The Palace atmosphere was thick was expectation. It was the day of the Presentation and families from all different parts of Gondor had gathered at Minas Tirith with their daughters, filling the halls with their nervous chattering and incessant fretting.

Atalantë made her way down one crowded hallway, skirting the groups of young women who gathered in packs along the walls. They were all talking of the events of that evening, though no two conversations centered on the same issue. Atalantë kept her shawl wrapped over her head, hiding her face from the searching looks of the other girls. Jealous whispers and the scathing comments permeated the palace, though none were directed at her, and Atalantë wished that it would remain so. Several people eyed her strangely for keeping her face wrapped in a shawl, but so far there had been no comment to her about it, for which she was thankful.

There was already too much stress laid on her as it was for her own beauty to be called out and scrutinized by a thousand, and it seemed, more beautiful, judges. Atalantë had always been told that her beauty was more of a matured kind. For years her mother had skirted the issue of her daughters' looks, and whenever pressed would reply only that she thought her child to be "tolerably pretty, perhaps" which did nothing for the Lady's self esteem. Now, Atalantë had lain in wait in her rooms for the time that she should have to appear in the court of the Steward, but the babbling noises of the people outside of her door had driven her into a worried rage. So she had decided to escape it.

With a fleeting glance at the hall behind her, Atalantë left it and slipped silently into the shadows. All of the girls had been bidden to stay with the confines of the aforementioned hall at the request of the Steward himself who had acted under the pretense of a desire that they should shield themselves from the looks of men before they had come out, but really so that they would not get in the way of the normal day to day routines of the palace staff and guard. Atalantë had been warned of these limits, but felt assured that no one would see her if she remained hidden in dark corners and empty halls.

Keeping a watchful eye out for inquisitive passers-by, she made it through another empty corridor and out into a small pentagonal atrium framed by six ominous stone pillars. With a relieved smile, Atalantë removed her headscarf and removed the pin from her hair, letting it tumbled in glorious sheaves down to her feet. She was alone at last.

Softly she walked out into the center of the foyer, feeling the silence of the chamber as she stared up at the domed ceiling. The echoing emptiness was a welcoming alternative to the continual noise of the guest-hall. The marble walls were cold, like the tile of the floor beneath her sandaled feet. Atalantë looked up at the top of the dome where a rounded sheet of glass was suspended over an open circle at the pinnacle of the ceiling. Through this she could see the sky. White-gray clouds that nearly engulfed the sky behind them rolled slowly across the heavens. Even the smell in the air signified rain. Atalantë watched the sky for a while in silence as the subtle but continual change in the pattern of the clouds began to lull her into a daze.

The calm did not last long as there was a sudden, subtle noise behind her then, like the sound of careful footsteps against the marble floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she whirled around. A man was standing in the shadows, partially hidden by one of the pillars. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, a warrior perhaps, with tangled blonde hair to his chin and a slightly unshaven beard clinging to his jaw and upper lip.

Atalantë stared in shock for a moment, not knowing quite what to do, and the man did the same. They watched each other for a brief moment.

He moved only slightly. Startled, Atalantë flung her shawl over her head and fled away. She dashed down the halls, her dress and hair both whipping frantically out behind her, and stopped only when she flung herself into her room and shut the door. Her heart was beating at an odd angle, giving her a pain, and it was only after it had calmed down that Atalantë wondered why she had run away at all.

She did remember that man. He had looked at her; but she had not really seen his face.

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When the time came for the ominous presentation, Atalantë felt very little honest fear. She was led into the enormous atrium for the ceremony. The hall was crowded to bursting with women from all parts of Gondor, all dressed in their finest and all staring at one another with looks of utter jealousy and loathing. Her soul felt removed, almost indeed as if it were not her own, as her father led her up to the steps of the Steward's throne. Denethor stared at her rather pointedly, a sour smile on his unpleasant face which offended her, but she bowed before him like she had been instructed, and was introduced to the court. She remembered, afterwards, searching the room for the man whom she had seen that morning in the atrium, but he appearance in court that evening was painfully absent.

