Chapter 18: The Middle Way
The room was small and cluttered, the air thick with the smells of old smoke, musty parchment and medicinal herbs, just the sort of place Boromir most hated. But given that the Warden had surrendered his own office so that the Steward might speak with his wayward squire in private and, still more generously, had promised to deliver her to him no matter how vehement her protests, he was not in a position to complain. He did, however, stay firmly in the chair where the Warden had planted him to avoid tripping over a stray piece of furniture. The last thing he wanted was to find himself a resident of these Houses yet again, nursing broken bones.
The wait was not long, but still long enough for Boromir to begin doubting his own wisdom in coming. Gil did not want to see him. She had made that abundantly clear, both in Meduseld and on the journey to Minas Tirith. He had left her to her own devices since their return to the city, unwilling to force her hand and destroy his last fragile hope that she might find her way back to him. But the loneliness and frustration of these days—constantly looking for her, constantly missing her, while striving to fulfill his duties as Gondor's Steward—had frayed his temper to the breaking point. He had begun snarling at anyone who ventured too near, even the long-suffering Merry.
It was Aragorn who had pointed out that he was directing his anger at the wrong people, that if he had aught to say to Gil he should go find her and say it, not vent his spleen at his blameless friends.
"Gil will not take kindly to being pushed," Arwen had cautioned.
"Perhaps not, but she is no happier with the current state of things than Boromir, I am sure," Aragorn had replied, "and someone must be willing to make the first move or naught will be resolved."
So Boromir had let himself be persuaded, had let his anger carry him all the way to the Houses of Healing and to this meeting. Now he was committed. He was trapped in this room with no guide to lead him out. Gil was coming. He must face her, talk to her, demand the truth of her, but his anger was rapidly cooling, leaving him with naught but sorrow and regret to spur him on. And love, but he could not speak of that.
Footsteps sounded in the passage outside. The door latch clicked, and the hinges creaked as it swung open. Then Boromir heard the rustle of skirts and realized, with a sinking heart, that his squire was gone. Gil had put off her livery, abandoned her boy's clothing, and donned her drudge's weeds once more. No doubt she wore a kerchief and an apron marked with soot or stained with slop-water, as well.
Gil stepped into the room, closing the door at her back, as Boromir grasped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet.
"Do not, my lord," she said gruffly, but Boromir ignored her.
Catching his balance with one hand on the chair back, he held out the other to her. There came a long moment of stillness. Gil did not move or speak, and Boromir did not lower his hand.
Finally he said, "Can you not bring yourself to touch me, Gil?"
"'Tis not seemly."
She was playing the dull, stolid servant again, which meant that she was either frightened or offended by something he had done. Under other circumstances he would have been amused—he had teased her out of such a humor often enough—but Boromir was, himself, in no mood for games. He wanted Gil, his Gil, not to this splintery block of wood, and he would not relent until he found her.
"Give me your hand."
He did not bark it, but it was a command nonetheless, and Gil was helpless to resist. Her skirts swishing, she ventured a step or two closer to him. Finally, after a moment's hesitation, she laid her hand in his.
Her fingers were cool, a bit rough, and so agonizingly familiar, so welcome that it took all Boromir's self-restraint not to lift them to his lips. But they were also trembling, and he knew that one false move on his part would startle her into flight again, whatever the Warden's orders to the contrary. So he merely closed his fingers around hers.
"I will not embarrass you. I only wish to know that you are near me."
"It is not seemly," she said again, still more woodenly. "I am no longer your squire."
"Yet you are still my friend."
Her fingers twitched, and she made to snatch her hand away, but Boromir forestalled her by tightening his grip.
"Gil."
She fell still, breathing too quickly but no longer fighting his hold on her.
"You have always been my friend," he went on, his voice low and persuasive, as if he were gentling a skittish horse. "That is why I wanted you for my squire, and why you agreed though you thought me mad. Can you deny it?"
"Nay."
"Then, as my friend, will you not speak to me, Gil? Will you not give me the truth? All these weeks of silence, of distance, and I do not know for certain what I have done to deserve them. For I cannot believe that a few unguarded words, spoken in a fever, could destroy a friendship that has survived so many trials. I need you to explain it to me, Gil, to tell me what is in your heart so that I may heal it."
"I cannot," she replied, in a suffocated voice.
"Must I speak first to show you how it is done?"
"Do not. Please."
A humorless smile lifted his lips. "What shall we do, then? Stand, like the ancient kings of the Argonath, glaring at each other in stony silence through all the ages of the world?"
She uttered a grunt of pain and turned away, forgetting for the moment that Boromir still held her hand. As she pulled on his arm, the abrupt shift in balance brought his weight down onto his injured leg. He stumbled, the leg threatening to give, and hissed in alarm.
"My lord!" Suddenly Gil was at his side, her strong hands gripping his arm to bear him up. "Sit, my lord."
Boromir obediently lowered himself into the chair, groaning softly as his knee bent and his wound throbbed. The moment he was safely seated Gil would have withdrawn again, but he caught both her hands and held them tightly.
Looking up into the face he knew was bent over him in concern, he demanded, roughly, "Is one smile, one jest such agony to you?"
"My very life is an agony to me," she retorted, her wooden composure gone, her voice thick with unacknowledged tears. "Since that night in Meduseld I have lived in torment, and you would make it worse with more words?"
"My dearest Gil." He made a move to pull their clasped hands to his breast but caught himself in time. "I would give all that I have to end your torment, but I cannot take back the words I spoke in my fever nor deny the truth of them." He paused to swallow the lump of sorrow in his throat, then rasped out, "Is it so dreadful a thing that I love you?"
"Nay!" With a soft, plaintive cry, she sank to the floor in front of him, her hands still in his, her head bowing until it touched his knee. "Do not, I beg you!"
"I must. I asked for the truth from you and must give it in return. I love you, Gil. I have loved you, I think, since the day you tripped over my feet and spilled Merry's tea all down your front. First as a friend, then as a helpmeet, guide, nurse, companion, all the many things you have been to me. Now you are so much a part of me that I cannot contemplate my life without you."
"Please, my lord!"
"I did not realize it until you left me, and I found this great, empty hole in myself where you once were. Now I fear that hole will swallow me up." He paused, frowning, then murmured, "It was much the same when I first lost my eyes to an orc's blade… The darkness seemed so vast. I did not dare to sleep. And when I heard no friendly voice, felt no guiding hand, I feared that I had been cut adrift, forgotten, left to wander forever in the night…"
"You are trying to punish me," she gasped, startling him out of his reverie, "but it is unworthy of you, my lord. Unnecessary. Cruel."
"Nay. I do not mean to punish you, only to make you understand." He fixed his bandaged gaze on her bent head and went on, his tone solemn, "I have said things to you that I swore I never would, but the truth is the only way forward for us now. So you must tell me, Gil, from your heart, with no half-truths or pretense… Why did you run from me?"
When she did not speak, he asked, "Is it because you do not love me as I love you?"
"Nay, lord," she replied in a rough whisper.
