Author's Note: Let me tell you what, I prefer winter over summer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Erchirion, or Dol Amroth, or any recognizable character. Amariel is my creation inasmuch she is a plausible (I hope) player in Tolkien's wondrous world.

Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.

The Captain's Wife

We – the lord Erchirion, the servant, and I - hobble eventually to a room, oddly stuck where a corridor meets a tiny courtyard. For once the sea seems distant, and I am confused as to what part of the sea-palace's wings we are in. The wall sconces seem older here, more ornate; I can see one or two have porpoises engraved in them, their lighted candles within peering through holes for eyes.

Clever, I think, as I try to maintain a walk between 'insurmountable pain' and 'comfortable'. Pretending pain was becoming easier the longer I tried to maintain the charade – my sides ache and my neck is taut with tension.

The long, narrow door is shut, and the servant slips from my arm to open it. Inside it is, thankfully, cool and dark. A hay mattress, set against a wall, is where I am gently lain. I am grateful for the dark, and though the musty smell makes me gag, at least the mattress eases where I have contorted my muscles.

"Fetch some towels, some hot water, and –" Erchirion lists herbs I am unfamiliar with, ones that at least make sense to the servant. "Be quick about it! If you see my Lord Father, tell him the Lady is safely stowed."

Stowed? What a peculiar choice of words.

The servant bows and leaves, casting one last pale glance at me. The door shuts and for a moment we are in complete blackness.

"Hurry! On your feet! Cast your outer skirts off!" The hisses are commands, but in this particular situation I am not at leisure to disagree. He did tell the servant to make haste, and I swallow my distaste at being ordered about.

I shed the skirt, unhooking the clasp in the back and shimmying my legs until it falls in a soft heap. The stone here is cold, like winter snow, and I shiver.

I can hear movement opposite, but in the darkness I cannot tell what Erchirion is about. "At least tell me what it is you are doing!"

"Take this!" he says, instead of answering, and a moment later I am reaching blindly to catch – a pair of trousers? A tunic, thick and with long sleeves follows. I dress as rapidly as I can, though fingers numbed from both cold and my rapid heartbeat make it difficult.

Sensing I will not receive a response, I focus on buttoning the tunic at the neck – it is the reverse of my usual buttons, and I fumble, suppressing mild oaths. While appropriate, I do not think they would be entirely Lady-like, and I have no desire to give the man any reason to tease.

I hear more rustling, a muffled curse, and finally a metallic groan.

A dim light effects to cast away the darkness, and I can finally make out his figure, grimacing and sweaty; Erchirion has lit a lantern, so rusted it looks impossibly able to hold together. Nonetheless, he is throwing it down – down?

"My blessed siblings and I discovered this passage after mischief one evening, and my lord father has seen fit to keep it usable."

A secret passage. I must be in a story-book, a tale of old.

"There are many reasons for this passage here, but chief among them is to escape unseen. We are doing that now. Come!"

Remembering the Prince's admonition earlier, and servants dashing outside in the hall, I do as I am bid. The hole in the floor is made of a heavy door, that in the darkness was all but hidden completely. Whatsoever wood had been used was darkly sturdy, and also used on the creaky ladder that led into a low tunnel.

It is damp, here, and I understand now why I am wearing men's clothing. My dress would be no match for the water trickling down the walls.

"One last trade – here." He reaches beyond the lantern into what appears to be a small alcove, to hand me boots. "They were mine, long ago – and are hardy. We have no time for you to fall."

Biting back a retort, I yank them on, warmer now. However much I dislike the lord before me, he at least is prepared, more prepared than I expected him to be. I hope to ask, given the opportunity, how he came to be thus, given the rapidity with which we were surprised by the messenger. It shall be a tale to add to the one of the accidental Tower destruction from Lothiriel.

The tunnel slopes ever downward, and I do slip in spite of the boots. They fit along my arches, but are longer than my toes, unfamiliar, and unwieldy. More than once I have to press on Erchirion's arm for balance; after trying to catch myself instinctively on the wet wall, he holds it out for me to take told.

As we progress forward, the tunnel gets narrower and narrower, until we are squeezing ourselves between rocks that can only fit one person at a time. My borrowed tunic is smeared with dirt and slime, and I constantly have to rub my forehead with a sleeve to wipe moisture from my cheeks. I dare not look at what color the slime is, knowing that I am better off not knowing what precisely populates the dank tunnel walls.

At last we near the end, and the air gets heavier with the influence of the oppressive Shadow. At the least it is warmer, and once more I am astonished at the thoughtfulness of the errant Erchirion, that I am dressed well.

We leave the tunnel to find ourselves in the same bay that the Prince's study overlooks, where I had seen for myself the ferocity of the waves beating on the dor-e-galar. The porpoises are long gone; only gulls greet us, and a small boat, upon which two figures are bent over, busy stowing supplies.

The Princess is safely stowed away.

Feeling foolish, I sigh. Of course. The phrase is innocuous enough in shore-folk language, no doubt commonly used, but the Prince would understand where Erchirion and I had gone, had likely even anticipated us to leave this way.

