Author's Note: Poor Amariel. Poor Boromir. What a stiff situation to be in, and to be so far removed from one another…
Warnings: Boromir/OC. AU.
The Captain's Wife
A solid bump indicates we have come to dock, at a narrow jut of stone; shining with moisture, there is an unusual hollowing in the middle: tread from many generations of keepers, I suppose. Though the boat still rocks with the waves, it is improved over the intense movement previously, and slowly my attention is drawn away from my stomach to my new surroundings.
The dor-e-galar is larger than it appeared from Prince Imrahil's study. The lighthouse itself, a tall tower painted a sterling white, is a fair distance away yet. Where the waves crash there is little plant life, but I can see, barely, a tiny beach far to the left, whose sand is spotted with unidentifiable growth. We did not dock there, and I have to wonder why – I store the question away for when I can think without heartache, and, more presently, stomachache.
Inland, where the tower rests, is long grass, of a kind I had never seen before. Already curiosity grows and despite my overall unease I can feel a bewildering excitement. While in the Healing Houses, I learned of herbs and spices that stimulate healing, and in environs such as this, I wonder what could flourish.
Erchirion leaps gracefully out, and before I have a chance to protest, holds out his left arm. "It is slippery, but if you trust me, I will keep you upright. With no teasing," he adds, sensing without having to look my stern, albeit still nauseated, warning glare.
Though his clothes are damp with sea salt, he appears to care little that I splash him as I stumble ashore. It is slippery, and as ill as I feel, I do not bother to stifle my oaths. True to his word, Erchirion says nothing; yet as I continue to grasp his arm I notice amused, lifted eyebrows and a slight dimple in one cheek.
"Thank you for the boots, my lord," I say, stifling a wince from the pain and mild embarrassment. My poor mother would be shocked at my utter lack of elegance. While I am preserved from falling totally forward, the way is treacherous with boots overlong for my toes. Nevertheless, we are completely on land within moments, and while I gather myself – "no sealegs, but you will get them" – Erchirion hefts the front of the boat alone.
I gape, for his frame does not at all suggest his strength. Another question to ask, I sigh, and I know that one of the ways I will have to spend time is talking.
Finally the boat is secure, and I am no longer as wobbly, having taken the time to pace about to ease both stomach and leg cramps. Over protestations I am recovered, Erchirion takes my arm again, and we follow a path that rises gently up and over the slope of the craggy rocks. The waves continue to spray, even this further in, and I can taste salt across my lips. There's a murky undertone to it, almost sour, and I think again of what Princess Lothiriel and Prince Imrahil explained about the illness of the seas.
Eventually the path slopes sharply, to a fenced path, strewn with loose stone and the same long grass. And there! looming, is the dor-e-galar. Closer now, I see paint peeling across the stones, downy moss growing in the cracks, and peculiarly colored pebbles scattered across the base. I am astonished to see it so tall, taller than I imagined, and the Prince's description of it seems – understated.
"Just a few storerooms?" I murmur. Erchirion, still beside me, laughs a little. "Well, when you have four or more men alone on an isle, they become hungry." I sense without asking a need for no further questions for the time being.
Feeling improved with firmer footing, I step ahead to knock at the door. The door itself is large, also, wooden hewn with the image of the White Tree and its stars – the stars are embedded glass, glass that would no doubt that would catch light if the sun were high. The knocker is part of the tree, bisecting it; when I raise the heavy iron, I have a peculiar sense of appropriation, as if I were dividing my country.
That is the Shadow's doing, I remind myself sternly. You have no role in it.
Or do you? asks the snide voice. Surprised, I tilt my head to either side. For many hours I have not heard the sarcastic wit, lost as I was in my abrupt, hectic removal from the seat of Dol Amroth. I should have known better, as the voice has been a companion these recent days.
The recriminating voice continues. After all, you chose to leave the White City, without informing your ladies-in-waiting, who even now are imprisoned. No, I think, they cannot be. Lady Herenya has enough influence that she could prevent the others from being hurt. So I have told myself continually, since the night I first slipped away.
But does she? The White Court is not known for protecting others – only cutting them down, at the peak of intrigue. What with Lord Boromir's mysterious departure – none but me, a stablehand (routinely responsible for the saddling of Alagos who then was not taken), and the Lord Steward knew of it presently – and then my own, the Court would be aflame with talk. My ladies would indeed be at risk.
How much? I ask myself. The Lord Steward was noble in bearing, and indeed, my Lord Boromir took after his distinct compass of justice: yet the times are dark…and the Steward's temperament darker.
A month since my lord husband has left - and a month since my heart, tender as it was in newfound appreciation and affection previously unknown, was broken. It has been a bleary month, in which I have fulfilled my duties and more, with little enthusiasm. The Lord Steward has been peering at me over meals (with my husband gone, I am obliged to dine with his father privately) though no ill words have passed between us. I cannot fathom what he sees: a pale wife? A sickly wife? A longing wife?
It is curious he has not spoken as he might ordinarily, however; some restraint upon him keeps our conversations almost pleasant. At the very least, he is not entirely cold in manner and speech, until one early evening, an evening that sinks my heart even further.
