She watches him dance.

Marriageable maidens, eyes downcast, smiling shyly; laughing young matrons, safely flirtatious; silver-haired dowagers, honored for their husband’s wealth and rank. He dances with them sedately; chats with them politely; returns them to their companions graciously. He does what is required of him in social situations; but has little interest in these things.

She will not dance. He is so accustomed to her refusal it has become a bit of joke between them. He meets her glance; raises an eyebrow; she shakes her head; he laughs, moves on.

So many times she danced with his father! She was young, and in love; Denethor was not. He could bide his time; she had wealth and lineage too valuable to spare. She raised and sacrificed sons for Gondor; he waited, loved, lost. She will not dance; dares not imagine she is young and beautiful and in those arms again.

A breeze, a flicker, a trick of the candlelight sets Boromir aglow with such fierce radiance her heart seems to stop. She moves toward him; surprised, he takes her hand.

Dance with me, child. Delight an old woman.

He smiles and leads her, tender as a lover, to the dance.