Author's Note: The story is taking a life of its own. I am as surprised as you that the messenger arrived, but the Lady Amariel assures me it is as she tells me.
The reason for the long delay has been the loss of a computer. Technology does not seem to be friendly with me, of late. I have, however, found an alternative. It will be a struggle – as it is not mine, but shared – but The Captain's Wife pulls at me.
Disclaimer: The late great potentate of fantasy owns this wonderful universe. I can claim Amariel, but not too much more.
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.
The Captain's Wife
"So quickly?"
Color drains from my cheeks, and the resulting clatter of my fork fills the silence. The hall, despite its openness to the sea, seems to close in, and I feel a cool handkerchief press into my hands. "Peace, Lady Amariel. The news might not be so poor." Though I take the handkerchief to my face, the princess keeps my other hand in hers.
"It would not have taken that long for the Steward to discover her absence, and on horseback, the time to the coast would be suitably shortened," he says, the answer intermittent with decent gasps. He must have hurried here after speaking with the messenger. Indeed so – dirt I recognize from the road clouds his boots and his tunic is in several creases.
"Erchirion, take your sister and the Lady to your antechamber. I must away with the messenger, distract him in the next few days until we can get you both to the island. A private word, if you will? And take some food with you, on a tray. I fear the Lady has not eaten enough."
The servants fetch trays and I am brought carefully up. I am truly not so steady on my feet as I wish, and I grip Lothiriel's arm tightly. I will not swoon – I am not foolish enough to fall over and potentially harm the baby – but I am deeply worried. I had hoped for two more days at the minimum. What was I thinking, attempting to escape the Lord Steward's iron-clad will?
The shadows from the wall sconces are in direct mirror to my dark thoughts. I imagine my wrists bound, can almost hear the clangs they make if I move. Who did he send, I wonder, Amaril of the Citadel or the typical mail courier?
Servants at the White Court have a peculiar hierarchy. Those who serve the Citadel directly have preeminence over those of lower circles, understandably, but within that preeminence comes certain strictures. Mail couriers are given high honors for their ability to both read and write, and the stories they hold court with at the servant's fires. Messengers of the Steward, however, are given a wide berth, and not oft spoken to or of; their grim faces and signia of the dead Tree are enough to warn the faintest of hearts away.
I am taken to a room painted in dark hues I cannot name – "Our Navy blue," Lothiriel supplies - and bid me to sit, and eat. "Your questions will be answered," she assures me, "as I said. Just not by my Father."
I am close to petulant, from both fear and irritation to have to hide with the creature I most heartily do not approve of. "I would rather the Lord Imrahil supply me with what I need."
"My brother is not a Corsair to deserve your disdain," she says sharply, pacing away from me restlessly. "I like you, my Lady, but pray, do not earn my disfavor."
The servants arrive with the food, and I resume my meal, affecting no response. Indeed, the House of Swan is not meant to be meddled with lightly. I have to recall my position here, the precariousness they place themselves in with the Steward. Even now, the Prince is protecting me by meeting the messenger's demand to see him forthwith.
I pity the messenger. What he must have endured at the Steward's wrath is unthinkable, and what he faces at the sea Prince's impenetrability…a long evening is ahead for him, with no immediate availability for the rest I am sure he needs.
We do not speak for several minutes. I finish what I can, and sip at my goblet, more to keep myself occupied than a need for any more fruit juices. As I drain them, the Lord Erchirion enters, bearing another tray.
"We do not have sweet pastries often anymore, but my Father deemed them necessary. They are fruit tarts," he answers my puzzled look, setting the tray down at the end of the table.
The room darkens, as clouds dim the skies. Ominous, foreboding, and an all-too-clear sign of the War (The Dark Lord is not known for subtleties, I think wryly). The long table where I sit, with a pitcher and basin at the end nearest me, creaks a little under the weight of the fruit tarts. Erchirion takes the chair opposite me, choosing a tart oozing with red fruit jam and covered in glaze. He passes it to me, and I take it out of politeness. I am not enough at ease with him to accept anything from him readily.
He shrugs as I set it on my plate, and selects another for himself, one that has a yellowed jam.
His sister paces by the window, which holds a deeply cushioned seat. I see a metallic hinge gleam dimly and understand the neat storage. No doubt a sea-man's room, I think, taking in the anchor hung on the walls, and a painting of a land fair with towers and pennants. Numenor, or a likeness of it.
