Author's Note: Thank you so much for your patience. This chapter has been worked, and re-worked, and while I am still not totally satisfied – is a writer ever? – it is finally posted!

I also want to add that I have been unwell. I am improving, but it is a type of unwell that will remain with me. That said, I am hopeful I can continue to work on TCW - it is a story dear to me.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

"Lord Erchirion! My - lady! Why, in Morgoth's b- I mean, Arda, are you here?"

For the first time in several hours, I am distinctly amused. Lord Boromir was noble, but above all else he was still a soldier. I have heard most swears possible, first as he worried over the increasingly worse reports from his Captains, and then as his dreaming grew dark. Yet many around me saw to it their oaths did not reach my ears; not even the sick and dying in the Houses, if they were in good enough humors.

As I suppress my amusement, the lord Erchirion steps forward. "We are here at the behest of my father," he answers, "and to which you and your men will be informed while the lady cleans up and rests. I have much to tell you, if you are willing and able to keep such information to yourself and the dor-e-galar's watches."

The man, somewhat slack-jawed, steps aside to let us in. My eyes adjust slowly to the lighting; when I am able to see clearly, I examine my surroundings with no small interest.

The room is rounded, and significantly larger than it appeared from the outside walk. Then again, I have not toured the land around the dor-e-galar. I have no genuine sense of its size, only its imposing height. The stove before me lets out a welcome heat, its grate providing a golden light. Wall sconces, attached to the wall via a thick stem, are shaped as – what else? – shells, and they help guide me to a door beyond the guards. A stairwell starting to my right, that when I tilt my head, seems to wind its into the heavens for eternity. It appears to be of a beautiful wrought iron; in my weariness, I cannot tell if there are any landings.

The lighthouse guard introduces himself as Glandur, a lieutenant, and his second, Caranion, of Prince Imrahil's water-men. So called because they can all swim, sail, fight, and fish, as the province needed, the soldiers serve both as guards and infantry. "We rotate duty," he explains with a swarthy brogue, ushering me beyond the rounded door into a – cottage?

"There is more to this place than meets the eye," says the son of the prince, winking at me. I frown at him. "In truth, Father added this to the tower, knowing the guards would need more space for themselves and any supplies. It's proven useful in the past and will definitely prove useful now. You cannot see it from the direction we took, a hardy advantage, and it is well-hidden and protected by the rocks on the other side of the island – as you'll see come daybreak."

As for what I can see in the glimmering light – a fireplace, stoked enough to thaw out the coldest sailor, well-placed rugs for homeliness, and scattered shelving covered with volumes, trinkets and the odd bottle. I see they have tried to make it comfortable, considering the length of their rotation, and my heart aches to respect the time away from the mainland. I imagine families, wives left behind; friends, commanders, even the beloved Prince himself. To be away from what you have known for so long…

"Is there a way to wash?" I inquire, tugging the tunic. It has long since stopped smelling of salt and as I have grown warmer, now begun to smell of warmed bile.

"We shall see." He pulls open one door, and calls to Glandur. "A tour, if you please? Caranion, check the island. We need no prying eyes tonight." The two men follow his direction directly, and I wonder at his age, and his experience, that he should be so commanding, and followed so readily.

Glandur shows, with a friendly grace, the main room we stand in is the primary room of comfort – they have their books, the bottles – which when he picks one up, has a tiny ship inside! I make a note to examine it more closely later – and a desk with which to compile their daily logs that stands humbly in an unlit corner. They took turns writing during the day, using the daylight to conserve oil, and if they had to write into the night, they used a big fat candle they kept inside the desk for that sole purpose. Made for the guards' special use by the water-men on land, each lead guard would bring them every rotation. At the moment, two extra were stored, which "felt like heaven. Write as long as we need, like."

Glandur gestures to a thick door, etched with the similar Tree design, only without the chips of glass; instead, the stars were etched. I touch them wistfully, before following him in.

Here is not only a cot and warm stove blazing, but a worn cushioned chaise, equally dilapidated cushions and thick, braided rugs, and a stash of tightly woven blankets.

Glandur scratches his head. "We mainly use it when we are lonely – elseways we sleep in the tower. So much as I can figger." His accent is broader of a sudden, and he avoids my eye when I glance at him quizzically.

Lord Erchirion pushes past me to address the bed, not yet fully made. "Do you have clean blankets?" he asks, and I catch his tone: commanding and brusque. "Please get them."

"But these are clean! And warm, look," I touch one. It's not entirely soft, but it does feel as if it has been nearer the stove than myself.

"Those are not fit for you!" he says sharply. I lift an eyebrow. He lifts both of his meaningfully in return, nods with his head at the blankets and repeats Glandur's words, "They use the room when they are lonely."

Perhaps it is the long journey, vomiting on the boat, or some unknown fogginess, but it is no small time before his emphasis niggles a clue, a memory of my mother and her maids gossiping, and my ladies-in-waiting giggling as I sew.

Oh.

Fighting a blush, I say as practically as I am able, "I knew the lighting of the dor-e-galar would not be the only occupation of their time."

A cough and a rough brush of my shoulder are my only indicators that Glandur has heard, and returned with the requested clean blankets. "You are fortunate," he says to the floor. "We dried these afore the stove morning before last."

Rather than give them to me, he hands them to Lord Erchirion, who takes them with one hand and swipes the bedclothes with the other. Glandur picks them up without comment, his face crimson, and whose gaze never reaches mine as he leaves. Outside, I hear a guffaw of laughter; Caranion, no doubt.

