Disclaimer- I don't own it. No duh....
'Instead, he beholds with secret shame
A form of beauty undefined,
A loveliness with out a name,
Not of degree, but more of kind;
Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall,
But a new mingling of them all.
Yes, beautiful beyond belief,
Transfigured and transfused, he sees
The lady of the Pyrenees'
-*-*- Once the rain stopped, it was azure skies and clouds as clean as new lamb's fleece that found the young men and women of the city with picnic baskets and good cheer riding to the Graywood. Boromir and Rhoswen were somewhere in the middle of the array of commoners and nobles alike, all laughing gaily and chatting amongst themselves. It was the one day of the year when every one could forgot protocol, manners, and act according to human nature. Today was for picking flowers, feasting in the trees, and frolicking-in the highest degree of the word-in the forest.
After cloths had been laid down, and the feast was spread, talk was scare amidst the contented chewing and giggles. Wine flowed free from the skins, and there hung in the air the attitude of contentment. The day was warm, and so, abandoning all regard for rules, several of the young men stripped to the skin to swim in the stream, splashing the girls on the bank. Boromir held a hand over Rhoswen's eyes as they dove into the water; She giggled.
"All the better to keep me to yourself, then?" He simply kissed the top of her head. "I'll take that as a yes. Tell me, Boromir, what is it that makes this day so ardent that it's called the 'lusty month of May'. At home, we had no such customs." The captain held her lithe frame in, popping grapes into her mouth.
"Because, dearest, after we are done eating, girls shall go gather flowers, and men shall chase girls, which will result in a few makings of love, and more than a few makings of children." He whispered in her ear. "We shall, of course, avoid that, if my ladyship wishes." Rhoswen smiled uncertainly.
"I have no wish to consummate an unperformed marriage. Yet." She giggled. "You read my mind to easily."
"Perhaps that is because I have studied you too well. We have progressed far in two weeks, have we not? And in two glorious months, the wedding." Rhoswen groaned, and sunk into his chest.
"Don't remind me. I have another fitting tomorrow, and then I shall be encaged sewing my dowry."
"Then of course, we shall avoid it at all costs, precious. Perhaps we can run off to Rohan together and not have to worry about the wedding. Or...perhaps not." He pecked her hair again, searching the saddlebag beside him for something. "I have a gift for you." The young woman looked into his eyes, cautious.
"What?" He produced a small lacquered box, and opening it, Rhoswen gasped. Holding it up to the light, she watched the small diamonds dance on the white golden band. "Where ever did you get it? It's...beautiful." Boromir smiled, his cheek in her hair.
"Faramir helped me-much to his displeasure- pick it out. It was our mother's." Rhoswen caught her breath, paused, stopped admiring it on her finger, and slipped it back in the box.
"I would not feel right, if it was your mother's...please, keep it. I know your father is not one to speak often of her, and he would recognize it." She tried to shove it back in his hands, but he closed her fingers around it.
"I want you to have it...when you wear it, think of me." Rhoswen turned away, a tear in her eye.
"Why the tears, beloved?"
"It makes me sad to know I am the second woman to share your life...so special a privilege, so elevated a right." The big man hugged her close.
"That is no cause for tears, beloved. Tears are for the dead, and I hope not to be that for a time yet. Go, your friends are calling. Find your flowers." He lifted her up, brushing the crumbs off his wardrobe. She blew him a kiss, and ran off barefoot, hair flying as she ran, gathering up skirts, the perfect picture of content. The group of young men drying themselves off from their swim beckoned him over, and he went to go chat.
Rhoswen and the other young ladies picked their flowers in silence, the calm warm breeze and the birdsong needing no interruption. Rhoswen, arms full of still blooming morning glories and the snow-white sprays of baby's breath, was walking through the high grass, when there was a rustle from behind her. She turned abruptly to see Boromir, a lazy, conniving grin on his face. She backed up a few steps; he took one, and caught up. Her breathing was shallow and quick-the old fear was back.
"My lord is drunk." Boromir grinned conspiratorially.
"Nay, only beset with a heart that burns for you." Rhoswen glanced around the glade: there was no one. Was this some cruel joke or jest?
