------
Rhoswen looked out over the high white walls, the still rancid smell of death and burning flesh lingering in the air, even with a brazier of sweet smelling herbs beside her, tears of nothing but the purest joy staining her face as she watched the small black speak that was the Company of the West march away from the still crumbling remains of unadulterated evil. Though she could not see him, Rhoswen knew in her heart that he could not be dead- and it was this more than anything that gave her profound joy
"Sound the trumpets! Give word to the heralds that the lords of Gondor have returned victorious!" Rhoswen called to the nearest page, who scampered off with a newly renewed smile on his face. And Rhoswen turned her face to the sun and smiled.
"So, my friend, you have not deserted me after all? The sun really does shine for me, happiest of happy hearts in this, most blessed of hours."
So it was that Boromir's foretelling that the Tower Guard should take up the call that the lords of Gondor had returned, and call home those valiant hearts with silver trumpets ringing clear across the Pelennor, with banners caught high in the breeze, the tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver in the newly found sun.
----
When the Company of the captains of the west rode into the city, they were greeted with the clearing of a fanfare of the trumpets, resounding the victory of the west over the hills and plains.
Boromir looked at Aragorn, who smiled at the rogue glint in his eyes, and broke from the company to gallop up to the top of the tower, jumping down off his horse to greet his lady love. The young woman ran over, embracing him so hard as though the world would end. Boromir fiercely kissed the top of her head, and looked at her. So beautiful, so perfect, the epitome of grace and compassion and everything that he needed and wanted and had in this beautiful woman that loved him to no end. Not caring the least that his uncle and comrades had by now reached the top of the Tower, Boromir kissed Rhoswen-and this was no chaste peck, either- pouring every single ounce of love he possessed into her lips. There was a clearing of throats in the crowd, and the Warden of the Tower looked at the king, who was gazing at the two of them with a funny smile in his eyes, the smile of some one who has just played a prank and knows you'll be feeling it soon. Boromir laid an arm around Rhoswen's waist and turned to look at his king.
"Your smile tells me you have some devilry planned- and I tell you, I'll have none of it." Aragorn shook his head, and laughed. But now the warden came forward out of the Hall of the King, and whispered gravely in the Captain General's ear, and the laugh died down as Boromir's smile evaporated.
The Eldest son of the Steward sat at his father's bedside, the older man not moving, the gentle breathing the only sign that he was still with living. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Aragorn.
"Why are you here?"
"I came to see you and your father...has he stirred?"
"Nay." Boromir's face fell even more, as if he was giving up, yet again, the most precious commodity in the universe in times like these-hope.
"May I?" Aragorn drew from a pouch at his waist several leaves, and dropped them in a bowl of water at the steward's bedside, where a cloth lay, seeping in the warm moisture. Very gently, he washed the elderly man's forehead. After what seemed an eternity, the steward's head moved, and ever so slowly, his eyes opened, as though his vision swam.
"Burning...everything was burning...what a dream...and..." He seemed incoherent, like what he said was not his own.
"Father? Father, can you not hear me? Can you not see your son?" Boromir seemed close to tears- his father was so close, and yet...so far.
"I had a son once...but he is dead. Am I not now dead too, that he is before me?" Denethor mumbled to himself, or no one in particular.
"I am not dead, father! I am not dead, and nor is Faramir or Aerwyn! Why, why will you not wake? Why must this madness you suffer make me suffer in twain?" Boromir began to cry, and he laid his head on his father's hand. The old man hesitated, struggling to remember, and slowly, he began to stroke his son's hair.
"Boromir...Boromir...they told me you were dead."
All Boromir could do was cry.
------
Rhoswen looked into her father in law's room to see her king wiping his hands on a towel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling knowledgably, and her fiancé crying and trying to speak at the same time. Denethor looked to the door, and with an aged hand, beckoned her in.
"Rhoswen..." his face cracked a smile. Now he seemed much older, lined and wizened, white haired and sunken in appearance, as if a hundred years of troubles had been brought down upon him while he slept
"It pains me to see you like this, milord. My best wishes for your continued good health. I would take Boromir, if it pleases milord. He and I have much to speak of." Denethor waved a hand to carry on, and Rhoswen gently led Boromir out of his father's room, and down the hall, offering a handkerchief.
"There is something I'd like you to see, love." She took his hand and led him through the streets to the houses of healing. She pointed from the balcony looking over the gardens to two figures, one clad in white with a great azure cloak billowing about her, golden hair rippling in the wind, and the other with a rich green cloak, tawny locks blowing about with the chill breezes. The two were gazing off into the Pelennor, and the woman in blue drew nearer the man; they were talking.
"Yonder is your brother, and I have heard it from his own lips that he fosters a love in his heart for the lady Éowyn."
"The lady Éowyn? The Wraithbane? Truly, to the gentle go the spirited, and to the spirited go the gentle-a union of opposites. Shall I call to him?" Rhoswen pulled him away from the balcony, a light of pleading in her eyes.
"You must not! Please, Boromir-would you have liked it if Faramir had walked in on us kissing? Leave them- you and I have better things to speak of." She took his big hand and led him away, to talk of the battle, and other ceremonials besides.
