In Dol Amroth, Adrahil was the ruling Prince. Imrahil would have been about 45 years old. For this story, Prince Adrahil has put his son in charge of Boromir's recovery.

The Patient

"How is my patient today?" Adonamir, chief healer to Denethor II, was irritatingly cheerful as he entered the spacious room where the Steward's elder son and heir was recuperating from the wound he had received during an ill-fated orc battle in the Beacon Hills. Boromir was sitting in a chair beside the hearth, staring glumly into the fire. He gave the healer a sideways glance and grunted something unintelligible. Adonamir took hold of the chair and yanked both it and its occupant backward.

"I fail to understand why my younger patients always give me the most trouble," the elderly physician complained as the young heir shouted obscenities learned in Gondor's army. "It is not my fault you were careless enough to be wounded; please do not make me suffer simply because you do. I am a healer, not a whipping post."

Boromir sighed. The man was correct. If he had been faster, or more skillful, or more observant, he would have avoided the orc's blade. He had been careless and that carelessness almost had cost his life. And it certainly was not Adonamir's fault he was confined to the Houses of Healing. "What is it you want now, Healer? I have submitted to your ministrations day and night for a fortnight. Am I not well enough to be left alone?"

Adonamir laughed. "You are out of danger, yes. But you nearly died from a combination of poison, which was obviously on the orc's blade, and a fever; your body suffers from the effects of both. It will take many more weeks before you are fit to wield a sword. If I were you, I would thank the Valar you are alive and enjoy your time away from the battlefield."

"I do not want time away from battle! I hate having nothing to do. I feel as though I am going mad!" Boromir stood up gingerly and grasped the stone mantel for support. "If only I had something to occupy my time," he added dourly.

"I understand your brother offered to bring you books from your father's personal library. Why don't you use this time to catch up on your reading?" Boromir gave the healer a dark look.

"I do not enjoy reading. That is Faramir's passion. I prefer preparing warfare strategies and practicing the art of combat. I can do neither caged within the Houses of Healing!"

Adonamir looked at the young captain speculatively. "I might have an idea that would help your recovery AND your need for something to do. I will discuss it with the Steward this afternoon."

Boromir looked at the man suspiciously. "What is it you have in mind? I would like to hear this idea before it is presented to the Steward. If this plan is not to my liking, yet is approved by Father, I shall be forced to endure it." Adonamir, however, merely smiled and left the room. Boromir grumbled, "Impudent man! He did not even ask my permission to leave. He still treats me as though I were a child! I believe I shall tell him so." Angry, he walked stiffly to the door, pulled it open and found himself face to face with Faramir.

"Going somewhere, Brother? I thought you were confined to bed." Boromir stepped backward to allow Faramir enough room to enter. "I just passed Adonamir in the hallway. He looked rather satisfied with himself. Whatever is he up to? He looked quite like the Warg that swallowed the Orc."

Boromir shook his head. "He has come up with some plan that supposedly will keep me occupied while I mend. I shudder to think what it might be." Faramir raised his eyebrows.

"You know he has your best interests at heart. He wants to see you well, same as every man, woman and child in Gondor. As long as you have to wait to see what Adonamir is about, why don't we play a game of chess?" Boromir rolled his eyes. He found chess far too tedious and sedentary. It also made his head hurt. Yet he had to do something to pass the time. He watched glumly as his brother set up the board.

* * * * * * * *       

(Dol Amroth)

Boromir sifted the fine sand through his bare toes. How he loved visiting Dol Amroth! He still could not believe that Adonamir had convinced the Steward to send his heir to the seashore. (Once Denethor was convinced that the sea air would speed his son's healing, it was only a matter of hours before a letter to Prince Adrahil was sent via courier and arrangements for Boromir's transportation via carriage were completed. It seemed that the young heir to the Stewardship of Gondor would be spending his 18th birthday at his grandfather's castle by the sea.)

"Boromir, it is time you returned to the castle to rest. Your father was very specific in his instructions for your care." Prince Adrahil's heir, Imrahil, was standing upon the grassy slope just above the sandy beach. Because he already was dressed for supper, he was careful not to get sand on his shoes.

"I am sick to death of being indoors and having people fuss over me! I have rested enough for two lifetimes. Besides, I find the sea air invigorating. My health will be restored much more quickly if I am allowed to remain." Imrahil shook his head and tried to hide a smile of amusement. Boromir's demeanor mimicked that of the Steward's to perfection, even down to the hands on the hips and the scowl on the face.

"Alright, Nephew. I will allow you one more hour and one hour only. I will send a member of my household staff to escort you back. And, boy, you will come or I shall lock you in your room." Boromir gaped at his uncle.

"You would not dare! I shall be the Steward of Gondor one day."

Imrahil chuckled. "Yes, but until then you must abide by your father's orders. Shall I write to him about your unwillingness to conduct yourself in a manner befitting a patient? I doubt the Steward will tolerate such insubordination, even from his own child and heir."

