For Gondor

He once jokingly said that the Rohirrim considered themselves married if they were found wrapped up in the man's cloak and Tanwyn certainly had been. She laughed at that and told him not to be silly, but after they made love and were wrapped up in bed once more, he gave her a beautifully crafted silver ring. Entwining ivy leaves, no jewel of any kind, just a simple band of silver. He admired it on her hand, but she insisted on wearing it about her neck or no man would come near her. Boromir's grasp had tightened on her then, but he said nothing.

That morning he was summoned away, there was no time for long farewells or breaking their fast in bed. But he promised he would return, swore he would come back to her and they would rename Osgilith with her name. She laughed at that and said Tanwyn did not suit a great city, but she kissed him passionately before he ran to the Citadel following the messenger; calling for his men to arm themselves. And when the battle was fought and won, and he stood upon the battlements speaking to his men and those of his brother, declaring their bravery and how the city was saved he couldn't think of her. Not now. And when his father summoned him to his side, told him of what he wished, told him of the weapon against the enemy had been found, it was as though that dark dream had returned and he could not remember her name, his mind focused on that gleam of metal within the murky gloom. It would be his. For Gondor.

She waited, like a sop. Like a foolish, lovelorn girl. She watched the men walk past, their faces alive with excitement, talking about the bravery of their Captains; some winked and whistled at her, but she would serve none until she'd seen him again. Even Thraingill grew angry and impatient, calling her back inside, but she waited. Till the sun sank beneath the edge of the sky and the world was cast in a darkening gold. Eventually Faramir rode by, his face clouded with worry, but on seeing her he kindly halted his horse and told her Boromir had gone to Rivendell. Gone to Rivendell. He had sent her no word, no messenger. Not even a kind, loving gesture with his brother. Faramir apologised as though he were at fault and then rode on.

She turned to the board house. She felt old, her bones ached and her head was dizzy and the ring lying on her chest was too heavy. Her heart felt too big for her chest, she was frightened it would crack her rib cage as it slammed against the bones. She walked in and even Thraingill on seeing Tanwyn's expression said not a word, neither comforting or angry. She allowed Tanwyn to go to her room, even when some of the customers called her name and asked her to drink with them to celebrate the victory; Tanwyn did not hear them. Thraingill shook her head, watching the young woman; she'd always warned her girls about love, but she never thought Tanwyn would...Tanwyn was too fierce. Men fell in love with her, Tanwyn had no time for such things.

She walked up the stairs, along the corridor and into her room. She pulled the bolt across the door, slipped out of her garments and then blew out the candle. She climbed into the bed, tried to find some lingering scent of his within the pillows. But she could barely distinguish it from the scent of other men. Meaningless, stupid men...There it was! Faint, musky. She breathed in deeply, an ache growing in her lungs till she could not hold it back. She was glad Cyrith and her partner were being so loud in the next room. She tried to cheer herself thinking of the morning, the sleepy warmth, the security of his arms, his kiss on her neck. But it only made her feel worse, till she was biting her lip so hard it bled and Sayren gently knocked on the door, asking if she was alright. What could she reply to that?

She left shortly afterwards, searching for employment elsewhere. She could not be a whore, a common woman. She could not touch other men, bed them. Fortunately, the woman who ran the Apothecary, Maida, was seeking an assistant and she did not seem to mind Tanwyn's past.
"Mistakes are made." she said and that was the end of it. Tanwyn was a good student, she learned rapidly. She learnt how to mix medicines, make pastels, withdraw the oil from herbs and flowers, create a base for perfumes and soaps, learn the differences between what made one potion poison and another, with almost the exact same ingredients, a poultice. Eventually she was trusted to serve the customers, identifying their illnesses and needs. Then she was allowed to deliver the remedies to the customers, even sometimes the houses of healing would call for one obscure herb or a refreshment of a particular potion.

