Author's Note: Present tense is hard, but the Lady Captain is telling her story as she sees fit. I am merely a scribe.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my Amariel, and even she is inspired by the great Tolkien Estates. None of this is for money.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.
The Captain's Wife
"I cannot wear this!" I protest, leaning over the beautiful dress on the bed.
While I was soaking in the tub, other servants had brought forth a silver-and-blue dress of a silken fabric. Its sleeves are short, capped with lace, and it looks marvelously light, almost Elvish to my eyes.
With it, a necklace of what appears to be pearls and a thin circlet with a larger pearl hanging – if worn, the pearl would land between my eyes.
"Our Prince thought you might wear something as befits your station," one maid pipes up, from where she is sorting through a large wooden chest. "We have quite a few dresses around, as the Princess Lothiriel has lately returned from a visit to Rohan. She does not mind, either."
"No, indeed! Not since she has been able to catch the eyes of the Rohirrim! A beach filly for the mountain stallion!" snorts another.
She is hushed by the others, all side-ways glancing at me. In their uniform of black skirts, white overlays, and grey caps, I am reminded of gulls. I try to hide my smile, at the same time wondering what type of bird that makes me.
"You will hear nothing from me. I am not a gossip," I say. Relief goes around the room as audibly as the click of the clasp of the chest. Two more dresses are laid out for me, both just as fine as the silver-and-blue.
I resign myself to wearing the Prince's colors. The other two dresses do not fit my peach-complexion, being much too bright. The maids tie and fasten as needed, and I am grateful at the lightness and quickness of their work. They know how to dress, here in Dol Amroth. Gone are the heavy fixings of the White City's Court.
But then, I surmise, one could die of heat if they wore similar trappings on the coast.
My hair is braided and put up, held with many hairpins. As the circlet is also pinned, and the necklace tied, a mirror of polished steel is brought forth.
I am awestruck at my reflection. Though what I wore in Minas Tirith was fine in its own right, this style suits me much better. My face does not appear nearly so round, and I can even make a claim to elegance.
I search my expression for any hints of the nervousness I have felt. I see some, but much is cloaked by confidence and awe of the dress. I have learned from my husband, some, how to mask uncertainties, but he is much more skilled at it, and his brother even more so, he told me once.
The freckles that normally spread across my face when outdoors are indeed present, with a fresher feeling to them, thanks to bathing. Though I am darker somewhat from my travel from the city, I am not so dark as to be tan. A temporary coloring, in any case; after a day or two indoors, it will fade.
I do not request make-up, and it is good I did not, for a distant bell rings. "That is the supper call," says my first maid. They bob, and leave, leaving their names at the door – Thurneil, Wendlywn, and the maid who has attended me the whole while, Elenaor.
A moment later, and the Prince himself is at my door, dressed in a loose silver tunic, blue leggings, and fine leather boots. His hair, longer than mine, is pulled back by a large circlet denoting a pair of intertwined Swans. "I will take you in. You don't look familiar with the palace, and in the meantime, I can see for myself the beauty Boromir claims of his lady-wife."
"Sweet words! And I thank you for them," I answer, blushing and laughing. If nothing else the Lord Prince Imrahil has a manner to put one at ease.
He takes me down the hall and around several corners to a large dining room. Not a Great Hall, but one with a view of an inlet off the harbor. I see many birds flying, and some creatures swimming I cannot identify in the growing night – porpoises is my best guess. The clouds have faded, leaving behind meek starlight, and a sea as dark as I imagine the wrath of the Steward to be if – when he discovers my absence.
"The Lord Imrahil and the Lady Captain of Gondor," calls a herald, hidden in an alcove. I fight an assailment of butterflies in my stomach. We step down a few steps to the main floor, where two large tables and many chairs and cushions sit.
Informal, indeed. The tables and chairs, though stylish and sleek, do not match, and the cushions are being reclined upon; the Lord's kin, presumably. Three men, and a young woman, and others whose backs are turned.
The Lord Steward, I reflected, has a much more rigid manner of feasting. His Hall is black-and-white marble, and the tables of an intimidating mahogany. Each guest has a pre-arranged chair, identified by formal hangings that contain the house insignias.
His children do not rise as we approach the tables, but we do garner their interest. Of note is the young woman I espied earlier – she has a wide mouth, ripe for laughing, and her eyes are as silver as any fine jewelry I have seen. Her hair is smoothly held back by a pearl net, and her manner graceful as she nods to me pleasantly.
Numenorean blood, I think. I knew the legend well enough, but never confirmed for myself the rumors of it being in the shore-folk. With her height, and that of her brothers and father, there must be some strong strain of it. Or Elven; the Lord Prince gives me an uncanny look as I pick carefully at the food.
"We are kin here," he says, quietly. "There is no need for nerves."
I am reassured a little.
