Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. But I am having fun!
Author's Note: To speed the story, time passes in this chapter. Otherwise reading would get a little tedious!
Warnings: AU. Boromir/OC. AUish elements.
The Captain's Wife
According to the logbook, nigh on two months have passed, almost pleasantly. Erchirion has made a few notes to which I was able to contribute: another whale sighting, and a ship that was signaling for emergency assistance. I spot the flashing lights first, and it is Glandur who relays the signal back to shore.
I am thankful for such a long respite, away from the preying eyes of the White Court, though I worry over Wendlyn and her taking my place. How are my ladies-in-waiting? Is Prince Imrahil able to keep the Steward distracted from me? How would I know otherwise, I wonder, pacing the cottage. We are remote, and able only to communicate to shore with the lamps above. I doubt either Glandur or Caranion would accept constant messages flowing back and forth, between myself and Lothiriel.
Or the danger that would put her in, I realize. No, I must continue to bide my time, wait on the child to grow. He or she is, after all, why I sought refuge. If he survives, whispers the sardonic voice. I shake my head, willing it to disappear.
My thoughts refocus as my gaze falls upon stray sewing. I, as many mothers are wont to do, am sewing clothes for my unborn child. With the afternoon walks, this has been my morning activity instead, and I derive no small pleasure from creating sweet little tunics from the scrap fabric laying around.
I am wistful; what would have been my life, had I not been married to my lord Boromir? Would I have married a seaman, a trader, a noble? Without the teachings of my parents, or the death of my brother, I cannot say. Regardless, my heart wings away regularly to my husband, whose safety I do not know.
But I tell our child, every night, of him. Of the way we read together, of the strength of his sword and his stoutness of heart; of the father I knew Boromir would be, if the interaction with the boy at the Houses was any indication. Fatherhood would soften him, I hoped; bring him such joy he was so lacking in the latter days of this world.
I grow rounder and rounder, until I am waddling into the cottage. Until Caranion insists I sleep upon a heavily-cushioned cot, so I do not have to travel nearly as far for my ginger tea each morning, and Glandur teases that they might have to begin rolling me like a winebarrel (I throw my basket at him; it does very little to stop his laughter). Until I feel the activity inside begin to get near-painful, and lose more sleep than the little I was already struggling with.
I insist on walking, and gardening, and even cleaning the cottage. If I learned nothing from the Houses, what little I witnessed of the women with child indicated they kept to their lives as usual. None, except perhaps the wealthier women, seemed to have lost any muscle or need to rest continually, the way the men wish.
"I need to fill my time," I say one morning, balancing a mug of tea on my stomach. A new pastime, each man competes to see who can balance the most on my very round belly. Erchirion casts a critical eye over my hands from across the table. "Do not spill," he warns. "I do not want to treat you for a tipped tea." A smile lends gentleness to the admonishment.
I dismiss the warning. "I am so round, you would think I am carrying two!"
Caranion, passing through the cottage to trade shifts with Glandur, smirks at me. "You certainly eat like it."
Swallowing the last of my tea – which had followed three roasted tubers and as many fish – I agree rather than pursue any argument; he is correct, after all. "Do we have any of the mussels left?" I ask hopefully, eyeing my empty plate. Mussels, a newfound love, have become my staple breakfast with the tubers.
He shouts down from above. "No! You ate them, miss!"
I wander out of the cottage, unaccompanied. Erchirion is busy, citing an unnamed project. Both Glandur and Caranion dismiss my inquiries for assistance ("it's not safe for you to climb so high, the babe will fall out" – this from Glandur, who winks.) They are to repair a loose stud of the lamps, and that is most certainly not in my knowledge. With the cleaning finished, and my daily task of sewing completed, I for once have time completely to myself.
Mussels, I think gleefully, and tread the shoreline carefully. They grow on rocks, shallowly, and the ones I ate were found some distance away from the dor-e-galar. I return to the shallow pool. It shimmers with my breath as I carefully stoop – that is to say, I lean, as my belly is too large otherwise. Nothing.
There are many shallow pools on this part of the isle, protected by the outcropping of reef and large boulders further out. I spend time searching each one, delighting over the small creatures within.
But it is in a pool furthest away from the others, nearer to the sea itself, that I find what I am looking for. And they do look remarkable – their sheen is almost glowing, even in the lack of sun. My mouth waters, and I happily settle to gather a few into my basket.
When I show off my finding at supper, Glandur and Caranion exchange glances. "That's a new pool, that is," says Caranion. "Whereof did you see it?"
"Close to the sea," I answer, devouring one in a single motion. "And see, they look well." I show them the pretty gleam.
"Too well," Glandur mutters, and crosses his arms, as if to ward something off. "I would not eat the remainder, if I was you."
I show him my empty plate.
That night, I find my bed insufficient. I cannot rest. Hope and worry mingle in my heart; I dream both of seas raging, and the stillness of single islands, basking under a foreign sun, and lastly, a burning Eye whose piercing understanding I cringe under. It is well past the melting of my candle that I finally stir, and make my way to the hearth in the main room. Outside, I hear the waves crash, but it does not disturb me. I feel as though I am not myself.
Surely not the mussels.
I am not hungry, but I rummage through the cupboards and find the ginger tea I was given before. I retrieve water and heat it above the hearth fire, staring into its flames while I wait. They are friendly flames, yet all I can see is the Eye that continues to haunt my dreams.
When the water is finally warm, I drop in the small packet of ginger and leaves, and steep it, breathing in slowly. The breaths sooth my restlessness; and when I drink the ginger brings me to the present, and warms my lackluster spirit. I allow myself, alone, to revel in a dream I have not spoken of, not even to myself in the secret hours of the evenings.
