That night, the citadel was alight with feasting, song and conversation. Preparations had been in motion long before the Rohirrim departed from Edoras and they had concluded just as the guests passed through the Great Gate. Though the Steward had said nothing of the importance of the occasion, it was well understood among all deputed to ready the Citadel into something befitting the arriving Rohirrim. Within the Merethrond, the great feasting hall, long tables were festooned with garlands, and arrangements of the fairest and brightest summer blooms amongst the silver and crockery presented a cheery atmosphere. The air was saturated with the mingling scents of flora, roasted meat, fresh baked bread, steamed vegetables fresh from the fields, and various other foods. Anyone who passed by the open windows were seized with immediate hunger pangs, so enticing was the aroma.
The sun still hovered over the western horizon when the Steward and his family entered to occupy the large table raised on a dais, accompanied by the Rohirrim ambassador and his entourage. They had arrived directly from the conference chamber, all visibly wearied from negotiation and the tension that always existed when men of strong will and importance found themselves on opposite sides of a table laden with objectives.
Myrhil and Laenilas found themselves directed to a table at the foot of the dais. Myrhil would have reveled in the seeming importance such a position might imply, but when she saw the woman in brilliant red approach with her escort and seat herself at the same table on the other side only a few chairs distant, her contentment warred against anger. Even the wad of blazing red thread now secreted in her sleeve, a trophy from one obviously enamored of her wardrobe, could not erase the nasty exchange in the throne room. She was once again in a room overflowing with folk she did not know, which she would have never known had circumstances not overridden her birth and placed her here. She braced herself for another unpleasant encounter and her mood soured at the prospect. Without waiting for one of the servants to assist her, Myrhil sat down heavily and jerked herself towards the table.
Laenilas noticed her daughter’s change in temper and looked about in search of its source. She could see nothing out of the ordinary and lowered herself into her chair on Myrhil’s left, puzzled. “I would not desire to sit up there, but perhaps you do,” she said. “Is that what troubles you?”
“No,” Myrhil said curtly, not even turning her head.
“No? Not even if you could sit beside Boromir?” Laenilas pried gently.
“No!” came the retort, a sharp whisper. Myrhil held out her goblet to a passing servant for some wine and Laenilas saw that her daughter’s entire body was rigid beneath the green silk of her gown. If she had before looked angular and incongruous in a dress that best suited a more rounded figure, she appeared even more so now.
Laenilas lost her patience and chose to abandon the conversation, intent on not embroiling herself in a foul mood on this merry evening. Should she find herself before any of the Rohirrim, she did not want this shadow tainting her thoughts. She did not think it possible that she could capture the attention of any of them from her lowly position here, but she seized the opportunity to further look upon them. Only four Rohirrim dined with the Steward and his sons. The pale scribe was not among them. She did not know if he and the other missing man that had attended the reception were deemed unworthy of such an honor or were merely unpunctual. In either case, she regretted that her only contact thus far had been with one who could seemingly do her little good.
On either side of Denethor, as they had stood in the Tower Hall, sat Boromir and Faramir. On Boromir’s right was seated Elfléda, and Laenilas concluded the two men were continuing a debate begun in that closed room. Their manner was somewhat tense and she saw Denethor cast a reproving look at his eldest, but it went unseen and therefore unheeded. She was about to return her attention to the feast before her when Denethor’s avid gaze left his son and swept the room before pausing on her. Her first instinct was to turn away. The words exchanged the other night were still a vivid memory.
But she had experienced long ago that when those grey Númenorean depths fixed themselves upon something, it was nearly impossible to escape their grip. It had been so years past and it still held true now. She would simply turn her head now. It was an easy thing to accomplish, requiring but one movement. Turn, you fool! she rebuked herself in frustration. She halted when, in the midst of her struggle, Denethor inclined his head with the most grace she had ever seen Ecthelion’s son display and smiled. It was a smile that lingered barely an instant, but it was most knowing.
Ah, but he does love being the Steward, Laenilas thought, and he loves that he need only tolerate people at his will, rather than be forced to accept them. With remembrance of the comely and heroic Thorongil rising to the fore, she found it of little effort to return his silent acknowledgement with a meaningful smile of her own design that matched his in complacent serenity. When his gaze passed on to others in the hall, she turned to her plate, now somewhat infected with a feeling of amusement and relief.
