Author's Note: Tension builds here, tension that is part of the crux of Amariel's tale. She is her own person; she is also, however, a wife to the most honorable of men…who means well.
(aside: I am also a sap.)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. It is for my own entertainment, and hopefully yours.
Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.
The Captain's Wife
I grip the rail of the boat, letting my mind drift. It keeps away the nausea churning in my stomach, and certainly serves as a distraction from my ever-present worry of the Lord Steward Denethor, and the chains that seem to clink endlessly.
If he discovers you hid the Heir from him, you might find yourself in more than chains, warns the snide voice. I jump, a little; it has been silent, and I thought my wariness had faded to focus. Alas, not; I snap irritably back, The Lord Steward would not dare to set me in his dungeons. He would have to answer to his son.
His son might not be able to remove you, or would he even want to? Is the reply, and I cough, fighting nausea that this time did not stem from the waves below.
I did not desire to recall the night before my husband left. I wanted to take the pain, and lock it away, until such time as I could lick my one of my deepest wounds in peace. He had been kind, courteous, everything a wife could ask for, save in one respect.
My stomach roils again, and I dry-heave, struggling to keep the bile and remnants of dinner from leaving over the side. The impudent beast glances at me, even as he continues to manage the steering. "We can have ginger tea, when we get to the island," he says, and it is the softest I have seen his gaze – sympathy, rather than amusement or condescension. "In the meantime, think of other things."
As if I could do anything else. I am no sea-woman, or river-daughter; despite Minas Tirith's guard outpost of Osgiliath, only of a few of the White City's denizens ever learn to sail. My father was not one, and my brother, had he lived, would not have, either.
The waves seem never-ending. My grip on the rails grows tighter, and finally I do lose my dinner, rather unceremoniously. My tunic soaks with sea-spray and, well, chunks, and I continue to heave until tears stream forth, their saltiness joining the muck of my appearance.
Ai, Valar. We had discussed my offering a gift to the Vala of the sea, and this certainly was a most poor one. Dinner, and the memory of a broken heart.
I am hanging up the saddle brush and soap when I am summoned. Sadron, likely the most portly servant in Middle-Earth, serves my husband personally. Some debt that must be repaid, I heard my lady-maids once whisper, but when I questioned my lord Boromir, he laughed a little and said not to listen to idle gossip.
However portly he is, Sadron has manners more graceful than much of the Court. He waits patiently while I lock again Maerwen's box, commenting that Maerwen looks well-taken after. "The grooms ride her when I cannot," I tell him, giving her one last affectionate pat, and a promise to bring a treat or two the next time.
As he leads me up from the stables, he describes his encounters with a stubborn donkey, more stubborn than any creature he has come across. I am set naturally at ease, and wonder again at his courtliness – he escorts me more than leads or guides, as a servant might be urged to do. Then again, even with the natural guards given to all the Steward's family, all the male servants in my presence behave rather lordly. On the younger, it is an amusing affectation, meant to impress, while on the older, it is considered 'the thing to do' in respect of my station.
Sadron leaves me at the door to the antechamber. "Your Captain-General waits for you in your solar. He wishes to dine there, to-night, and as your ladies are dismissed for the evening, you shall have total privacy."
"I will find him soon, then. Thank you, Sadron." He bows and adjourns down the hall, whistling quietly.
I enter the antechamber with a sense of – apprehension. My husband does not dine privately; with the Lord Steward continually making plans, and keeping a watchful eye on our darkening borders, many nights he and I have supped within the Steward's suites. On those occasions when the Lord Steward does not seek my presence, I will dine with my ladies-in-waiting.
Tonight was to be one of the rare evenings when my lord husband and I were to dine out together. Lady Herenya impressed upon me she had reports of an intriguing nature, reports that concerned both my husband, and myself. She desired to dine with us both under the assumption she would share news, and, as she told me two days prior, to effect a plan to undermine whomever was circulating them.
To that end, I would send a note with my unexpected decline of the invitation, and an appointment to reschedule. If the reports she wished to share were genuinely alarming, she would find a way to meet with me. A swish of a borrowed pen from my husband's desk, a ringing of the bell – and the errand is done, performed by a young maid with rosy cheeks.
I turn to my wardrobes, thinking. The evening is crisp, somewhere between warm and cool; change might be upon us soon. I shiver, and choose a lighter dress of warm golds and browns that I am able to dress myself into, without need of a maid. If my husband should desire privacy, then I should, especially given the warnings of my instinct.
Moments later, I am at the solar. Two guards, on either side of the door, nod as they usher me inside.
My solar has the peculiarity of not being truly mine. Lona, my oldest lady-in-waiting, shared with me that long before she was widowed, she had served at the behest of the Lady Finduilas, the Steward's wife, in this very room. The good Lady had had the solar built specifically to see the skies in either morning or evening, raining or on clear days. "She found much comfort here," Lona confided over her needlepoint.