"Because you do not trust me to stay within the bounds of propriety?"
"Nay."
"Why, then?"
She hesitated, hanging onto her pride and her secrets for a final moment, then answered, "It is because I love you too well to see you debased by a love that is beneath you."
Boromir absorbed that, unsurprised but pained by it all the same. "How is my love for you a debasement?"
"You are the son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien, beloved of the King. You are all that is high and honorable, while I am… naught."
"You are the woman I would have beside me always."
He knew that she had lifted her head when he heard her voice coming clearer, sharper, with more of its usual astringent bite. "As what, my lord Steward? Your plaything? Your mistress? The object of whisper and scandal and ugly laughter stifled behind raised hands when you happen into the room?"
"As my wife," Boromir said quietly, voicing the final, inescapable truth at last.
He had known all along that if he confronted Gil today the words were bound to come out. They had been consuming him for far too long, growing ever louder and more insistent with every attempt he made to silence them, and he had proven himself woefully incapable of guarding his tongue. He had also known that she would not see them as a heartfelt declaration of his love, but rather as a gauntlet thrown at her feet, which was precisely why he had struggled to conceal his wishes for so long.
Well, the truth was out, the gauntlet thrown, the challenge given. He had no choice now but to fight it out with her.
"Nay!" Gil tore free of his clasp and leapt to her feet. "Do not make jest of such things!"
"I do not speak in jest."
"Then you are run mad!"
"I promise you, I have all my wits about me." He levered himself awkwardly to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg. "I would get down on one knee but that I fear I would never get up again." Holding out a hand to her, he said, with formal courtesy, "I offer you all that I am and all that I have, Gil. Will you take it? Will you be my wife?"
"Nay, I will not!"
Ready as he was for battle, the fury of her answer struck him like a blow. He dropped his hand and stared at her, open-mouthed with shock.
"This is naught but a cruel jest! I will not be party to it!"
"I meant it in all sincerity," Boromir replied. Then, more sourly than he had intended, "But if you had rather be my mistress…"
"Shame on you, my lord! Shame!"
"You are the one who brought it up," he pointed out, his temper flaring.
"Aye, knowing that you would not so demean yourself! Orme!"
"I would not." He struggled against his anger for a moment, then tried again, more calmly, "I never considered such a step. You are scolding me like a termagant, when I have offered you naught but what is right and honorable."
"It is not. It is wicked folly."
"That is what you said when I asked you to become my squire."
"And I was right!"
He could not smother the hot, humiliating flare of pain in him at her words, though he knew that she was only lashing out in desperation, trying to drive him away. "That is how you see our years together? Truly?"
"Can you doubt it when you consider where they have led us? Prince Faramir knew! He tried to warn you!"
"This is not about my brother!" Boromir snapped, anger rising afresh. "It is not his place to judge my choice of friends or—" He bit off the last word, but not quickly enough to escape Gil's notice.
She laughed shortly and taunted, "Servants? That is what you meant to say, is it not?"
"Nay, you were never a servant to me," he growled, "which you would realize, if you were not such a pig-headed creature."
"Your own words betray you, my lord! You know full well what I am! Aye! Andthat I am no fit bride for the Steward of Gondor!"
She began to pace, her feet slapping hard on the floor, her skirts whipping about her legs, and Boromir wished that he could do likewise. Being forced to stand still when his blood was seething with frustration, hurt, indignation was almost more than he could bear.
"I have wounded your dignity, that is all," she ranted, still pacing. "I, a mere squire, dared to defy the son of Denethor, and now you wish to take your revenge upon me."
"Enough of this!"
"I know well your pride, my lord Steward! Too well for my own comfort!"
"As I know yours! The devil take you, Gil! What have I done to deserve such abuse?!"
She came to an abrupt halt and stood, breathing hard. "You mock me."
"I do not." He waited for a response that did not come, then said, more gently, "You know me, Gil. You know when I am trying to provoke you. Would I use your affections, or my own, against you?"
She took a few more over-loud, rapid breaths, then ground out, "Nay. You would not."
"I would not. Nor would I lie to you, ever, though it flayed me alive to admit the truth."
Something like a whimper rose in her throat.
"I told you that I love you, and that was the truth." Somehow, the forbidden words came more easily to him with each repetition. "All I ask from you is the truth in return. Do you not wish to be my wife?"
"Nay."
"Why not?"
"Because I will not do you such an injury."
"You deem that to marry me would do me greater injury than to leave me?"
"Aye."
"Even if I would rather wed a foundling drudge than do without her?"
"Aye."
"Why?"
For a long, quiet moment Gil merely stood, staring at him. Then, to Boromir's utter surprise, she walked up to him and halted, close enough that he could touch her if he dared. Her voice, when she spoke, was drained of anger, leaving it low, ragged, and edged with tears he knew well she would not shed.
"I remember when the Council tried to strip you of your stewardship. They used your blindness against you, your tendency to prowl the city at night and sleep on benches, even your father's terrible death, as if you were somehow destined to follow him into despair. I was not even your squire then, but still they held up your friendship for me as a sign of your unfitness."
"That was a long time ago, Gil."
"Not so long ago, and the doubts yet linger. The whispers. The contempt. The sidelong glances when you walk through the Citadel with your foundling squire at your side."
"My stewardship is secure. The Council supports me."
"Aye, but how quickly would they turn on you, were you to present me to them as your bride? Would it not confirm all their worst fears to see you so degrade yourself? Your own brother deems your affection for me a sigh of madness!"
"Faramir does not fear for my sanity," Boromir said gently, trying to soothe the distress he heard in her voice, "and he has long since learned to overlook my odd taste in squires."
"Mayhap, so long as I remain your squire, but were I your wife? What then? Would not he, with the help of Prince Imrahil, have you clapped up as a lunatic and claim your stewardship for himself?"
Boromir was tempted to laugh, but he knew by Gil's tone that she was in deadly earnest, so he kept his own voice solemn when he said, "Aragorn would never allow it."
"He cannot stop the whispers or the slanders."
"They do not touch me."
"Do they not? My memory must be at fault, then, my lord, for I seem to recall swords in the night, arrows from the trees, an Elvish dagger thrust up under your ribs… all spurred on by whispers!"
"Gil." He reached for her, brushed her arm, and trailed his fingers down it 'til he found her hand. Then he took it in both of his own. "Those times are over. The Shadow in the East is no more and the evils it bred in the darkness have all been purged away."
"But the men who harbored them are still here—or enough of them to do you harm, should they so choose."
"They will not."
"Nay, for I will not give them reason."
"You would condemn us both to a life of loneliness to protect me from threats that do not exist?"
"I would protect you from your own rash folly."
"In wedding my only love?" He raised her hand to his lips and held it there, his head bowed over it. "For I do love you, Gil. Fool that I am, I love my foundling squire above all the gems of the earth and the stars of the heavens, and I am lost without her."
She uttered a low, tearing sound, so full of pain that it made Boromir's chest ache in sympathy, and half-whispered, half-growled, "Do not say these things, I beg you. Do not taunt me with sweet words."
