"Now, weapon up. Ready? Begin!"
"Wait, wait!" came the panicked cry. "I am not ready yet."
Boromir lowered his sword and twirled it with a smooth motion of his wrist, the blade whirring crisply through the air. "An orc will not be as obliging as I, Myrhil. Finish wiping your face and be done with it."
Myrhil dragged a sleeve across her brow, ridding it of any sweat that might roll into her eyes, and swept away the damp curls that clung to her forehead. The day was blistering hot and the dust from the Pelennor Fields seemed to flow into her lungs and cling to every piece of damp, exposed skin.
Boromir looked no better. He had removed his outer tunic and was garbed only in breeches and shirt, but it did little to ease his discomfort. The garments clung to him from the copious perspiration, and his face and neck bore streaks where rivulets of sweat had rolled through the layers of dirt that covered him.
The impending arrival of an embassy from Rohan within a few days' time had entailed more conferences and discussions than Boromir could tolerate. In a fit of irritation, he had grabbed Myrhil and retreated to this flat area at a distance from the city, seeking some peace. Laenilas was quite delighted with this visit from her kinsmen and she had likewise aggravated her daughter with constant talk about how to present their case to the visitors. When Boromir had suggested that they desert the planners to their own devices, Myrhil did not hesitate to slip from the city.
The two fugitives now stood at a distance from the South Gate, the midday sun pummeling them fiercely. Ever since the sun had achieved its summit, the heat that blanketed the city seemed to intensify with each passing minute. Many wives and daughters who lived on the outer limits of the Pelennor had removed themselves to the Anduin with their baskets of dirty linen so they could work and take the occasional swim at the same time. As she thought about the cool water, Myrhil began to sweat even more. She wiped her brow again and, when she had her sword raised and ready, she nodded her head to begin another bout.
Boromir struck her sword several times in quick succession, their blades ringing and screeching against each other as Myrhil deflected them effectively. Gauging the intensity of the vibration singing along her arm from the force of the blows, she knew he was not applying his full strength. He had done that only once before, a week ago, when he suggested they take measure of her recovery. The single blow had crumpled her to her knees and Boromir had pulled her to her feet with the suggestion that they continue to spar as they had been for a while longer. From the numbing agony she had experienced at that moment, and for long minutes afterward, she doubted she would ever be able to withstand the brunt of his unleashed strength. In the weeks she had spent practicing with Faramir, Boromir, the various contraptions in the armory, and the occasional soldier, she had hardened her body into something only begun in Lebennin over the anvil and forge. Still, she was not as strong as she would have been had her shoulder not been so severely injured, and she doubted she would ever be strong enough to meet Boromir on anything like equal terms. Faramir, perhaps. He was slighter than his brother and Boromir had commented on more than one occasion that she resembled his younger brother at that age. She did not know whether to be insulted at this inference that she possessed a gawky masculine frame -- a cursory inspection in the mirror before a bath inclined her to think not -- or be proud of the observation. She had always wanted to be strong, in spirit if not in body, for Larhend had been both. She could wield his sword with fluid ease and had recently begun practice with some of the heavier broadswords in the armory with barely a twinge from her wound.
They parted from a bout of fierce parrying and Myrhil absently rubbed her neck and shoulder through her grimy shirt as her mind was turned to it.
Boromir lowered his sword and straightened. "Is that bothering you?" he asked.
Myrhil crooked an arm and wiped another sheen of sweat from her face. "No. I simply thought how much it does not hurt, for once."
"Faramir told me that the week you spent away from the practice field during my absence on patrol is the reason for your final recovery. Quite quick it was, he said. No doubt he felt proud and smug that his books did what swords could not." He smiled, adding with a wry twist of his lips, "Sitting on your arse does have a way of resting the body." He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "That no longer pains you?" His eyes flitted to her face, but she did not notice he was studying her, for her gaze was fixed on his hand.
