Disclaimer: I don't make money off this (I wish I could…). It's a reverent respect for Tolkien that allows me to play gently in his world.

Author's Note: It's been a long time. More than a long time. Nonetheless, here is an update. I won't apologize for taking the time I need to heal and strengthen, but I do regret not being able to write as I want or need.

Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC.

The Captain's Wife

We step outside the cottage into the stark oppressive air. Erchirion is at my arm, ensuring I do not fall. I am thankful, for though I have been supplied Lothiriel's own boots, they are still of a size that do not match mine.

We begin at the garden's edge. The clearing of the weeds has allowed for new growth, tiny, green, and curled; and I touch it gently; it is as delicate as my memory.

Randir strides forward, unafraid.

I hold back, wary. For all that I was older - "by minutes!" Randir would retort - I am infinitely more cautious. It is Randir who wants adventure, Randir, who clings to the merchants' stalls when we visit the marketplace with our parents. Randir, whose retelling of stories hold the local people in thrall even at our tender age of fifteen.

"Come on!" He tugs at my arm, impatient. "We are needed here." A door, just beyond where we stand, creaks ominously open, a dark figure silhouetted by the light within.

"But Mother said -"

"Mother isn't always right!" He snaps, and drags me forward.

It is a neighbors' House we visit, one of which I am not on good terms - and that Mother forbade me from. I did not know then it was because of the lurking older brother, and even worse lecherous father; only that I was not allowed.

Inside, I see the dark figure is neither brother nor father. Instead, it is a woman, not much older than Mother, and she is weeping. Her dress is crumpled, stained wet; the damp rag and bowl at her side are the reasons why. The room is stifled, hot; all the windows remain closed, shuttered as if to ward the world away.

At her feet is a cot, and upon the cot a boy. The younger son, one whom Randir spoke with and visited regularly. His face is not animated, however; it is unmoving, flushed, and I note, spotted. My heart drops.

"Ran!" I hiss. "This is the ague!"

It has been going around our Circle for weeks. First the lower Circles; we did not heed the warnings. Now ours, and we are all subdued: no more dinner parties, no more balls. Father is busier than ever, selling (and buying) what many call cure-all ointments. Mother restricted us from going further than our gardens, citing danger. And indeed, now I see why. The boy is so unwell, so unlike himself, that my fear rises. He stirs, arms sheathed with sweat and more spots.

"We are called to serve our people," my twin brother tells me. "In this, Father has the right of it. He is a merchant, perhaps; but I find my responsibility to be elsewhere." He gestures around, soberly. "Who else will tell of such illness? Who else can tell, possibly, of its cure?" He nods at the wooden bowl the woman has at her side.

As if cued, the woman spoke. "Aye, it's the King's Cure. Or would be, if we had such," she ends with a mutter, twisting her hands in her dress. The air smells of stale mint, and I wonder if she has tried, like so many others, to use the athelas so prevalent in the City. I know the fruitlessness of it: only the King's hands can bring out its proper elements, or so the saying goes. I have seen too many white-faced mourners in the streets, following biers.

Some too big. Some too small.

My eyes flit between woman and son. I back away, to the window, open it for air I desperately need to breathe. The coolness washes over all four of us, and for a moment, a single breath, we are restored. Yet the moment passes, and the boy returns to his restless slumber.

"Randwen, please," my brother begs. "We have to help." His voice is taut with grief, and suddenly, I understand. It is rare my brother calls me by my full name - only if he desires something to its utmost. Tear line his lashes and my world tilts; my stomach drops, and I feel like I have stepped into a new world, a world older than myself.

There is love here.
I must honor that love.
For the love of my brother.

I eye the cot warily. I do not know what I can do, but the least is try.

"It is for the love of another that I aided my brother. And paid for it," I said, though the bitterness of the long-held grief is gone.

The prince and I have walked to the outcropping of rocks that shield the cottage from view. They, too, shine with the same peculiar green moss that seems everywhere here. An echo of my dream and past, and I shiver.

"We took sick not a month later. Though the boy survived - his name is Amanion, and he serves now in the Steward's Guard - my brother did not. And I, barely."

I know nothing but heat and light, and my brother's voice calling.

Windows open, close. I search each one for him, but find the outside empty. He calls for me,
Randwen, please! Randwen, let us go!

It gets fainter, the lights dimmer. I wait, burned by the heat. The windows are heavy. The lights fade to settled darkness.

I close the windows when his voice goes still. And I slumber...

I wake to Mother's grief and Father's melancholy. His heir is gone; my best friend and laughter; and Mother's hope.

Until, six months after my recovery, she stands before Father, and says firmly, "She will learn." I feel her grip on my shoulder tighten, straining with the force of her words. Father, before us behind his oaken desk and eyes brimmed with wine and tears, does nothing but slump.

Mother's voice is louder.

"She will learn, and she will make us - you - proud." I straighten and so does Father at her tone. He peers at me, and I tuck my hands into fists, determined. You are not the only one in grief, Father.

She is commanding, and nothing will gainsay her, not even her husband. "She will learn," Mother repeats, "and we will move forward."

"So I learned at Mother's behest, and not Father's, though many spoke ill of it. Mother, if nothing else, is an opportunist. And she, was, I learned, correct. I may have made errors, but if she had not taken lead, Father would have drowned us in his sorrows. - and the alcohol," I add, matter-of-fact. "The costs alone of what he drunk in those months exceeded his business at the time.

"My father learned, also - to call me by name again. You see, as twins, we were named similarly: Randir and Randwen. And little we knew of the appropriate nature of our names: Father only thought of passing his business down to Randir, but Randir longed for storytelling, adventure, and travel. I did not…

"…yet here you are, " Erchirion says, finally, thoughtful. He looks more comfortable than I am, no doubt due to his sea-faring heritage; he could lounge anywhere and appear at ease, I surmise.

We both stare at the ocean, today, quiet as the air above. No whales or porpoises to be seen. The outcropping, hanging above, shields us some from the oppressive heat. Soft moss, unlike the slime on the rocks, grows here, and I make my way to it, glad for rest.

I settle my skirt, smoothing it for courage. "You might wonder how this brings me to my husband, and so shall I continue."

-to be continued-