“If you do not get food now, Mother, you will not be eating,” Myrhil said, stabbing a small hunk of roasted beef from the platter in the center of the table and putting it on her mother’s plate. “These little court pigeons apparently need more to sustain them in their pursuit of men and clothes. Had we eaten as they do, we would have starved for most of the year.”
Laenilas did not miss the snide tone in her daughter’s voice. “What has angered you so?” she demanded. “You have been surly and irritated since this afternoon.”
Myrhil swallowed the food in her mouth and remained silent for long moments. “It is none of your concern,” she said finally. “’Tis only wounded pride on my part.”
“Very well,” Laenilas replied uncertainly, taking a large slice of bread from the board and spreading it with fresh butter. “Wounded pride is an injury we all have suffered.”
The matter would have been of no more consequence to her, but as she was about to bite into the bread, she noticed a woman on the other side of the table seated some distance away. The creature was clad in a gown of such violent red that Laenilas’ mother would have heartily disapproved, had her daughter intended to wear it to court, and on her lips was a sardonic smile directed at Myrhil.
Laenilas let her gaze fall to her food and she whispered, “Who is she?”
“It matters not who she is,” Myrhil replied. “I do not know her name or anything of her, but she knows who -- or what, rather -- I am.”
Laenilas smiled. “Ah, someone jealous of the standing you hold with Gondor’s heir?”
Myrhil did not seem amused. “I wish it were that ridiculous. Some find a measure of honor in that position, but none in mine.”
“Yours?”
“‘A mean soldier’s daughter, and naught else.’ Remember? You said it so eloquently.” Myrhil grabbed an unfortunate piece of meat from her plate and shoved it into her mouth. “That is what I am in her eyes,” she continued, “and no doubt in those of many others. But, there is this. . .” She wiped her greasy hands on a small square of linen and slipped her fingers into her sleeve, withdrawing the small wad of thread. “A petty prize and I am ashamed for having felt so invincible when I claimed it. She has not changed gowns. It is possible she does not even know that it has frayed.”
Laenilas studied it, genuinely confused. “What are you prating on about?” She shook her head and returned her attention to her plate. “I think Boromir’s absence has affected you. I would push you towards him right now in front of all if it would not cause his father to grow red and livid.” She chuckled. “Though that would be a fine sight.”
As Laenilas laughed to herself, Myrhil returned the thread to her sleeve and looked over at the woman, who appeared curious but ignorant as to what she had just held in her hand. Myrhil received pleasure from that. Let the uncertainty fester. She returned to the delicious meal before her and ate with greater relish.
Laenilas was enjoying the meal as well. The food the servants had brought to her and what she had cooked herself had been nearly as rich as the fruits of her labor in her own kitchen in Lebennin, but this feast surpassed all of that. She lost herself in the wine, the meat, the crisp greens, and the steaming loaves of bread that came from the kitchens in steady supply.
Musicians had been gathered and the center of the hall had remained empty to allow dancing. As some of the feasters reached their limit, they abandoned the tables and began to caper about slowly. When heavy stomachs began to feel lighter, so did the steps of the dancers and the music became lively and joyous to match the rising gaiety.
Myrhil watched the blood-clad woman rise and vanish with her suitor, but the rank ire had been displaced. She had eaten more than was sensible and now felt quite sluggish. The hall was becoming unbearably hot and she ran a hand over her throat and chest in discomfort.
“Perhaps a small dance would help you,” Laenilas said, gesturing towards the center of the hall with a toss of her head. “It has apparently aided others with full bellies.”
Myrhil laughed, a stark contrast to her mood all night thus far, but she could not help but be amused at the absurdity. “I dance? You must be drunk for suggesting that.”
Laenilas brought a hand up to her flushed cheek. “Perhaps I am. I should have watered it more.”
Picking up her own goblet, Myrhil sniffed the contents and downed what remained in a few scant swallows. “I did not water mine at all.”
“Gorhend is to blame for that,” Laenilas said ruefully, “allowing you into taverns and drinking the occasional ale.” She rubbed her cheek absently. “I should like to dance.”
“Then do so. I would like to see you ask that pleasure from Denethor.”
Laenilas looked sharply at her daughter. “Why do you suggest that?”
“You have studiously avoided him since our arrival,” Myrhil said. “Even I am not that unobservant. I meant to ask you at the time when Faramir took me to see him and you insisted on remaining behind, but I deemed it none of my affair. I intended to ask you the night you summoned the guards to look for me and looked at the Tower so strangely, but I did not.”