Rhoswen looked out over the high white walls, the still rancid smell of death and burning flesh lingering in the air, even with a brazier of sweet smelling herbs beside her, tears of nothing but the purest joy staining her face as she watched the small black speak that was the Company of the West march away from the still crumbling remains of unadulterated evil. Though she could not see him, Rhoswen knew in her heart that he could not be dead- and it was this more than anything that gave her profound joy
"Sound the trumpets! Give word to the heralds that the lords of Gondor have returned victorious!" Rhoswen called to the nearest page, who scampered off with a newly renewed smile on his face. And Rhoswen turned her face to the sun and smiled.
"So, my friend, you have not deserted me after all? The sun really does shine for me, happiest of happy hearts in this, most blessed of hours."
So it was that Boromir's foretelling that the Tower Guard should take up the call that the lords of Gondor had returned, and call home those valiant hearts with silver trumpets ringing clear across the Pelennor, with banners caught high in the breeze, the tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver in the newly found sun.
----
When the Company of the captains of the west rode into the city, they were greeted with the clearing of a fanfare of the trumpets, resounding the victory of the west over the hills and plains.
Boromir looked at Aragorn, who smiled at the rogue glint in his eyes, and broke from the company to gallop up to the top of the tower, jumping down off his horse to greet his lady love. The young woman ran over, embracing him so hard as though the world would end. Boromir fiercely kissed the top of her head, and looked at her. So beautiful, so perfect, the epitome of grace and compassion and everything that he needed and wanted and had in this beautiful woman that loved him to no end. Not caring the least that his uncle and comrades had by now reached the top of the Tower, Boromir kissed Rhoswen-and this was no chaste peck, either- pouring every single ounce of love he possessed into her lips. There was a clearing of throats in the crowd, and the Warden of the Tower looked at the king, who was gazing at the two of them with a funny smile in his eyes, the smile of some one who has just played a prank and knows you'll be feeling it soon. Boromir laid an arm around Rhoswen's waist and turned to look at his king.
"Your smile tells me you have some devilry planned- and I tell you, I'll have none of it." Aragorn shook his head, and laughed. But now the warden came forward out of the Hall of the King, and whispered gravely in the Captain General's ear, and the laugh died down as Boromir's smile evaporated.
The Eldest son of the Steward sat at his father's bedside, the older man not moving, the gentle breathing the only sign that he was still with living. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Aragorn.
"Why are you here?"
"I came to see you and your father...has he stirred?"
"Nay." Boromir's face fell even more, as if he was giving up, yet again, the most precious commodity in the universe in times like these-hope.
"May I?" Aragorn drew from a pouch at his waist several leaves, and dropped them in a bowl of water at the steward's bedside, where a cloth lay, seeping in the warm moisture. Very gently, he washed the elderly man's forehead. After what seemed an eternity, the steward's head moved, and ever so slowly, his eyes opened, as though his vision swam.
"Burning...everything was burning...what a dream...and..." He seemed incoherent, like what he said was not his own.
"Father? Father, can you not hear me? Can you not see your son?" Boromir seemed close to tears- his father was so close, and yet...so far.
"I had a son once...but he is dead. Am I not now dead too, that he is before me?" Denethor mumbled to himself, or no one in particular.
"I am not dead, father! I am not dead, and nor is Faramir or Aerwyn! Why, why will you not wake? Why must this madness you suffer make me suffer in twain?" Boromir began to cry, and he laid his head on his father's hand. The old man hesitated, struggling to remember, and slowly, he began to stroke his son's hair.
"Boromir...Boromir...they told me you were dead."
All Boromir could do was cry.
------
Rhoswen looked into her father in law's room to see her king wiping his hands on a towel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling knowledgably, and her fiancé crying and trying to speak at the same time. Denethor looked to the door, and with an aged hand, beckoned her in.
"Rhoswen..." his face cracked a smile. Now he seemed much older, lined and wizened, white haired and sunken in appearance, as if a hundred years of troubles had been brought down upon him while he slept
"It pains me to see you like this, milord. My best wishes for your continued good health. I would take Boromir, if it pleases milord. He and I have much to speak of." Denethor waved a hand to carry on, and Rhoswen gently led Boromir out of his father's room, and down the hall, offering a handkerchief.
"There is something I'd like you to see, love." She took his hand and led him through the streets to the houses of healing. She pointed from the balcony looking over the gardens to two figures, one clad in white with a great azure cloak billowing about her, golden hair rippling in the wind, and the other with a rich green cloak, tawny locks blowing about with the chill breezes. The two were gazing off into the Pelennor, and the woman in blue drew nearer the man; they were talking.
"Yonder is your brother, and I have heard it from his own lips that he fosters a love in his heart for the lady Éowyn."
"The lady Éowyn? The Wraithbane? Truly, to the gentle go the spirited, and to the spirited go the gentle-a union of opposites. Shall I call to him?" Rhoswen pulled him away from the balcony, a light of pleading in her eyes.
"You must not! Please, Boromir-would you have liked it if Faramir had walked in on us kissing? Leave them- you and I have better things to speak of." She took his big hand and led him away, to talk of the battle, and other ceremonials besides.