Author's Note: Well, can't say I am too surprised Lady Amariel is asked to do something unusual. However, this puts her in a unique position later down the road…
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, really. I am borrowing from Tolkien's world to expand upon, hopefully in a beautiful and realistic way.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/AU.
The Captain's Wife
Again I am astonished. A sense of dread, unknown and unforgiving, shivers up my spine and I cannot help but shake my head. The Princess misconstrues the movement for disagreement and hastens to explain further.
"The lamps are heavy, but you would not handle them – the guards posted are responsible for their maintenance. Instead you would watch their flame, ensuring they do not sputter. When they do, you would re-supply the fuel. Easy!"
"Says the sea-faring daughter of a sea-faring prince," I say dryly, but her enthusiasm is touching. I wonder how much older I am, but age does not matter, really; in the recent weeks I have lived, I could be many years older.
The idea does have appeal – within the lighthouse, I do not exactly fall with the jurisdiction of the Prince or the Steward. I would be serving the country of Gondor as a whole; even the Lord Steward would find it difficult to argue with the necessity of bringing ships safely along the shore, the same ships that were sailing to War to defeat the Shadow.
However, one obvious loose end needs tying.
"I am carrying the Heir and in months will deliver. How do I do so in such distance from a healer?" Instinctively my hands go to my abdomen. I have yet to feel the baby move, but I am sure it will. It has to; despite the danger I represent, if I do not deliver the child, the Steward would seek to cast me from his net.
It is a precarious thing, to be a woman. More so, to be a woman married to the line of Stewards.
Prince Imrahil and Princess Lothiriel exchange glances. Evidently there is something to which I will disagree. Several tense moments pass before the lord of Dol Amroth speaks, eyeing me warily.
"We think to send Erchirion. If nothing else, he would learn to hold his tongue…but that is neither here nor there – he has experience birthing children, both at sea and on land. "
"That impudent beast? Him? Send me Lord Elphir, or even Lord Amrothos, but not that child." I cross my arms, angered. I did not like him from the moment I met him; the lord's other children were respectful, but he had no problem daring to forgo boundaries.
It is true, I am used to impertinence from patients. A Lord of standing, however, is different, in that it breaks the code of chivalrous speech common to higher ranks. I was quite right to rebuke him as I did, gracious in allowing his too-personal query. As per the code, I could have snubbed him, and the snub been acceptable in the eyes of our society. In the City, my ladies would have advised me to turn my head upon his appearance, and speak to him only if strictly necessary.
Though it appears the Amrothian Court differs from the one I am familiar with. Not so simple to be here, is it? That voice! If I had some outlet, some activity, to shake off the inner critique growing since I arrived.
The Lord Prince tsks. The sound is familiar; it must be trademark of parents...of whose company I will join in only a few months. My hands curl at the image of holding my lord husband's child.
Our child.
I am not ready. How can I be? The father of our child might be dead, for all I know, and I am in danger of it myself, as is the baby. We might not survive these times long enough to make it to birth, much less a first birthday. Longing pangs through my heart and I have to ignore it as the Prince speaks. "We do not have to be so kind, though we are kin." His tone is mild, almost loving, but the warning sting is present, nonetheless.
I bow my head and curtsey. "Forgive me. My weariness and worry must have colored my words." It is not a direct apology, and the Princess smirks at me, a small hand signal hidden in her skirts indicating her approval and amusement.
"The offense is forgiven by the House." His stare is level as mine was on his son.
I accept the formality as my due, though inwardly I am surprised. I must have shown too much of my own impertinence for him to remind me of whose House I am imposing upon.
Smoothing my bodice, I raise the question of his son's suitability; other questions having been to put bed with Prince's rebuke, I must speak up for my honor. "I am a married woman, my Lord. Even with his experience – however he achieved it – there would be talk. I am already at risk, coming here so openly recognized. I will not have my honor besmirched, that the Captain-General be not welcomed when he returns." I do not resist emphasizing the when.
The Princess answers. I know she is trying to reassure me, and with her gleaming eyes, I almost can believe her. "You will find, my dear, dear kinswoman, a few well-placed reminders will do well to quell any suspicions." Her amusement is feral, and contagious. I am brought to mind of my ladies, who first guided me to use talk to displace public attention. I was skilled enough at it, but the Princess looks downright predatory.
Women are often discounted for battle, but little do men remember Court, in any variation, to be its own dangerous field. I am thankful I have the princess on my side of that particular war, and not in opposition.
I curtsey again, this time more favorably and in gratitude. "You have my thanks, Princess."
"Now, as for your arrival there…"
Details are many. Much does such a plan require, unique in both its origin and duration. It would bother me but for the fact I have been an oddity since the start of my tutelage. I counted few friends beyond my ladies-in-waiting; women of the White Court did not favor a woman who seemed smarter then themselves.
Smarter, perhaps not. Better educated is more likely.
Wherever they are now, I wish them well. Whether they have departed the City, or been cast out, or have stayed…their fates are to me, for now, unknown. I could ask the princess to write to her friends. If she is as connected as she claims, then I could use that to my advantage.
I laugh to myself, though not in true amusement. Scheming, am I? No better than the ladies who I condescend, that same snide voice whispers. It is as if I have the Lord Denethor inside my head; the image of him directing my every move that I have to pinch myself to be rid of it, to remind me I am in the sea-city, not the White.