“It is a long and tedious history. This certainly is not the place to discuss it.”
“I sense the tragic tale of a jilted lover,” Myrhil persisted, voice light and sly.
“Far less interesting than that!” Laenilas replied after a shocked pause. “What gave you that notion? You must be the drunk one to suggest it.”
Myrhil shrugged. “Perhaps I am.”
“Are we going to be repeating each other all night long?”
“Perhaps we are.” Her mother’s stern glare cut the nonsense short. “I think some of Faramir’s poems have colored my senses,” Myrhil explained, though it was obvious from her tone that she did not believe the excuse she was offering. “He has sometimes had me read foolish love poetry because it is easier to understand. Even in my ignorance, I feel my intelligence is insulted. But the subjects can be quite fanciful.”
“Reserve your imaginings for yourself and Boromir, not Lord Denethor and I. There is nothing of that in my past,” Laenilas assured her. “I hope you will recover from any disappointment.” She pushed her goblet firmly away from her plate, the lie now told. “Be silent and we shall try to survive the remainder of the evening without saying something truly embarrassing. Or,” she admonished, “at least begin watering your wine.”
* * *
Faramir saw Myrhil slump backwards in her chair, then apparently remember her surroundings and quickly pull herself into an erect position. He had watched her for most of the evening, even when he was engaged with others. The man beside him, a native of the Westfold, had spoken at length about the troubles encountered in the Gap of Rohan, but both had let the subject fade from conversation when their spirits began to dampen to such an extent that the music in the room had difficulty alleviating it. When silence fell between them, Faramir had little to engage his attention.
He looked past Denethor and saw that Boromir and Elfléda were still in discussion. He wondered if it was the matter of sending Gondorian patrols further to the north and west than had ever been done. That was a request by the Rohirrim that both Denethor and Boromir had met with coldness and obvious refusal. With the Gap now the source of peril for Rohan and the latest incursions by the Enemy penetrating to the south of Minas Tirith, the northern reaches and points west were not of greatest importance, though they were still patrolled regularly.
Not regularly enough for the Rohirrim, however. The conference ended with no small degree of acrimony. Elfléda was determined to secure an outcome apparently most beneficial to his King, but Denethor would not sacrifice Gondor’s welfare to please someone else. It was presumptuous to expect anything of the sort and Faramir sensed his brother’s irritation at the Rohirrim’s forthrightness. A King of Gondor would not be pressed as hard as a mere Steward to comply. The ties between the two lands were strong, yet even in the best of times strain was not unknown.
Faramir brought a hand to one temple and rubbed away the beginnings of a headache. He was surprised that his brother had not willingly abandoned the strife of the negotiation table as soon as the door was opened and the way clear for some festivity. The ugly specter of marriage had only been raised in the most vague of terms and Boromir had quickly deflected it with talk of a stronger military alliance instead. Had Elfléda persisted on nuptials with as much tenacity as patrols, he doubted that Boromir would have bothered wasting another word on the man. Talk of men and arms -- that was more to his brother’s liking, and when he was engaged in such details, little else could capture his interest. Even Myrhil, who Faramir expected would have been nearly foremost in his brother’s mind, seemed forgotten as she sat silently at a quickly diminishing table.
He excused himself from the Rohirrim on his side of the table and rose from his chair. Denethor looked up in alarm. “You tire of our company, Faramir?” he asked.
“No, Father, but I see some who have none,” he said, gesturing below them. “Our guests. I wish to beg leave to attend them.”
Denethor studied the two women silently. When Faramir took his silence to indicate refusal and displeasure, he reluctantly sank into his chair again, but he jumped slightly when he felt his father’s hand on his wrist.
“Yes, Faramir, see to our guests,” Denethor said. “They must be feeling at sea in a place such as this. Put them at ease. As you will.” He dismissed his son with a wave of the hand.
Faramir nodded in dumb obedience, uncertain whether he had actually heard his father express such host-like concern, though his voice had not been warm. He cast a final glance at his brother before leaving the table. Boromir was still acting as the heir of Gondor should, place business before personal desires. It was admirable, yes -- and he was immensely proud of his brother for his singleness of purpose -- but the sun had traversed half the sky and long set. It was time to leave military matters behind and enjoy the rare festivities the arrival of the Rohirrim had prompted.
He descended the stairs of the dais with light step and wended his way through the servants and milling feasters to where Laenilas and Myrhil sat.