Her father had required her to stay in the hall after greeting the Steward, and she had done as he had commanded, but with only half, she felt, of her heart and mind. Datholen had shot several sympathetic glances over at her from his post a little farther from her, which she appreciated, but mostly she felt tired and wished to return home.

That evening, Atalantë walked out by the fountain court, alone. She went behind a shadowed pillar and stared down at her hands, feeling for some odd reason that she wasn't very good to look at. She had never been surrounded by so many clamoring women and heard so many conversations centered on physical beauty before in her life that it was beginning to toll on her. Atalantë knew exactly how she looked; she was tall, more so than most girls she had known, but she wasn't very thin – she had never been considered fat, but there was more on her than she would have liked, as well as very unattractively large breasts. She had never cared before, but somehow it now seemed an honest concern. Perhaps she really was very ugly.

There was a noise behind her, coming from the direction of the fountain; a strangely familiar sound, like cloth boots against marble. Atalantë peeped timidly around the pillar to see who it was and hoped it wasn't Datholen. She liked him very much, but didn't wish to speak with him now.

The man who stood there was not Datholen, but the same man whom she had met rather unexpectedly only that morning. He was standing a little ways from her, and in the moonlight Atalantë caught a glimpse of his face and her heart nearly leaped from her body.

He saw her as well, the same tall, willowy beauty he had seen only once before.

"Don't go," he said abruptly, as she turned to leave for fear of disrupting him. Atalantë turned, and with a streak of boldness like she hadn't had before, she approached the man until they stood face to face.

Boromir looked at her. She was beautiful unlike anyone he had ever seen. Her skin was like ivory beneath the glance of the moon, and her eyes were like silver. Rich, dark hair enhanced her wraithlike appearance, and blended subtly with the shadows around her.

"Are you with the guests?" he asked her. She nodded. He was being frightfully forward, but she didn't seem to mind. Boromir took it at a stride and went on. "Could you tell me your name?" he asked gruffly.

She told him.

"Atalantë," he repeated quietly, apparently feeling the name in his mind as if he recognized it. "You are very beautiful, Lady Inaridel."

Atalantë blushed furiously, wondering how he knew her surname. "You have not told me your name, sir," she said. Boromir grinned, but did to hesitate.

"I am called Boromir," he replied simply.

Atalantë wrinkled her forehead. "Not the son of the Steward!" she asked.

"The same."

Atalantë was shocked at his reply, and her immediate instinct was to bow, which she did. It was a slight bob of her head and a curtsey, but Boromir touched her chin and bade her not to defer.

"Don't be alarmed," he told her quickly. "We are not in a place where the politeness of the court can or should pertain. Please, if you would; treat me simply as you would any other person." Not knowing what to say, Atalantë smiled.

"If it pleases you, my lord," she acknowledged gracefully, lowering her eyes. The spray of the fountain caught her cheek and left a few sparkling dewdrops beneath her lower lashes. Boromir noticed them, to his own surprise - for very infrequently did he pay so close attention to a woman, and his pulse increased in speed.

Atalantë felt his gaze on her. A tinge of color rose to her face as she seemed to sense his displeasure with her. The body that had for so long plagued her now became more hideous the harder she concentrated on it. She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to appear beautiful in front of the lord of Gondor. Even as these startling new emotions were awakened within her, her own appearance held less and less of an appealing light to her mind. Her full chest suddenly became heavier and more vulgar, and her waist seemed far wider than she had formerly supposed. She shifted a little, trying to find a position that would both display her assets and hide her faults.

Boromir watched her as she moved, so slightly. Her astonishing beauty made his breath shorten in his lungs. Instinctively he felt that here was a woman unlike any before her. Never in his life had he been faced with such indomitable grace, such raven beauty. His mind could think of no comparison for her. She idealized the paradigm of a woman to him.

Atalantë herself was short of breath. Her lungs felt constricted by an unknown force. A traitorous seed of desire purged her mind and for a moment she experienced the insane and nearly overwhelming urge to throw herself at Boromir and to kiss him, so releasing all of the polite limitations that bound her.

"Lady Atalantë!" She heard her name called and turned to see one of her handmaidens approaching, though she still hadn't seen her. Atalantë turned back to Boromir. "I must go," she told him urgently. "I shouldn't be out alone."