"Step no further, sir, or I will take insult." Rhoswen was visibly afraid, her hands shaking, the flowers seeming to wilt in her hands. She stepped backwards some, her feet prickling at the unfamiliar feeling of the dirt forest floor. Then she did what most women do when in love and alone- she ran, ran as fast as she possibly could-but what match is a woman for a man when running, when one is in skirts and the other not thus constricted? The lover caught up easily, pinning her to a tree.
"Why do you recoil? I am in my senses."
"My sweet prince, why must you persecute me so? What have I done that displeased you?"
"Ah, my dear princess, it is what you have not done that haunts me so!"
"What is this game? I must be sure to tell my ladies that maying should be avoided at all costs." Boromir laughed, throwing his head to the sky.
"My lady, can you not hear the call of the forest primeval? Can you not hear what your heart foretells before the sun is out?" Rhoswen looked at him, feeling the heat rising in her face.
"Did I not say this was to be avoided?" seeing her question go unheeded, she switched tack quickly. "Your father will have my head."
"Then my father need never know. I beg you...my heart burns!"
"As does mine!" at the sudden outburst, Boromir stepped back, hands falling to his sides. Rhoswen continued, eyes afire with tears. "But I do not wear my heart on my sleeve-I cannot. I refuse to be regarded as a common whore!" She sniffled. Her companion made to embrace her, but she pushed him away, a hand to her eyes. "Leave me. I would be alone for a while. Then, we may return to the city." She walked away, the faint sound of crying still able to be heard in the thickets.
Boromir was sitting, watching the sun go down. Abandoned picnic baskets still littered the grass, a faint breeze stirring the stalks. He ran a hand over the well-worn leather of his scabbard-even here, in this lighthearted day, we still have need of weaponry, he thought. When will this cruel war be over, this shadow finally blighted? A scream echoed from the forest, and Boromir instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword. The scream was all too familiar.
Wolves, huge brutes with teeth that could tear a man to shreds, now occupied the clearing where he had left Rhoswen earlier. They were clustered around a single form, an ominous snarl from the mouth of one when Boromir, sword in hand, entered the clearing. They stepped back from their carrion, and advanced on the captain, coming down like wheat before the scythe on his sword. Now littered with wolf corpses, Boromir looked at the slender, bleeding body: it was Rhoswen. With gentle arms, he picked the young woman up and carried her back to their horses.
Guards met them at the gate, torches in hand. One look at the bloodied form the weary captain held, and faces went grimmer.
"Send for the steward!"
"Send for a healer! The warden!"
"Make way!" a soldier helped Boromir off his horse, asking if he was injured.
"See to the woman first...I need no leeches now." He staggered off to the House of the King, a worried Faramir running out to greet him, cloak and boots thrown hastily on with his nightshirt. The younger son wrapped his cloak about his brother, and the elder, leaning on his shoulder, limped inside.
"Rhoswen shall live, they say, and the scarring will not be noticeable. Brother, I leave for Osgiliath at the weeks end. Please, I beg you, brother; do not draw the enemy's devices to you. I know the light in your eyes would let you go purge the Graywood of wolves for the pain they have inflicted on your heart, but you must not be driven by hotheadedness."
Boromir wearily looked in his brother's eyes. His eyes were bleary from crying-Faramir had heard him late into the night, weeping- and his body showed the signs of lack of sleep. It was now late morning, but the sun seemed to be refusing to shine, the gray sky blank and mind numbing.
"Take some rest, at least. It is not well for the heir to the throne to take ill in this grievous hour." Boromir scowled.
"I can find no rest within these walls-my anger only fuels my bloodlust. I was the cause of her pain, Faramir; I cannot forgive myself! My mind was addled, my words not in my right mind, and my actions, dishonorable. I drove her to seek other company and solace in the silence of the trees... and now she is-" He broke off, crying again. Faramir laid a hand on his should consolingly. "I know not how I can face her."
"If tears were words, brother, I believe a small book would be in order. As they are not, I can only say...speak truly, and from the heart, for it is the heart that always speaks truest, or so many men say. Ask for forgiveness- she will give it, and willingly. You left her not to die, and she will think your mourning ill placed. One look at your sorry face, and I think she will care not you were the cause of her agonies. Many burdens are endured for love, Boromir-remember that." Faramir gave him a sage look, and departed, leaving a disheartened Boromir with naught but his tears and his thoughts for company; a very sad company indeed.
