Boromir of Gondor ran a hand through his dark hair, a sigh escaping
his lips. He shifted on his large bed, pulling thick warm furs up around
him more closely. His brow furrowed in frustration. He could not sleep. He
sat up, tossing back the furs, and swinging his legs over the edge of the
bed he stood. The stone beneath his feet was cold, and gooseflesh raced
over his naked skin. He scowled, and fumbled for his pants. Moving to his
window, he leaned against the cool stone, fastening the leather straps of
his pants. The moon had risen and was casting a pale light over the city of
Gondor. Shivering once more, he turned back to find his shirt, which he
pulled on impatiently. He left his chambers, padding silently through the
hallways. He slowed as he approached his father's chambers, not wishing to
be discovered, and also curious to know if his father had finished counsel
with his younger brother, Faramir. There was no light visible beneath the
thick oak door, no sound of lowered voices beyond. Boromir continued on his
way, wrapping his arms around himself to contain more heat. Despite the
warm air that descended upon Gondor in the early spring months, the
evenings brought a chilled air.
Boromir found himself high on a wall, looking over the plains that led away from the great city. He seated himself upon the wall, one leg folded idly beneath him. His gray eyes gazed over the land almost unseeingly, deep in thought. His dreams had been of no comfort of late. His brother and father professed their dreams openly, but he had never admitted to the gift that dwelt within him as well. His father, Denethor II, favored Boromir as not only the eldest, but also the pride of his two sons. Boromir regretted this, but could never seem to do anything to place himself in his father's ill graces. Faramir, on the other hand, had but to breathe too loudly, it seemed, to find the displeasure of his father. Faramir dreamt. Denethor had the gift as well, but never looked upon it as a gift: but simply as a useful tool in the rare occasions when his wisdom escaped him. Boromir, the favored, the 'dreamless', was wary of the gift. It came to him rarely, and he seldom understood the things it showed him. Now, however, the dreams were vivid, brilliant, and unmistakable. They- A noise from behind stirred Boromir from his thoughts. He turned, startled.
"I beg pardon, Sire. I didn't realize there was someone here." A soft voice came from the dimness.
Boromir peered into the darkness, unable to make the figure out.
"Do not trouble yourself. Please, join me." He offered, standing, motioning with a hand. The figure approached slowly, almost cautiously.
Head bowed, a woman stepped into the moonlight, dark cloak enveloping her frame. Locks of jet-black hair were loose around her shoulders, and fell down her back in curls. She offered a curtsy, and Boromir stepped forward in protest. "Don't. There is no need." He protested, taking her arm gently.
She looked up, and Boromir's heart wrenched within him. Her face was fair, pale in the moonlight. Her dark eyes were steadily on his, without fear, with only the faintest hint of amusement.
"I did not realize that Boromir, son of Denethor was wont to walk so late upon the walls." Her soft voice lingered in the air.
"Boromir, son of Denethor isn't." He laughed, shifting uncomfortably. "Boromir, son of Denethor could not sleep." He sat back on the wall, gray eyes following the woman as she sat next to him. She inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips.
"And what might be keeping you up, my Liege?" She reached out her hand and touched his gently. "What thoughts would keep you from your bed, and without your cloak?" Boromir looked down at her small hand over his and smiled.
"One would be inclined to ask you, my Lady, what keeps you from your bed, so well prepared?" He looked back at her.
"The changing seasons are lure enough for me, my Liege." She replied, removing her hand.
"Address me not so. May I ask your name? For surely we have not met."
"How can you be so sure?" she replied, dark eyes catching the moonlight.
"I would surely have remembered a face as fair as thine." She looked away with a laugh.
"Flattery is not your strong point, my Liege, but I will indulge you. My father is a guard of your house, and I am named Ariadne." She inclined her head towards him. "And am ever in my Lord's service." Boromir suppressed a laugh at her formality.
"You seem one to speak about flattery, my Lady. Let us leave aside these terms of formality. They are trying and hollow." He took her hand and brought it to his lips, gray eyes fixed on hers. "Boromir, your humble servant." Ariadne laughed, but did not withdraw her hand.
"Very well, Boromir. But you will certainly catch your death out here in this chill if you do not dress more appropriately for the weather." He looked away, her words bringing his thoughts back to mind for an instant.