We speak of the requests of the soldiers regularly, and I keep accounts of dwindling supplies. Orcs are in every province now, except that of the City, and the seat of Dol Amroth. Rumors run through the Court special magicks protect those living by the Sea, but when I bring them to Lord Denethor's attention, he waves them aside.
"It is not magicks that protects the sea," he says to me. I have pushed the question again, so I can hush the gossip from Lady Herenya. "Indeed, wizardry has no place there." Here, he scowls and shoves his plate aside; he has eaten as little as I have. With a growl, he orders the waiting attendant to take the supper away.
"You are not eating. A wife should eat," he points out as the skinny man removes our dishes. In my peripheral, I see the attendant frowning down at them. I must make time to see him and the cooks: they will think the Steward was displeased with the cooking. In fact, there is nothing amiss with the cooking itself, meager though the table gets (meager, perhaps, for the Steward: he yet has fresh fruits, warm breads and meats though they are in substantially smaller portions).
"It is a slight illness, nothing more, my lord," I answer, cordially, though with a noticeable glance at his mostly-full plate. I have been fighting nausea and chills throughout the afternoon, and food did not increase my appetite; it had rather the opposite effect. I do not have the wherewithal to point out I have no husband to be wifely with, thanks to his father's command of errand.
I feel so badly, I have not sipped the wine. I enjoy a fine wine, and certainly in my life have tasted some of Gondor's best. One year in particular from the Western vineyards was so successfully fermented that it remains popular among the Court in trading for favors.
"That is as well," he says, rising. I rise in response – even if I am feeling unwell, etiquette demands I remain not at table if the Steward leaves it – and follow him. "Come." It is a command.
He leads me to the Great Hall, where he stands before his seat, as if in thought. The throne, several steps higher than his own chair, seems remote in the dimness of the hour. The flickering of the torches lining the hall enhances both chairs' shadows. I watch, fascinated, as the shadow of the throne shrinks; the shadow of the Steward's seat grows and appears to absorb it. With a blink the illusion disappears and the shadows remain dancing normally.
"The Enemy is growing in strength and numbers," the Lord Steward suddenly speaks. His words echo, though his pitch is low. "We cannot face it alone. Nor can we sit idly by while the fires of Mordor blaze at our doorstep!" He turns abruptly, muttering something I cannot make out. "What news from the Captains?"
I blink. We had gone over the Captains' requests only two nights ago. "Osgiliath is well and truly under constant battle from the orcs. Though Lords Faramir and Boromir worked well together, since my lord husband's departure, the men there are scattered. They write of too many orcs and injuries, and too few rations."
"Always too few," he mutters blackly, and I draw up indignantly. Raised as I was with ledger-learning, I was not incapable of managing accounts. "I have sent all supplies with due care, my Lord Steward," I say stiffly.
"We are at war, daughter. We must do more!" Pale hands tighten on the chair; they seem thin, sharp, deadly even.
"We are doing as much as we are able," I say, disconcerted by the inherent threat of his hands. "The Healers have sewn bandages and slings, commissioned crutches, and collected blankets from the widows who serve as seamstresses. The Captains are careful in their numerations, and they send those ledgers in duplicate or triplicate: to Lords Faramir, Boromir, and of late, myself. What more can we do?"
"There is more," he repeats. He lifts his chin, oddly resolute. "When you receive the next Captain's accounts, bring them to me. You are dismissed from managing their accounts. "
"My lord!"
I am breathless. I have taken such notice of all details as I could, speaking with those in the barracks – though my station requires only I speak with officers – as well as merchants. I had learned from my younger ladies-in-waiting who held back the best produce and meats, and through them, how to bargain a (mostly) fair amount to send to the fields of war. What influence I had I had used it in every respect.
"Are you questioning my authority?" His question is civil, but cold – as icy as the springs that thaw from the mountains as winter wanes.
I shiver, and he must know it, for his grimace becomes a satisfied smile. "It will be done, my Steward," I murmur, with as deep a curtsey as I can manage. With my head bowed, I hear rather than see his shuffling from the Chair to position directly in front of me.
Cool metal touches my neck and weighs there, stilling the shiver, but freezing my heart in place.
"Rise, daughter. Go now to the Houses, where you may take your place. We need all where they are most useful."
Without lifting my head, I straighten, and back out from the Great Hall, sick in more than my heart. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing my stomach turn completely over, nor the flush of my tell-tale indignation.
I flush again in memory. How much more will I be deserving of his wrath? My 'miscarriage' will protect me for as long as the ruse goes undiscovered; but my ladies, who can tell him nothing of my whereabouts, will bear the direct effect of his machinations.
I do not have time to bear the thought out to its conclusion, for the doors open to reveal a burly man, with thick curly hair and a broad smile. "Supplies at last!" he exclaims, head turned over his shoulder to another I cannot see.
His smile falls as he faces us, seeing in front of him a rather unorthodox and unexpected pair: an unfit-for-sea Lady and the son of his Prince.
-to be continued-