Author's Note: Forgive me for fudging the Ring War's timeline a little. In any case, Lady Amariel wouldn't know the precise timeline on her own, just how long she has been married…I worked it out that since Boromir's journey took a little under four months, then they had to have been married for at least seven, and added a couple extra to make it more plausible. I'm not good with numbers, however, unlike Amariel.
Thank you to Certh, who is correcting my errors! I am grateful to have a reader who knows Elvish languages far better than myself - my Elvish is poor and limited to simple words.
Disclaimer: Not a piece, do I own. For entertainment only.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.
The Captain's Wife
"What part did Lord Faramir play?" I am all astonishment. The relationship between the brothers, I am aware of, is close, but never did I dream that I might have been written of.
I chide myself for being so ridiculous. Of course they wrote each other! As Captains in Gondor's Army, they oft had news to share.
But an expression, like that of guilt, passes over Lothiriel's face, wiping it clean of any smiles. She answers my question. "He wrote Faramir when you were married, and Faramir wrote us…that is, my Father and myself. I have the letter if you wish to read it – it was among the letters I searched through last night."
I cover my face. My lord Captain and I were married now for a little over ten months. While my position was…unusual, I have never suspected that I would be the topic of intense discussion. It occurs to me that all those who recognized me have said something of the kind, that my lord husband had written of me.
What was it that the guard, Danaran, said? "He wrote of you often"? The Prince did, also. And now Princess Lothiriel.
I do not see the apologetic glance Lothiriel and her father share, but I hear the rustling of fabric as she comes around to reassure my anxiety. Her hands are much darker than mine; she must take plenty of air. Given the proximity of the sands of the beach, I have no doubt the complexions of the Amrothian Court are vastly different than – what was it the princess had called it? – the White Court.
"If you are concerned your husband wrote poorly of you, do not be afraid," she says, gently. I seek for any lie in her eyes, but then, the family at Dol Amroth has always been known to be honest.
On one occasion, during one of the feasts I presided over, I remember the Lord Steward muttering behind his goblet to Lord Boromir. Seated to Boromir's left, I did not overhear much, but I did manage to see the lord Faramir rest his hand on Boromir's forearm, as if to signal to his brother, restrain yourself from bitter words.
"Honesty will not prosper the shore, Boromir. Lord Imrahil does not know the usefulness of deceit." He studies the gems on the goblet in distaste. The head of the kitchen will likely get a lecture tonight, for poor wine; the crop must have been bad again, after the ravaging of the vineyards outside the City.
I make a note to visit the kitchens in the morning, if only to soothe ruffled feathers. I could not make excuses for the Lord Steward – who could? – but at the very least I could encourage the servants and maids to do their duty regardless.
The hand on my lord Boromir's forearm tightens, and I see his lips press until they pale. The relationship between father and sons is not one I fully comprehend, but from the way the brothers are restraining themselves, seems to indicate at love thrived there once.
"Perhaps not, Father." My husband's voice is light, and I wonder at the cost it took to maintain levity. "But you know Lord Hurin learned that lesson." He laughs, and Lord Denethor's face brightens into a rare smile. It is so different, to see humor there – it changes his whole countenance. I see, briefly, what might have been, and where my lord husband resembles him.
The rest of the evening I puzzle over the remark, and at my request that night, I receive a story from Lord Boromir about an escapade involving sneaking away from his tutors to watch the other soldiers fight, and a certain seneschal convinced to distract the Lord Steward from finding him.
"It is not that I fear being poorly written of," I answer. "It is – well, my lord's first love, truly, is the battles he plans, the soldiers he commands, and the fields where his blood is spilt."
Many times he had left and returned with stitches. Stitches I myself helped pull out, bandages I changed. From the time we married to three months ago, I had counted seven new scars. None deep, praise the Valar. He may have been born under a lucky star; at the very least, under Ithil's watchfulness.
"I have no place there," I continue. "That I realize now." I am not sad, precisely; after that moment shared in the Houses, we spoke privately in the gardens. He was proud of my work at healing, considered it useful. He cautioned to continue at it every day, for as long as I was able. His tone was practiced, commanding.
And with my realization moments earlier, I can see certain pieces fitting together: my father's insistence to be at Court, where I could be watched easily; his perseverance that though I a daughter and not a son, I learn business; his favor with the Lord Steward. I see how my path was written for me long before I was aware. I am not ungrateful, but I do feel…used.