Altogether, the effect is one of a ship's cabin as I imagine it.
Erchirion settles himself to the tart and to the matter at hand. "Father said you sought the truth of the rumor of the Dunedain. I can answer that, and more, if you wish to know aught of the Steward's messenger."
He borders on arrogance, presuming my questions before I can speak them, and I clench my goblet. My jaw is tight, but at Princess Lothiriel's warning glance, I suppress the ill-speech rising in my throat.
That his eyes spark with amusement frustrates me further.
"I spoke with Almog before retiring, and he has agreed to lend you some of the truth. You must understand, however, that this knowledge is not meant for the ears of many. That he is trusting you is a positive consideration of your character, but an estimation also of his own judgment."
"Speak plainly, lord. Pretty words mean naught when it comes to my safety!" My impatience wins out, and I sense my mood shift radically. I am weary, despite having slept through most of the night. The dream weighs heavily on my shoulders, and I prefer fewer words than many when it comes to matters of business.
Or, in this instance, matters that might make the difference between my future life or my impending death.
Erchirion leans back in his chair, surveying me coolly. My outburst didn't affect him – he does have experience with births, then, I mentally groan. Impatient words will not move him. Chagrin creeps up my back, and seed, a tiny miniscule seed, of respect grows.
I sigh, reigning in my impatience. "My lord, please. I mean it – I am weary and since the messenger is already speaking with your Father we must make haste." I fold my arms.
At least I can rest comfortably. His antechamber is cool and now that I have eaten, I am not nearly so unsteady. But he does not have to know I am comfortable in here.
A brisk nod is all I get for my efforts. "You know of the Dunedain, in story, and Father said last night Almog was of that people."
"Yes. They are said to be a long-lived race, and your sea-folk – including you and your House, to be among that blood. Or of Elven, I have heard both." Breathe in, breathe out. Though I do not appreciate the easy manner with which this son of Imrahil carries himself, he will be tending to me the next months, provided the Steward does not pull me away in chains first.
Gallows humor later, I tell myself. Listen.
"There is some truth and untruth to those rumors. We are distantly kin to the Numenoreans, of a branch related to the Kings of Gondor. For that matter, the Dunedain are direct kin, that is, they carry the line of the kings of the North."
By the Valar's thrones. I am aghast. My behavior to Almog and his family really was unseemly, and I am reviewing a way to recover their goodwill when the son of Imrahil makes plain how uncourtly my hiding my own identity was.
"Almog is a cousin, his wife also. Methelwen has been raised to be a lady of kings, as all their women would be, as their men would be lords and, by necessity, soldiers.
The rumor of a specific King's company I am allowed to confirm, and by virtue of that confirmation, the presence of a king. Whom that might be, or where – well, if the Shadow knew, we would all be doomed."
For several minutes I am left to think out the ramifications.
Almog, a cousin to the King… He has a right to lay a bounty upon my head – not a literal one, mind, but one that indicates I am not welcome to him or his family. For that matter, not welcome to the King. What a mess!
Beyond that jar of decaying canned goods, the Lord Steward knows most, if not the entirety, of the movement within his realm. A king to take his rightful place on the White Throne above him…he would not be welcomed.
Boromir's dreams. I do not feel the goblet anymore, so tight a hold I have.
Neither my husband nor I understood the riddle of which he dreamt, despite putting pen to it. The verses were memorable, to be sure, but unclear. The Halfling…Isildur's Bane…a king come to life.
War is in every corner. Not unheard are fallen warriors; greatness does not promise survival. A future king could meet his end in any number of ways – in battle, an assassin. I myself almost ruined, how much easier would it be for the Enemy to strike on a chaotic battlefield?
The crowns in my dream. That could come to fruition. Not a dream.
Breathe in, breathe out. Irrationally I want to turn back the past few minutes. In my ignorance, I could have claimed denial. Should I face the Steward and his infamous capabilities to read men's hearts, I would fail. His dark eyes had disarmed me more than once at a feast-table, a private audience with his wrath would successfully squelch any chance I have at hope.
If I were to be kept in chains for my own disobedience, what actions might the Steward undertake to secure his line – my line? I glance down at my belly, overwhelmingly protective. I spread my hands over it, wishing desperately for the comfort of a kick.
For this baby, I must be brave.