"You had rather I insult and berate you?"
"Aye, for then I would know you for my beloved lord."
He lifted his head to fix her with his shrouded gaze. "You love me, but you will not wed me."
"I cannot." She swallowed audibly and almost wailed, "I cannot wed the Steward of Gondor!"
"But if I were not the Steward, what then? If I were a mere man—a crofter on the Pelennor or a fisherman upon Anduin—would you have me?"
"There is no purpose in asking such a question…"
"Just answer it, Gil. Tell me the truth. Would you have me?"
"Were you crofter or fisherman, soldier or healer, laborer or drudge, were you aught but what you are I would have you and proudly. But you are not a mere man. You are Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien, and you cannot lay aside those honors at a whim."
"Nay, I cannot lay them aside. But mayhap I can… hold them apart."
Her hand seemed to shrink in his. "What mean you?"
"It is simple." The idea swiftly taking root in his mind filled him with a new urgency. He held tight to Gil's hand and threw all the sincerity he possessed into his words. "I, Boromir, man of Gondor, would have Gil the healer's drudge to wife. I do not offer her a place at the Steward's side. I do not offer her titles or rank or high position amongst the well-born of the city. I offer her only the hand and heart of a blind soldier, one who can no longer wield a sword but who finds other ways to serve his King."
"My lord…" she whispered fearfully.
"Can you accept me on those term, Gil? Can you see yourself as a soldier's wife, keeping my house and bearing my children, polishing my sword so it does not rust entirely away, mayhap nursing my wounds when I run afoul of orcs?"
"Do not speak of such things!"
"Forgive me, it was a cruel jest." He started to lift a hand to her face, then checked himself and pulled their clasped hands to his breast instead. "There will be no more orcs, I promise you. I will never go near another mountain again. Only say that you will have me, Gil."
"You cannot…" The breath began to sob in her throat and her protests become ever more frantic, but her fingers clung tightly to Boromir's as if afraid that he might slip away from her. "…cannot mean that... How can it serve? The Council will never accept it!"
"As long as I do not present you to the Council as the Steward's wife, they will have naught to say about it, and where I go when I leave off work each night, who waits at home for me, is none of their concern. They will never have to look upon you, never have to bow their heads to you as they do to Arwen…"
"My lord, this cannot be what you want!"
"Nay. It is not. But you will not wed a Steward, and I cannot renounce that title, even for you, so we must find a middle way."
"There is no such way."
"There is, and I have shown it to you! Gil, my obstinate girl, will you not listen?"
"Nay!" she cried. "You have not considered… have not thought… what of your children, my lord?"
"What of them? Do you want a round dozen? I can afford to feed them, I assure you. Or are you too stricken in years to give me even one?"
"Again you mock me!"
"I do not. I cannot see your face, Gil, and can only guess at your age. I know you for strong and vigorous, unafraid of hard work, swift of foot, keen of eye and quick to learn. From all this I assume that you are young yet, but how young I know not…"
"'Tis not my age or the number of children I might bear that concerns me," she railed, cutting him off, "but what will become of them! The children of Boromir born into this world without titles, honors, or birthright? With naught but a nameless drudge for a mother? 'Tis not right! What of your heirs, my lord?!"
"I do not need heirs," Boromir assured her. "I will have you and our children. That is enough."
"Nay…"
"Gil." He squeezed her hand to silence her, then went on in his most persuasive tone, "Listen to me, and try, for once, to believe that I mean what I say. If this is the sacrifice I must make to have you, then I will make it and gladly. My sons will not have princedoms handed to them, but will grow up knowing that they must win their own honors, prove their own worth, and I have no doubt that they will succeed."
"You go too fast!" Gil cried. "You talk of sons, of sacrifice, but I have not said… have not agreed…" A wracking sob shook her, choking off her words.
"Peace." Surrendering to the impulse at last, Boromir reached for her, finding and clasping her head, drawing her close. Her head came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, and he cradled it there. "Do not cry, my Gil."
"I am not crying!" she growled, even as another sob shook her.
"Of course you are not." He looped his free arm around her shoulders. "You never do."
"Nor do you."
"Aye, but I have an excuse. With you it is pure stubbornness."
Gil gave a grunt of laughter, then doleful sniff, her sobs subsiding. "I will not be hurried into making foolish promises," she mumbled into the velvet of his tunic.
"Why must everything I want be termed foolish?"
"I must think."
"Just so long as that does not mean brood over my imagined follies and concoct yet more reasons to defy me." She made a small, infuriated noise and he tightened his arms about her, murmuring, "Nay, I am only teasing. Take all the time you need, and while you are thinking, I will speak to Aragorn. He knows more about the history and law of Gondor than any man living, and he will know the proper form for such a marriage. Or at the very least, where to look for it."
"He will not agree to it. He will see it for the madness it is."
Boromir chuckled at that and chided, "Do not build your hopes on that."
"You would not marry without the Lord Elfstone's consent."
"Nay, but I will talk him round, have no fear." Then, before she could protest further, he added, "I love you, Gil, I want you for my wife, and I will take you on whatever terms I must. Aragorn will understand."
She gave another sniff, stood within the clasp of his arms another moment, then stiffened and made to step away from him. With an effort of will he felt to his very soul, Boromir dropped his arms. Gil took a step back.
"I beg leave to go, my lord."
"Aye. Go. But send Merry to me, if you would. He is waiting in the garden."
"My lord." He heard her skirts swish as she curtsied and headed for the door.
"Farewell for the present, Gil."
"Farewell, my lord."
The door closed behind her with unsettling finality, leaving Boromir alone with the Warden's clutter and his own equally perilous thoughts.
King and Steward sat together at the great table in their Tower room, alone for once with no friends, advisors, kinsmen or pages in attendance. Aragorn had great heaps of parchment stacked about him, but he had pushed them aside at Boromir's entrance and now ignored them. Even letters from the sons of Elrond, gone unanswered for far too long, could not distract him from the news his Steward brought. He was all amazement, and more than a little certain that he had misheard.
"You did what?" he demanded.
"Offered her my hand."
Aragorn blinked, nonplussed, still convinced that he must have heard wrong. "In marriage?"
"Aye."
"And she let you walk out of the room alive?"
"She did tear a few strips out of my hide first, accusing me of mocking her, shaming her, punishing her, and finally of proposing only as revenge because she dared to defy me."
Aragorn eyed him in mingled disbelief, wonder and—increasingly—suspicion. "Then why do you look so cheerful?"
"Because this is far from over."
His eyes abruptly narrowed. "What is in your mind, Boromir? What plan are you hatching?"
"Naught that you will disapprove. Or I hope that you will not, since I need your help to see it done."
"I do not like the sound of that. How can I help you to a wife?" Aragorn sat back, frowning at him. "You do not imagine that I would command Gil to accept you…"
"Nay," Boromir replied, with a grin, "she would only refuse to obey. That woman is as stubborn as a cave troll."