There was a small rapping on the chamber door, and Rhoswen opened her eyes tiredly to see one of the healers peeping around the door, a tray in her hands sending a thin steam onto the chill morning air. With a wearied hand, she beckoned the woman in. No words were spoken as the servant laid the tray on a table beside the bed, bowed, and left. Rhoswen looked at the door, half expecting the woman to come back, and let her eyes slid shut with sleep.
Maire came in, and looked at her sleeping mistress, then at the still warm bowl of soup at her bedside. Carefully, she roused the sleeping woman, and together the two sat, eating soup.
"How is Boromir?" Rhoswen broke the silence.
"Well." Maire seemed short for words today.
"You would have me think that well is enough? You withhold from me, Maire, and I dislike it." The lady in waiting sighed.
"He has spent the whole day in his room, crying. He hates himself for what happened; the lord Faramir has told me not to expect him to come round until his self exacted penance of tears has been paid in full." Rhoswen smiled slightly at this news.
"One of the strongest men in the land, and he cries for me, weeps for me, and wishes my pain for his- a most uncommon bond." Maire smiled wisely.
"That is love, the last full measure of devotion, and you know every blessed inch of that sacred plot. For the love of a woman, some men will do...anything."
"I fear I cannot allow his penance to go unanswered. Maire, I require cloth and thread. Sterner stuff than silk or linen- this will be no embroidery to be hung as an ornament."
Boromir looked around the door a week later, and knocked lightly on the doorframe.
"The captain heir, I am told, does not cower in the face of anything. Why is it, then, that he is afraid to face me-I am no threat. Come hither, lover mine." The invalid woman held up a hand, and beckoned him in.
"The healers told me you were confined to bed." Rhoswen was sitting in her solar, the warm sun heating her back, a smell of crushed flowers and cloth permeating the room. Boromir came in, and took the seat at her side. The lady was sewing something on a white cloth, and handed her work off to her lady as the captain heir sat down.
"The healers told you wrong. Why did you not come and visit me?"
"I was afraid, my lady."
"Afraid of me? I am not a thing to be feared-you know this. Blood loss is no cause for a change in view, lord Boromir. Why were you fearful? I must know."
"I feel at fault for your injuries, Rhoswen." The young woman looked at her lap; her hands were shaking. Her lady drew a coverlet of fur around her shoulders, and the young woman pulled the lap robe closer to her.
"There is no one to be at fault save me, and my virgin stupidity. What I did was rash, and unthinking-even the youngest of maids knows not to wander in the wood without companion or knife." She drew in a breath, still shaking. "My brother in law to be tells me that women who do not know their place anger you; I apologize, for this is me. I am the servant, and you are the master." Boromir looked at Rhoswen; the young woman was close to tears, her hands knit tightly in her lap, face downcast. With some reluctance, he took her hand.
"I ask that that not be so, for you can me master with the slightest of touches, and it is I who feel I should serve. What my brother said was true, once. But opinions change, and that one certainly has. When we first met, I had not known you, and now know that with seeing you, and talking with you, I feel that the flower free in the field is far more beautiful than the clipped bloom in the vase. Keep yourself, all your charms and free will, my rose, and my love shall multiply a hundredfold. I love you as you are, and you need not change for me." He gave the small hand a clasp. Rhoswen looked at him, and smiled.
"When has your father set the date of your wedding? Has he told you yet? I was informed it was to be in June."
"Yes. My father is having the announcements engraved as we speak. And once we are wedded and bedded, I think the task of finding Faramir a wife will turn to you and me." Rhoswen chuckled.
"I think Faramir will be hard placed to find a woman of Minas Tirith to love him-they all find him too wrapped in his library dust. I have the warrior brother, and I will follow with much adoration the woman who keeps the scholar. Faramir is a hard man to please, as far as women go."
"That he is, and when he finally marries, I shall be waiting with bright eyes, and a happy heart. He needs a wife."
"Has he already left for Osgiliath?" Boromir nodded.