The two figures straighten on our approach, and I am unsurprised to see Princess Lothiriel, but I am taken aback at her companion.

It is one of the maids who has been serving me, and whose eyes gleam brightly. "Wendlyn! Whatever are you doing here? I thought no one was to know…"

The princess pulls me aboard, warning me about the unlevel nature of the deck, and replying all in one breath. "She looks like you from a distance and will be taking your part for a time. She was the only one who was willing to try."

Take my part? Oh. That is why my clothes were not immediately scooped up by Erchirion, why he had left them behind. I had considered such a thing, but dismissed it – I did not know anyone well to ask, nor did I even have time to communicate the idea.

If the impudent beast had been thoughtful, then his sister is extraordinarily perceptive. That she not only found, carried, and stored supplies, she carried the plan further than I could, in the half-hour or more since we had last seen one another.

"But, Wendy – you must understand the risk. Your life could change for the worse – you could – " I am having a hard time understanding why a maid, who has known me briefly, is willing to move forward in a plan that was developed only hours prior.

"You are the Lady Captain, miss," she says, returning my gaze with a fierce one of her own. "And you carry the future of us all." She reaches her hand forward gently, to place on my abdomen. "That is worth more than I can possibly give, if it can help give our people hope."

Our people.

I am touched, and tears start to fall, belying my intention to remain focused on the task at hand. Sensing too much emotion, the lord Erchirion clears his throat. "We must – we must leave now, if we have a chance of getting to the island. Lothiriel – take especial care in Court."

His sister nods, and throws her arms around her brother. "Osse be with you, brother."

"And with you, my little lobster." He squeezes her tightly, just, and releases her in one fluid motion, and steps aboard beside me.

Here it is, then.

I am not overly affectionate, raised as I was in the White Court, where cunning is valued above all. Nonetheless, I reach a hand across the slowly increasing gap.

"May the Valar be with you both," I say somberly, voice catching. "Thank you."

My fingers just brush theirs, and then we are away on the waves.

The stables are cramped with activity, a band of soldiers readying to ride out, once more, to follow and kill the Orcs raiding the farms along the Anduin. Reports of increased violence have been steadily flowing across my lord Boromir's desk; however much he tries to protect me, I see them anyhow. The messages that I would ordinarily receive are filled with new pleas for fresh supplies of bandages, ointments, and potions for pain. Some even request spells from the magic-maker on the Fifth Circle, whomever that might be. I have lived within the upper Circles most of my life, with the echelons of our society. Those beneath us did not have our notice, most physically.

I regret it, now, because I have no reply for the messages, nor recourse. I cannot be seen going to such a place, nor can I sneak out, for the emblem of the Captain-General, with a flowery addition, is added to nearly every article I own. To be able to offer so little aid, to those who would die for our country – inexplicably I start to cry, and I flee that my lord husband does not see me thus.

Seeking refuge against the dark thoughts, I hide in the stall of my horse, Maerwen; I ride every now and again, and my horse is mild-mannered as she is lovely, the color of clay on a potter's wheel, with a pale mane. She is happy to receive my attentions, even happier a brushing, and gradually I calm.

It is in the midst of this calm the soldiers arrive to saddle their horses. Surrounded as I am by such fervor, I do not hear steps behind me, and the touch upon my shoulder has me whirling defensively, wielding the soft brush.

"Hold!" calls my lord husband, laughing. "I meant not to startle my lady-wife."

I relax. No harm can truly come to me here, though I am yet indignant. "Should you want survive to provide an heir, my lord, I suggest you do not surprise me again!" I think briefly of my missing cycle, but attribute it to my growing time in the Houses; more and more arrive, as the bouts with the Orcs increase. My time is spent seeing horrendous wounds, wounds that leave me sick and my dreams restless.

"Death by brush. I hope the songs will remember me well," he answers my indignance, removing the brush from my hand – almost tenderly, it seems. He keeps a hold of my hand, courteously offering a small kiss. "I come to bid you dine with me, privately, tonight."

"Privately? We were expected at Lady Herenya's to-night. She has some reports, she says, of an intriguing nature."

He pauses, and I see a flicker of uncertainty. He seems peculiarly torn. "My lord, what bothers you?"

"I think her reports can wait for the morn. I wish – I wish for time with my lady-wife. We have crossed paths little, in the past day."

This is as much he has said to me as ever, more open than I have ever heard him be. Close examination reveals fatigue, slumped shoulders, and smudged ink across his knuckles. Whatever is bothering him is upsetting him deeply.

And I would appreciate time with my husband. He has been often with the soldiers, of late, and closeted longer with the Steward. Messengers have handed him large stacks, of both vellum and parchment, such that his desks in both the study and our shared bedchamber are piled high. Organized carefully, but there were hardly any books in the Library of the Stewards that were thicker.

"Yes, I will dine with you, husband. Send for me as you are able." I curtsey deeply, and blush to receive one more courteously-given kiss.

"Til' the evening, then." Another, last, kiss, and he is gone.

I stare after him, watching his broad shoulders carry what seem to be a heavy weight.

-to be continued-