"That is some relief, but I do not see what part I can play in persuading a cave troll to see reason... if it is reason, which I take leave to doubt."
"Then it is just as well that I am not relying on you for that part of the plan. I have already offered her a compromise."
"What sort of compromise?"
"Marriage with Boromir the man, not the Prince or the Steward."
Once again Aragorn was caught off guard, with no idea what to say.
Boromir did not wait for him to collect himself, but went on without pause, "Gil thinks she is protecting me by denying me her hand. She sees herself as too far beneath me to contemplate marriage. It is folly, I know, but there is no arguing with her when she gets a notion like this into her head, and her fear only strengthens her resolve."
"Fear of what?"
"Injuring me. Putting my stewardship at risk. Giving the Council lords reason to doubt my fitness and a pretext for stripping me of my titles. She remembers the Council's first attempt to unseat me more bitterly than I do myself, it seems, and she is afraid that, with Faramir's connivance, another attempt would succeed. 'Tis Faramir she fears most of all, I deem."
"Did you not assure her that I would never allow that to happen?"
"I did, but she is too stubborn to hear. She has gotten it into her head that she is a threat to me, that every lord on the Council—including my own brother—is only waiting for an excuse to turn and rend me. An excuse my marriage to a nameless drudge of unknown birth would give them."
Aragorn pondered this in frowning silence, then ventured, "If that is truly how she feels, I do not see any way around it. What e'er you call yourself, you are still the same man facing the same threats."
"Aye, but all her fears are built upon the certainty that a foundling can never be worthy of Gondor's Steward. She dreads having to face the Council, the Court, all the high-born of Gondor in what she sees as a borrowed finery."
"Playing an unwelcome part," Aragorn mused, more to himself than to his friend, as understanding settled heavily upon him.
"'Tis a part she will not play, no matter the inducement. She would rather leave us both to eke out our lives in loneliness and regret than don the fine robes of a lady and flaunt herself before the eyes of those who despise her."
"I cannot blame her for that."
"Nor I. But if I could show her another way, a quiet and dignified way, to share her life with me and me alone…"
"She might put aside her fears. I see." Aragorn fell to thinking again, his expression somber and his eyes distant.
"I have offered her the heart and hand of a mere soldier, a servant of the king, and promised that if she accepts him, she need never ask the Council for their consent nor face their contempt. What I ask you, as my king and my friend, is to show me how it may be done."
Aragorn lifted a dark, thoughtful gaze to the other man. "It is a simple enough matter. If you are truly willing to take Gil to wife simply as Boromir and not as Steward, then we need not bring it before the Council. It would remain a private matter. There will be mutterings, of course, and attempts to use Gil as a weapon against you, but with a bit of discretion on your part and a bit of diplomacy on mine, we might weather it."
A relieved smile lit Boromir's face. "I knew you would not fail me!"
"Do not be too swift to thank me, nor to commit yourself to so drastic a course," Aragorn cautioned.
Boromir brushed that away with an impatient gesture. "Leave it, I pray you. I have had dire predictions and fear-mongering enough from Gil." Leaning forward eagerly, his arms braced on the table, his face alight with happiness, he said, "I will wed her, Aragorn. I will share my life with her, and I will never again be without her. This is all that matters!"
"And what of your children? Do they not also matter?"
To Aragorn's surprise, the smile did not fade from Boromir's face. "I thought we should come to this. You are about to remind me that my children by Gil will not inherit my rank and titles. That they will be the humble offspring of a mere soldier and a woman of no birth."
"That is all they can be, for if the Steward has no wife, the Steward can have no heirs."
"I know it well."
"And you are content to have it so?" Aragorn demanded.
"Have I any choice?"
"Not if you wed Gil."
"Then I am content." At Aragorn's disbelieving silence, he said, more earnestly, "I have thought of little else but this since I spoke to Gil, and the more I think on it, the more certain I become that no son of mine will languish in obscurity, however humble his beginnings. He will be of the line of the Ruling Stewards, whether or not he sits in the Steward's chair, and he will have the love of Aragorn Elessar to uphold him." He cocked his head, brows raised. "You will stand his friend, will you not? Even with Gil as his mother?"
"You know I will."
"An inheritance more precious than any princedom." The amusement in his face deepened until Aragorn could almost fancy that he saw the familiar green eyes twinkling at him through the black cloth that hid them. "And who is to say that he will not earn a princedom of his own one day? When I am gone, you will have one lying about, unclaimed, just waiting for some deserving lord or knight to take it up."
Aragorn chuckled in spite of himself. "Aye."
"I should like to think that a son of mine might win the right to wear the Horn and Stars of Anórien upon his breast."
"As should I."
"It would mean that he has served his King with honor, ability and steadfast courage." His face softened into a wistful smile. "And that he has proven himself worthy of your love, which is all I could wish for him."
Swallowing the lump of emotion in his throat, Aragorn leaned forward to clasp Boromir's forearm where it lay on the table and said, "I will do all in my power to give you what you desire, my friend. If this is truly what you desire." He paused, then added ruefully, "And if you can talk your cave troll around."
"Aye. Well." Boromir gripped his hand for a moment, then slumped back in his chair with a sigh. "There's the fly in the ointment."
When the Warden ordered Gil out into the garden to attend upon an unexpected visitor, she just assumed that it was Boromir. She could conceive of no one else who would so blithely drag her away from her duties or choose the secluded bench set into the wall of the Sixth circle for a meeting place. So it came as something of a shock to her when, striding purposefully down the path, mentally armoring herself against the Steward's blandishments, she saw not Boromir seated on the bench but Arwen. Halting abruptly in the middle of the path, she gulped and wiped her sweating palms on her apron.
"Gil." Arwen favored the drudge with a gracious smile. "I thank you for agreeing to see me in the midst of your busy day."
"My lady," she muttered, curtseying as she never had before to the Queen, having never before faced her while wearing skirts. It made her feel awkward and improperly dressed.
Arwen gestured to the seat beside her. "Come sit with me, I pray you."
Gil stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing the vision of unearthly loveliness perched on the garden bench as if it were a serpent coiled to strike.
"Come, Gil."
"Did the Steward send you?"
She blurted the words out as an accusation, and the Queen's brows lifted in surprise.
"Nay, I have not spoken to Boromir. I came only to see how you fare. Sit with me, Gil." When Gil still did not move, she added, with a hint of wry amusement, "I will not bite."
Her cheeks suddenly hot with embarrassment, Gil moved up to the bench and sank down on its extreme edge. Tucking her hands under her apron to hide their shaking, she clenched them tightly together in her lap.
"I am sorry that you feel ambushed."
Gil felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over her and ducked her head. "I beg your pardon. I should not have spoken so, my lady."
"You may speak freely to me, Gil. You have often enough in the past." Then, more kindly, she asked, "Has Boromir been pestering you?"
"Nay. I have not seen him since… that is…"
"Since he asked for your hand?" Arwen shook her head in fond bemusement. "How ungracious of him to disappear, just when he is most needed."
