Author's Note:
Some of my reviewers have expressed confusion over Legolas' behaviour in the last chapter. Perhaps I need to rewrite a bit-- -if you need to explain what you're up to, you've failed as an author, I feel. You see, I've read so many crappy fics where Legolas is nothing but a big sissy, and it's all just a bit 2-dimensional for my taste. I wanted to make his character more complex and realistic. The reason we hate Mary Sues is because they're perfect, unrealistically so, and they become caricatures of real people.
I don't like flawless Legolas (or as I think of him, Legowuss) any better—I want him to have some depth, and a little bite. There's a reason one of my favourite all-time characters is Spike, aka William the Bloody, from BTVS. Sensitive, hot, and dangerous. Mmmm. I like my men like I like my evil: evil.
Same with Boromir. The entire point to this story is for the reader to be surprised—that the guy you thought was going to be the romantic lead, because of his looks and heroism, won't be quite what you expected. And the guy who was seduced by the dark side, the one who betrayed himself and his friends, ends up being the one you want to snuggle.
I hope I haven't ruined it by explaining my motivation too much. But it's likely that if you're reading this, you aren't just here for gratuitous elf-nooky. Not that there's anything wrong with elf-nooky, because, yum. But still.
Picture, Part 5
When Kate woke the next morning, there was utter silence in the apartment, and for a moment she thought the events of the previous evening might have been yet another vivid and surreal dream. Then she realized she was, indeed, sleeping on the sofa, and felt her assumption was unlikely.
Reaching under the sofa, she pulled out the painting of Boromir on Caradhras. "Yep, it was all real," she sighed, and sat up, propping the wooden frame of the painting on her thighs as she stared at it. "This is all so frigging strange," Kate whispered, running her fingertips across the ring, then touching them to each of Boromir's eyes. "I don't understand how it can be possible."
"Nor do I," said Boromir quietly. She looked up to see him in the doorway, looking uncertain and uncomfortable and utterly bizarre in her sweatpants and Tweety t-shirt. Knowing he was probably sorry for his words the previous night, Kate patted the seat beside her. His look of relief made her smile. "I am forgiven, then?"
"Yeah, I guess," she told him. "I was never one for holding a grudge."
"Glad I am for that, my lady," he replied, and took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "What do we do today?" His belly grumbled, and he looked down at it in alarm.
"First, we eat," Kate said with a laugh, grabbing his hands and tugging him to his feet. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she began to beat eggs and put skillets on the hob to heat.
"Not anything like a dead man should, I would think," he replied, gazing around him at the appliances. "Did Legolas know anything about what has happened?" Boromir's voice was carefully neutral.
"No, he's just as clueless as we are," she said, and poured the eggs into the skillet, then stirring. She placed frozen sausage patties in the other skillet, and soon the kitchen was filled with the sounds and smells of cooking food. She turned to find him leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, studying her. She felt an urge to explain that she hadn't really done anything with Legolas, but a tiny burst of rebellion kept her lips sealed. "Maybe we can ask Gandalf," she said finally.
Boromir quirked a brow. "Lady, that good man is dead. Did you not know?"
Kate grinned. "Oh, I knew. I followed him and the balrog when they fell." She tilted her head to the side consideringly. Wouldn't hurt to let him in on the future of the Fellowship now, would it? He was dead, after all, and not likely to be able to change the timeline or plot at all. That thought made her wonder fleetingly what the hell she was supposed to do with him now he was in her apartment instead of Middle-Earth, but she pushed that thought away firmly. First things first.
She padded on bare feet to her bookshelf and took out her set of Lord of the Rings books. They were in near-pristine condition; she'd never read them before acquiring the contract for the calendar and had bought the books for that express purpose. "I have work to do today; I owe my publishers at least one more proposal, and have a few finishing touches to put on that last painting. You can read these while I'm busy." She placed the books in his big hands.
