Author's Note: In which we peek into her marriage.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's estate, neither am I making money off this story.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.
The Captain's Wife
Not long for the moment, but he suggests a supper conversation, an informal one with the family. I am uneasy – I do not know how much gossip there is within the Dol Amroth palace, but if the Lord Prince is comfortable sharing counsel with his immediate kin I will not gainsay him.
In the meantime I am led to a spacious bedchamber by the same maid who took my rucksack. A wide poster-bed – similar to the one I shared with my Lord Boromir, but lighter of wood and with a curled headboard – is set against a wall that has three garlands of shells, the middle being the largest.
At my questioning look, the maid says, "They are believed to bring luck, health, and fortune. Valar knows we need it!"
"Indeed," I agree fervently. Upon further examination, I can see why the belief would arise; the shells are striking, looking to be made of the sunset; in hues of yellow, orange, and one or two have subtle shades of pink. They are vibrant against the heavy clouds seen outside the window (like the parlor, open to catch what little breeze there is).
"If you wish to cleanse yourself before supper," the maid says, gently tugging me from the shells, "there is a small water-closet available. Towels are here, and soap here, and I can return with hot water, if you like."
The water closet is not large, but it will suffice. Anything to wash the dust and my nervousness away.
"If it will be no trouble," I say, "a hot bath is something I have been longing for."
"It will be ten minutes or more, but we can do it. The city of Dol Amroth welcomes the Lady Captain of the White City."
I flush as she leaves. Word travels faster within the White City. And this name, Lady Captain? Clearly my husband thought of me as something of an equal. Not Princess, but soldier-like. A small bloom of hope rises, and I dare to dream that the next time we speak, he might pledge his love for me.
While I wait, I strip down to my chemise, where I can lay on the bed without smudging the covers. With my gaze set on the shells I drift, thinking of why he might name me thus.
Two months we are married. I have marked the days within a tiny journal, enough for perhaps twenty words per page. It is not much, but I do not consider myself a prolific writer, so it meets my needs. In any case, it allows me to follow my cycles.
No child yet. For that, I am relieved. I can continue my duties as his wife, not be confined to the responsibilities of a would-be mother.
Many of the citizens of Minas Tirith know little of what a wife of the Captain-General might do. This, perhaps, because women in our culture are recorded mostly as ornaments, our dresses occupying our thoughts, and gossip otherwise.
For my part, I was raised inside the Court not as an ornament, but an aide. I accompanied my father to his business with courtiers – his goods from the deep South are much popular. Exotic fabrics, feathers, jewelry, and little trinkets. He pays for them out of the coffers of his father's father, filled in the past by healthy agreements with the Haradrim and other foreigners of repute.
Though trade these days are slower, there is still enough to merit frequent visits to Court, and so, I learn numbers, trade agreements, and how to broker a fair deal. At my marriage breakfast, I am gifted a ledger and quill set.
Which become used when I am laid out my charges by my husband, in his study, a room well-suited for paperwork. Two desks there are – "brought in when I married you" – and chairs that, while not comfortable, can be sat in for a time. A hearth also provides needful warmth in the cold, or can sit idle during the heat of the summer. A wall of books, too; at my surprised glance, he says, "I do read, even if no-one will believe it."
"I am the Captain-General," he continues somberly, "and my wife must be able to keep up with me. I need all the numbers of the patrols: their wounded, their –" he pauses, but after a close examination of my steadfast face –"dead, and what supplies they seek."
Additionally, I balance messages from the individual soldiers. Some seek a reminder of home (like a ribbon from their sweetheart), while others a letter. Still others request treats, like oranges from the southeastern provinces.
I have a good chuckle over that request, because accompanying it is a note from the patrol leader, He spoke of the oranges as a man might of a lover. I have had one once, and I can see why it is tempting! A sly glance at my husband and I think of what might be done with sweet, sticky juice.
Aside from paperwork I must host the Steward's Table once a week. It is a feast at which all denizens are welcome, from the farmers of the field, to the highest courtier – as the latter is my husband, I do not mind. At the feast, I preside as the Lady of the Court, a position I later discover is usually held by the wife of the King.
For the rest of my time, I can choose what I wish, as long as it benefits the City. It is this second month when I discover my predilection for the Healing Houses.
A bright afternoon, hot, and I seek refuge in the Citadel gardens. Here it is where herbs of all kind are kept, some for eating, some for medicine. I wander freely. My husband is busy visiting the barracks, he and I having parted ways after the usual morning's work.
"Find something, Amariel," he says, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. "I would not have it said my Lady is lacking."
I am not, I want to protest, but it dies on my lips as I notice the large circles beneath his eyes. He did not sleep as soundly as myself, apparently. I reserve my words for later, and we part with a semi-affectionate kiss.
