Already alive with happy couples (friendly and romantic), the hall of Meduseld hummed with chatter and music; the warm aromas of meats, fruit and malt wines melted together in the candlelit air. Once again, Amela found herself in a dress - Éowyn had insisted - and it proved quite impractical as she tried to make her way to the King's table. Luckily for her, Amela was soon saved from struggling through the crowd.
"Amela! You've finally made it! I would apologise for sending Lord Boromir to urge you, but it got you here, hence my remorse is outweighed by happiness." When Éowyn and her friend had made their way to the King's table, at least one of them was glad of the seat.
"Couldn't you have picked out a more comfortable dress for me, Éowyn? I can barely move."
Laughing, the shield maiden sighed at Amela's naivety.
"Hopefully you won't need to move much; it's not likely you'll need a sword tonight."
The two agreed to disagree; Amela always saw the benefit of being armed, having been caught without a weapon one too many times.
"Lord Boromir seemed much better, Éowyn, weren't his wounds as severe as they seemed?"
"Not even close, the arrow in his chest barely pierced his skin; it was almost blunt and apparently not moving very quickly either!"
Amela chuckled.
"So much for the reputation of Uruk-Hai archers! And his shoulder?"
Nodding, Éowyn continued.
"That one was sharp, very; it almost went straight through him, the tip was just sticking through his upper back when I removed it. It didn't hit anything vital, but the muscles it tore will take a long time to heal."
"Longer than my wrist?"
"I'm not sure, but you'll both fight again. Let's not think on it, there's a feast to enjoy!"
In not much time, they had both quenched their thirsts, eaten a morsel not too big to make them feel sluggish and Amela had thanked the King for her room (despite the insistence of her deserving it). Excusing herself from the table, Éowyn convinced Amela to celebrate properly. Joining the other women dancing with friends, they pranced merrily, all around the room in poorly constructed circles. The mood of the hall was a happy one, uncorrupted by thoughts of war for most of those present. Indeed, the evil that loomed on their doorstep was almost forgotten. While the couples were skipping in some form of informal waltz, the music changed to a different dance. Now, the couples changed regularly, allowing people to make new acquaintances without the stress of a formal introduction: something Amela was very happy about.
Carrying on uninterrupted, the dance gave a good ten minutes of laughing and casual chatter. As the candlelight began to wane, all of the women span again to meet their next partner. But, for Amela, the transition did not go so smoothly. She span as she had before, positioning her hands for the next dancer to grab them, but her partner didn't jump off into the carefree dance she had expected. Though he did take her hands, just in time for the music to slow to a smooth melody, far slower than before, and much more intimate.
"You look beautiful, my lady."
How had he done that? Amela hadn't even seen Boromir in the hall until now; not for lack of looking.
"I can't breathe in this thing; I don't care how beautiful it is."
Boromir chuckled: the deep buttery chuckle Amela hadn't heard since before they came to Edoras.
"I didn't say anything about the dress, Amela." Neither could see in the dim light, but they both blushed. For a short while after that, they moved in silence, travelling the room in much a similar manner to every other couple, aside from Amela stepping on Boromir's toes once in a while.
"I can't dance…" Worried, Amela excused the assault on her partner's feet.
"You're lucky then."
"What do you mean?"
"You happen to be the partner of one of the few men present who can."
With that, there was a jump in the music and Boromir span Amela outward, and the hand not held by the Gondorian flew surprisingly gracefully. However, Amela's new found grace was short lived: the musical peak subsided and she prepared to spin elegantly back into position, but her partner's strength proved unexpected, despite his injured shoulder, as - instead of lightly twirling back into the waltz, the warrior girl tumbled. Not being far away, Boromir of course caught her with ease as she awkwardly collided with his chest (which was, fortunately, not armoured). His good arm he had wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him; the elbow of his other supported her upper back, and the hand held her head between his uninjured shoulder and his neck. Although his hold loosened when Amela had her footing back, they didn't return to the formal position they'd been dancing in before; they stood, facing each other, with Boromir's hands on Amela's back (one wrapped up to the back of her shoulder, the other on her lower back) keeping her close to him. In spite of this intimate hold, Amela's arms were still at her sides; her eyes were hardened.
"What are you doing?" She demanded.
"I told you I wouldn't let go again; I'm sticking to that promise." Boromir's words were strong, but his voice contrastingly soft, as rested his gaze on Amela.
Her eyes softened, and she laid her hands on his shoulders.
They continued their dance.
Maybe it was the waning candlelight, or how gradually the music faded, but the next time Amela looked up, she and Boromir were the only two people in the hall.
"Was I sleeping?" She asked him.
Chuckling, Boromir replied. "Are you saying it was like a dream?