"I do not need him," Gil insisted stubbornly. "I am glad he has sense enough to stay away and can only hope that it means he has thought better of his offer."
Even as she said it, Gil felt her stomach sink. She did not want to see Boromir again. She did not want to face his anger and disappointment. But the mere thought of him changing his mind and walking away, never to darken her doorway again, filled her with a cold, dank despair.
Arwen gave her a keen look that said she understood every conflicting thought currently rattling about in her brain. "If you mean that then I have ill news for you. Aragorn has given his consent to the marriage."
Gil's head came up with a jerk, her eyes wide. "He would not!"
"Indeed he has."
"But…" she gaped at Arwen helplessly and sputtered, "the scandal… the shame of it… Lord Elfstone would never allow…"
"Aragorn would do aught in his power to make Boromir happy," Arwen said gently. "Mayhap the greatest pain he now suffers is the knowledge that he has so often put duty before friendship to Boromir's cost. In such a matter as this, when he can see a clear way to honor both friend and crown, he will not hesitate. He will move Mindolluin itself, if necessary, to give Boromir what he wants."
Gil shuddered and ducked her head again, avoiding the Elvish Queen's far-seeing eyes. "I was so certain," she murmured to her own clenched hands.
"That Aragorn would relieve you of the need to make a choice?"
She whispered, "Aye," then summoned a vestige of her usual tartness to add, "and that he would save his dearest friend from ruin!"
"You do not need Aragorn for that. If you truly want to save Boromir, you have the power to do it yourself." Arwen reached out to touch Gil's arm, very lightly, a gesture of support that she withdrew almost as soon as it was given, knowing that more would only startle the skittish drudge into retreat. "All you need do is refuse him."
"He will not accept my refusal. If he has already gone to the King…"
"Neither he nor Aragorn can force you into marriage."
"He need not force me," Gil said thickly, her eyes still on her lap, "he need only show me how deeply I wound him, and I will be helpless to resist."
"Gil." This time she placed her hand on Gil's arm and left it there. "Look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, the drudge lifted her gaze to the Queen's face. It was full of sympathy and concern.
"I can help you, but I must know what it is you want. Escape or marriage? The strength to withstand Boromir's pressure, or the courage to put aside your fears and embrace him as a husband? What is your heart seeking?"
Gil looked away again, muttering, "I know not."
"Truly?" She waited for Gil to answer, then prompted, more softly, "You love him, I know."
"It seems all Gondor knows," Gil ground out.
"Nay. You are neither of you easy to read, and you have both labored to keep your feelings hidden. Had I not watched you together for all those months in Meduseld, I would not have guessed. But having guessed, it is now quite plain to me that all your happiness is bound up in each other.
"Do not mistake me, Gil," she hurried to add, "I am not pushing you toward marriage. It is no more my right to force you than it is Boromir's or Aragorn's. And if you choose not to wed him, I will stand by you. But I would have you know well your mind and heart before you make a choice. Any choice."
"How can I know?" Gil pleaded, wringing her hands in distress. "I know what I should choose, but when I think of saying the words to him, my heart fails me!"
"Is it only Boromir you are afraid of wounding with your refusal, or is it yourself, as well?"
Gil struggled for a moment then cried, as if the words were being pulled out of her with an iron hook, "It is like a blade through my body! All these weeks… not seeing his face, not hearing his voice, not feeling his hand on my shoulder… It is agony! I live for the hope that he will come for me, and I am angry when he does not, but then I grow angry with myself for wishing it!" With a wrenching sob, she buried her face in her hands and wailed, "I do not know what to do!"
Arwen slid closer to her and rested a hand on her shoulder, tactfully ignoring the way it tensed at her touch. "I am sorry, Gil," she said, gently. "I would spare you this, if I could. Whether or not you credit it, I know how difficult is the choice you face."
Gil reared up at that, fixing eyes that burned with a hot, dry misery on the Queen's face. "What can you know of it? You, the daughter of Elrond Half-elven, wed to the King of Gondor! Your son destined to rule after his father, your daughters to stand higher than any queen before them! What have you ever known of doubt or sacrifice?!"
"A great deal, as it happens," she replied, with a wistful smile, "for blessed though I may be in marriage and position, this is not the life to which I was born. You know who my father is, Gil, so you know that I am of the race of Elves, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, as far above the Kings of Men in birth as Boromir is above a foundling child. Farther, if you consider that I gave up far more than a mere title to wed my beloved Estel. I gave up my right to be counted amongst the Firstborn. To take ship across the Sundering Seas and to tread the green shores of the Undying Lands. I, the last of the High Elves in Middle-earth shall die here and never look upon the Halls of Mandos or the living faces of my kin again."
A weighted silence fell, as the two women gazed at each other.
Then Arwen smiled and said, "So you see, I do know something of the quandary you face, though from Boromir's side rather than yours."
"You know, then, how grave a mistake he would be making and how deeply he would come to regret it."
"Nay, I do not pretend to know Boromir's mind or how time might alter it, but mine is fully at peace. I made my choice long ago, when Aragorn was but a young man first setting out to win his crown, and I have never wavered in it. I cannot say that I will never know regret—life is too long and the future too uncertain for such a claim—but I can say that here, now, with my beloved Estel at my side and our future opening out before us, I feel only gladness."
Again, they fell silent while Gil pondered Arwen's words, and the Queen seemed content to let her think at her own pace.
Finally, Gil said, "You would have me believe that Lord Boromir will feel the same as you do. That he will be content in so unequal a match."
"I would not have you believe aught, Gil, I only tell you how I feel so you know that it is possible to stoop without breaking, to compromise without losing oneself. I do not consider myself diminished by my choice, nor my children disinherited. It is merely a different path I have chosen to the one laid out for me at my birth."
"It is easy enough to say that when your son will be King. But what if he were to be cast out upon the world with only a sword and his wits to his name?"
A wide, gleaming smile lit the Elf's face. "Then he would do as his father did and winhimself a crown. For Aragorn came into this world the son of a wandering Ranger, not knowing even his true name. He had the blood of Númenor flowing in his veins, 'tis true, but little else, and the sword he inherited was broken, a symbol not a weapon. But naught could prevent the Heir of Elendil from claiming his kingdom nor conceal the true greatness in him. So would it be for my sons by him. And for yours by Boromir, I deem."
Gil opened her mouth to protest at that, then shut it again without speaking.
"I do not know where your destiny lies, Gil, or that of your children. I do not presume to tell you what to do. All I ask is that you think carefully before you choose, and do not let fear govern you. If you trust in Boromir, if you love him, then take him at his word. Believe that he knows his own mind. Then make your choice based on what you truly want, not what you fear may happen in some unforeseeable future, and I will stand by you. I will let no man pressure you, be he Steward or King. You have my word."
"I thank you, my lady," Gil muttered awkwardly.
Arwen squeezed her arm and rose gracefully to her feet. Gil scrambled up after her and curtseyed, as the Queen said, "Farewell, then, Gil, until we meet again. I hope it will be soon."
"My lady."