He looked doubtful. "Trust me," Kate told him, laughing as she shoveled scrambled eggs and sausage patties onto a plate for him. "They'll explain everything."
After they ate, she left him settled comfortably on her sofa—making him promise to leave her painting of him undamaged—and went to the spare room, which she had set up as a studio. Taking up her sketchpad, she sat on the stool before her draft table and studied the scene of Boromir's death, and felt tears come once more to her eyes.
"This sucks," Kate muttered crossly, dashing the tears from her face with one hand even as the other began to set a canvas on the easel and select paints from the squashed and smudged tubes in the shallow drawer underneath. Staring at the sketch, already beginning to decide which colours she needed to mix to attain what she had in mind, she tugged on the thoroughly disreputable old Oxford shirt she'd appropriated from her father to serve as a smock when she worked.
Then she picked up a palette knife and began mixing blue, white, and black until she found the exact shade of the sky that day. Thinning it a little, she selected a large wall-painting brush and began to lay a wash of delicate colour over the top half of the canvas, using the bristles to mottle and feather the colour, making it look more natural.
Now for the ground. Same technique, but this time she used brown, with hint of green. Darker brown, a touch of red, and hillocks and tree trunks took shape before her. Taupe, white, grey became rocks and highlighted the gnarls on tree trunks and branches… She loaded her fan brush with light green and a slash of yellow, and the wintry, leafless landscape became a summer scene. More yellow, a dash of peach, and sunlight dappled through those leaves.
After a few hours, she had most of the scene roughed in except for the figure of Boromir himself. Kate couldn't decide whether she wanted to show him upright, the Hobbits behind him with their little swords, a group of orcs facing them as he wept at his own weakness… or him alone, on the ground, in the dirt and fallen leaves, with a tentative look of peace passing over his face as life left him.
Her need to choose was thankfully delayed when Boromir knocked on the door and entered. "Sorry I am to interrupt, my lady," he began, eyes wandering with interest around the cluttered room, "But I am hungry, and am not ashamed to say that your gadgets in the kitchen strike great fear into my heart."
Kate glanced at the clock; it was nearly 4 o'clock in the afternoon- she'd been painting for almost seven hours, and as soon as she realized it, her neck and feet began to ache something awful. "Oh. Yeah." Feeling pretty stupid—as well as a bad hostess, for making her guest starve all day while she worked—she hung up her smock and padded to the kitchen, Boromir trailing behind her like a puppy.
"Cupboard's almost bare," she muttered as she unearthed chicken breasts and broccoli florets from the freezer and a box of pasta from the pantry. As she put the frozen food into water to thaw, she eyed Boromir, who stood staring at the range with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear. If it was almost four on a Saturday, the store would close at five… "Can I trust you to sit still and not touch anything if I go out for a while?"
Alarm flashed over his rugged features for a scant moment before he schooled them into an expression of careful neutrality. "Of course," he said. "I will read more of the books you gave me."
"What do you think of them so far?" she asked.
"I am not sure what to think, yet," he replied, avoiding her gaze. She figured she'd leave him alone for the while, and went to change into street clothes. Ten minutes, a quick shower, and clean jeans and shirt later, she reappeared with her pocketbook slung over her shoulder and car keys in her hand. "I'm gonna go to my parents', then to the store," she explained. "I should only be a few hours." He nodded, and she felt quite bad for leaving him alone. She gave him a quick, impulsive kiss on the cheek, and left before she caved to her own sense of mushiness and stayed with him.
At her parents' house, she pilfered a few pairs of jeans, shirts, socks, and shoes from her father, and a pair of her brother's sweatpants. Leaving a note detailing her theft, she went to the store and stocked up. "Honey, I'm home," Kate sang out when she returned, her arms laden with heavily loaded shopping bags.
Boromir's eyes widened to see her so burdened, and he took every bag from her, following her into the kitchen. "You should have told me to come help you," he scolded mildly. "I am not used to being still for so long."