She looked deep into his eyes, shaking with the overpowering sensations that Boromir had awoken in her, unlike anything she had ever felt before with any other man. There was an intense sensation of virility about him that made her knees buckle and her eyes water, and despite the fact that she had seen and even been held by a man before, there had been no such emotions like this to come between them. It made Atalantë realize for the first time how powerful a man like Boromir was, and for the first time in her life she wasn't frightened by this dominance.

Boromir himself was existing under and only an ineptly convulsed restraint. He too felt genuinely that though he had been with many women before in situations like this and more, none of them had thrilled to his touch in such an honest and youthful manner, and this pleased him. There was something so naïve, so untouched, about the Lady Inaridel that alerted him. It was in the way that she walked and the way that she spoke, and acted around him, in even the few moments that they had been acquainted. She intoxicated his senses completely.

"I must go," she repeated again, but the words fell mechanically from her lips. Both she and Boromir stood still, staring at each other as if they were loathed to part.

"Why?" he asked then. "We've…only just met," Atalantë stammered, "And I…I'm afraid…that…"

"Of what?" Boromir tightened his hold on her hands as if he was afraid she would run away. "You're company will be leaving in the morning, won't they?" It was a question that sprang unexpectedly to his mind.

Atalantë gasped a little at the reminder. "Yes," she said apprehensively. Boromir came a little closer to her, until their bodies were almost touching. He was breathing heavily. Instinctively, Atalantë put her face up to his, every so slowly nuzzling a little closer to his.

"You will never be returning to Minas Tirith?" Boromir was asking in a raspy voice.

"No."

He was hesitant to touch her. It would have been highly improper, and what was more it might have shamed her to have done so.

"Lady Atalantë!"

She broke apart from him as if she had been struck. Turning her stricken gaze behind her, Atalantë feared that her maid would soon discover her hiding place. With fearless resolution she looked back at Boromir and new this to be her last chance. Quickly, Atalantë flew up to him, taking his face in her hands, and kissed him tenderly and long.

"Goodbye," she whispered softly, as he released her, and fled off down an empty corridor.

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Faramir watched his brother pace worriedly around the room. He found that Boromir had begun to do this often.

"Do you love her then?" he decided to ask.

Boromir's forehead was creased in wrinkles. "I don't know! Damn it to hell." He hit the wall with the back of his hand. "She's practically a baby, Faramir; she can hardly be over eighteen." He stopped and leaned his hand against the wall, bowing his head contemplatively. "There was something about her that was so innocent, so pure, and yet at the same time she conveyed a strong experience. It was unlike anything I have ever felt."

Faramir averted his own eyes to the clear blue sky outside marking the peak of morning. The sunshine was a pleasant change from the drizzling rain that had fallen for so long over Minas Tirith. But Denethor's younger son had much more troubling things on his mind than the weather.

"Would you be prepared to marry the lady Inaridel?" he asked quietly. Behind him, he heard Boromir shift uneasily on his feet, and he turned to face him.

"What?" His brother looked confused. "Marry? We've only just been introduced…" Suddenly it seemed to dawn on him. "Ah, yes; father's intentions for me to wed…I understand." He was quiet for a moment, his brow wrinkling with the weight of his decision. "Faramir, I would rather marry her than any other woman that I have ever met. Yes, then, if it comes to that. Only, she is so young, and I am so much older than her; I wouldn't want to hurt her."

Faramir heaved a sigh. "Resignation sets upon you, brother?" he said wearily. Boromir grinned at him. "Not at all. Resignation is an obvious result of forced wedlock…it's not unnatural. I am resigned to marriage because I know I cannot avoid it and besides; there are far worse things than that." He looked at his brother. "But the lady Inaridel," he said vehemently, "She was passion. I have never wanted so much wanted to please a woman that I have completely lost my mind."

"That is excellent," said a voice behind them. Both brothers turned to find their father standing in the mouth of the door. Denethor's face wore a grim look of malicious pleasure as he entered the room, his eyes on Boromir. "I apologize, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Tell me, did mine ears deceive me into believing that those last few words, declared with so much fervor, were in fact your feelings for Inaridel's chit daughter?"