"Faramir hates staying at court long. Father is not the best company when feelings towards you are not good ones." He looked at Rhoswen, who was still smiling, and laid a hand carefully on her shoulder. She flinched a little, her face stirring to the soreness.
"Was the bite bad?"
"They say there will be marks."
"All the better for me not to forget that roses are delicate, and should be treated with the utmost care." The lady giggled. "I must take my leave of you now, so that you may work on your sewing in peace. Until tomorrow, precious rose, I shall despair without your face." He bowed out of the room with a kiss to her cheek.
It was in her solar two weeks later that Boromir found himself again, discussing, of all things, diplomacy, with his wife to be. He roused himself from the problem at hand, and looked at Rhoswen, who was deeply engrossed in the subject with him
"Why am I telling you of this?"
"Because as your wife, when you ride off for country and glory, I shall be left to govern the city, and so it falls to me to see that the country runs well while blood runs on the fields of some far off contingent." Rhoswen smiled knowledgably.
"My betrothed is a brazen creature, indeed."
"All the better to keep your impudence in check, milord." Boromir laughed full heartedly, the booming peal filling the whole room.
"I've gone and tied myself to the only woman who can control me, and with words, no less! Gods in heaven help me!" the lighthearted air filling the room rapidly left it when one of the guardsmen rushed in, red-faced and out of breath.
"Your brother calls for aid, sire. Osgiliath is under heavy attack, and he fears he cannot hold the city. He needs assistance." Boromir rose, the happiness in his face replaced by resolution.
"I will ride at once." Rhoswen caught his arm.
"Boromir, wait. Take this. I have been making it for you, and now seems the opportune time to give it." She unfurled the banner across her lap, the white tree splashed across the folds in wheaten gold thread. "Take it with you, and crown the tallest tower with in your victory, Boromir." The tall man nodded, grave, and kissed her hand, and pausing, pulled her up to him for a heavier kiss, not caring that people watched.
"I may not return from my endeavors. Remember me this way." Rhoswen nodded, and Her betrothed strode out of the room with a purposeful walk, the flag in his hands. She could hear him down the hall say to one of his riders,
"Mount this as our standard. Hands that love this city much wove it." The young woman turned away, her face in tears.
'Instead, he beholds with secret shame
A form of beauty undefined,
A loveliness with out a name,
Not of degree, but more of kind;
Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall,
But a new mingling of them all.
Yes, beautiful beyond belief,
Transfigured and transfused, he sees
The lady of the Pyrenees'
-*-*- Once the rain stopped, it was azure skies and clouds as clean as new lamb's fleece that found the young men and women of the city with picnic baskets and good cheer riding to the Graywood. Boromir and Rhoswen were somewhere in the middle of the array of commoners and nobles alike, all laughing gaily and chatting amongst themselves. It was the one day of the year when every one could forgot protocol, manners, and act according to human nature. Today was for picking flowers, feasting in the trees, and frolicking-in the highest degree of the word-in the forest.
After cloths had been laid down, and the feast was spread, talk was scare amidst the contented chewing and giggles. Wine flowed free from the skins, and there hung in the air the attitude of contentment. The day was warm, and so, abandoning all regard for rules, several of the young men stripped to the skin to swim in the stream, splashing the girls on the bank. Boromir held a hand over Rhoswen's eyes as they dove into the water; She giggled.
"All the better to keep me to yourself, then?" He simply kissed the top of her head. "I'll take that as a yes. Tell me, Boromir, what is it that makes this day so ardent that it's called the 'lusty month of May'. At home, we had no such customs." The captain held her lithe frame in, popping grapes into her mouth.
"Because, dearest, after we are done eating, girls shall go gather flowers, and men shall chase girls, which will result in a few makings of love, and more than a few makings of children." He whispered in her ear. "We shall, of course, avoid that, if my ladyship wishes." Rhoswen smiled uncertainly.
"I have no wish to consummate an unperformed marriage. Yet." She giggled. "You read my mind to easily."
"Perhaps that is because I have studied you too well. We have progressed far in two weeks, have we not? And in two glorious months, the wedding." Rhoswen groaned, and sunk into his chest.
"Don't remind me. I have another fitting tomorrow, and then I shall be encaged sewing my dowry."