"And know that you can come to me at any time, for any reason. I have missed you since our sojourn together in Rohan."
Fortunately, as Gil had no idea what to say to this, Arwen did not wait for an answer. Bestowing yet another gracious smile on the floundering drudge, she nodded and started up the path, her feet barely seeming to touch the gravel as she went. Gil watched her climb the hill to the wicket gate and pass through it. Then, her shoulders still firmly squared though she felt as if she carried a tremendous weight upon them, she headed back into the Houses of Healing and the pile of chamber pots she'd been scrubbing when Arwen had summoned her.
Gil could not sleep. Her bed felt too warm, her pillow too lumpy, the moonlight pouring through her window too bright, the snores of the girl who shared her bedchamber too loud to allow for rest. This was not the first night since Arwen's visit that she had lost sleep—the Queen's gentle words had an unsettling habit of filling her mind and invading her dreams—but it was by far the worst. If she were of a fanciful nature Gil might blame her mood on the full moon, but as she was not, she thought it far more likely that her supper had not agreed with her.
After an hour or more of staring, wide-eyed and wakeful, at the beamed ceiling above her head, she finally gave up and threw back her covers. The cloth slippers and shawl she wore when called out of her bed at night were ready to hand. She pulled them on—more for modesty than for warmth—and slipped silently out the door without waking the snorer in the other bed.
No windows opened onto the passageway and all the doors lining it were shut, shrouding it in heavy darkness, but Gil knew these Houses so intimately that she did not need light to find her way. Quickly, quietly, unerringly, she flitted through the empty hallways until she reached the door that let onto the garden. It was shut but not bolted, and it opened easily to her touch. Then she was outside, standing on the neat, gravel path that ran up to the door, looking around at the garden drenched in moonlight.
The scene had such an unearthly quality to it that when she first caught sight of the figure seated on the bench she thought it a figment of her imagination. She had been thinking of Boromir—though pretending not to—almost without pause for days, and so it made a certain kind of sense that her sleep-starved mind would conjure him there on his favorite bench. How often had she seen him sitting just there, his booted feet stretched out before him, his head propped on the edge of the wall, his black-shrouded gaze turned up to the stars? How easy would it be to convince herself that he was there now?
Then he moved, scratching idly at his beard before folding his hands across his middle, and she gave a start.
He was real.
She started toward him before her mind caught up with her feet, striding purposefully down the path. As she went, she darted another, more critical glance about her and saw, to her dismay, that not only was the Steward quite solid, he was also quite alone. That should not be. Someone—one of the halflings or the Lord Elfstone—should be with him. They ought to know better than to abandon him in a place so far from help and safety, where it was likely no one would come upon him 'til the morning.
Boromir must have heard the crunch of her feet on the gravel, but he gave no sign of it until she halted a few paces from where he sat and said, warily, "My lord."
His blind gaze turned to find her, and his brows rose in surprise. "Gil? What are you doing up so late?"
The very sound of his voice seemed to clench at her heart like a mailed fist, squeezing until she thought it would burst. She wanted to fling herself at his feet and beg him to say her name again, just so she could hear it on his lips, but instead she merely knotted her hands in her apron to still their trembling and said, at her most wooden, "I could not sleep."
"Nor could I. Mayhap there is something in the air tonight."
"The full moon," she replied.
"Is it full?" He turned his eyes up to the sky again, and in the silvery moonlight, Gil saw a faint, wistful smile tilt his lips. "I did not know."
Grimly refusing to acknowledge the longing that filled her with that smile, she demanded, "How is it you are here alone, my lord? Have you no guide? Where is the halfling?"
"Merry wanted to stay, but I sent him to bed. I had rather be alone."
There came a long pause, as Gil kneaded her hands in her apron and cast uncertain glances back at the dark house behind her.
Then Boromir said, turning his shrouded gaze upon her once more, "This is where you say, 'I beg your pardon, my lord, I will leave you now,' and scurry away."
The sour edge to his voice formed a painful lump in Gil's throat that she had to swallow before she could speak. "You are angry with me."
"Nay, not angry." He sighed and turned away. "Only frustrated. And weary of hoping to no purpose."
"I do not like to hear you speak so."
That earned her another smile, this one mocking. "I beg your pardon. I did not think to meet you tonight and so did not prepare a more tactful speech."
"You are angry." Then a thought occurred to her, one that might explain his bitterness toward her. "You have spoken to the Lady Arwen and know what passed between us."
"I know she spoke to you, but not what was said."
"She promised to stand by me if I refused you, not to allow you to pressure me into marriage."
His smile twisted into a grimace. "Then you are saved, for I am but a mere soldier and no match for our gentle Queen."
Gil stared at him for another moment, her hands working helplessly in her apron, fighting the words that rose in her throat to choke her—but whether to hold them in or let them out, she did not know. Then, abruptly, her control broke.
With an agonized cry, she flung herself down on her knees before him, sobbing, "Nay, my lord, I do not wish to be saved from you!"
Lurching upright, Boromir frowned down at her bent head. "What means this, Gil? What are you saying?"
"I cannot bear it any longer! To be apart from you, to watch you from a distance, to see you look so bitter and cold, and to know that it is all my doing!"
"Gil." He reached for her as he demanded in a voice edged with disbelief, "Do not toy with me but speak plainly. Will you wed me?"
"Aye." His fingers brushing her kerchief, but before he could find her shoulder, she caught his hand in both of her own and pulled it to her lips. "Aye, my lord. If it will take that dreadful frown from your face and let you laugh with me as you were wont to do, if it will make you truly happy, then I will wed you."
As she pressed another fervent kiss to his hand, he protested, "Do not. And do not kneel to me in that nonsensical fashion. It is not seemly."
Gil uttered a choke of laughter. "Naught about this is seemly, but I cannot help myself. I have lost my modesty with my wits."
"Then we make the perfect pair, for I have neither." His voice wavered somewhere between laughter and tears as he said it. "Come, Gil, sit beside me."
"Not until you say that you will have me and promise me—promise me!—that it will be as you said before, just a soldier and his wife, living quietly together, far from the contemptuous eyes of Court and Council!"
"I promise," Boromir said, solemnly.
"For I can do it no other way, my lord! I cannot appear at Royal functions on the Steward's arm or play the part of a great lady for the amusement of my betters! I will not!"
"I know it, and I promise that you shall not have to. Now, get up, you foolish creature."
"You have not… have not said that this is what you want."
"And I will not until you get off your knees."
He gave her arm a tug, and she rose to stand before him, still clutching his hand in both of her own.
"It is I who should be kneeling to you," he went on, "but I do not think you are strong enough to hoist me to my feet again without help. So we will have to go about this in a less usual way. Sit down."
Once again he drew on her arm, and once again she obeyed his signal, sinking down on the bench at his side.
"Now Gil," he lifted her hand briefly to his lips, "my dear, ridiculous Gil, will you accept the hand of this simple soldier in marriage?"
"I will, my lord."
He kissed her hand again, then cocked an eyebrow at her. "And will you promise never again to call me 'my lord' in that dreadful way?"
