suddenly see that nameless beauty. She lays the child – a boy – against Lady Carmendil's chest and I have to look away from the intimacy.
Several minutes later, when all is cleaned, and I have helped the Lady into a new shift, I am free to return to bed. I am thanked effusively by the new mother, who, in her gladness, does not recognize me. I am grateful for the respite from any embarrassment for her part, or mine. If she did recognize me, I am unsure how I could respond to someone who was so hurtful.
My husband is gone from the chambers, but there is a slipper on my pillow, marring its usually pristine casing. With an exhausted chuckle, I place it on the floor and sleep the day away.
Remembering the blood, I have an idea. It could have consequences, but these days, anything I do will. I must take the evil with the good.
"It is too early for labor," I say, slowly, "but not too early for a miscarriage."
I laugh a little – the prince before me is as gobsmacked as my lord husband was when I told him how long Lady Carmendil's labor took – a full eighteen hours. The princess strides toward me, pleading, "please say you do not truly mean harm to the child!"
"Do not think ill of me yet," I continue. "I mean no actual harm. But if the servants think I am experiencing trouble, then…"
Prince Erchirion finishes. "They will spread the word. Use what was previously a hindrance to aid us. If we away under cover of urgency, we can take the bay to the lighthouse unnoticed. "
The siblings share a look. "Who shall be the one to call for 'help'?" lord Erchirion asks.
"I will," Princess Lothirel answers. "After all, you are the one who knows babies." She crinkles her nose, though whether it is with disgust or amusement that a man should know woman's work is unclear.
Perhaps both – despite the grimness of the battlefield, men seem to be reluctant when it comes to "women's matters". There is certainly more blood, and more effort when it comes to birth, than what most realize. I stifle a chuckle after discovering my amusement is shared with that creature before me.
"Once I find 'help', I can pack the boats. Amrothos showed me how to stow things away quickly, though at the time it was more for mischief. I'll have to thank him…"
"A moment, please," I say, and I brace myself for a convincing moan. I consider being a play-actor; I know Lord Denethor did not have many often at the White Court, but there are accounts of them being present for my husband's infant introduction, and his brothers.
I bring myself to a bent position, one hand at my abdomen. "Agh!" I cry, though it is partly real. The chair has made me stiff.
Erchirion bends to "check" me, and I see a surreptitious wipe at my skirts. "Red jam," he whispers. "It will persuade those at a distance you need aid. I hope, however, that no one seeks to touch you."
"Someone! Help!" goes the princess, wringing her hands as she hurries out. "Please, hurry!" Her footsteps echo down the corridors. "Let not the Lady Captain be without aid in her time of need!"
If it were not for the desperate nature of my plight, I would laugh heartily. What fool am I, to playact the loss of my child?