Warning for trauma

Caliniel answered the knock at the door.

 She returned to the sitting room, expression a combination of curiosity and unease.  Following behind her was a man, dressed in the livery of the White Tower;  the chamberlain of the Steward’s residence in Dol Amroth.  I had not seen him in years.

I could not even stand to greet him. “Which one?” I managed, reaching for Caliniel’s hand.

He looked almost relieved, even as his legendary composure cracked. “Boromir.”

 I do not remember him leaving. I do not remember my daughter worriedly pressing my hand and speaking to me.  I do not remember walking into the bedroom and lying down on the bed.

I was remembering a small, cheerful boy with boundless energy and loud, free laughter; the heavy weight of him when he fell asleep against my shoulder; his fierce protection of an adoring little brother. I was remembering the first time I saw him, and the last. 

“Mother?”  Caliniel’s frantic voice snapped me back to the present.  “Mother -- drink this…“   a cup was put into my hand, and I obediently swallowed its contents.

She was kneeling next to me, anxiety written all over her young face. “Mother, please –“

I took a deep breath that was more like a sob, and laid my hand on her face. “Call me when it is time for dinner,” I said in a voice that was not mine.

Caliniel did not look happy, but she obeyed, and left me alone.

I closed my eyes, as if this would help keep back the grief or keep me from picturing my little duckling lying broken on some far-away battlefield.

 I wondered who would comfort Faramir.