As I do. A lover of starlight, I had found the solar to be inviting most especially in the evenings, when Arda's skies were blanketed with gems, some brighter than others, some a faint glimmer, all beautiful.
To-night is especially breath-taking. The summer rains gave way to polished skies, the clear blue of the day fading to the rich darkness of the night. Dropping my gaze from the glass above, I see a wide table, spread with a veritable feast – feasts of the dishes I most often partook.
My husband stands beside it. "Amariel, welcome," he says, gesturing. "I took the liberty of choosing a supper you might like best. Does it – does it agree with you?"
I peer at him. Is he nervous – does he know - ?
It has been growing in my mind, a subtle thought. My time in the Houses have exposed me to the fondest of welcome-homes and the bitterest of fare-wells. Each inspired in me a sort of unease, a sort of pleasure – unease that while my affection for my husband grew, he knew it not; a pleasure that each night he was home, we yet shared the same bed, the same intimacies the soldiers who passed on left behind.
How does one describe a love that is not yet ripe, a plant that needs a little more nurturing? I knew little of the heart, my instructions as a girl-child limited to the wiles and wooing as tools. This – this feeling was altogether new, sweet, bitter, surprising and yet – he is the Captain-General. No more honorable man could be found, no more courteous, and – I faintly blush – certainly not a better lover.
I have not even said the words aloud to myself, much less within hearing of any servant who wished to fuel the stream of gossips flowing to and from Court. No, this is nervousness of another kind, and the warnings in my heart pound hard.
"It does agree," I say, with a smile that feels all too wide. "But – if I may ask – why are we here tonight?"
He pulls out my chair, brushing my shoulders, and my hair as I sit. I settle my skirts, and see that a place is laid before me: simple, just a plate and goblet and fork. Perfectly to my taste; my husband knew I abhorred the extravagance of the Courtly suppers.
Not until has he poured mulled wine, and taken his own seat, does he answer, and not entirely truthfully, I deem. "We are rarely together so alone, and I wished to see my wife beneath the stars. Such beauty cannot compare, of course; I do not know how Yavanna and the other Valar stand it." His grin is as becoming as his flattery.
"A pretty compliment, to be sure!" I blush crimson. If he is indeed seeking to woo me, then he is certainly on the correct path. I am as vain as the next woman, and flattery is, for me, effective, especially from my husband whose words on the matter to me are seldom.
I sip at my wine, attempting to cool my cheeks and chase the blush away. It was a pretty answer, but not entirely the answer I sought. It has bought time, however, and I am suitably distracted. Thus we begin to eat at some of my favorites: gently roasted meats, plenty of fruit, and a rich soup I drink from its own tiny bowl of bread.
We talk lightly, and teasingly; such talk as we had not have had before. He tells me of his mother, his fleeting memories of her, rocking him to sleep in this room when he had nightmares. I tell him of my father, and my first attempt at calculations, an error which led to the accidental purchase of pigskin. Its use, I discovered rather mortifyingly discovered, was for the marital bed.
My lord Boromir roars with laughter. "I dare say your father had a difficult time explaining that away!"
"Not so much – it led to the birth of my younger sister nine months later!"
I laugh too, feeling oddly free in this discourse. Is this what marriage is meant to be like?
Sensing my change in mood, he rises from our table, with a hand outstretched. It is altogether a picturesque moment: the starlight above, the candles adding to the lights; his tunic and pants, which I notice are of a soft silk, hued to match his eyes. "If you are finished, a dance, my wife?"
The request is reminiscent of our wedding ball. Knowing now how well a dancer he is, I accept his hand with a pleased grin. "Of course – but with what music?"
"Our own," he answers, mysteriously. "Do you know the tune –" and he names a popular waltz, common among balls. Leaning my head against his shoulder I nod, and hum a little of it.
"Good," he breathes against my neck, and hums himself.
Oh. This is such sweetness. We sway to the rhythm of our shared song, and a sense of peace, previously unfamiliar, wraps me in a blanket, softly. I do not know when I close my eyes, or when it is we trail off the humming and simply dance around the floor in silence, accompanied only by the rustle of my skirts and his sure steps.
The candles burn down to a soft glow, and Ithil rises, a dreamy crescent. This must be a dream, it must be, to feel at last affection. I can tell him. I must tell him – never has there been a better moment. It is us, no servants, no Steward's black mutters.
I lift my head to look back at him, and we match gazes. Does he see? Dare I say what has been pressing on my spirit, what I have only recently known?
"My lady-wife, my Amariel," he murmurs, and a different sort of thrill runs down my spine. "I leave early, in the morning."
-to be continued-