Author's Note: A pity I am not more regular in my updates. There has been an unexpected development in my life that I have no answers to, as of yet.
Disclaimer: I do not own Erchirion, Lothiriel, or any of the characters or places from my beloved Lord of the Rings. I own only Amariel, and even she is brought to me between the lines of those pages.
Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.
The Captain's Wife
I pretend to straighten, to allow myself a heavy press of my foot on Erchirion's. However helpful his swiping of the jam may prove to be, I still have no doubt his hand among my skirts is a gross misconduct. Echoes of Lady Herenya's laugh ring in my ear, telling me of more scandalous doings of courtiers; if she were here, she would be enjoying herself immensely.
As for myself - I am gratified to see a wince furrow its way across his forehead.
We hobble along the corridors, and I overhear shouts and instructions. "Make way for the Lady and the Lord Erchirion!" "Ready the sickroom!" "Send for the Prince!" "Where is the Princess?"
I moan, though it is less and less a play-acting. Contorting my abdomen in half is not at all comfortable, and muscles are pulling at my back and side. It does not help that we are surrounded by hovering servants, wanting to see for themselves the Lady in distress.
This will fuel more gossip, as needed, but I know it could rapidly burn into an outrageous fire. Any word of what is really happening – my "miscarriage" - to possible theorizing of amorous relations between myself and the beast.
Who, despite the strain of the moment, has an impish expression.
"You do know how to convince them, do you not," he murmurs, and I glimpse a smirk. The creature is thoroughly pleased to have his arm around me!
Despite my worry, a well of heartache surges in my throat. Even my lord husband treated me well, the eve of our wedding.
My lord husband, how fare you?
It is a warm evening, made so by the numerous lights around Lord Denethor's Hall. The tables have been removed to an adjacent chamber, to allow space for dancing. It is our wedding ball. We were married early in the day; now that night has fallen, I can be officially presented to the Court as the wife of the Lord Boromir.
I pull at my dress, starched and heavy. Someday, my belly will be round with the Heir, I think. How will I wear dresses then? Will I be allowed something lighter? I knew of many women during their carrying who swooned.
The guards on either side of the large wooden doors let me slip in. I will process down the Hall, but I need a moment to gather my courage. I am able to linger in the shadows briefly.
My lord husband is seated by the Lord Denethor, who looks the happier than I have ever seen his grim visage. He wears a wide band about his head, of a metal that is dark and glossy in the lantern light. His robes look as heavy as my dress, brightened only by silver embossing about the long sleeves.
I sweat through my own sleeves, every now and again patting a handkerchief underneath my arms. I do not know how the Lord Steward can stand it, or my husband, who is dressed similarly, but for the addition of light armor and a decorative sword belted at his waist. I knew, from having placed it on him, that despite its airy appearance, it is sharp.
I swallow, and pull myself forward. I have lingered long enough, and it is time for my entrance anyhow. The musicians have struck up a familiar tune, a slow, haunting ballad that seems fitting.
All whispers stop as I pass through the Hall; the jewels and large dresses are all testament to the privilege still left in the White City. I see many familiar faces, but none with whom I am close; I know not where I direct a smile that I know is all too false.
If my lord husband wears actual armor, then I am wearing the sort a woman needs: a pretty face that gives nothing away.
I fight tears, knowing if I show weakness, the pageantry of my entrance is for naught; all at once I feel like I am being first introduced at Court as a maiden. In a sense, I am: I am now the wife of Lord Boromir, the highest Lady of the realm. My circlet sits strongly and painfully at my brow, pulling back any hair that might drift in my face. It is thin and the only jewel it carries is crimson.
When the maids tied it in earlier, they exchanged glances, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not glean why they were so fearful.
At last I reach the chairs. My lord Steward is imposing and no trace of happiness remains; instead, a penetrating stare threatens to wilt my attempt at bravery. His son's face is impassive, though I am grateful to see sympathy in his eyes.
"Greetings to the Lord Denethor," I say.
"Greetings to my new daughter," he answers coolly.
Fealty for my country, I think, and lift my chin.
"Steward of Gondor, I offer myself, wife and daughter, for the provision of Gondor. Your blessing do I seek, not for my own body, but for the union I have pledged to your son, the Lord Captain of the realm."
I sweep into a curtsey, so deep my knees touch the floor. I can feel the cool marble, but only just; I am impressed with the weight of the heat, the silence of the nobles watching, and the blackness of my Lord Steward's gaze.