"I believe you are right, Ariadne. Care you to join me for a warm drink on this night?" He turned back to her, standing at his full height.
"I was not raised to go off with strange men at ungodly hours, Boromir." She replied with a sly smile.
"I am no stranger!" Boromir exclaimed, taking her in his arms. "And I will take not refusal." He touched her hair gently, briefly, before releasing her.
"It seems that you have made my decision for me, then, Boromir. I accept your invitation." She took his offered arm and followed him back indoors…
Boromir found himself high on a wall, looking over the plains that led away from the great city. He seated himself upon the wall, one leg folded idly beneath him. His gray eyes gazed over the land almost unseeingly, deep in thought. His dreams had been of no comfort of late. His brother and father professed their dreams openly, but he had never admitted to the gift that dwelt within him as well. His father, Denethor II, favored Boromir as not only the eldest, but also the pride of his two sons. Boromir regretted this, but could never seem to do anything to place himself in his father's ill graces. Faramir, on the other hand, had but to breathe too loudly, it seemed, to find the displeasure of his father. Faramir dreamt. Denethor had the gift as well, but never looked upon it as a gift: but simply as a useful tool in the rare occasions when his wisdom escaped him. Boromir, the favored, the 'dreamless', was wary of the gift. It came to him rarely, and he seldom understood the things it showed him. Now, however, the dreams were vivid, brilliant, and unmistakable. They- A noise from behind stirred Boromir from his thoughts. He turned, startled.
"I beg pardon, Sire. I didn't realize there was someone here." A soft voice came from the dimness.
Boromir peered into the darkness, unable to make the figure out.
"Do not trouble yourself. Please, join me." He offered, standing, motioning with a hand. The figure approached slowly, almost cautiously.
Head bowed, a woman stepped into the moonlight, dark cloak enveloping her frame. Locks of jet-black hair were loose around her shoulders, and fell down her back in curls. She offered a curtsy, and Boromir stepped forward in protest. "Don't. There is no need." He protested, taking her arm gently.
She looked up, and Boromir's heart wrenched within him. Her face was fair, pale in the moonlight. Her dark eyes were steadily on his, without fear, with only the faintest hint of amusement.
"I did not realize that Boromir, son of Denethor was wont to walk so late upon the walls." Her soft voice lingered in the air.
"Boromir, son of Denethor isn't." He laughed, shifting uncomfortably. "Boromir, son of Denethor could not sleep." He sat back on the wall, gray eyes following the woman as she sat next to him. She inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips.
"And what might be keeping you up, my Liege?" She reached out her hand and touched his gently. "What thoughts would keep you from your bed, and without your cloak?" Boromir looked down at her small hand over his and smiled.
"One would be inclined to ask you, my Lady, what keeps you from your bed, so well prepared?" He looked back at her.
"The changing seasons are lure enough for me, my Liege." She replied, removing her hand.
"Address me not so. May I ask your name? For surely we have not met."
"How can you be so sure?" she replied, dark eyes catching the moonlight.
"I would surely have remembered a face as fair as thine." She looked away with a laugh.
"Flattery is not your strong point, my Liege, but I will indulge you. My father is a guard of your house, and I am named Ariadne." She inclined her head towards him. "And am ever in my Lord's service." Boromir suppressed a laugh at her formality.
"You seem one to speak about flattery, my Lady. Let us leave aside these terms of formality. They are trying and hollow." He took her hand and brought it to his lips, gray eyes fixed on hers. "Boromir, your humble servant." Ariadne laughed, but did not withdraw her hand.
"Very well, Boromir. But you will certainly catch your death out here in this chill if you do not dress more appropriately for the weather." He looked away, her words bringing his thoughts back to mind for an instant.
"I believe you are right, Ariadne. Care you to join me for a warm drink on this night?" He turned back to her, standing at his full height.
"I was not raised to go off with strange men at ungodly hours, Boromir." She replied with a sly smile.
"I am no stranger!" Boromir exclaimed, taking her in his arms. "And I will take not refusal." He touched her hair gently, briefly, before releasing her.
"It seems that you have made my decision for me, then, Boromir. I accept your invitation." She took his offered arm and followed him back indoors…