"Then of course, we shall avoid it at all costs, precious. Perhaps we can run off to Rohan together and not have to worry about the wedding. Or...perhaps not." He pecked her hair again, searching the saddlebag beside him for something. "I have a gift for you." The young woman looked into his eyes, cautious.
"What?" He produced a small lacquered box, and opening it, Rhoswen gasped. Holding it up to the light, she watched the small diamonds dance on the white golden band. "Where ever did you get it? It's...beautiful." Boromir smiled, his cheek in her hair.
"Faramir helped me-much to his displeasure- pick it out. It was our mother's." Rhoswen caught her breath, paused, stopped admiring it on her finger, and slipped it back in the box.
"I would not feel right, if it was your mother's...please, keep it. I know your father is not one to speak often of her, and he would recognize it." She tried to shove it back in his hands, but he closed her fingers around it.
"I want you to have it...when you wear it, think of me." Rhoswen turned away, a tear in her eye.
"Why the tears, beloved?"
"It makes me sad to know I am the second woman to share your life...so special a privilege, so elevated a right." The big man hugged her close.
"That is no cause for tears, beloved. Tears are for the dead, and I hope not to be that for a time yet. Go, your friends are calling. Find your flowers." He lifted her up, brushing the crumbs off his wardrobe. She blew him a kiss, and ran off barefoot, hair flying as she ran, gathering up skirts, the perfect picture of content. The group of young men drying themselves off from their swim beckoned him over, and he went to go chat.
Rhoswen and the other young ladies picked their flowers in silence, the calm warm breeze and the birdsong needing no interruption. Rhoswen, arms full of still blooming morning glories and the snow-white sprays of baby's breath, was walking through the high grass, when there was a rustle from behind her. She turned abruptly to see Boromir, a lazy, conniving grin on his face. She backed up a few steps; he took one, and caught up. Her breathing was shallow and quick-the old fear was back.
"My lord is drunk." Boromir grinned conspiratorially.
"Nay, only beset with a heart that burns for you." Rhoswen glanced around the glade: there was no one. Was this some cruel joke or jest?
"Step no further, sir, or I will take insult." Rhoswen was visibly afraid, her hands shaking, the flowers seeming to wilt in her hands. She stepped backwards some, her feet prickling at the unfamiliar feeling of the dirt forest floor. Then she did what most women do when in love and alone- she ran, ran as fast as she possibly could-but what match is a woman for a man when running, when one is in skirts and the other not thus constricted? The lover caught up easily, pinning her to a tree.
"Why do you recoil? I am in my senses."
"My sweet prince, why must you persecute me so? What have I done that displeased you?"
"Ah, my dear princess, it is what you have not done that haunts me so!"
"What is this game? I must be sure to tell my ladies that maying should be avoided at all costs." Boromir laughed, throwing his head to the sky.
"My lady, can you not hear the call of the forest primeval? Can you not hear what your heart foretells before the sun is out?" Rhoswen looked at him, feeling the heat rising in her face.
"Did I not say this was to be avoided?" seeing her question go unheeded, she switched tack quickly. "Your father will have my head."
"Then my father need never know. I beg you...my heart burns!"
"As does mine!" at the sudden outburst, Boromir stepped back, hands falling to his sides. Rhoswen continued, eyes afire with tears. "But I do not wear my heart on my sleeve-I cannot. I refuse to be regarded as a common whore!" She sniffled. Her companion made to embrace her, but she pushed him away, a hand to her eyes. "Leave me. I would be alone for a while. Then, we may return to the city." She walked away, the faint sound of crying still able to be heard in the thickets.
Boromir was sitting, watching the sun go down. Abandoned picnic baskets still littered the grass, a faint breeze stirring the stalks. He ran a hand over the well-worn leather of his scabbard-even here, in this lighthearted day, we still have need of weaponry, he thought. When will this cruel war be over, this shadow finally blighted? A scream echoed from the forest, and Boromir instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword. The scream was all too familiar.
Wolves, huge brutes with teeth that could tear a man to shreds, now occupied the clearing where he had left Rhoswen earlier. They were clustered around a single form, an ominous snarl from the mouth of one when Boromir, sword in hand, entered the clearing. They stepped back from their carrion, and advanced on the captain, coming down like wheat before the scythe on his sword. Now littered with wolf corpses, Boromir looked at the slender, bleeding body: it was Rhoswen. With gentle arms, he picked the young woman up and carried her back to their horses.