Boromir sighed deeply. "Alright, Uncle. You win. I thank you for the extra hour and give you my solemn promise that I shall return without protest with whomever you send for me." Imrahil nodded, gave his nephew a smart salute, and began walking back to the city. He did not see the tears of frustration that trickled slowly down the young man's cheeks.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir was walking in the surf, his head down, running battle strategies through his mind. He did not see the person his uncle had sent to fetch him until the two collided. Both fell onto the beach, which was ankle deep with water from the incoming tide.

"Why don't you look where you are going? Are you feeble-minded, or just clumsy?" Boromir was more embarrassed than angry. He had been a captain less than a year and was mortified that someone had caught him off-guard. It had been an extremely difficult and long process earning the respect of soldiers who had already endured many years of combat experience. For that reason, there had been much resentment among the ranks toward the relatively inexperienced lad who had been handed the captaincy over men who had earned it with their blood. To compensate, Boromir had worked harder than any other soldier in Gondor's army to master skills that would earn his men's respect. One of the most important of those skills was never being caught off-guard.

Even before Boromir's backside hit the sand, his hand had drawn the long dagger kept secured at his waist. He would have been instantly on his feet if not for the still painful wound. As it was, he had to take a defensive posture from a sitting position. "Declare yourself!" the young captain shouted angrily. With his right hand Boromir held the dagger; his left hand was busy pulling at the wet hair that clung to his face and obscured his vision.

"I am sorry, my lord! I thought you would see me and stop. I did not realize we would collide until right before it happened. I am afraid I am not agile enough to have moved out of the way in time. Are you injured?"

Boromir froze at the sound of the voice. It was musical in tone and definitely feminine. He finally removed all the hair from his face and looked up at the figure standing over him. She was young, perhaps the same age as himself, and pleasingly shapely. He could not help but notice how well she filled out the bodice of her simple gown, which was wet and clung provocatively to her body. His eyes slid from her bodice to her slender waist, then downward to the tightly rounded curves of her buttocks.

"Are you enjoying the view, my lord?" Her tone was mildly sarcastic and annoyed. Feeling guilty because of his lack of chivalry, Boromir muttered an apology before attempting to rise. His wet clothes, however, weighed him down and salt from the seawater entered the newly opened wound. Pain howled through his body. Not wanting to seem unmanly in front of this striking young woman, he pressed his lips firmly together to muffle any cry he would have made. The action, however, did not escape the girl's sharp eyes.

"My lord, you are in pain! Let me help you to your feet. I knocked you down and I will catch a beating if you have injured yourself further." The girl's face was now white; her large gray eyes were wide in alarm. Boromir put a brave smile upon his equally white face and tried to laugh off the pain.

"It is nothing; a minor twinge, but no more. Please do not distress yourself on my account." The girl looked unconvinced and continued to stand over him, wringing her hands.

"Shall I help you stand, my lord?" She seemed unsure of what to do. Boromir smiled sweetly and offered her his hand.

"If you would be so kind as to help, we shall both make it back to castle in time for dinner."

Relief flooded over her face and she bent to take hold of his hand. Boromir, however, was much heavier than she'd estimated. She had to place an arm around his waist and allow him to lean on her before he could rise. Both were panting by the time the stout warrior was securely on his feet. Even though he no longer needed the girl's support, Boromir was reluctant to release his hold upon her. He liked the way her softness felt against his body and, too, she did not seem to mind that he leaned against her.

"Can you stand on your own, my lord, or shall I continue to support you until we reach the castle?" It took a few moments for Boromir to realize that the girl was speaking to him. Only a week from his 18th birthday, the young captain's body was at its prime, both physically and sexually. His senses had been focused on the tingling inside his trousers caused by blood rushing downward in response to a totally unexpected surge of desire. He looked quickly up into the young woman's face and was relieved that she seemed unaware of his growing problem.

"I can stand on my own," Boromir said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Then, gaining control of himself, the Steward's heir added, "I will not be seen leaning upon a girl. I have my reputation to think of!"

She smiled knowingly and continued to support him, waiting for a sign he was steady enough to stand on his own. Boromir was taking deep gulps of air, trying hard to calm his racing pulse. Sometimes he hated being young and vulnerable to a pretty girl's charms. As his breathing began returning to normal and the painful pressure in his trousers subsided, Boromir slowly released his hold upon the girl. It took several moments to accomplish the task, but he was finally standing unaided. He smiled at her shyly. "I am grateful for your kindness. Might I know your name?"

The girl blushed and ducked her head slightly. "I am called Miriel."

Author's Note:  This girl's namesake, Miriel, was the daughter and heir of King Tar-Palantir. She would have become Numenor's fourth Ruling Queen, but she married Ar-Pharazon who, as her husband, usurped the throne. Twenty-fifth and last King of Numenor, he assailed Mordor and brought Sauron back to Numenor as a hostage. Sauron, however, seduced him and persuaded him to sail on Valinor itself. As punishment for this act, the island of NĂºmenor sank beneath the waves of the Great Sea. (From The Encyclopedia of Arda) We hope Boromir's love interest in this story does not cause the destruction of a kingdom. 

Please See Chapter 3