We have to count on the tide to pull us in safely, according to the Prince. As a result, a few more days must pass, but that gives us time to pack a small boat well. Healing supplies, food. Some resupply for the guard already there, letters of explanation and command for them also. Suitable dress – so close to the water, it will grow chillier as the season fades, and myself larger as the baby grows within. Wool undergarments must be woven to my specifications, and I must have material to sew garments for the baby in my free time.
Though, my time will not be entirely my own, or as I spent it in the City. I must trust the guards for my safety, and the lord Erchirion.
"You may outrank him, according to custom," his father warns, "but he is much more experienced than you. See that you obey him if he commands you to!"
I keep my scowl for when I slip away to be measured by the maids.
"To the lighthouse! You are lucky," Elenaor says through the sewing pins. How she manages to do so, I do not know, but she is not choking on them, so I refrain from commenting. The walls here in the sewing rooms are painted a pale blue, a color that does much to soothe my inner turmoil. Despite my tired limbs, I find a certain calm in being. Elenaor's hands are cool and light as she places the pins.
"Lucky how? That place is wetter than a mistress for her man," snorts Wendy. I see in the hanging mirror her being lightly slapped on the wrist. She drops the skeins of fabric she is holding. "Thurneil, that hurt!"
"And well you deserved it," mutters Elenaor, moving around at my feet. The stool I am standing on shakes briefly as I shift my weight; fifteen minutes have I spent attempting a statue-like resemblance. "Be still!"
I turn my head anyway. "Wendy, while I appreciate the sentiment, I do ask you phrase future remarks more prettily. Have I your agreement?" As a Lady, I needn't ask, but I find the courtesy does more than slapping my servants. Such a practice is common in the City, but I never applied myself to it.
She is suitably humbled and curtseys deeply, picking up the skeins once again for Thurneil to look over; for Thurneil's part, she is stern and quiet. Of the trio, she is the most observant and quick to maintain order.
I am finding own place here, increasingly, and I wonder that I was not so comfortable within the City. If I have a future, maybe spending summers here is feasible. These three maids are improving my current stay, certainly; for my daydream, I would request their continual attendance. They are hard-working, all, and Wendy is lively and provides suitable entertainment, but underneath the veneer is a young woman of hardiness. If all goes well, I could perhaps count them near friends; such a thing I did not have before.
I sigh and shift my feet once more. Friends. Any woman of standing could tell you they are rare, loyal ones especially so. Any gossip could be ruinous, from something as slight as talking to the milliner's son to full scandal, such as bedding the milliner's son (or father; Lady Herenya was too forthcoming with the details of that particular occasion).
"My Lady, if you do not be still, I will have no choice but to prick you!" A promise, not a threat, but one I am not given to test.
I turn my gaze back to the mirror and stiffen my arms, letting my daydream build as one might build a castle of the beach sand. I do not think of Elenaor's remark until several days later.
That evening, after the promise was fortunately not followed though, I am invited to attendance at the family dinner. "A regular occurrence," says Lothiriel, who has to guide me once more to the private dining room. "In these days, when much is sought, and many plans must be made, we find that family dinners are a bedrock for hope. And here, Father and my brother can answer the one of the questions you sought last night. The one," she lowers her voice, glancing around to ensure no servants are nearby in the flickering light, "regarding the report of the king's company."
I understand the need for discretion. Servants talk loud, fast, and often, and if word were to spread of a king, there would be unrest and uncertainty. I too glance around, but other than the seashells and sconces decorating the walls, we are alone as we enter the hall.
The same tables and cushions are present, and I am relieved. After standing so long while being fitted, I am mildly faint with dizziness. Food will help, as I forewent luncheon in favor of an unruly stomach. It is another of Lothiriel's dresses I wear, the other having met an ill-smelling suitor in my bile.
While there is fish, I also see a roast chicken, and some fruit and honey. "Food fit for an unborn child," laughs the princess, and I chuckle at the discerning remark. I did not take to the red meat earlier, that of rabbit I learned, but chicken has been my favorite at the Steward's table since I discovered my pregnancy. How the family guessed at my preferences, I'll likely never know.
I inquire to the absence of Lords Elphir and Amrothos. "They are making ready a boat for your departure," the Prince says, filling his plate with fish and greens. "Erchirion, however, should be in attendance, soon. He will reassure you of his princely behavior."
I see why the sea-folk love their Prince. He does not abide fools.
I pile two cushions together for my seat, and place one at my back, of a light blue dye, with white circles. "I sewed that," whispers Lothiriel, seating herself next to me. I assure her of its loveliness; I am reminded of the clouds I counted as practice, outside my father's townhouse.
The Prince says the blessing to the Valar, and we settle into eating. Unlike last night, the atmosphere is much more relaxed, and my comforts seen to easily. My lady Princess is attentive, preventing me from getting up to refill my goblet of the juices I appreciate most, and the Prince keeps the conversation light.
I tell a story of my childhood, one in which the Princess finds entertaining. "I can hardly see you as a child, you have such a serious face!" she says, eyes dancing. I toss a carrot at her, from her own plate, but she catches it more deftly than I anticipated. "Brothers, remember?"
"My lord Father, forgive me for being late," calls the impertinent beast, striding in so quickly the herald has no time to call his name. Were I the Prince, I would chide him for that, but I suppose my time at the White Court has instilled a different sense of decorum.
"A messenger has arrived, from the White Court. He seeks your presence as soon as you are able."