He comes forward and touches my neck; his ring, I later discover, leaves an imprint that does not fade for several hours.
"Wife and daughter of Gondor, rise, and receive my," and I notice a pause, imperceptible but for the shuffle of my husband's leather boots, "blessing. May your firstborn be strong and hale, an example of the bloodline of Hurin."
I follow his command and I think I see a faint approval when I match his gaze. But any whisper of it fades as I speak again to his son, with a great deal more warmth.
It has been impressed upon me by my mother, whose late-night meetings with my father have lasted long into the night, that I must be Lady-like…which includes the bearing of children. I do not know for certain all they talked of, but that they found me suitable enough for the Lord Boromir to arrange our marriage.
Although I have known of the Lord Boromir through many songs (who in Gondor had not heard the Tale of Two Swords, or how he fought off three bands of orcs?)– I wonder still at his character. This wonder I keep hidden as I turn to him; my smile becomes more genuine when he nods encouragingly.
As if he knows the doubts I carry.
I am dutiful, and thus far we have been amiable, my husband and I. I admire, I admit, his strong features and the determination that drives him to fight for – for our people.
"To honor, faithfulness, and the bearing of children, I give my body; to Lord Captain of Gondor, my husband, I pledge my fealty. I am no longer of the House of Istuion, but of the renowned line of Hurin."
He smiles and responds, leaving his seat to take my hand. I shiver at his touch; his hand is surprisingly cool, likely from the goblet resting on the tray between the chairs.
"To honor, faithfulness, and the defending of the people, I give my body; to the Lady of Gondor, I pledge my sword. I am no longer only of the House of Hurin, but of the defense of Gondor- and my wife. " He squeezes my fingers, and I am moved by the firmness of his grasp.
A moment passes; I am trapped in his determined gaze, and he is searching my face. For what, I do not know; I have shown him warmth only. Love? Well, one day does not beget love, though I am stirred by his encouraging nod.
"It is my duty," he murmurs. I cannot tell if he finds that favorable or not.
He raises my elbow and rests his hand upon it, turning me to face the Hall. A smile spreads, and then, "To Gondor!" he cries.
Finally, the people respond, breaking the somber formality. "To Gondor!"
The musicians take up a lively reel, and rather than returning to his father, he steers me to the center. "A dance, my wife?" he asks, quite courteously.
I oblige, and learn something about my new husband: he can dance.
When I need a few minutes' breath in the night air, he removes himself to retrieve a goblet of wine. It has been kept cool by the servants loitering in the shadows, and I thank him with a wordless smile. We walk to the outer edges, by the windows. They are open, and the tiny breeze carries with it the smell of rich earth – a planter, bedecked with a bust of the Lord Boromir himself. He catches my stare at it, and we share our first smile.
"A warm evening, is it not?" he asks me.
I take a sip and swallow, grateful. "Yes," I answer. "I imagine later it will be quite hot."
He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
I had not meant that as it sounded. O, my unwary tongue! All day have I been well with those around me, save for trying to convince the maids to tell me why they were so fearful of the circlet I wore. I have done my duty as a daughter, and I desperately desire a few moments to myself – no guards, no maids, no one.
Before I can apologize, he takes my hand once more, to kiss it lightly. "You will find, my Lady, that you will have relief instead."
I blink; my turn for surprise. Courteous, indeed!
"Let me excuse us to our father," he says, "and perhaps we can adjourn to cooler rooms?" There is no hint of mischief, though he does kiss my hand once more.
He winds his way out of my sight, but not out of my mind.
I am thankful I do not need to hide any irritation.
"Such astonishment," I breathe between gasps of air I did not need to huff. "My lord, remember much of my role is appearance."
He lifts an eyebrow, but cannot comment: a page in wrinkled livery, no doubt from hurrying around, rushes to my side. His brown eyes widen at the sight of the 'blood' on my dress, and his message is delivered haltingly.
As he speaks, his face drains, and I take pity. I sag a little, as if in weariness, and I reach my other arm to his shoulder. But rather than let my weight fall on him, I sway so he has to grab me.
Varda bless my mother for showing me how to swoon.
"The Prince says to use the – the Porpoise chamber, and that he will be along as soon as he is able. My lord," he directs this over my shoulder, seeming a little better from the use of my arm, "he also said to use what-so-ever you may need. No restrictions."
No restrictions? I do not like that sound of that.