"I want to learn to fight," Aeardis blurted out one night over supper with her father. She had seen Boromir and Faramir sparring in the yard that day, yet all she could do was watch the two and tuck her nose back into her book like a proper little lady.
Ohtar set aside the letter that was meant for the King of Rohan with a heavy sigh. He supposed such a request was only expected considering the amount of time she spent with Denethor's sons.
"Who will teach you, Aeardis?" It was not often that a teacher would willing take on training a girl; that was simply the way of things in the land. There were other duties more important than learning to wield a sword, yet Aeardis had already excelled in those lessons. Her father sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, "I am old, child, I fear I would not be a sufficient instructor." It was true, though still youthful in appearance her father was beginning to slow with achy bones and muscles.
Aeardis was silent for a moment, a pensive frown settled on her lips. "The master-at-arms?" she sounded uncertain that he would train her, but then she thought about the brothers. Boromir was already an established warrior in his own right, almost old enough to go off to battles. He was five-and-ten now and she was just two years younger. Faramir had yet to move on to wielding heavier swords but was already a far better bowman than his brother. They could teach her. "Boromir and Faramir would teach me."
The master-at-arms had been reluctant to accept her as a student but he was in no position to deny the Steward's personal advisor. The first days had been horrific. Bruises were plentiful, the small nicks and scabs too numerous to count, and her muscles ached, but it slowly began to fade. Each bruise was a lesson and each lesson made her better. She had told one of the healers that when the master-at-arms took her. Now Elanor wore a pensive frown whenever she saw the young girl treading into the Houses of Healing.
She repeated her refrain about bruises and lessons again, "Evidently not, Lady Aeardis, or you would not return to me with so many bruises." Murky eyes flicked up in a disapproving glare while gentle fingers applied a thick layer of sticky-sweet Alfirin syrup to her most recent wounds. She was terse with the girl, yes, but she had grown into a familiarity and Aeardis found a motherly figure in the healer. Besides, if she really did believe that statement, she was doing a poor job of getting better at anything save collecting those lessons.
After a solid month, her sword was not so heavy anymore, her movements were more fluid, her strikes carried more force behind them. She had not frequented the healers in some time too. "You're a quick learner," Boromir commented and Aeardis beamed at the praise. Like Faramir, however, her strength lie in her skill with the bow and arrow. She had even tried her hand at throwing daggers. In a years' time, as the autumn slowly approached again it became clear that if her training persisted then she had the potential to become a great warrior. Yet it was not greatness that Aeardis sought, only proficiency and so her formal lessons ended and what extra training she undertook was instructed by both Boromir and Faramir.
When she turned five-and-ten, her father presented her with a blade forged of the lightest and strongest steel that could be found in Middle Earth and a leather-wrapped hilt that was the perfect size for her to hold. Set within the pommel was a blue-green gem that shone like the murky sea that surrounded Tol Eressëa. She practiced with it every day.
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Aeardis remembered the day that Boromir told her he was to be sent to his first battle. She knew that so many that went to battle never returned, so she tried to hide his sword and his armor. It was a selfish way to protect him, the girl of four-and-ten was determined that Boromir would not see battle, not yet, at least. Her efforts did not work. On a cold winter morning, Boromir stood among the ranks of Gondorian soldiers wearing his leathers with a heavy shield strapped to his back and sword at his side.
When the time came that Faramir was old enough to journey into battle, Aeardis tied back her long hair and traded her dresses and fineries for a set of ill-fitting mail and leathers. The shield sat awkwardly on her back and the standard soldier's swords were much heavier than her own. She had made it to the second gate of the city before someone picked her out for a girl and sent her back to her father.
He could not be angry with his daughter, it was in such a manner that he had been exposed to battle too. Ohtar decided then that he would introduce her to the realm of politics and the duties that would be required of her should she become an advisor to Boromir when he was named Steward.
A number of years had passed before Ohtar truly began tutoring Aeardis in the ways of strategy and battle tactics. Her mind was quick and well versed in the history of wars and great battles. She was astute and few things escaped her meticulous attention to detail. She could find a weakness in the enemy without even stepping outside of the gates of the White City.
By the time she was seven-and-ten her influence on the affairs of Gondor became more prevalent. Her position on both militaristic and domestic councils rose to prominence. There was never a prouder father when Aeardis implemented her own battle tactics. The Captains and Generals took her words to heart, knowing that despite young age she was wise beyond her years. It seemed fitting that the daughter of the acclaimed Sword of Twilight would have a mind for strategy.