Wordlessly, he handed his sword to her, which she took. He brought his other hand to her face and, when she closed an eye reflexively, lightly ran the pad of his thumb over her formerly bruised eyelid. "And this?" he asked, his voice as soft as his touch. The coloring had faded long ago after remaining an angry purple, followed by a sickly yellow, for many days. The scabs from the orc's sharp gauntlet had also long been replaced by new skin. Almost immediately, he noticed that a deeper blush tinged her cheeks, redder than what the exertion and relentless sun would have caused.
On that night so long ago, he had refrained from forcing himself on a grieving woman, expecting that she would have arrived at -- and departed from -- Minas Tirith long since. At the time, he knew that she also believed she would remain in the White City a few scant days. Once she and Laenilas passed through the North Gate on the final step of their journey, the opportunity to lie in each other's arms would have been irrevocably lost. Lamenting it would have been senseless and other matters would have soon supplanted this idle wish. However, the days and weeks had passed and she was still here. The acute grief and persistent memories had been subordinated by the busy streets of the city, by the arms practice, by Faramir's books and, inevitably, by Time itself.
Myrhil was no longer that confused and grieving person and both were aware of it. Such gestures, like the ones he just made, were becoming more frequent and Myrhil had made several of her own: a hand on his wrist; intentionally brushing against him when she passed; and even a simple glance when she knew he would turn his head and notice her attentions. Neither had shown any indication, however slight, of wishing the other would cease.
"No, it does not hurt," she replied softly, laying her hand over his. She grasped two of his fingers and squeezed them slightly. "Neither of them. In fact, should you now grip me as you did the night we caught that duck, I would not crumple again."
Boromir let his hand slip from her hold and fall to his side. "I will not chance that," he said, taking his blade from her and backing away. Both had received a degree of pleasure from the moment and he retreated until the need for another intimate touch resurfaced.
Very rarely had he succeeded in games involving patience, but he had found it easy to exercise that strange virtue when this situation demanded it. The fruits of this patience were fleshly pleasures different from the ones obtained through the easy exchange of money or freely given due to ridiculous awe and loyalty. It was oddly stimulating. Laenilas had commented on his weariness, on his tired air when fully laden with his soldierly trappings. Perhaps so, but he did not believe that this patience was caused by tiredness. Fatigue would make him irritated at the lack of rapid advance. Instead, each incremental step he and Myrhil took towards one another, no matter the length of time to accomplish it, was a rewarding victory, and he felt no need for haste. The anticipation of the final victory, when they eventually met on this playing field they were slowly crossing, was becoming more tangible with each exchanged caress. It was close now. So very close.
"Nay, I dare not do it," he repeated with a laugh, returning them to the mood they had enjoyed before that suspended moment. "In fact, Faramir would never forgive me if I undid all the good that his fine scrolls and volumes wrought."
"Did that startle you?" she asked, struggling to regain her former footing. With each passing caress, she found it difficult to turn her mind from it immediately as she once had.
"What? That you willingly sat beside him and listened to him for hours, inhaling all that parchment dust and stale ink?"
Myrhil shook her head, slightly embarrassed. "No. That I could barely read."
Boromir shrugged. "You had no use for it, so what good would it have been? You knew enough and your father knew just as much, I am sure. Only being able to read ledgers and the odd contract is nothing to be ashamed of. It was practical." He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Besides, what can poetry say in fancy words that cannot be understood with plainer talk?"
"From what I have seen, not much," she replied, smiling. "I fear I drove your brother to despair when I insisted on reading about the tales of battles and legends of the past. He did mutter something about 'being corrupted' by you." She smothered another smile by bringing her sword to her head in a salute so that the blade masked her mouth. "He told me that you have little interest in books and lore other than the heroic deeds they tell." She lowered her sword and used it to lean on as another wave of scorching summer hear rolled across the Pelennor. It was becoming intolerable and she could feel her legs quivering in exhaustion.
Boromir answered with a grin. "I have my own collection of books and scrolls and the furthest reaches of the archives contain many more that it is my privilege alone to read. Father can read them too, naturally, and he has done so, many times over."
