Chapter Six
The Steward's Son
"What brings you to Lothlorien, Lord Boromir?" I asked, trying to sound serious, which I was, and not like I was flirting, which I wasn't.
His gaze turned mildly surprised and inquisitive. "Do you not know? I had thought the nature of our errand known to all."
"I am but lately come to this place myself," I said, by not very much in the way of explanation.
Boromir's eyes flicked from me to the trees and back, as if reassuring himself that, since I was here, I was trustworthy. "Perhaps I am not the one best suited to tell you this tale."
"Would you have me pry it out of the hobbits?" I tried to make a joke of it, but everything about his posture and expression told me this was no laughing matter.
"You would find them more closemouthed still, for it is one of them who carries the thing we are sworn to destroy." He didn't sound too happy about that. "But there are others. Other members of our company."
"Indeed? Perhaps you would point them out to me?" Again, I pitched my voice for maximum non-flirtatiousness.
"Gladly. There stands Legolas of Mirkwood and with him Gimli the Dwarf. The hobbits are known to you. Gandalf the Gray, who was our leader, fell into shadow before we entered this land."
Sensing he wasn't finished with the litany, I asked, "Who leads you now?" I watched him struggle for words, expecting him to name himself.
Instead, he said, "Aragorn, whom the hobbits call Strider."
"He is known to me but lately." Boromir scowled. I changed the subject. "Where are you bound?"
The query surprised a smile out of him. "Now?" His question was an easy deflection of my true meaning. "I wander the Golden Wood. Walk with me?" He half-offered his arm, and then withdrew it, which suited me perfectly. We strolled through the giant mellyrn, looking up and around and everywhere except at each other.
Boromir seemed to be the kind of man who needed to fill a silence with words, so I waited. Fairly soon, he began to speak. "I did not mistake your question, my lady. I do not know where we are bound. My heart lies ever with Minas Tirith and my people, and I would journey there." The back of my head equated Minas Tirith with Gondor, which he had mentioned earlier. "What do you know of Gondor, lady?"
"Only what you tell me, my lord." I finally met his eyes, and saw that they were the color of watered coffee, very different from the hematite orbs that had so lately divined my soul.
Boromir looked away. "Much of what I would tell you is not friendly conversation."
"Yet I would hear it, lord," I demurred, demurely.
He turned to me, a look of incredulity spread across his noble features. "What manner of lady are you?"
"Of the usual sort, my lord," I replied, suppressing an impish grin. This was fun.
Boromir looked ahead once more. "I think not. But I shall tell you of Gondor. Of cities ancient and proud, and of Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard. Our land is the first line of defense against Mordor, and until now that defense has stood. Stood, at the price of all we once held dear. I shall tell you of a people who send their sons into battle at thirteen, boys made to fight and die like men. And I shall tell you of myself, who led them."
"Do the women fight, my lord?" I lobbed him a verbal curveball, because I truly wished to know, but also to see how he responded.
He again turned amazed eyes upon me. "'Do the women fight?' They do, though most learn trades, to keep the city running while the men are gone. Some go openly to war, but it is not required, and they are not many. And some cut their hair and go in secret, in the name of husbands or fathers or brothers. Or sons."
"I would see this city, my lord."
This time Boromir would not look at me. "I pray you never do, for the sight of it would break your heart."
"It has already done so."
He froze before continuing. "Then I am sorry for it, but did I not tell you that this subject was not one for friendly conversation?"
"You did, my lord." Just like Dad: you agree, and they keep talking.
Boromir threw himself down on a wrought bench that stood beside a low hedge. "You mind me of an esquire that nods at his lord so he will not be beaten."
I smiled but did not sit. "Have you an esquire, my lord?"
"I did. His name was Maethor. He fell in battle three days before I set out from my city." Boromir hunched, covering his face with one hand. I saw a man who looked as if he had not slept for days, and my heart twisted with grief.
Kneeling beside the bench and a little to his left, I covered the hand that still lay on his knee with my own. "I am sorry, my lord." The words sounded silly and hollow, even as they left my lips.
"He was only one. Many others fall each day." Boromir gave a harsh bark of laughter. "You make me long for him, for I have need of someone to nod at me once in a while, instead of peppering me with questions." He scowled at his lap.
"Your pardon, my lord," I said. "Perhaps it is now your turn to pepper me with questions."
Boromir lifted his head as I bent mine. "How many years have you, Firiel?"
"Nearly twenty, my lord," I replied quietly.
His next question surprised me. "Are you betrothed, or bound to a man?"
"Not as such, my lord." Why in heaven's name was he asking me this?
"It is no fit answer," he grumbled.
"Then no, I am not," I corrected.
"Are you a ward, then, of the Lady of the Wood? For you are not Elfkind, and I had not thought Men dwelt here."
Aware that we trod dangerous ground, I fielded the question, not willing to lie to him. "At present, my lord, my home is here."
"It is no fit answer," he warned again.
I bounded up from the ground, not quite angry. "And Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor has no place for an esquire whose answers are not fit."
"I have little place for anyone," he retorted, matching my tone. "Sit down, Firiel. It was badly done."His command was quiet, but I did not sit.
"Yes it was," I agreed, then added, "of me."
He sprang up again, all weariness hidden. I was for once glad of my height, which let me keep up with him. I could tell he was brooding, but I ventured a question. "My lord, if your land is, as you say, besieged by Mordor, why are you here? I do not doubt your valor," I added, not wanting to offend him. "I only wondered: does your city not need her Steward?" Reaching up, I pulled strands from my braid and then tucked them back in again nervously.
"I also wonder if my city needs me more in this hour," he spat, lengthening his stride. "But I am not the Steward, only the Steward's son. The Steward's elder son."