Mindful of my dress, I settle on a cushion. The days of wain-traveling has my joints ache, and cushioning is a relief. With my feet stretched forward, I must look like a child, but it is the most comfortable I have been since my lord Boromir rode to the north.
"Let us say our graces," says the Prince, and I bow my head. Moments later, we eat.
I have eaten fish before, and found it heavy. This time, the herbs and spices are light and tangy, and my stomach does not protest. Not does it protest the goblet of juice given to me by a servant. No wine, I think wistfully, glancing at the pitchers.
My foregoing the wine is noticed. The Lord Imrahil sets his fork down and beckons for the family to gather closer. He does not ask me to move, but rather those to gather around me. His gaze is knowing, and my hand trembles slightly.
"What news of the city, Lady Captain?"
At least he starts with an easy question.
I swallow a large gulp of the juice, fortifying my suddenly dry mouth. "We are at War for sure," I say. "my lord husband has ridden north, seeking an answer to a dream. His brother, the good lord Faramir, fights with his captains in Ithilien, but the land grows overrun with orc and men of the deep Southern reaches."
I set aside my plate, no longer as hungry. "The Lord Steward grows ever wary. Audiences with him are few and far-between, but despite this, he knows much of the doings of the Dark Lands. No-one knows how, including my husband."
My eyes lower, and I trace the embroidery of the cushion. It, like so much of the decoration here, is lovely, capturing the likeness of the seas well. "My Lord, may I speak freely here, among your kin?"
He knows what I ask. He dismisses the servants, and other guests, instructing the family is not to be disturbed the rest of the evening.
Before I can continue, however, he raises his hand. "Elphir, Amrothos, Erchirion, I have your word that what is spoken of here does not pass your lips elsewhere? And Ivriniel will hear from me personally, once she is rested."
The three men, who are sitting, reclining, and leaning against a table, all nod in assent, turning their attention to me fully. "Lothiriel, especially, this does not travel to Court. Do you understand?"
She answers. "Of course, Father." Her eyes are intent on the fruit, but I shiver at the tone. She looks like a flower of the coast, but she has a spine of steel, I'd wager.
I take a deep breath and clasp my hands to keep them from trembling even more.
"In truth, the City's days are dark. Many flee the encroaching Shadow, myself included…though there is more I flee. The Lord Steward is grim, wearing armor wheresoever he walks. His solders are grimmer, as if there is no hope.
"And there might not be. Visions, rumor goes, plague the Steward. He told me of late to beware any who might take a meal with me. I did not listen to him at first, but three weeks past, I was nearly poisoned to my death."
Lothiriel gasps, and drops the fruit. "Poisoned? By whom? I have friends among the White Court. I know of none who would bear harm to the Captain's wife."
The Lord Imrahil steeples his fingers. "There are many who seek the end of Gondor," he answers his daughter. "More who would attempt to do so for the sake of greed or destruction. Continue, please."
His sons are truly intent upon me; I find their gazes unnerving, and I clasp my hands so hard they turn white.
"As if the poisoning were not enough, the Steward watches my every move. He nearly accused me of treachery when I sought the Wizard Mithrandir upon his last visit. I tell you truly, I seek no higher than my rank. Being a Captain's wife is challenging enough in peace, much less the war that haunts us now.
"Mithrandir, bent upon his own errands, only met with me once, and was unable to help. I told him my lord husband was not sleeping well, dreaming of dark shadows and desires. He directed me instead to the Healing Houses. I spend – spent," I correct myself, "mornings there, assisting the healers. What I could have brought from them I already did, and still the dreams bothered him.
"Some months past, my lord husband dreamt of a wave overwhelming, and a riddle. The lord Faramir dreamt it also, but their father deemed my lord husband the worthier to ride north."
"This is ill news," says one of the sons. "If the Steward suspects his own married daughter of treachery, deep must he be in darkness."
"Faramir wrote to me of the same dream," says the Prince. "He did not say aught of the Steward's opinions."
"There is yet more – Elphir, I deem?" Elphir lifts a hand, respectfully. "My lord husband wrote to me last that he was to join a company, a secret company. Their specific errand he neglected, but did say he knew not when he could get word to me again. He also wrote that he may have found an answer to the riddle he had been seeking, that he found the Halfling bearing something akin to Isildur's Bane."
I blink tears back. That last letter was really the last I had heard from him, now three months gone.
"Since then, I too have dreamt badly. I dream vaguely of swordfights and a flaming fire, like unto an eye that would see into my spirits. I know naught what to make of the dreams, only that they fill me with a dread I have never known before.
"I do know that some days hence I was told I myself am bearing something of importance. And it is for this reason, I flee my home, the White City."
Imrahil's sons exchange glances, Lothiriel looking puzzled as well, and the Prince himself is nodding slowly, as if he knows what is to come.
"I carry the Heir to my Lord Boromir. The heir that, should Denethor and Boromir both fall, would supplant Faramir of any right to the Stewardship."
-to be continued-