"I hope you will confide any interesting tales to me," she said, trying to sound light, but unable to mask her distress as she brought her sleeve to her brow again.
"Consider them confided." He looked up at the sun, a hand before his eyes. "This cursed sun! One more bout in it and I shall drop like a flogged workhorse. Only the first day of Nárië and it is already as hot as anything seen in Urimë in living memory." He sheathed his sword and walked over to where he had discarded his tunic, belt, and pouch. Myrhil returned her sword to its scabbard and made to follow him, assuming their practice was over, but he reversed his steps once his tunic was in hand. Taking her by the elbow, he turned their path towards the South Gate.
"Today the Anduin shall not be enjoyed solely by washerwomen and their brats," he said cheerily. "We will find a place upstream from their dirty clothes and enjoy ourselves for a short while before I have to return to the barracks or suffer more endless details about the Rohirrim."
Myrhil's steps, hesitant when still ignorant of where he was leading her and why, became quick and eager and soon matched his. "And if we should spy a duck?" she teased.
"We will let it live," he replied, turning to look at her. His grey eyes were merry, despite the wilting heat, and the corners crinkled in amusement.
Myrhil met his gaze and his face was so alight with the simple excitement of swimming on a hot day that she found herself smiling broadly in return.
Keeping to the Rammas in the narrow strip of land between the large outer wall and the banks of the Anduin, Myrhil and Boromir passed many women and youths who had escaped from the confines of the hot, stifling city to bathe in the cooling waters of the great river. Despite the constant danger of orcs approaching the river from the east, the sweltering heat was enough to make many overcome their fears and venture there to seek relief. If children had swords, they brought them and many women would not think of leaving the city without carrying a knife, either to use on attackers or themselves.
Rain had been plentiful in mid-spring, but it had tapered off shortly thereafter and the width of the running water had narrowed in recent days. Still, there were plenty of deep swimming holes, if one persisted in searching for them. Boromir found such a one, upstream from a large gathering of laundresses and positioned beneath a small bluff with shallow banks on either side. With a sigh of satisfaction, he deposited his sword, tunic and leather pouch onto the grassy bank.
Myrhil unbuckled her sword belt and bent over to remove her boots and stockings, hopping on first one foot, then the other. She had barely righted herself and was about to contemplate the water when she felt a hand in the middle of her back, followed by a sharp shove. Soon the lazy current was rushing up to meet her and her surprised cry of outrage was quickly silenced as she plunged into the depths.
Despite the intense heat of the past few days, the river's bite had not been dulled and the water still induced shivers on first contact. She surfaced and ground her teeth together to still her tremors, looking balefully at the man who was laughing raucously on the bank.
"You would not be laughing if you were in my place," she called out between chattering teeth.
"No?" came the retort. "But I suspect you would if you were in mine."
She nodded reluctantly at the truth of his statement. "And I would give you leave to strike me if a cramp seized you," she said, voice still tight between shivers. Soon the cold made it impossible to speak through her hammering jaw. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink beneath the surface so that the chill would surround her. The shock gradually lessened, much to her relief, and she soon heard a thump course through the water, telling her that Boromir had dove in as well.
Settling into a long stroke underwater, she went against the current and allowed herself to bob gently to the top when she felt her lungs begin to burn. Resurfacing, she sighed as the sun's intense warmth settled on her. Lying on her back, she let the current carry her in the direction she had come. The sleeves of her shirt fluttered in the water around her arms and she delighted in this airy, floating sensation after the long hours of running and retreating across hard earth, the weight of the sword and the oppressive sun wearing away at her strength.
She continued to travel with the listless speed of the river, her feet sticking above the soft swirls and eddies that lapped against her toughened and aching soles. She was about to open her eyes to look for Boromir when her foot was in a firm grip and she swung around from this anchor.
"You have not moved!" she accused. "For shoving me in, the least you could do is explore a little."