As he finishes the bedmaking, I prowl around the room. The walls are same white stone as the tower, and equally heavy; a large tapestry softens the blankness and keeps the warmth in. It depicts a tranquil ocean scene, with birds above and colorful fish below – though in the corner, a ship bobs, with a sailor poised on deck as if to jump in the water. Or is he getting out? It is hard to tell, and whichever way I turn my head, I cannot determine which is the truer depiction.

If my husband were home, I could, perhaps, appeal to him –

Or could I? Over a suddenly-warmed chamber pot, I contemplate my Lord Steward's dismissal, resting my sweaty forehead against the cooler door to the water closet. I did not imagine the disdain; long the Court knew the Denethor II to be a staid, traditional man, especially in his wooing of his late wife, Finduilas. Gossip abounded, still present even during my adolescence and subsequent education of the rumor mill, of his competition with a silver-tongued man of the North – the same man who disappeared after great victory.

It followed, then, that his view of my presence as a partner to his son could be distasteful. I am not a particularly handsome woman, I felt, not when among the Court there are true beauties, whose black hair and pale skin gleam in the sun; nor am I a traditionally educated woman, who can sew the latest fashions in a few weeks– to the chagrin of her mother, and the gossip-mongers of the self-same Court.

Why me? Why have the Lord Boromir marry me, and not another? If I am so distasteful to as to merit so abrupt a dismissal from what influence I did have – such training as I had borne to be marketable for certain suitors, and then, once married, to be useful to this particular husband – why have me brought to the Steward's line originally?

The smell of the pot has me retch again, and my doubts and questions disappear with my sickness.

The next doorway leads to two washstands and ewers, respectively; a screen separates them, for some semblance of privacy, while two large pots squat in a corner. Glandur is quick to show us through and out. His face remains crimson when he explains the chamber pots. I attempt to ease his embarrassment. "I worked in the Healing Houses. I am familiar with their use; only where do you empty them? In the Houses, there are gutters and some plumb-work that wash the waste away." I modulate my voice to be both soothing and level. As weary as I am, I cannot help but feel for this responsibility being thrust upon these guards – who asked not for my presence.

"We have a garden."

What?

"A garden – it goes out there. It may not grow much, but the plants seem to like it."

"…I see. I'll be sure to have Caranion show me in the morning."

"He'll be more than happy to, my lady. I'll be on watch, see."

And that was the end of that – he went to tend to the lamps, and the Lord Erchirion with him, asking a question of their status, and of the ships passing through.

A moment to myself finally…and I wonder what I am to do – I have no fresh clothes to hand, and I do not wish to stink of the offering I had given the sea all evening. There are soft sponges in each drawer, I discover, and the stove has several pots hanging above it, and wood beside. Warmth will be in steady supply, and I am pleased to know that I will have that available.

As if in answer to my question, Lord Erchirion enters, carrying satchels over his shoulder and a significantly sized crate in his arms. "This was as much as Lothiriel was able to make of your supplies. I can make do with what is here, but she had to account for – your condition," he says, eyes flicking to my abdomen. Instinct flies my hands there, and I snap. "It's no different than most women!"

"Most women aren't the wife of the Captain General," he reminds me, setting the crate down with a thud.

"And well I know it," I mutter.

It's the first he has heard me bitter, and he looks up from the crate, surprised. It's the first I have heard me bitter. My mother, were she present, and I a little girl, would probably punish me with fanning her for a week, and well would I deserve it.

"Perhaps some sleep will do the lady good," he says, unexpectedly gently, to the room, not looking at me. "I've heard wonders about how much excellent dreaming can do for weary souls."

Tears prickle, sting. I am reminded again: he does not have to be helping me; nor does his sister, or their father. I could already be on my way back to the Courts, for a trial of deserting my post in the Houses. I am not convinced it is an actual posting, much as I enjoyed the work; but who would gainsay the Steward and his icy gaze?

As I compose myself, he rummages through the crate. "Aha!" he cries, thrusting a fist aloft. "A fresh dress for you, and it appears there are, thanks to Wendy – bless her, she must be the best of maids, she deserves a raise, honestly – some feminine toiletries I think you will appreciate." He pulls out the dress, thick and warm and of the navy blue Lothiriel mentioned before, and a pretty clay jar set, similar to what Wendy and Thurneil had used to draw my bath. Already their light scent wafts throughout the room, and I am struck again at the massive amount of aid I have been given.

"I will apprise the guards of the situation, and see if we cannot rearrange sleeping quarters so everyone is comfortable. I'm sure there are more cots or mattresses around here!" He leaves the dress draped over one of the ewers and jars on the other stand, and the door behind him closes, leaving me to contemplate my present.

The windows are thick, warped glass - if I cannot see through them to the dark mist of the night, I cannot be spotted from the outside; and already, Lord Erchirion is accommodating my position as Lady Captain with as fresh a room as was possible. Other than bathing myself and redressing to stay warm, and rest, there is not much more to be done for the night. Perhaps some ginger tea, I think, as my stomach growls again.

Lady Captain. Wife of the Captain General.

While a little girl, I never anticipated I would rise to the highest rank possible in Gondor, short of the Queen. I played at Queen – what little girl didn't, raised in the Court? – but we thought her to be a legendary figure, a myth, with cats, or with troops to be paraded especially for her, and whose colors she would bestow upon the gentlemanliest figure she could dream up. Never did we dream of being Lord Boromir's wife, not really; we all knew it would be arranged by the Steward himself. No amount of competition for his attention would be enough, though that did not stop a few shrewd girls who tried when he walked through the Circles up to the Steward's House.

The reality was proving to be quite different than childish imagination. Married for fealty to country, now bearing an Heir, and fleeing for my and its potential life.

"Well, little one," I say, picking up a jar, and shedding the tunic, "here comes our next adventure."

-to be continued-