Guards met them at the gate, torches in hand. One look at the bloodied form the weary captain held, and faces went grimmer.
"Send for the steward!"
"Send for a healer! The warden!"
"Make way!" a soldier helped Boromir off his horse, asking if he was injured.
"See to the woman first...I need no leeches now." He staggered off to the House of the King, a worried Faramir running out to greet him, cloak and boots thrown hastily on with his nightshirt. The younger son wrapped his cloak about his brother, and the elder, leaning on his shoulder, limped inside.
"Rhoswen shall live, they say, and the scarring will not be noticeable. Brother, I leave for Osgiliath at the weeks end. Please, I beg you, brother; do not draw the enemy's devices to you. I know the light in your eyes would let you go purge the Graywood of wolves for the pain they have inflicted on your heart, but you must not be driven by hotheadedness."
Boromir wearily looked in his brother's eyes. His eyes were bleary from crying-Faramir had heard him late into the night, weeping- and his body showed the signs of lack of sleep. It was now late morning, but the sun seemed to be refusing to shine, the gray sky blank and mind numbing.
"Take some rest, at least. It is not well for the heir to the throne to take ill in this grievous hour." Boromir scowled.
"I can find no rest within these walls-my anger only fuels my bloodlust. I was the cause of her pain, Faramir; I cannot forgive myself! My mind was addled, my words not in my right mind, and my actions, dishonorable. I drove her to seek other company and solace in the silence of the trees... and now she is-" He broke off, crying again. Faramir laid a hand on his should consolingly. "I know not how I can face her."
"If tears were words, brother, I believe a small book would be in order. As they are not, I can only say...speak truly, and from the heart, for it is the heart that always speaks truest, or so many men say. Ask for forgiveness- she will give it, and willingly. You left her not to die, and she will think your mourning ill placed. One look at your sorry face, and I think she will care not you were the cause of her agonies. Many burdens are endured for love, Boromir-remember that." Faramir gave him a sage look, and departed, leaving a disheartened Boromir with naught but his tears and his thoughts for company; a very sad company indeed.
There was a small rapping on the chamber door, and Rhoswen opened her eyes tiredly to see one of the healers peeping around the door, a tray in her hands sending a thin steam onto the chill morning air. With a wearied hand, she beckoned the woman in. No words were spoken as the servant laid the tray on a table beside the bed, bowed, and left. Rhoswen looked at the door, half expecting the woman to come back, and let her eyes slid shut with sleep.
Maire came in, and looked at her sleeping mistress, then at the still warm bowl of soup at her bedside. Carefully, she roused the sleeping woman, and together the two sat, eating soup.
"How is Boromir?" Rhoswen broke the silence.
"Well." Maire seemed short for words today.
"You would have me think that well is enough? You withhold from me, Maire, and I dislike it." The lady in waiting sighed.
"He has spent the whole day in his room, crying. He hates himself for what happened; the lord Faramir has told me not to expect him to come round until his self exacted penance of tears has been paid in full." Rhoswen smiled slightly at this news.
"One of the strongest men in the land, and he cries for me, weeps for me, and wishes my pain for his- a most uncommon bond." Maire smiled wisely.
"That is love, the last full measure of devotion, and you know every blessed inch of that sacred plot. For the love of a woman, some men will do...anything."
"I fear I cannot allow his penance to go unanswered. Maire, I require cloth and thread. Sterner stuff than silk or linen- this will be no embroidery to be hung as an ornament."
Boromir looked around the door a week later, and knocked lightly on the doorframe.
"The captain heir, I am told, does not cower in the face of anything. Why is it, then, that he is afraid to face me-I am no threat. Come hither, lover mine." The invalid woman held up a hand, and beckoned him in.
"The healers told me you were confined to bed." Rhoswen was sitting in her solar, the warm sun heating her back, a smell of crushed flowers and cloth permeating the room. Boromir came in, and took the seat at her side. The lady was sewing something on a white cloth, and handed her work off to her lady as the captain heir sat down.
"The healers told you wrong. Why did you not come and visit me?"