"I will not, my lord."
"You are a hard woman, Gil."
"And you are teasing me. My lord."
"Only to hear that note of reproach in your voice, which I have sorely missed."
He lifted his free hand to cradle her head and would have drawn her close for a kiss, but Gil halted him with a hand in the middle of his chest.
"Nay, lord, I pray you," she whispered, her voice trembling and her heart racing with mingled fear and elation.
"You are my promised wife!" he protested.
"But not yet your wife in truth, and until I am, you are still the Steward and I am still a drudge."
Boromir absorbed this, scowling, then declared, "I will wed you tomorrow."
"The day after," she temporized, "or the one following, for we have not yet told the King, and he may still have reservations about this marriage."
"Are you hoping that he will?"
She hesitated for the barest moment, then admitted, quietly, "Nay."
He broke out in a wide, triumphant smile that softened into a kinder one when he felt her fingers trembling in his. "Come, Gil, you have naught to fear from me."
"I know it, lord."
"Then sit with me and listen to the stars. Or will you deny me even your company until we are properly wed?"
"I will sit with you, though I cannot hear the stars as you do."
"You will if you listen hard enough." He settled back into his lounging posture and drew Gil to his side. "If you let go my hand I will wrap you in my cloak."
Blushing furiously at this reminder that she still held tightly to his hand, and at the thought of being bundled up in his cloak with him, she assured him, gruffly, "I am not cold, lord."
"You would say that even were you freezing in a snowstorm. But your hands are still warm, so I can hope that you are not yet near death." With that, he rested his head on the edge of the wall and fell silent.
Gil remained stiff and aloof, resisting the lure of his closeness, but as the minutes passed his warmth began to steal into her body, softening her rigid muscles with her resolve. Slowly, insensibly, she tucked her feet up under her on the bench, let her head tilt to just barely touch his shoulder, and pulled their clasped hands into her lap. The only sign Boromir gave that he noticed the change was to bend his own head closer to hers and turn so that he inhaled the scent of her hair with every breath.
They sat thus for an uncounted time, while the brilliant moon passed behind the peak of Mindolliun to the West and the stars blazed out more brightly. Then, when Gil was beginning to wonder if Boromir had fallen asleep on that hard bench, he spoke.
"Do you hear them? The stars?"
"Nay."
She gazed up at the jeweled display splashed across the heavens above them in wonder and sadness. She would have liked to hear the music that filled his darkness, but she knew that she never would. Gil the drudge might share the name of an Elf Princess of old, but that was all they shared. This Gil had none of the poetry or magic of the elves in her.
"What do they sound like?"
"I cannot find the words to describe their beauty. It does not belong to this earth, nor is it meant for mortal ears." He fell silent again, thinking, then asked, "Did you see the Lady Galadriel when she came to the city for Aragorn's marriage?"
"Aye."
"Picture her made all of crystal and silver, instead of sunlight and gold."
"That would be the Lady Arwen."
"Would it?"
"Have you never seen her?" Gil asked.
He tilted his head back, his expression intent as he searched his memory. "Aye, once or twice, when I lingered in Imladris for a time. I had forgotten."
"How could one ever forget seeing a creature so lovely?"
"I had other things on my mind. And the place was over-full of elves." Gil could not help chuckling at his dry tone, and Boromir turned to give her a gleaming smile. "But you are right, it is indeed Arwen I seek to describe."
"Is she like to the stars' music?"
"Imagine her turned to song and you have it."
Gil fell silent, pondering this, then ventured, "Does the King hear it?"
"Nay."
"What of your brother?"
"Nay, not Faramir either."
"Do you not find that strange?"
"Exceedingly strange." Boromir fixed her with the direct, knowing gaze that others found so unnerving and said, "You sound wary when you speak my brother. Why does he frighten you so?"
She shifted uncomfortably and dropped her eyes to the hand she still held so tightly. "He has never approved of your affection for me and has never troubled to hide it. I dare not think what he will say when you tell him we are to wed."
"Let him say what he likes. It will not sway me."
"But it may sway others."
"Gil." He freed his hand to catch her chin and turn her to face him. "The opinions of others do not matter. Only yours and mine."
"And the King's."
"And the King's," Boromir agreed with a nod.
"And Prince Faramir's." Before he could protest to this, she added, sternly, "You know it is true, no matter how you seek to deny it. He is your closest kin, your beloved brother, and you cannot simply brush him off as if he were a biting insect!"
"What are you saying? That I must have Faramir's consent along with Aragorn's?"
"Nay." A hint of laughter crept into her voice at the sight of his fearsome glower. "That would be asking too much, even of you."
"You might just as well demand Uglúk's head as your bride gift! I would stand a better chance of getting it!"
Overcome by a tenderness and affection that she did not know, 'til that moment, she was capable of feeling, Gil chuckled and cradled his hand to her cheek. "As I remember it, you promised never again to go near a mountain."
"A vain promise, as we live on the shoulders of one."
"Then you are foresworn and I am much deceived in you, my lord."
"Enough teasing, Gil. I do dearly love to hear you laugh and would willingly sit here all night listening to it, but I must know what it is you require of me if not to beg my brother's consent to my marriage."
"It is not my place to require aught of you, my lord."
"And yet you do it so readily!"
"I do not require," she said earnestly, once more clutching his hand in both of her own. "I ask of you, please, tell Prince Faramir what you intend to do. Hear what he has to say. Consider his words carefully. Then, if you still want this nameless drudge for your own, she is yours."
Boromir continued to glower at her for a moment, then said, grumpily, "I do not need to hear what he has to say, for I already know what it will be. He will think me mad."
"Have you run mad?"
Boromir could not help smirking at Faramir's outburst, though he knew that it would only enflame him the more. "I told Gil that is what you would say," he remarked.
"Because you know it is true!" Faramir took a furious turn about the room, his booted feet scuffing on the carpets and his leather jerkin slapping against his legs. "You cannot be in earnest, Boromir… cannot have considered… to wed your squire? It passes all bounds of—"
"Have you been riding?" Boromir asked abruptly, interrupting his tirade.
"Do not try to change the subject!" Faramir snapped.
"I am not. I only wondered why you are dressed in leathers."
"How did you—" He broke off and halted his pacing, then said, with a sigh, "I have only just returned from Emyn Arnen, where I have been for the last three days and which you would know if you had spared me a thought between seducing servants and plotting ways to ruin yourself."
"I have not seduced any servants, nor have I ruined myself. Come, Faramir." Boromir left his perch on the windowsill and moved unerringly toward the table before the hearth. These were his private chambers and the one place in all the city, besides Aragorn's study, where he needed no one to guide his steps. "Cease your ranting and sit down."
"I do not wish to sit down."
"Then stand there fuming. I care not." Pulling a chair out from the table, he lowered himself carefully into it. "Only have done throwing tantrums."
Faramir gave an irritated huff of laughter and crossed to the table. "You clearly know naught of tantrums if you call that one. Spend a day in my son's company. He will teach you the true meaning of the word."