He was feeling useless, Kate realized. After being part of the most important mission in his world for months, and spending all his life before the Fellowship as the elder son of the Steward of Gondor, Boromir was accustomed to being useful. Sitting around and reading must be driving him insane.
As she began to cook, she looked over at him. "Do you know anything about building?"
He frowned. "Building what?"
"Houses."
"No, I fear not," Boromir replied. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I was thinking… you look pretty bored, and like you said, you're not used to doing nothing all day. My father owns a construction company, and if you knew anything about building houses, I thought maybe… you could help him."
"Kind you are to think of me, my lady, but I am a warrior, not a tradesman." His gaze was troubled. "Have I behaved in a way that would lead you to think me a peasant?"
Kate almost slapped herself in the forehead, realizing her stupidity. This man had been raised in a feudal society. She'd just insulted him by offering him menial work. "Well, um, see, in this world, we don't really have warriors, per se," she stammered finally. "I thought you'd like physical work, and being outside. Construction would provide those things for you." She stirred the sizzling bite-sized pieces of chicken. "I didn't mean anything else by it."
He nodded. "I understand. And…" he seemed to struggle internally for a moment. "I will do this construction, if you think it something I would enjoy."
"Oh, good!" Kate said with a big smile. "I'll call my dad after we eat." Then he frowned again, and she realized she'd have to explain what she meant by 'calling' someone. She sighed. This was getting to be quite difficult, and she still had no idea why it all had happened.
She couldn't stop herself from stealing little speculative glances at him while they ate in companionable silence. By the time she was stacking the plates and silverware in the dishwasher, she'd decided that she would paint Boromir as he defended the Hobbits… the moment of his death in Middle-Earth was, indeed, a dramatic and powerful one but it felt entirely too misleading to her… he'd died, but yet was not dead. Even though anyone who ended up buying the calendar would never know the truth, Kate knew… Boromir's story was not over. She couldn't portray it as such.
"Argh," she moaned, running her hands through her hair, mussing it even worse.
Boromir quirked a brow at her. "Is there a problem, my lady?"
Kate flopped down on the sofa. "I'm just all confused," she explained. "I don't know why you're here, or how, or what I'm supposed to do with you now, or what the hell Legolas was thinking when he started with the undressing and fondling…" Boromir's face changed from sympathetic, to concerned, to a flash of something that could have been anger before becoming carefully blank. "Ah, er, sorry. Didn't mean to mention that again," she stammered.
He inclined his head in a way that reminded her once more that he was a nobleman, born and bred to hold himself apart from the masses. "I am well aware of the ways of elves, my lady." He eyed her a moment. "Did his actions insult you?"
"Yeah, they did," Kate admitted. "I never gave him any reason to think he could manhandle me… er, elfhandle me… but he just started with the elbow-kissing and before I knew it he had my pants off."
Boromir looked thoughtful at the idea of elbow-kissing, as if he were filing away that information for a later time. It made her nervous. "That's an elf for you," he said at last, sounding much more cheerful than before. "But do not take it as an insult, lady. It was not meant as such."
"That's what he said," Kate admitted reluctantly.
"Elves do not understand how it is different for Men and Women," he said. "Their joinings are frequent and casual, with love being rare but powerful when it does occur."
She frowned. "Sounds like a rather sad way to live, if you ask me."
"To me as well," he agreed, and his gaze was intent upon her, making her feel… strange.
"Well then!" Kate exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, and stood up. "I have more work to do!"
Boromir stood as well, a knowing smile on his lips. "But you have worked long today. Is it not time for some rest?"
"Maybe later," she said, and fled to her studio, shutting the door behind her. She thought she heard him chuckle. Picking up her palette, she squeezed some paint out and loaded a brush, oblivious to the fact she hadn't put on her smock. "Dead men shouldn't flirt," she grumbled, and began to rough in his body on the canvas. "It's just not right."