Boromir felt himself grow angry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faramir shoot him a warning glance. "They were, father," he acknowledged gruffly. He had to force himself to remain calm.

Denethor was eying him warily. "So," he wanted to know, "You met with her did you?" Both of his sons sensed the double meaning in the question.

"I spoke with her at the fountain court," replied Boromir. His father smiled, obviously pleased.

"When?"

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "Last night."

"Ah!" Denethor raised his palms into the air with an attitude of clear presupposition. "You met with her. I am no fool, Boromir; tell me, did you like her?"

His son glared furiously back at him. "I spoke with her, father," he said hotly, "Nothing more"
Denethor was honestly surprised, and showed it with one raised eyebrow, the knowing grin replaced by his trademark scowl. "Is that so?" He dropped his hands. "Do you feel for her?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" Denethor raved again, pleased once more at this positive turn of events. "It is good that you feel for her. As you may or may not be aware, the family Inaridel is one of high respect and influence in Gondor - not merely Dol Amroth. Even I would consider an alliance with them to be highly beneficial." He surveyed his eldest son as he continued.

"Their company leaves for Dol Amroth tomorrow. Tonight I will call lord Inaridel to my Hall, and he and I will make arrangements for you marriage to his daughter."

At this, both young men looked up in shock.

"So soon, father?" asked Faramir. Denethor shot a withering glance at his youngest son. "Our time is limited, Faramir," he said, looking back to Boromir as he said it. "I do not wish to put it off any longer. That is my final word. I will see you both at sunset standing in my Hall to welcome the lord Inaridel and his daughter."

With those parting commands, Denethor shifted his heavy mantle back over his shoulders and left the room.

"Now it doesn't really matter whether or not you wish to hurt your lady," Faramir noted gravely. "We shall discover tonight if she thinks you are too old for her."

Boromir glowered at him and turned to follow his father without another word.

---------------------------------

Atalantë was combing her hair by the window. She was not combing it because she liked to do it, or because it was a habit, but because it genuinely needed the care. It was beginning to resemble a sort of mad animal, gone to seed, like all long hair does when it is in need of a comb. So when she had looked down at it that afternoon and seen its state, the large silver brush had come out of the trunk and she had set to work immediately. The day was very fine to her, and afforded a pleasant view as she sat and looked out at it.

She was disturbed by a knock at her door, and she took the opportunity to rest her aching arm.

"Who knocks?" she called. Datholen muttered his name from the other side of the wall, and with a smile, she went to let him in.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Atalantë noted as she fell into his arms and hugged him. He was a great deal like a fond older brother to her, only, except on those occasions when she felt inclined to run off with him to be married. But those inspirations came only in spurts, and only usually when she had been depressed.

"Are you combing your hair?" asked Datholen in mock surprise.

Atalantë surveyed the brush in her hand. "I am. It needed it terribly." Her guardian reached out and stroked her long, flawless locks with a dubious look.

"I hardly think so."

They sat down at the foot of the bed again, and Atalantë began to regale the story of the previous night's escapade at the fountain court. Datholen's face grew grimmer and grimmer as she explained how Boromir had taken her hands, and what she felt when he had. When she came to the part of the kiss Datholen's features had morphed into a stone mask of gloom and despair. Atalantë had nearly finished before she realized what her friend had sunken into.

"Datholen?" she said worriedly, laying a hand on his cheek. "Are you ill?"

"No," the latter replied hoarsely, trying to sound cheerful and failing. "It must the weather." Atalantë wasn't fooled by this, but decided wisely to steer the conversation away from her meeting with the lord Boromir. Privately she felt that it was a remembrance best kept locked in her heart, at least, for the time being.

"Why have you come here? I am sorry that I had not even asked," she apologized mournfully, running a sympathetic finger up Datholen's roughened cheek. Atalantë would never have dared to touch a man like this ever, but her friendship with her guardian went so far back in her life that their contact together was more platonic then romantic. At least, she thought so.

He was avoiding her eyes.