"I am familiar with this place," he replied. "Besides, I am frozen to the bone," he replied, "but it is not so bad as it was."
Myrhil continued to lazily drift back and forth as Boromir's sure hand held her ankle. She let her head fall back into the water and looked up at the sky, nearly white from the intense heat and haze. Mordor's smoke and ash made an unsullied blue sky a rarity, but it was something that most in eastern Gondor had grown accustomed to, for they knew little else. Though Mordor's mark was not unknown in far Lebennin, it was far heavier and more pronounced here around the fair and glittering city. Closing her eyes, she focused all of her attention on the sensations that originated from his fingers pressing into the bone and skin around that small part of her and were spreading throughout her body. His touch felt different now than on the Pelennor. Somehow, it was closer, seeming to surround her more than the Anduin.
Boromir stood his ground on the riverbed and allowed the peaceful strains of the Anduin's meandering song to hold sway. He watched Myrhil contemplate the sky above and ventured a glance or two upwards to see what it was that held her interest so. He could discern nothing, and so he returned to his own musings, which were varied and brief. He thought of swimming here with Faramir when they were boys, of his nightly conference with his father, of the Rohirrim emissaries that were due to arrive within days, and of the woman who floated around him.
When Myrhil continued to remain motionless and unresisting under his touch, Boromir ventured to run his free hand along the underside of her leg, beginning at her ankle and up over the tight curve of her calf. He felt her stiffen briefly in surprise, but just as quickly she relaxed without casting him so much as a glance.
Encouraged, he relinquished his hold on her ankle and, before the current could carry her away, his fingers were firmly hooked into the material of her breeches. Slowly, he brought her closer to him, repeating this hand over hand motion. In one purposeful path from her ankle to her back, his hands traveled, massaging her cold flesh.
He ended her journey when he circled an arm around her back and brought her tightly against him. Myrhil moved for the first time during this interlude and Boromir felt her arm wrap itself around his waist. She tried to lower herself and bring her feet flat on the riverbed, but the current kept forcing her aloft. Boromir realized her trouble and snaked his other arm around her legs and began walking towards the shore, his steps slow and tentative on the rocky bottom.
Myrhil was about to protest his action. She was no stranger to embraces and couplings in odd places such as rivers. She and Belaród had done such a thing in the Gilrain on more than one occasion, but she had no desire to reveal that to Boromir. Wherever he took her would be suitable.
He stopped, still in the river. "Are you willing?" he asked, looking down at her.
"Completely so," she replied, her patience fraying as the drops of water slipped and slid on her skin on their way back into the Anduin. Each tumbling roll, whether it fell from her fingers or between her toes, seemed to incite her nerves in a way that demanded to be calmed in the manner that only a lover could provide. "But we need not take the time to leave the river."
"I cannot vouch for you, but I would find it difficult in that cold water. I am shriveled as it is. If I am to be of any use, I need to be warm." To emphasize his point, he squeezed her up against his chest and grinned.
"Then let us see to that," she replied. "To the riverbank."
When the grass was once more beneath his feet, Boromir sank to his knees and laid her gently on the ground. Without hesitation, he covered her body with his, taking great pleasure in the feel of that trembling lean form pressed so thoroughly against him. There were no ringing blades between them as they pushed against each other, no pretense to bring them together like this. It was nothing but what it was, what both of them wanted, without artifice or contrivance.
Boromir felt Myrhil's legs settle knowingly around his hips and the motion was like the same beckoning hand he had seen in the darkness on the final night of their journey. He obeyed the silent command and commenced his assault. His hand went instinctively to that scarred patch on her shoulder. Sliding his hand under the wet linen of her shirt, he let his fingers graze over it. Scars were badges of honor, of valor, and this scar was what had begun the long and patient journey now ending in this consummation. The throat of her shirt was unlaced enough so that he drew it back, revealing the healed pink tissue to the sun's bath. Bending his head, he kissed it, letting his lips follow the rough seams from the stitches long removed.
He stopped when he heard Myrhil's throaty giggle in his ear and looked at her in surprise. "Why do you laugh?"
