Author's Note: This is, in part, of what leads Amariel to be in such doubt of her husband's affection.
The delay has been longer than usual – months. I have little excuse but that of mental illness, and a darkness which descended that is difficult to fight.
Disclaimer: None of Lord of the Rings is mine, and I cannot claim the vastness of intelligence and depth of mind that created it.
Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.
The Captain's Wife
What?
I pull away, the peace that had settled upon me broken; but he has a tight hold of my wrist, my pulse at his fingers hammering. "Do you remember what our father has said to me, of my dreams?"
Yes, I did remember, too well; nights in which my lord husband woke, sweating, my only recourse to bring him the chilled water kept in our outer rooms. He would take a page with him to the Steward's chambers, and I would fall asleep alone, beset by anxiety and restlessness. As it was, Lady Herenya was more than earning her keep as my chief lady-in-waiting, fueling gossip not with tales of nightmares, but of our marital bed. It was enough to keep the worst questions at bay.
That was neither there nor there, however; it was what our father was asking him to do. The Lord Steward Denethor had described to my husband a singular errand, to find the Bane of which his dreams never made clear. Ever did I hear my husband speak in his sleep, but I did not imagine the errand to be a near one, or one taken so suddenly. It had seemed a far-off prospect, and I had not seen any sign of his warhorse prepared earlier.
"I ride tomorrow, for the north. To seek the answer among the learned who is said to reside there."
"I did not see Alagos being prepared." My voice is stiff, despite my trembling. Whether it is anger, or disappointment, I cannot tell for certain; a likely mixture of both.
"I am not taking him; his broad chest and marked coloring is distinctive. I am taking another fellow's horse." Unspoken goes the understanding he does not want to be recognized by the Enemies that lurk always for those of Gondor.
"What of me?"
I gesture to the mostly-eaten supper, the candles that are melting slowly and whose glow now seems too ridden with shadow. My eyes are burning, but they are, for now, dry.
"What of you?"
I forcibly remove myself from his grip, angry. To think that I was, at last, being wooed by the man I married, seems in total error. His expression is puzzled, as if I he does not understand why I would ask.
"You will manage, as before. I know you to be capable of taking care of yourself – and our people."
"I did not know my capability was ever in question."
"It was not," he says, wearily. Examining him critically, I suddenly see the faint bruising under his eyes, the scrubbings on his knuckles; some dark ink still remains. I want to brush it away, brush the thought of managing the Steward on my own far, far away.
"Is that all, my lord husband?" I ask. My heart is aching inside me, painfully; my chest is tight and it feels like I cannot breathe. I want to find a place to soften it, to nurture the gash that seems to have opened wide. How fruitless it seems to have hoped to be wooed properly, by this man who carries too much on his broad shoulders.
I was not immune to the love stories of old. Who has not heard of Beren and Luthien, their Lay that bespoke of tragedy and triumph? Who did not hear the songs of warriors and wives, of farmers and fields? Foreigners say our country is staid, and reserved; while there is truth to those sayings, it is also true that deep reserve hides deep feeling. Sitting around a hearth revealed both love and loss, particularly in the long winter nights, when all seemed cold and still.
He studies me, and I fight to keep my expression calm. "I think that is not all, lady-wife," he says, and his voice is gentler than I thought it might have been. "We may not yet have full warmth between us, yet I see upon your face some distress. Will you not confide in me?"
I am reluctant, wanting to shield the tender offshoot in my heart; yet my tongue works faster than I can help, and my anger spills over.
"I respect your opinion of me, lord, but is your estimation of my capabilities all you know of me? I know your habits, your dreams, your love of our people. I honor that in every way possible, though it comes to naught!"
"Comes to naught? How do you mean?" Genuine surprise…I cannot believe...! Has he so little thought for me in his life? His soldiers come first, I know, but I had hoped, oh I had hoped -
"We have been distant, husband; if you are not among the barracks, you are with the Lord Steward," and here I am unable to restrain my bitterness, "and too many nights have I fallen asleep, alone but for the shadows that creep in from the night."
"You know why - " he starts, but with a swipe of my hand I bid him silent, and he unexpectedly complies, with a silence, that, to me, is difficult to interpret.
"Perhaps I ought to make myself clear. After all, it does not do to leave words unspoken between us. Especially," and at last my voice cracks, "especially on the eve of your departure. Hear me now, and let not my heart be foreign to you."
I pause for a breath. The air in the solar is thick with tension. As the servants say, it could be rendered through with a knife. Ithil glitters through the windows, and irony of the could-have-been rises sharply; I quell it enough to speak again, setting my gaze on the beautiful scene outside rather than the awkward, painful one within.
" 'If I am the splendor of the skies, then you are the splendor of the city, my lord;
none can match your strength, or your fortitude:
you gleam brighter than the Tower of Ecthelion;
you are a jewel among men.
When your voice is on the wind, so mine answers;
we are the harmony of the night.'"
It is a poetry from an older age, a more Romantic age, when love was celebrated in and out of the Court. When farmers and courtiers alike married for shared affectation, when the future of Gondor seemed bright and whole. The author's name was stained from wear in the volume I memorized, but the stanzas were legible yet.
"We married for duty, husband: however, as the age darkens, my heart lightens in your presence. You are an honorable man, Boromir," and his name is as a sigh, "and so I place myself before you. The Lady Captain – and yes, I am familiar with the title - is not a soldier, but a wife, first and foremost, and as a wife, I entrust my dearest possession in your hands."
I pull from my bodice a piece of vellum, kept for this occasion. What hopes I had were dying; at least he could have this with him, to whatever fate he meets in the north. It has warmed almost hot with my sweat, though fortunately the ink has not bled. "This is a copy of the Song of the Lovers' Hope. For two days have I known my heart true, and when you asked me to dinner to-night, I planned to read it aloud."
I place it carefully on the table, keeping a certain distance between us. I am not able to bear his expression: inscrutable and closed, I can see his resemblance to Lord Denethor; with an inward start I realize he is the next Steward. His brows are drawn together; all I discern is a wary thoughtfulness.
"Since you are leaving in the morning, I ask instead that you take it with you. Let it be a token – a token of my genuine affection."
Three words, that is all that is left. When he makes no move toward the vellum, but folds his arms with the damnable inscrutable gaze, I swallow them back, and say instead:
"Wake me if you wish, husband, if you desire to receive a fond farewell."
I turn away, and the sound of my shoes against the floor echo. The door behind me shuts with more restraint than I thought possible. With my hands shaking so badly I have to stuff them in my skirts, I make my way to our shared bed.
I am able to shed hot tears at long last, bitter to my tongue, but muffled; it would not do for the servants to hear me cry. For an hour, I lie with my legs curled, clenching my pillow tightly, not wanting the heaviness of the quilts, but neither desiring to be as chilled as I would be without them. When I still do not hear his footsteps, or feel his weight behind me dip the mattress, I let myself fall into an empty sleep. No dreams, but I would rather the nightmares over the utter grey veil.
When I wake, the sun is risen far into the sky, gleaming on a deserted pillow. The scent of his leather polish lingers.
I heave, but the pain of the salt and vomit stings my throat. Erchirion glances at me, the weathered lines around his eyes deeply creased. Concern, perhaps, but between the painful thudding of my heart and my the swilling of my stomach, my attention is only on the nausea. "We are near to shore," he says. "You will be on dry – well, dry-ish – land soon."
And I see the rocky crags, the way the waves swell and crash; the outcroppings are shiny, with moss and damp, and I wonder at the footing I might have.
-to be continued-