I fail to notice the mug crashing forward, or the peculiar cast of light in the cottage, nor the way the world blurs suddenly, like I have been swept underwater. My abdomen clenches, hard, and I cannot move.
He walks toward me, smelling of horse, and stable, and grime. I do not care.
He is in my arms, and I look into his eyes, eyes that shine with a dear affection. His warm hands clasp me close, and though I am pressed against his usual armor, I know his heart his beating underneath.
"You are safe," he whispers. "We are safe."
"I have missed you," I whisper in return. "Have you at last come home to me, in trust and love?"
His hand comes under my chin. Lifts it. "Our voices are the harmony of the night," he says, and I feel like I could sing. I bring myself closer to him, to give him the kiss I could not before.
A sweet picture, says a mocking voice. I turn. Who says such a thing?I do. And you will never have your husband again - unless you bow to me! Bow to me!
My lord husband's hug turns violent. I am pushed forward, hard, and I fall with a loud thunder. I look around. There is no rock, no land, no water. I fall instead into an Eye, huge, burning.
I will not bow, I want to scream. But there are only flames, and I cannot say the words any more than the flames can stop burning.
Burning, burning burning…
Above, below, flames. At their center, darkness and shadow. They encircle a small, dark, round globe. I am pulled toward it; my hands lift of their own accord to spread across its firm expanse, and I unwillingly am granted a vision.
My husband is standing before a small figure, in a forest that is unfamiliar to me – the trees are somewhat faded, with either storm or time, and though they carry leaves, they are withering; they, too, have been touched by the nameless Shadow. They are talking, in fervent phrases I cannot hear. He seems uneasy, constantly shifting as if he, too, is standing among flames. His hand comes up, as mine did, and I experience such a dread as I cannot explain. Terror crosses my heart, and I know I must call to him, to stop this. If I do not – it seems like all is lost.
"No! Come to me!"
A whisper, but it is enough. My voice is hoarse from the heat, yet my husband hears me. He turns, and his gaze is direct and shocked. Any fear dissipates when I call again.
"Come to me!" I do not know why I am calling, how he can hear my desperate hoarseness. He walks to me, and holds out an arm, ignoring the small – Man? I cannot tell – who flees when my husband's back is turned.
He is now puzzled, and I think I have helped; how is unclear. Either way, I yearn for him, and call as loudly as I am able – my throat aches, a fierce pain I am willing to suffer if it means my husband returns to me.
He paces so close that I could touch him -
- then I am yanked forward into a new scene.
The White City – it looms, then I am pulled again, and I stand before the lord Steward.
He, too, is standing as I am, hands outstretched, on a globe similar to my own. New lines wind across his brow and at the corners of his mouth; the recent weeks have not been kind to him, either. A stab of pity crushes me – he has been Steward at the wrong time, in an era of war and infighting. How else would I expect such a man to look?
As if called by name, he glances up, and faded light – from half a dozen candles – flicker. His hair has grayed. Even weeks ago, it was as surely dark as mine husband's. What has he been doing to gray him so?
There – as his face lifts, his eyes meet mine. And he becomes astonished – and I see him say my name. Sorrow, surprise, and grief all mingle on his face, and something undefined – hope? – only to give way to fear.
I shift – and suddenly I see. Before me, the mountains, and the very city, shake. An earthquake, stronger than past tremors that have haunted Gondor since Mordor awoke anew. Stone walls crumble, gardens disappear; men, women, and children cower and die.
No! I cry. Unlike before, however, I am powerless.
See what I can do? says the voice. It surely must be the Dark Lord, for all the fear and terror I see before me.
Bow to me. You are mine!
"I will not bow!" I turn my head away, forcibly. It is an almost impossible feat, and I grow weary. It seems like an age that I struggle to turn away, but I succeed.
Yet, instead of flames, I see water. Away from the shadow, away from the shadowed altar where I stand, pooling in direct opposition in fact, is, clear water - water that carries the smell of leather polish and a peculiar, mint-like fragrance. Stronger than mint –, as if enhanced and added to a sweet summer grass. It rather smells like the orchard, I realize, and my heart aches with released grief. Within the pool is a gentle, emerald glow - like the rumored waters of the Southern Reaches, where it is said the water is so clear you can see to the bottom of the seas. As my eyes follow the water, I find it flows from a tall Man – taller, even, than my husband, and he is not short by any measure. His long hands are cupped, and between them the water falls steadily. He is standing firm, and with determination, even desperation. He mouths something I do not understand – I think I hear a Song, a whisper of it snatched among a wind.
Who is this Man? Why does he stand so?
I do not know what is real. Whence my husband? Is the water safe? Was the earthquake happening, even now, outside this world I dwelt in? Although, I reflect, the world I remember seems meaningless here.
I back away, wrenching my hands away the odd globe. Instantly I am surrounded again by the flames -
- they climb my dress, burn my belly. I brush at them, to no avail. This fight has been fought before, yet now I cannot find relief. I cannot wake.
I seek out the water, but nothing is around the globe that sits at the center of the shadow. The smell of leather polish fades away. I have to fight the flame, now at my neck, and it is impossible. Impossible without water. Where is the water?
"Amariel! Wake! Wake!"
"I will not bow," I whisper, and roll over.
Burning, burning, burning…where did the water go? I cannot feel anything but the flames, and I grow so weary, so tired. I curl up, wanting nothing more than that pure water. All I can do is lay on my belly, burned now of anything within. My skin is a searing red, dripping blood. I lap it up, thinking it better than nothing.
It is not, and the heat is tremendous. I have nothing left of my arms, my legs - the stark white of bone is a daring contrast to the bleakness of the shadowland. The voice calls, mocking, as I pant, desperate for relief.
There is no water here. None but me. You are mine!
"I am…" I moan. I do not have the strength to finish the sentence.
The Eye roars in triumph.
-to be continued-