"I was afraid, my lady."
"Afraid of me? I am not a thing to be feared-you know this. Blood loss is no cause for a change in view, lord Boromir. Why were you fearful? I must know."
"I feel at fault for your injuries, Rhoswen." The young woman looked at her lap; her hands were shaking. Her lady drew a coverlet of fur around her shoulders, and the young woman pulled the lap robe closer to her.
"There is no one to be at fault save me, and my virgin stupidity. What I did was rash, and unthinking-even the youngest of maids knows not to wander in the wood without companion or knife." She drew in a breath, still shaking. "My brother in law to be tells me that women who do not know their place anger you; I apologize, for this is me. I am the servant, and you are the master." Boromir looked at Rhoswen; the young woman was close to tears, her hands knit tightly in her lap, face downcast. With some reluctance, he took her hand.
"I ask that that not be so, for you can me master with the slightest of touches, and it is I who feel I should serve. What my brother said was true, once. But opinions change, and that one certainly has. When we first met, I had not known you, and now know that with seeing you, and talking with you, I feel that the flower free in the field is far more beautiful than the clipped bloom in the vase. Keep yourself, all your charms and free will, my rose, and my love shall multiply a hundredfold. I love you as you are, and you need not change for me." He gave the small hand a clasp. Rhoswen looked at him, and smiled.
"When has your father set the date of your wedding? Has he told you yet? I was informed it was to be in June."
"Yes. My father is having the announcements engraved as we speak. And once we are wedded and bedded, I think the task of finding Faramir a wife will turn to you and me." Rhoswen chuckled.
"I think Faramir will be hard placed to find a woman of Minas Tirith to love him-they all find him too wrapped in his library dust. I have the warrior brother, and I will follow with much adoration the woman who keeps the scholar. Faramir is a hard man to please, as far as women go."
"That he is, and when he finally marries, I shall be waiting with bright eyes, and a happy heart. He needs a wife."
"Has he already left for Osgiliath?" Boromir nodded.
"Faramir hates staying at court long. Father is not the best company when feelings towards you are not good ones." He looked at Rhoswen, who was still smiling, and laid a hand carefully on her shoulder. She flinched a little, her face stirring to the soreness.
"Was the bite bad?"
"They say there will be marks."
"All the better for me not to forget that roses are delicate, and should be treated with the utmost care." The lady giggled. "I must take my leave of you now, so that you may work on your sewing in peace. Until tomorrow, precious rose, I shall despair without your face." He bowed out of the room with a kiss to her cheek.
It was in her solar two weeks later that Boromir found himself again, discussing, of all things, diplomacy, with his wife to be. He roused himself from the problem at hand, and looked at Rhoswen, who was deeply engrossed in the subject with him
"Why am I telling you of this?"
"Because as your wife, when you ride off for country and glory, I shall be left to govern the city, and so it falls to me to see that the country runs well while blood runs on the fields of some far off contingent." Rhoswen smiled knowledgably.
"My betrothed is a brazen creature, indeed."
"All the better to keep your impudence in check, milord." Boromir laughed full heartedly, the booming peal filling the whole room.
"I've gone and tied myself to the only woman who can control me, and with words, no less! Gods in heaven help me!" the lighthearted air filling the room rapidly left it when one of the guardsmen rushed in, red-faced and out of breath.
"Your brother calls for aid, sire. Osgiliath is under heavy attack, and he fears he cannot hold the city. He needs assistance." Boromir rose, the happiness in his face replaced by resolution.
"I will ride at once." Rhoswen caught his arm.
"Boromir, wait. Take this. I have been making it for you, and now seems the opportune time to give it." She unfurled the banner across her lap, the white tree splashed across the folds in wheaten gold thread. "Take it with you, and crown the tallest tower with in your victory, Boromir." The tall man nodded, grave, and kissed her hand, and pausing, pulled her up to him for a heavier kiss, not caring that people watched.
"I may not return from my endeavors. Remember me this way." Rhoswen nodded, and Her betrothed strode out of the room with a purposeful walk, the flag in his hands. She could hear him down the hall say to one of his riders,
"Mount this as our standard. Hands that love this city much wove it." The young woman turned away, her face in tears.