Laenilas saw him approach and greeted him with a broad smile. “Ah, Faramir!” She reached out a hand and seized his in a warm clasp. “You were most splendid-looking today. A sight to be proud of.”
Faramir bowed awkwardly at her praise, his smile marred briefly by a pained twitch. “As do you,” he returned, squeezing her fingers once before letting go. “I trust the seamstresses met with your approval?”
“Myrhil was not fond of them, but this gown is among the finest I have ever worn.” Her hands brushed along her sleeves. “I almost regret that I cannot wear it everyday.”
Faramir smiled. He would not think upon what his father would say were he to hear this conversation about clothes and appearances. No doubt he was watching this exchange and had deduced its subject readily, as was his gift. However, he enjoyed Laenilas’ company and would gladly discuss all matters with her, whether it was serious or pointless banter such as this.
“So why have you fled from your table to ours?” she asked. “The Rohirrim are not unpleasant, I pray?”
“They are pleasant enough. As pleasant as demanding allies can be, but I expected that.” He peered past Laenilas. “Actually, I have come here to relieve Myrhil of her boredom,” he replied. “I thought she might enjoy a dance. Myrhil?”
Myrhil shook her head. “Mother and I have already discussed it. I cannot dance, and I would not make you look ridiculous with my clumsy galloping.”
Faramir stood behind Myrhil’s chair and pulled it out from the table. “Nonsense!” he said. “I have been told I have the grace of a mûmak, so we shall be in fine company.”
“That sounds like something your brother would say,” Laenilas mused.
“Quite right. So, what say you, Myrhil? Let us make fools of ourselves together.”
The safety of the table no longer enclosing her, Myrhil remained in her chair and gripped the arms tighter when she felt Faramir’s hands under her elbows in an effort to prompt her from her seat. “No,” she said firmly. “I will not.”
He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I have a volume of poetry, nigh two hundred pages long, that I can force you to read aloud. Nay, perhaps even memorize.”
Myrhil loosened her grip and rose so quickly that her shoulder struck the underside of his chin. When he clutched it and rubbed it in an effort to soothe the pain, she smiled in satisfaction. “Let that cure you of making vile threats.”
“Vile threats?” he asked. “I have rarely heard it referred to as that.”
Laenilas laughed. “And that is all I have heard.”
Faramir shrugged in good humor. “I will continue bravely onward in spite of the odds. Perhaps one day I shall have you writing it.” Laenilas laughed again and motioned him to lead Myrhil away. As they left the table, side by side, he asked, “Out of curiosity, would you call an offer to dance a vile threat as well?”
“Nay, that is torture,” came the reply. “Why are you not still at table? You did not leave simply out of misguided pity for me.”
Faramir held her hand firmly as they made their way to the center of the hall. “Exactly that. Boromir is not currently concerned about entertaining you and I did not want you to feel neglected.”
“How kind of you,” she said dryly.
“We could be in a library, Myrhil. At least try to see the good of my actions.”
“Yes, very admirable. Suppose we do go to the library instead of making fools of ourselves?”
They reached the other dancers and before Myrhil could protest further, Faramir seized her other hand and hauled her into the swirling circle. The musicians were playing a gambol and Faramir led her with less difficulty than she had feared. She stumbled several times as her gown tangled around her feet, but as the music increased in tempo and the steps became even more lively, the gowns of all the ladies fluttered like banners on the ramparts in reds, greens, blues, pinks, and purples of silks, satins, velvets and brocades. Jewels glittered, laughter rang and the air above the dancers crackled like that of a sweltering summer night when the horizon flashes with an unheard storm. In that moment, Myrhil cared not where the woman in the red dress stood, or what she thought. She could feel her blood singing in her hands that Faramir gripped, in her feet that struck against the marble floor with every step she took, and in her ears that nearly drowned out the music. She abandoned herself to this inner orchestra.
* * *
Laenilas remained at the table and was contemplating her goblet when, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone enter the room through a door to the right of the dais. She assumed it was a servant, but when she looked over at him, she recognized him as the scribe from the throne room. His leather case was still slung protectively across his chest. He seemed uncertain about progressing further, but she raised her hand and motioned him to come forward. He did so with clear hesitation.
“Good evening,” she said cheerily. “You are late to the feast.”
“I was tending to my duties,” he replied softly, rubbing at one hand with a handkerchief. The white linen was smudged with ink in many places.
“Are you a poor scribe?” she asked, pointing to his dirty fingers.