"I've come to summon you to the Hall of the Steward," Datholen said, almost coldly. Atalantë was taken slightly aback at his tone. "I was summoned?" she asked. "But why hadn't you told me sooner? Must I go now? Are they waiting on me?"

Datholen cleared his throat. "No, they're not," he told her finally. "You are required to come in only so short a period as I have been instructed to allow you. You must ready yourself, lady Inaridel."

She grabbed his head in both of her hands and turned it to face her.

"Is it serious?"

"I am of the understanding that it is, lady Inaridel."

Atalantë threw her head warily back. "And who is lady Inaridel?"

Datholen blinked, then saw that she was only teasing. "You never call me by my title in private, Datholen!" Atalantë admonished. "It does make me feel as if you are addressing my mother, and not me." She pointed to herself. "I am Atalantë; to you. Once I am wed then my name will carry a title, but until then please, Datholen, use my first name. At least when we are in private."

She appeared to be struck with a sudden fancy for she fell back laughing onto the bed.

"Lady Atalantë!" She laughed at the thought. "Atalantë; married, as a wife! I will be the Lady of all of Gondor!"

Atalantë reached out her hand and pulled Datholen onto the bed beside her. They lay there for a moment as Atalantë chuckled to herself over her future. "Lady of Gondor," she mused, and looked over at Datholen. "Does it suit me?"

Datholen rolled over into his side and looked down at her. She was more lovely than he had ever seen her before, lying in abandon with her hair in tangles surrounding her face, and he felt his throat tighten uncomfortably.

"I believe," he said slowly, tracing the line of her jaw down to her neck, "That you can be no other than the Lady of Gondor. The title suits you quite well." Atalantë beamed at him.

"Then that is who I will be," she announced. She squeezed Datholen's hand and rolled away off the bed. Standing up, Atalantë brushed off her skirt and went into a small alcove behind a huge velvet drapery that hung like a partition across the room. There was a door through the back of the wall that led into the rooms of her waiting gentlewomen, and she took the liberty of utilizing this commodity by opening it and calling. Her servants scuttled into the alcove as if they had been waiting outside the door for her command.

Hastily Atalantë ordered them to dress her for her appearance in the Hall. Datholen, not wanting to be discovered lying prone on the lady's bedsheets, quietly removed himself from there and disappeared into the hall to wait until Atalantë had finished.

She came out to meet him after a few moments, looking beautiful as he found she always did, with her hair perfectly combed and braided, and herself wearing a long white dress and a silver chain around her waist.

"Am I presentable?" Atalantë asked nervously, putting her hands on Datholen's arm. He patted them supportively and assured her that she was.

He led her out to the Great Hall, where both lord Inaridel and the Steward already stood waiting. Atalantë brightened at the sight of her father, but the smile died immediately when she saw the troubled look on his face. The Steward looked pleased, but that did not comfort her much. Impulsively she realized that there was something wrong.

"Father!" she said, rushing to him after bowing respectively to the Steward, who nodded back. Lord Inaridel took his daughter's hands in his, and turned to Denethor.

"And where is your son?" he asked heatedly. "Let him show his face, and then we will see if my daughter wishes to commit herself to him."

Atalantë felt all of the color rush from her face. "What is this?" she said softly, and looked up at her father with worried eyes. "Father? Of what do you speak concerning me?"

Lord Inaridel didn't meet her gaze, but stared pointedly at the unrepentant Denethor, who continued to survey them both with a hint of victory in his pitiless eyes. From an archway near the side of the Hall, a small cavalcade of guards came striding out, four in all, following close behind two men. Atalantë's heart stopped at the recognition of the man in the lead as being Boromir, with his brother Faramir coming close in the rear and both men looking equally grim.

Boromir stopped in the middle of the Hall and nodded to lord Inaridel, who returned the action, though slightly coldly. He didn't look at Atalantë, but she looked at him. In the light of day she found him to be even more handsome than she had thought before. His broad, powerful build, the roughened face of a warrior, his sandy, tangled hair half pulled back behind his head all worked the same effect they had had on Atalantë's emotions the previous night in the fountain court, only stronger.

He was speaking. "I assume that you have already been informed of my intentions towards your daughter," Boromir began, while his father goaded him on.