"And deafen me into the bargain? I thank you, but I need my ears."
Faramir dropped heavily into a chair to Boromir's left.
"Shall I send Emrys for a flagon of wine?" Boromir asked. "Mayhap it will cool your head."
"Nay, I am done fuming." Pausing to rub his hands tiredly over his face, he then said, in a resigned way, "In truth, I am little surprised by your news. I have been expecting it anytime these three months."
"How could you? Three months ago I was tied by the leg in Meduseld, being driven to distraction by overprotective nursemaids."
"Aye, and falling in love with your squire. Or so the perian claimed, and it seems that he was right."
"A plague on Merry and his wagging tongue," Boromir said affably. "Am I to have no secrets?"
"Not from your halfling nursemaid." Faramir fell quiet for a moment, studying his face, then ventured, "'Twas Gil leaving that forced you to do it, was it not? You had to have her back and marriage was the price."
"Say rather that her leaving forced me to admit the truth. She was never just a squire to me, and it is long since she was merely a friend, yet I might have gone on forever pretending that all I wanted from her was a shoulder to guide me and a pair of eyes to read for me. But she has ended the pretense, and for that I am grateful."
"She did not insist on the marriage?"
Boromir's brows flew up, and a disbelieving smile tilted his lips. "Gil? Insist on marriage? You really do not know her at all, do you, Brother?"
"I only assumed that the notion was hers."
He laughed aloud at that, shaking his head. "She was as appalled at the idea as ever you could be! I think, had our gentle Queen not taken a hand in the matter, she would have gone on refusing me until we both died of old age."
"The Lady Arwen?" Faramir sounded shocked and faintly accusing. "She aided you in this?"
"Not to hear her tell it. She would say that she offered Gil her protection and support in standing up to my tyrannical demands. But the truth is that, by offering Gil a way out, she forced the stubborn creature to admit that she did not want to get out. It was a truly masterful piece of meddling."
"This is the Queen we are talking of," Faramir said stiffly. "You should show her more respect."
"I have naught but respect for Arwen. And affection and admiration and gratitude for all her care of me. If I do not set her up on a pedestal as you do, well, so much the better, for it gives me a stiff neck talking to someone placed so high above me."
Faramir laughed reluctantly. "Enough! I yield! I will spar no more with you."
"You are learning, little brother."
"Aye." Faramir fell quiet again, and Boromir could hear him rubbing his fingers thoughtfully over the wood of the tabletop. "Tell me in all sober truth, Boromir, that this is what you want. That you have considered well, weighed all the consequences, and chosen Gil for your wife because you believe it will bring you happiness, not because you are frightened by the prospect of doing without her."
"I am frightened by that prospect," Boromir promptly replied. "I cannot bear the thought. But it is not my squire that I must have beside me, it is Gil herself. I love her, Faramir, and must have her with me throughout my life. Do you doubt that?"
"I…" He hesitated, then closed his mouth with a snap.
"What troubles you? Say it."
"'Tis only… Do you imagine that your Gil is going to be miraculously revealed as the lost scion of some noble house? The descendent of those Elves that dwelt in Beleriand long ago? Some lady of birth and rank who hid herself amongst the common folk until her Prince came to claim her?"
Boromir gaped at him for a moment, his mouth sagging open in disbelief, then gave a bark of sour laughter and cried, "Now who has run mad?"
"I am serious."
"Then you need one of Aragorn's healing draughts and a nice, soft pillow on which to lay your fevered head!"
"You do not dream of turning your drudge in grey homespun into a bejeweled butterfly to dazzle the Court?"
"If ever such lunacy possessed me, Gil would rid me of it with one blow from her slops bucket. Nay, my poor, addled brother, I do not dream of Court butterflies or long lost Elvish Princesses or any other such nonsense. I know what Gil is."
"Then why her?" Faramir asked, his voice edged with pleading. "Of all the women in Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, anywhere else you might seed for a wife, why would your fancy light upon her?"
"Why did yours light upon Éowyn? Or Aragorn's upon Arwen? For a man who lost his heart almost at a glance, you seem strangely reluctant to believe it could happen to another."
"You cannot have lost your heart at a glance, however it came about," Faramir said wryly.
Boromir laughed. "At first word, then! Though I would hold that my love for Gil is all the more honest for having naught to do with beauty, of which she may have none."
"She is… well looking," Faramir admitted.
"I do not doubt it, but neither do I care. She is my Gil. That is enough."
He paused, giving Faramir a chance to answer him, but the other man remained silent, so Boromir went on in his most cajoling tone,
"You once asked my forgiveness for discounting my abilities and treating me as a child. Would you make the same mistake again? Or have you learned to trust me?"
Again he waited; again Faramir did not speak.
"Trust me, Brother. I pray you. Trust me to find my own way."
Before Faramir could respond to this, there came a knock at the door. Boromir jerked around in his chair and barked, "Who is it?"
The door creaked open, and Merry's familiar voice hailed him. "Just me! I thought you and Faramir might need a drop of wine to soothe your throats after all your shouting. And I hoped you might be ready for a congratulatory toast by now."
Boromir's face relaxed into a smile. "Come in, Merry! I trust you brought three cups, for we cannot have a toast without you."
"Of course I did." The hobbit padded across the room on his bare feet and set a tray down on the table. "So, have you talked Faramir around, yet?"
"I know not." Boromir fixed his bandaged gaze on his brother again, challenging him to respond. "Have I?"
"Pour the wine, Master Perian."
Faramir waited until Merry had poured out a cup of wine and handed it to him, then, with a scrape of chair legs against stone, he rose to his feet. Boromir gazed blindly up at him, waiting, while Merry continued to pour. When all three of them held cups, the Prince cleared his throat portentously.
"To my brother, who found his way out of an Orc den unaided, proving that he is well able to take care of himself, and who has now found his way to happiness—in spite of us all."
Merry chuckled and drank, while Boromir kept his bandaged eyes fixed on his brother, an amused smile playing about his lips.
When he had swallowed his token mouthful of wine, Faramir began again. "To Gil, who may be the only creature in all Middle-earth more stubborn than her intended, which also makes her the only creature in all Middle-earth equipped to deal with him."
This time, Boromir drank as well.
"And lastly, to Boromir and Gil," he said, with sudden, utter sincerity, "may their life together be long and joyful. I wish them well with all my heart."
Boromir drank, then, setting aside his cup, rose awkwardly to his feet. Merry caught his arm to steady him, but Boromir gently removed his hand and limped the few steps to where his brother stood. Reaching out for him, he found the other man's head, clasped it between his hands, and kissed him on either cheek. Then he pulled Faramir into a fierce embrace.
"I thank you, my brother," he murmured, "with all my heart."
To be continued…
Author's Note: I do not use the term 'morganatic' for Boromir's proposed marriage because that term seems too specific to our world and not appropriate to Middle-earth, but that's what it is. I tried to describe it as cogently as I could without attaching any specific label to it. I hope it makes sense.
Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!
— Chevy