Boromir

'If you asked me what love is to me, I would answer : duty. Ever was my life ruled by this stern mistress; yet look – not all of her gifts are bitter.'

I am a Noble Lady of Gondor. I have my duties – to tend to the household in my husband's absence, to rule the house staff with a fair and just hand, to tend to guests with both courtesy and grace, to bring praise upon my husband and my father's house.

To never show my emotions, for they are raw, and weak, and do not become a noblewoman such as me. To never cry, even when my husband rides off towards dark promises of death and injury.

He has my duties, and I have mine.

Sunlight streams through the tall, arched windows of our bedchamber. I had left them open, for the air had been stuffy and in dire need of a change. The gossamer-white curtains flutter lightly in the breeze.

There is no one, not one servant waiting upon us, for even they are not cruel enough to deny me this one moment alone with my husband, this noble son of Gondor, who will now ride off to search for the fabled home of the elves.

I have ever been intuitive, and even now I cannot ignore that faint pang that pulls upon my heart, that makes me want to throw myself down at his feet, to grab at his ankles and cry for him not to leave. Suddenly, I know : if he leaves now, I will never see him again.

And so I hold back my tears, yet again, for I will not have him leave with memories of a weeping wife. I am a noble of Gondor, and I am strong. I will not cause him needless pain.

Slowly, he fastens his belt and drapes his fine, fur-lined cloak about his broad shoulders. He lingers, movements slower and less sure than usual, and I know that he loathes to leave as well. Yet he is a true son of Gondor, and he will not fail her.

Wordlessly, I step up behind him, encircling his strong waist with my arms, fastening the jeweled clasp of his thick cloak about his neck. I rest my chin upon his shoulder, and he leans onto my temple, a smile teasing about his bearded mouth.

"I will be back before you know it," he says, and I allow myself a wry smile at that.

"I always know, my lord. I always do."

I pull back, and he turns around, cupping one cheek with a rough, calloused hand. I throw my arms around my neck, savoring the moment, commiting every last detail to memory. This will be my rock, this will be what I hang onto for with every breath until his return.

I note the way the golden sunlight hits his angular cheekbones, his strong jaw, the stern-lined yet fair face. I see the crinkles about his eyes, the firm mouth, the glint in his eyes he only gets when looking upon me.

He drinks me in as well. His hand caresses my cheek, slowly, then traces my nose and lips as if he is trying to memorize every curve and dip of my face. Then our lips meet, slow and sweet, and I feel that lingering chill of dread deep within my soul.

"You will come back to me," I say, with as much fire as I dare. The darkness encroaches upon us every day, and every day is a battle for his life, for this valiant leader of men. I will not deny the men their beloved captain, and yet every day, my heart breaks behind this steely mask I wear.

He squeezes my shoulder, and I know that he has understood.

"I will always return to you, my love. In death or in life – I will return."

His voice is low, hoarse, little above a whisper, and I blink back tears that spring unbidden to my eyes. Then I blink again, and steel my will, my resolve. I will not have him remember my tears. Let him remember my resolve, my love, my devotion, my loyalty. I am his lady. I will not fail him.

"The Valar light your way," I whisper, and hold out a hand in farewell. A firm kiss upon my hand, and he is gone.

I watch him as he rides out of the city, his men and soldiers cheering him on, thundering out on his great mount, and turns into a speck in the distance. Then I turn, and watch as my shadow lengthens and stretches out across the bed, the bed that is so large and insurmountably cold now that he is gone. The sunlight plays across the crimson sheets, outlining every crag and texture of the rich velvet, and a cool breeze plays upon my cheeks.

In life or in death, he will return.

He will return to me. His wife. His lady. His love.

It is quiet, no servants, no one about, and I close the curtain to the glorious morning outdoors, and let the tears fall.

They did not have his body.

All I received was news of his death, and word of where he had been buried, and a cold, impersonal notification that I was free to move his grave to Gondor if I so wished.

I watched the coronation of King Elessar, and I felt a terrible bitterness upon my tongue, for my warrior, my captain, my love died for this; died for this coronation of a man I do not even know, and it is a terrible thought. I know that he is the rightful king, the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, I know that he has given much for the peace of Middle Earth, but he is not Boromir.

Usurper, a voice whispers in my mind. All these years, the line of Stewards held the throne for him, with unrelenting duty, even unto their deaths; and this man simply walks up and claims it as his.

I am bitter, terribly bitter, and so brittle I feel I must break soon. Yet I steel myself. I will not shame Boromir, even after death. I am his lady. I will be strong for him.

I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and turn, to face the king. He is leaner and more lithe than my husband was, and yet that dark hair, that sharp look in his eye, that noble chin, painfully, inexorably brings images of my love to mind.

I curtsy, and manage a graceful introduction of myself. He simply stares at me, for the longest time, then presses something small and cold onto my palm.

It is a silver ring, beautiful in its simplicity, cutting in its coolness. I bring up my finger to touch the same ring resting upon my fourth finger, and fight, fight with all that I have, to stop those cursed tears from falling.

"Boromir was a good man," the King says, his voice cracking from grief. His eyes cloud with welling tears and then it is simply too much.

And he held me, this King I cannot bring myself to respect, as I screamed my silent grief for my love to the heavens. He held me, tight, as I let go, tears running brokenly down my face, and I cursed him, cursed everything he stands for, cursed the Valar and my own broken soul.

I cradle the silver band in my palm as tears continue to track down my cheeks, and a helpess, bitter smile finds its way onto my face.

Even as his body rots under some foreign shore, he has made it back to me. In life or in death. He has returned.

To me. His lady. His forevermore unto my death.

Coming Up : Aragorn

'It is nigh impossible, a love with no regrets... but, my love, I would never have had it any other way.'

A/N : I sincerely hope you enjoyed this short piece, and please, tell me what you think! :D I am on a writing spree... I cannot stop writing. This is what happens when college entrance exams are over and done with, my friends... XD