Hitting him on the chest, Amela succumbed to a brief girlish giggle, to which she brought an abrupt end. After separating and the exchanging of a bow and a curtsey, Boromir - suddenly the gentleman - walked Amela right to her door before returning to his own room. When he did so, he found the area flooded with moonlight; even the dark wood walls of Meduseld were painted silver. Looking around, he was reminded of the glistening white walls of Minas Tirith, and his heart began to ache for his home. That was when Boromir's determination to go back to his city was rekindled: he decided that he would leave tomorrow, injury or no injury. But would he travel alone? Could he bring himself to take someone he cared about away from the life of freedom they already missed so much, just to keep her by his side?
When Meduseld roused the next day, the morning was almost over; everyone but Legolas seemed to be moving at half speed, even though he'd managed to drink Gimli under the table the night before. There were others though, whose merriment hadn't been drink induced. One of them was struggling to fasten his cloak, due to a distinct lack of the pin he was sure he had last night. But getting dressed would have to wait, for as the climbing sun stirred the remaining sleepers, there came a rapping on Boromir's chamber door.
"Yes?" He called, while striding across the room to answer the knock.
"It's me, can I come in?"
"Lady Amela? Er-I- yes! I mean... yes, of course you can, please do."
Straining the solid iron hinges, the weight of the door was pushed open slowly, just far enough for a small figure to step through, then lean back on the wood to cut off her own exit. She stepped forward a little, and held out her open hand. In it, there was a brooch: shining green glass moulded into a leaf, set in silver.
"My pin! I was just looking for it, thank you. Where was it?" Boromir spoke and simultaneously took the brooch from Amela's hand, to finally fasten his cloak.
"I saw it in the hall this morning, on my way out; I was going to bring it to you then, but I assumed you were sleeping, and I was dying for a bit of target practice."
The Gondorian looked up, perplexed.
"You were practicing alone?"
Walking as she spoke, Amela wandered to Boromir's veranda, which - with his room being at the back of Meduseld - looked far out to the East over the lands surrounding the city.
"I like practicing alone, sometimes; it's nice to just loose a few dozen arrows without being watched, without soldiers telling me to "maybe try a lighter bow, little lady" just as they barely hit the outer circle."
"You're one of the best marksmen I've know, my lady, and I have seen the skill of the elves." Said Boromir, offering comfort as he joined the woman in the clean morning air. She nodded, looking up at the sky with keen eyes.
"Do you see that bird, Captain?"
"Yes... barely, but I can definitely see it."
"How many of your best Gondorian archers do you think could hit it?"
"A handful at most, with calm air and given time; I doubt many could even see it." He remarked, squinting.
A swift swish passed Boromir's head; the bird fell from the sky. As Amela relaxed her bowstring, her expression returned from stern concentration to a soft smile. Reading the confusion in Boromir's face, she answered his unspoken query.
"I want you to know that I am not a lady of court, or even much of a lady at all. I am a huntress, a rogue, a wanderer. Life in a city would surely shrivel me into old age; gossip and markets give me no thrill."
Suddenly, now that she was back in her own clothes, the borrowed dress that had hugged Amela's figure in the candlelight of the hall seemed entirely unfit for her; she had longed to wear her tattered leather armour again and now that she had it back, she only wished to return to the wild. There was a dragging pause. Boromir put his hands on the railings and leant with his head dropped, he took a breath... then took a chance.
"Come back with me." He grabbed Amela's shoulders, turning her to face him, and he pleaded like an orphan begging for bread.
"Come with me to Minas Tirith. I'd find you a home, a comfortable one! It wouldn't have to be grand or special; you wouldn't even have to spend much time there! You could have months away from the city, as long as you want. There's good hunting in Gondor and the land is wild and untamed. Just, please, Amela come back with me." His hold had softened and his rough hands now only gently squeezed Amela's shoulders.
"Captain, I... did you not hear me? I don't belong in any capital, least of all The White City."
Sighing, Boromir stepped back; then, with one hardened hand running through his hair, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
"I am not your Captain; I don't want to be your captain. Wherever you go, I will follow; I made you a promise, Amela. If... if you choose not to come to my city... I will not return there, until we may do so together."
Amela gasped; what was he saying?
"But your father! Your people! You are the son of the Steward of Gondor! If you choose my life, we will both be nothing."
"You are not nothing!" Boromir shouted, his whole body tense. After collecting himself, he made a few small steps, right up to Amela, by the railing, and lifted her chin up so she'd meet his eyes.
"I'd rather be a pauper with you, than rule all of Middle Earth with anybody else..."
His hands cupped her jaw; he rested his forehead on hers.
"... I love you."
And then, as the sun broke through a thin veil of cloud, he pulled her up just a little, and she raised herself onto her toes, and they shared a long moment of bliss. Their kiss was light and lingering, silhouetted against the rising sun behind them. With the encouragement of Amela's hands coming to rest on his waist, his moved up - the warmth of his flesh meeting the cold her hair had caught from the wind - and he deepened their kiss with the slightest increase in pressure.
All of a sudden they remembered where they were, so (hesitantly) they broke their kiss, opened their eyes, and saw each other - truly - for the first time.
"And I love you... Boromir."