She tilted her head, smiling, as she ran a finger along his lips. "You are fascinated with that," she said. "You always have been. That first night. . ." Her voice faded as her finger continued its circuit around his lips. She shook her head, as though dismissing some foolish thought or ridding herself of an entrancement. "It was a hideous monstrosity," she went on, "nothing but pain and aching of the worst sort, and that night my wound and a jar of salve nearly undid me and yourself."
Boromir grinned crookedly, catching her fingertip between his teeth. She wrested it free by playfully swatting his head. He gave a final, gentle kiss to her wound and let his lips wend their way up her throat, placing several kisses on the warming skin, at first gentle but becoming more urgent. Myrhil's lazy moans of contentment hummed in his ears. Up over her chin his lips traveled, coming to her mouth where he first contented himself with a gentle brush of a kiss on her lips, tasting her tentatively, as though slowly reacquainting himself with her scent.
The happiness and elation Myrhil now felt seemed more than she could comprehend. Perhaps later, after it was over, she could put it into words, or at least coherent thoughts. The pressure and tension between them was shattering after growing stronger with every fleeting caress and touch over the past two months. When had it started? Myrhil at first remembered their stick swordfight by the campfire, but . . .no, it seemed already in place by then. Was it at an earlier time? She recalled crouching under the tree, searching for rocks in the darkness and their hands running clumsily into each other in their search. It had seemed so natural and unremarkable at the time, but with him now above her, pressing her so forcefully into the earth's embrace, it assumed greater importance, the seed of what now was in bloom.
She smiled against his lips and lifted her head, seeking to deepen the kiss and tangling her fingers tightly in his wet locks. Boromir had begun to grind his hips against her in an insistent rhythm, the wet and coarse fabric of their breeches only serving to frustrate them even more. Myrhil's invitation to plunge further incited him and his siege intensified tenfold. His hands were over her clothes, inside them, rubbing and caressing and kneading her body into something that would receive him joyfully. All the while, his mouth did not leave hers. Her lips and cheeks felt scarred by his beard, inflamed and raw under this strange attack, but it only heightened her awareness of him and all that he did to her. Except by another manner, she did not know how he could possibly unite with her with more sensation. Every part of her felt him and she wanted to feel more. With this thought, Myrhil's hands sought his breeches. She slipped one inside and began to tug blindly at the lacings with the other, prompting Boromir to groan at her touch, but she had not made much progress when all was brought to a shattering halt.
A voice was calling out in the distance. "My lord Captain! Captain Boromir!" it cried.
Boromir wrenched himself away from Myrhil's lips and looked to his left in the direction of the call. "Mordor's breath!" he growled.
Myrhil turned in the direction of his gaze and let her head fall back onto the grassy cushion, defeated, when she heard the unseen intruder call again. Letting out a small groan of frustration, she relinquished her hold on his stirring member and abandoned his lacings entirely. With another groan, she shoved at Boromir's chest. Startled, he was unable to stop her completely rolling from underneath him and he watched her take a place on the grass at a seemly distance. He was pleased to see that he was not the only one whose mood had turned sour. With ill-concealed annoyance, she unsheathed her sword and went about inspecting it for nonexistent rust and dullness just before the man appeared around the bend of the river and saw the object of his search.
"Ah, Captain! I am relieved to find you!" he said, breathless. "The women downstream saw you pass and told me I should continue walking until--"
"What is it, Beregond?" he snapped, irritated. Then he saw the man's reddened face, heard the rasping breaths and detected a frantic edge to his tone. Boromir's instincts reared and he got to his feet quickly. "What is wrong?"
Myrhil heard the urgency in Boromir's question and she turned away from her sword in alarm.
"The Rohirrim," Beregond gasped, finally reaching Boromir. "They sighted orcs. . . That is, one of their advance riders did." Beregond coughed as he fought to refill his lungs.
"Were they attacked?" He slapped Beregond on the back when the unfortunate man still struggled to soothe his spasming chest. "Out with it!"