I sigh. Perhaps in time love will come. At the very least, I am not unhappy.
I pace the gardens' paths aimlessly, admiring the neat, orderly rows. Some of the greenery seems familiar. I follow one plant-bed to its end, where I discover a wooden door tucked into a corner. No-one but me is around, I confirm with a glance, so I pull it open and enter.
Ah! So these are the Healing Houses. I am at the end of a long corridor bathed in sunlight. On either side, many doors; and healers, male and female, bustle about in soft robes. I can hear groanings and chatter, and distantly I am reminded of a Court ball.
It is like a dance. The healers move efficiently: no step is wasted, neither do they run accidentally into one another. Practice, I suppose, making my way down the hall. Not much catches my eye or ear, at first, but a glimpse into one room peaks my interest.
An exasperated man stands in front of a frantic mother and her two children. The one, a young boy, is scrambling all over the place. He makes galloping noises as he does, while his sister is prone upon a cot. I can see her dark hair spilling over the edge.
"If you could but hold him still!" he says to the mother, and the mother does try. She lunges this way and that for her son, but he evades her grasp neatly.
He runs toward the door – and me.
I plant my feet and skirts apart and because he did not look, laughing as he was at his mother, he runs right into my legs. He topples over, and the mother is able to scoop him up.
"Thank you," she says, gratefully. When she is able to meet my gaze, her eyes widen and she sweeps into a curtsey.
"My lady!"
"Peace," I say. "I am here seeking employment of an afternoon. Aught I can do?" The latter addressed to the equally-grateful healer who is finally able to bend over the little girl. He does not look up as he answers.
"Occupy the boy. He is distracting me." His voice is not unkind, but it is brusque, and both the mother and I flinch. She hands him over, trusting that my title, apparently, is enough merit my goodness.
I will not disobey a healer, and one who has such a serious look about him.
I take the boy to the gardens, where he and I pretend to be horses. The gardens are private, and as the ladies who wait upon me are seeking me elsewhere, I am not ashamed. It reminds me of the brother I had, before he died.
Half-an-hour passes, or maybe more, before the mother returns. She has the look of tears about her. Concerned, I raise an inquiry.
"Fever. It returns. I already lost my eldest to it," she says. "My daughter burns now. We hope, but little."
Remembering my brother, I lay a hand to her shoulder. "All be well, then," I respond, invoking a blessing. She thanks me, taking her son by the hand, leaving me to consider.
An unexpected ache settles in my chest. I want to bring comfort. After all, all the people of the City are my people now. Surely my lord husband would not protest my assistance in the Houses?
I find myself, at the end of the afternoon, earning a place of sorts. The same healer who tended the girl sought my aid many times more for errantry, and we both learn my presence as the Captain-General's wife to be heartening to his patients. Other of his fellow healers have taken note, as well, and quite a gathering is there as I go from room to room.
After I have to sternly remonstrate another young child from bothering the healers, I hear a chuckle. I see a familiar set of armored legs, and I rise from kneeling to note my lord Boromir's amusement.
"A captain!" the child says, in awe. He immediately straightens his back and salutes.
"Not just any captain, but the captain," I tell him. "This is your Lord Boromir, son of the Steward." I see approval in my husband's eyes.
The boy bows low, and recalling my own place, I incline my head.
"Your work is well-done," my husband says. "You are like unto a healer yourself. Do you appreciate the time spent?"
"Mostly," I admit. "Even though I must at times order about those who might otherwise be running amok."
"Bossy, more like," mutters the boy, impolitely and within range of my husband's ears.
My lord Boromir bends down. "Bossy, or more like a captain?" he asks of him, seriously. I stifle my own amusement.
Wide-eyed, the boy answers better. "A captain, lord. A captain of the Houses! Forgive me, I meant no disrespect…she just reminds me of my fussy aunts." He screws up his eyes and nose in distaste.
At that, my lord and I both laugh. A warm glow seeps in my belly, and for the very first moment in our marriage, I can see us having a love together.
The ground suddenly shakes beneath my feet. Neither the boy nor my lord notices. I start to speak, hearing a strange voice, "Get you up, miss! Your bath awaits!"
Oh.
I have fallen asleep again. I open my eyes to see night almost on, and some of the oppressive air lifted by a breeze from the waters. The shells chime where they sway, and I am led to the tub in the water closet.
The maids are helpful and kind, taking my dress and chemise without comment on their state. Doubtless they were used to traveler's wear.
The hot water does much to soothe my anxiety and wistfulness. When one of the maids offer to clean my hair, I take the offer, and feel even more at rest. Wonderful, what a simple bath can achieve. I breathe deeply in the fragrance of the soap – lavender, according to the maids – trying to summon the courage I need to face the Prince and his family.
-to be continued-