There was still judgement, still dislike. The healers would whisper amongst themselves, but she paid no heed. Eventually they grew to like her, but they still found her strange; she was silent, as though words could not be wasted. She was almost ghost-like, treading on silent foot, pale in the morning light.
"Can this be the same woman?" They asked, "Was she not the girl who was considered lively and witty?"
"Perhaps it is the shame."
"Or perhaps we were thinking of the wrong woman."
It was her smiles that sent shivers down their spines, wistful, soft and slow to appear, vanishing in almost an instance when they believed they had caught sight of one; like a rare, shy bird hidden in the hedgerow.

Men paid her some attention, she was pretty and knowledgeable. Tanwyn found it strange that anyone would consider her a good wife, let alone mother. She never really dwelt on any children she could have. Most of the men despaired of getting any words from her, she was polite and good tempered, but her eyes would slide past their smiles and her answers were short phrases, one or two sentences, she never asked questions. They badgered her with theirs though. 'Who are your mother and father?', 'Where do you hail from?', 'Have you always lived in Minas Tirith?' and sometimes she would imagine his strong arms encircling her waist and pulling her to him, not speaking a word, nuzzling his head into her neck. But she would always push that thought away, it did not help her.

Sometimes she dreamt of him though, her dreams were inescapable. Sometimes they made love or kissed or simply talked, Boromir's face cracking into laughter, she loved those dreams and would cling onto them even as her eyelids fluttered open, the cold mornings filtering through her windows, the bitter, sweet scent of the herbs drifting up. Sometimes the dreams terrified her and she would wake up screaming. He would have his back to her, staring at something avidly within his hand and she would try to gain his attention, whisper words into his ear, kiss along his neck, until her eyes saw his open palm; there was a simple band of gold and she could not understand why he would stare at it so, why his eyes did not seek hers. But she would stare at the ring, a humming sound and some strange, malicious whispering filling her ears.
"He could be yours. Yours alone. He would return to you, love you. You could bind him, Tanwyn. Bind him to your side forever." and she was frightened and angry and hurt and scared and she wanted Boromir to hold her, but his eyes were mad and gleaming and he would fling her off. She would hit the ground and the screams would reverberate within the woods.

Once there was a confusion of both dreams, they were rolling on a bank, his lips heavy on hers, a happy laugh bubbling in her throat, his eager thrusts pushing his hips against hers. Then suddenly he seized her arms tightly with his hands, a grip powerful and painful. She tried to push him off, but his fingers dug in further and she pulled her legs up, struggling as his arms tried to keep her still; his weight no longer a pleasurable heaviness, but keeping her flat on the ground, as she begged him not to and his eyes took on that familiar gleam.
"It should be mine. Give it to me." he shouted and her foot found the softness of his belly. She kicked and he gasped, loosening his grip. Tanwyn ran from him, she heard his oaths and the angry words he screamed from his lungs. But she did not look back, until she was hidden by a tree and she saw his face weaken, a look of pure fear and terror wash over his expression. Tears forming in his eyes, his hands shaking. He fell to his knees.
"Tanwyn?" he whispered, "Tanwyn? What have I done...? Please, Tanwyn."

She woke from that dream, skin awash with sweat, the bed sheets coiled around her legs and Maida by her side, gently crooning to her as though she were a little girl once more. Maida fetched her a calming tea and she drank the hot, sweet liquid, finding sleep swiftly encouraging her eyes closed. She lay back on the bed; a deep and lasting sleep holding her till the dawn.

Boromir thought of her, bright eyes and chestnut hair, an easy smile. He thought of her for the first time in months, how much he loved her and he had not sent one word, one letter to her explaining everything. But by then of course it was too late and the first of three arrows hit his chest. By gods he missed her and he would fight for her. For Tanwyn, for Gondor. He would see her again. Then the second arrow hit him and the burning pain only furthered his desire to see her. He kept saying her name, whispering it as though it were some magic charm. But it was not and the third came swiftly and painfully, and he knew that was the end and Tanwyn was lost to him. Even as he lay dying he kept her name to himself, kept it secret on his lips. It would do no good to mention her. He closed his eyes and thought of her, till a deep and lasting sleep held him forever.

End of the story, separated it into two chunks, because it was already long enough! But feel free to read and review.

Hannah xxx