The order coming from his commander's lips did as much to hasten his recovery as Boromir's blunt aid. "No. No, they were not," Beregond reported, his wheezing now lessened. "The rider returned to the party and they altered their course to keep them closer to the mountains and away from any encroachments on the east. He then rode with all speed to us, and begs for an escort. Every man among them is armed in the manner of their people, though not as heavily as in war. He said that they would be able to defeat any enemy--"
"Naturally," Boromir commented wryly. "Those proud folk would say no less."
"--but that trusting to chance would endanger their mission and that is of more importance."
Nodding, Boromir cast a quick glance at Myrhil, his grey eyes dampened with regret, but she saw that the prospect of battle had already lit the tinder of anticipation for another kind of conquest. She rose to her feet and sheathed her sword, realizing that what they had begun would have to be delayed until a later time. Disappointment washed over her. She would be lying if she told herself she was not dismayed by Beregond's unlucky appearance, but the thought of the Rohirrim under attack, distant kin though they might be, pushed selfish considerations aside.
"Return to the city, Beregond," Boromir told him. "I shall be right behind you. Tell Faramir to begin gathering able men who are well rested. We will have to press hard to meet with the Rohirrim."
Beregond saluted and left them, retracing his steps along the riverbank. Boromir watched him for prolonged moments, and then turned back to Myrhil, his eyes still regretful. She had collected his sword, tunic and other effects and now walked over to him.
"Here, my lord," she said, holding them out to him.
"Next time, Myrhil, it matters not where we may be or who comes upon us," he said. He took the items one by one and garbed himself hastily. "Whether Beregond or anyone in Minas Tirith."
"I will try to match you in that immodesty," she replied with a laugh as she helped him pull the tunic over his soaked clothing. When she was finished, Boromir placed a palm against her cheek and bent to kiss her softly. He drew back and, noticing the fading, reddened patches around her mouth, cheeks, and chin caused by his beard, he rubbed a thoughtful thumb over one of the blemishes.
"You must go," she told him. "Should they be attacked, I do not think Mother would hesitate to vent her ire on you. She so wishes to go to Edoras, but I sometimes wonder if she has chosen to stay so long because I am content here."
"You could remain while she continues on," he said. "There is no reason why you must go."
She nodded. "I ponder it every day. Every day." When Boromir said nothing and made no sign to return to the city, she frowned, puzzled. "What is it?"
Boromir smiled faintly, still watching her intently. "I was only wondering when I would hear the words, 'Let me come with you.'"
"You expected to hear them?"
"I confess the thought did occur to me."
"If the answer is no, then I shall not bother to ask."
Boromir reached out and brushed a wet curl behind her ear. "Then I need not fear that you will give chase and appear at a most inopportune time?"
Myrhil's lips twisted into a smile. "I did not say that." Her light mood faded when she saw Boromir's eyes darken, piercing her spirits.
"Do not say that, even in jest, Myrhil," he said. "I will have my men and the Rohirrim to protect. I do not need the burden of worrying about you." He let his hand slide down her neck, his thumb caressing the line of her throat. "Do we understand one another?"
"I shall be here when you return," she replied, eyes unwavering. "I will not leave the city. You may hold me to my word."
Boromir's features relaxed visibly. "I shall be gone three days, four at most. Myrhil, upon my return. . ." He left the rest unsaid, but it was understood between them.
He turned and began to walk back to the city. Myrhil lingered only for a second, then fell into step behind him, contemplating her would-be lover. Yes, she would remain in Minas Tirith. . .for now. Though part of her had embraced the city as her own, all that was unseen called to her as well. Boromir might embrace her in a way that the rolling hills of Rohan could not, but the touch was one that she did not want to go unfelt. Yes, she would leave, but she would return to the White City -- and Boromir.
That was a promise.
Translations:
Nárië (Quenya; Steward's Reckoning) = June
Urimë (Quenya; Steward's Reckoning) = August