Like one of my husband's soldiers.
"I cannot speak for your husband, but I can encourage you to hope a little," the Princess says, squeezing my fingers as gently as she spoke. "Here is the letter – I suggest reading it in privacy." She pulls from a pocket hidden deep in her dress a rolled parchment, with a broken wax seal, but tied with a blue ribbon. The seal is familiar, one my lord husband used often. I had used it in his stead when responding to the requests the soldiers made. I never thought to see it again after leaving the City, nor to pocket it.
"Not all marriages are going to have love," Lord Imrahil says from behind his desk. I look up to meet his cautioned words. "Mine did not, but we were amiable. My little Princess," he adds affectionately, "enjoys a good love-story."
The princess protests, and the atmosphere lightens perceptibly. She is one for good humor, as I thought.
"Now, to business," he says. "We have devised a plan of sorts to not quite remove you, but will protect you in part." He shuffles through the various papers strewn across the dark yellow of his desk, and idly I wonder of what wood it is wrought. Too pale for mahogany, too grey for oak.
Princess Lothiriel catches me looking. "Driftwood. Much of our furniture is made of it. We sometimes have to replace a few pieces – it has been tossed about the ocean after all – but it is fairly sturdy. In any case, Father loves it."
He chuckles. "It is wild, a gift of Ossë. How could I not?" But the lines around his eyes go taut, and when he finds what he was shuffling for, he is somber. I am apprehensive. It is not for nothing all the sons of the Prince have survived every battle they fought; for that matter, the Prince himself. Traces of a scar dot the corner of his jaw.
"Lady Amariel, what do you know of the dor-e-galar?" He passes the paper over to me, an illustration of an island hidden in the rain, but with a light emanating from the tower that sits atop. It is a lovely sketch.
My Elvish is rudimentary. We use Westron for ledgers, it being the Common Tongue. Anyone who needed to use them, could. I think hard, and answer hesitantly. "The land of light?"
"Close – the 'land of the lamp' – much better in the Elven tongues, I daresay. If you look closely out my windows here, you can see its edges."
I follow his gesture to the windows, whose sills are damp beneath my fingers; no doubt from the long exposure to sea-breezes that carry the wet of the ocean. That strange oppressiveness is still present and the clouds also. A mist is fading, and through its clearing, I see a rocky shore. The waves crash against it, in bursts of incredible power. It must be spectacular at their side, but dangerous.
"That is the island where our light-house rests, where guards stand monitoring the Bay for our ships. We use the lamps to guide them safely to port. It was built after the other Tower, further up the cliffs, was ruined accidentally…" He trails off, scowling mildly. From the corner of my eye, I see the Princess hunch her shoulders sheepishly. Intriguing; I must ask her for the account when there is a better time and place. "It is able to house four guards, two a room, and has a few storerooms. You can see why they would need stores for some time."
I nod, despite facing the shifting waters outside. I may not be sea-faring, but the waves look menacing even from this distance. Experienced sailors only could navigate to the island. My arms feel itchy, as if sprayed by them, and I wipe them of the imaginary salt.
My mother, if she were available, would reprimand me for the fidgeting. I was not a still child, by any means. Several hours before bed I would have to stand before her, to learn posture. "Your father may be tutoring you in numbers, but it is I who must make you a Lady." The word was distinctly emphasized.
"I understand, my Lord. But what has this history to do with me?" I turn from the view and eye the Prince appraisingly. He does not quail under the gaze, but that is not quite my intent. "I suspect a plot, and as the most recent one involving me included my death, I would appreciate plain speech."
If ever there were two chastened individuals, they did not match my- kinsmen, whose faces mirrored one another: the same pulled-in cheeks, regretful gray eyes. I surely have learned from my husband a certain tone; some part of me is pleased and amused to have an effect on a House not given to weakness.
I am not typically an intimidating persona, but my time in the Houses with undaunted patients taught me that sternness is a required tool. The Healer who took me in – the one who first let me occupy the boy – worked with me to strengthen my soft voice, which, surprisingly, my mother supported.
"A Lady must be in command of herself at all times," she'd say, flapping her fan.
In the present, the Prince and Princess before me straighten. He speaks, forestalling his daughter's own explanation. She quiets and watches us both carefully, picking without looking a thread in her skirt. She is as apprehensive as I; somehow, I am comforted.
"As we have need to stretch our forces sparingly, my children thought it possible to send you to light the lamps in the stead of one of my usual guards."