She had since flowered into a young lady while in Minas Tirith. The city had been her home now for ten years though the dreams and memories of her castle by the sea never fully faded. There was always a sense of longing yet she found ways to mitigate the sadness through books, music, and art.
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Aeardis opened her bedchamber doors with a deep set frown at the disturbance. Boromir stood on the other side, in his bloodied leather armor and bedraggled appearance. Even with her noticeable displeasure, he was smiling and she found that it was nigh impossible not to return the smile. Three days had passed since he rode off to Ithilien. He stumbled forward toward her writing desk, dropping his blood spattered sword onto the stone floor before taking a seat.
It was not the first time he had come to her after a battle and he assured her it would not be the last time either. In silence, she began undoing the pieces of leather and mail; quickly finding a long and slim cut that bled on his left breast and another on his arm that was admittedly much worse but still within her abilities to treat.
She had dispelled her plight to one of the women in the Houses of Healing after the first time he came stumbling into her room. With no small amount of reluctance, the healer had given Aeardis a flask of vinegar and clean linen bandages with the order that if the Steward-Prince was badly injured she would take him to those trained in the matter of treating battle wounds. Aeardis must have read over a hundred books on healing since then.
Her lips were pursed as she dampened a washcloth with the vinegar. "You should have gone to the healers," she chastised, as she always did when he came to her like this.
"Tis but a scratch," he laughed, but it wasn't a scratch. Scratches did not bleed so badly or leave scars.
"Stubborn," Aeardis said while shaking her head.
"One of my more charming traits," Boromir quipped, but when she pressed the vinegar into the cuts his boastful attitude died immediately, replaced by a dour grimace of pain that almost made her laugh.
"Nevertheless, I shall have you restored soon enough." A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips as she now dabbed the last of a soothing herbal mixture onto his wounds, and set aside the paste in favor of linen bandages, unwinding them slowly and carefully. She bound his wounded arm tightly, the blood on her hands already staining the white linen. It was a strange thing that she had seen so much blood without even stepping foot on the battlefield.
"Will you be going to the celebratory feasts?" She asked while dappling away the blood that still tried to well up on his chest. It was pointless to inquire such a thing, he rarely missed such events.
Boromir reached for her hand but she quickly turned away and went to her wash basin, scrubbing away his blood and gathering a damp cloth to clean his mottled face. "Are you going, Aeardis?" he asked, scrunching his face up as she wiped away the grime from his forehead and cheek.
"I'm afraid not," she smiled and glanced at the book that had been left open on her settee before his unannounced entrance, "I do hate to leave a story unfinished." Pleased that at least his face had been rid of dirt and blood, she gathered up the remaining linens and flask of vinegar.
"Solitude and peace do sound to be a pleasant change." His admission caused her to drop most of the supplies on the ground. It was a rarity that Boromir would not attend a celebration or a feast. His love for boisterous company and fondness of ale was unparalleled. He knelt next to Aeardis, laughing, and handed her the clean roll of linen and the dirtied washcloth. "Will you deny company?"
She shook her head, "No, but you should go change and I will fetch us something to eat." He returned to her in a fresh linen tunic and trousers. True to her word, there was a platter filled with an assortment of summer fruits, cheeses, cured meats, and fresh bread. They ate in a comfortable silence only permeated by quick talk of what had occurred on the field of battle. In the five-day campaign, they had defeated an orc army and pushed the Haradrim back beyond the southern borders of Gondor. The disputes and invasions with the Harad occurred on a nearly monthly basis, yet their army was always disorganized and ill-disciplined and failed repeatedly to claim any land north of their borders.
Boromir supposed that was one of the primary reasons he enjoyed Aeardis's company so much, she was keen to discussing battles and war and spoke with great knowledge on the subject. In a silent agreement, they both stood from the small drawing table in her solar and clambered onto her bed. After they had grown out of their stage of perpetual fighting, oft times they would read the histories of other realms. Now was no different, despite the fact that he was twenty and she was eight-and-ten.
Aeardis sat between Boromir's outstretched legs, his chin resting on her shoulder as he too looked over the old leather-bound book. "What is it about?" She could hear the exhaustion in his voice and feel his warm breath on her neck, and slowly she relaxed back into him.
"The War of Wrath," Aeardis replied, beginning to read aloud. Her voice was a sweet melody like no other and despite his wish to stay awake for a while longer, Boromir found himself slipping deep into a dreamless sleep.
Come morning light when she woke, it was to an unfamiliar warmth that lay behind her. In her lap the book was still splayed out on the last page she had read and around her waist was a strong arm clothed in a deep blue tunic. Unwilling to move as of yet, Aeardis pushed the book aside and shifted only a bit, Boromir's arm tightened around her.