"I do not believe that my daughter knows, however," lord Inaridel answered testily. His grip on her arm tightened protectively and she looked up at him with concern. "That I know what, my lord?" she whispered to him, but received no reply. Instead, her father glared at Boromir, and directed his words to him.

"I do not favor the match."

"Match?" Atalantë was bewildered beyond measure, but kept her voice to herself. What match, she thought. Between her and Boromir? But surely, no one knew of her attraction…

Perhaps no one did know.

Perhaps it was an arrangement. A presupposition: Atalantë stared, horrified, up at Denethor. She was being sold for the highest asking price, which was Boromir, and the title and recognition he brought with him.

"It is a highly agreeable match," Denethor was saying, "To either party, I might add." He laughed a little. "Your daughter is unlikely to find any other such partner in all of Gondor as my son."

"He is too old for her!" lord Inaridel said with determination edging his voice. "Wedlock between entirely incompatible ages is not favored upon by those who know its unpleasant qualities." Atalantë surveyed Boromir and thought that perhaps her father's assessment might be a little far fetched.

"Also, your son is a warrior, and likely to die in battle, leaving his wife, whomever she may be, quite alone," continued Inaridel. "It is not the future that I see for my daughter."

"It is honorable to be the widow of a soldier!" Denethor shouted. "You degrade the esteem of my son's position!"

"Enough!" said Boromir suddenly. "Lord Inaridel, if you find me unsuitable for your daughter then please, accept my apology, and I will trouble you no longer."

Atalantë's heart sped up. Don't let him leave, she thought desperately, but her father was nodding already in acknowledgment of Boromir's regret. Without once looking her way, Boromir turned on his heel and left the Hall, his revenue following.

"I accept," she breathed softly.

"What was that?" Both her father and Denethor turned to look at her in amazement. Suddenly she felt quite nervous to have all of the attention so abruptly turned upon her, and for a moment she was stricken speechless.

"That is…," she recovered herself quickly, and drew a hasty breath. "I accept the lord Boromir's offer of marriage." Atalantë shot a quick glance at her father. "That is what he was proposing, was it not?"

Denethor began to laugh.

"See, lord Inaridel; your daughter has some sense, I find. She will have him then; what do you say to that?"

Lord Inaridel raised a wary brow. "If she will have him," he said calmly, "Then I will not stand in her way. As you have said, it is a profitable match." Atalantë's heart plunged down into the pit of her stomach, and for a few minutes she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Her father, not waiting for an answer from either his daughter or the Steward, turned and left the Hall with as much finality in his step as Boromir had had.

Atalantë felt herself to be quite alone with Denethor. She looked at him.

"If you would…excuse me, my lord," she said, dropping a hasty curtsey before fleeing out of a side corridor and outside the palace into an empty circular garden. She flung herself down on the ground and sobbed until her chest ached.

----------------------------

The bans were read that evening in a small foyer with a fountain in the middle of it and a domed ceiling. Atalantë walked up to it on Datholen's arm, feeling devoid of any and all emotions. She cast many anxious glances around the room but for the whole ceremony her father never appeared.

Boromir came, with his brother, both a little astounded at the sudden change of decision with light to the marriage. He took Atalantë's hand when she offered it, and stood with her as the bans were read aloud to them. It struck him how pale his fiancée looked; her face was pallid and her eyes were red from crying. He was put out that she would cry at having to marry him, and because it offended him, he left immediately after the ceremony without staying to talk with her.

Atalantë took his hasty leave as a sign of disinterest and felt both ashamed and sorry that she had agreed to marry him. She began to suddenly realize that a man like him, being older than her and having been out in the world, would not want a young and inexperienced wife. After all, a man had to be able to talk to his wife, and if she hadn't a clue as to what he meant then how could any marriage survive such conditions?

She returned to her room with Datholen, but even he did not stay with her. He said a curt farewell and left her on her own. Her father did not come by at all, to wish her congratulations on her upcoming wedding or even to wish her goodnight.

It was a very lonely young woman who cried herself to sleep that night, while up in the North tower, Boromir of Gondor sat up, unable to sleep for thinking of her.