“Only when those whose words I have to copy speak faster than I can write.” His thin lips were cocked to one side as he labored to scrub his hands without benefit of water. He paused and stared at her through tendrils of a forelock that fell over his brow. “Pardon me. My lady.” He bowed quickly. “I recall what you told me this afternoon of your blood ties.”
“It is Gríma, correct?”
He nodded. “Gríma Gálmódsson.”
“And have you spoken of it with the ambassador?”
He shook his head. “Today’s business was entirely with Gondor. Ceddewine, the only Rohirrim you saw today who is not here tonight, is the ambassador’s lieutenant of sorts and I shall inform him of all that you tell me as soon as I am able.”
“Which will be?” When Gríma appeared indecisive, she added, “Yes, I am impatient and demanding. If you knew all the details, then you might understand.” She gestured to Myrhil’s empty chair. “My daughter is occupied with the dance, so please sit down.” She eyed his slender frame keenly. “You could do with a heaping platter or two.”
Gríma’s expression was that of one who felt insulted, and Laenilas realized that her words might have sounded condescending. This man was no youngster, and he already carried the lines of age on his brow. His pale features only instilled the impression that he was a newly growing thing, or at least something whose growth was a struggle, like a sapling in a forest of towering trees.
Taking a seat, he sighed faintly at the welcome comfort, resting his back comfortably against the broad slats. “Forgive me, but I have been bent in the opposite direction for hours,” he said.
Laenilas smiled. “I understand. ‘Tis no different in a kitchen and I am no stranger to that form of pain.”
Gríma looked uncomfortably at the plate before him that contained Myrhil’s uneaten food. There was neither a clean bowl he could use nor an unused knife with which to eat, but he eyed the scraps of meat and cooling pieces of bread hungrily.
“How long have you been in Théoden King’s service?” Laenilas asked.
“My father served him until the day he died, and I had begun to fulfill my duty to my king long before that.”
“Your father was a scribe as well?” Laenilas asked. Her eyes flickered to his hands that had subtly taken hold of Myrhil’s knife and secreted it in his lap where he gave it a perfunctory wipe with his handkerchief. She did not know whether to pity or deride him for his willingness to eat someone’s scraps with dirty silver.
“No, he was in trade,” he replied, skewering a piece of cold meat from the platter and pulling it from the congealed grease. “He sent me away to receive an education and later I secured a post in the king’s household based on my merits.” He revealed this with some pride as he took a small bite of the meat and reached for a piece of bread. “You did neglect to mention that you had a daughter,” he continued. “It is just as well that I did not approach my lord Elfléda or anyone else about this matter, only to have additional details come forth later.” Laenilas caught a brief flicker of his eyes as they looked at her askance and concluded that he believed she had tricked him intentionally.
“My time was limited, Gríma. You have to admit that I was left with little opportunity before everyone would be called away. I have waited here for numerous weeks before continuing with my journey. I mean to settle in Rohan, but it matters not where. I do not expect Théoden to gift me with a room in Meduseld or even in Edoras.”
“Then why not simply come to Rohan and purchase a farm in the Eastemnet or wherever it please you?”
“Because I do wish to see my kin, as I would like to think Théoden would enjoy meeting those of his blood who settled and remained in Gondor.” She affected a deprecating smile. “I am old and willingly bend to formality in this matter.”
“Why leave Gondor?” he wanted to know. “You would be safer within Minas Tirith and--”
“Safety is a fruitless debate in these days,” Laenilas interrupted. “The Gap of Rohan has made Edoras only slightly less perilous than Minas Tirith. I am not afraid, no matter where I may dwell. Were it my desire to remain where my husband and I had made our home for years past, the place of his death at the hands of orcs and possible future attacks, I would have stayed. Yet I wished to leave. Should Théoden King request my reasons other than the one I have told you, I shall give them to him, gladly -- when I see him.”
Gríma was silent after this blunt speech. “Yes, I regret earlier circumstances forced you to be brief,” he finally said, “for I should like to hear of your kinship to my king. Théoden has not forgotten his ties to Gondor. Customs and manners acquired by his father during his long sojourn here have found a willing champion in our king. They do not flourish greatly, but many have set aside their suspicion and entwined them with the customs of their own fathers.”
“Am I to assume that you are of that mind?” Laenilas asked. “You speak kindly of this habit.”
Gríma nodded with the same noticeable degree of pride. “I am. So is my lord Elfléda. He is a worldly man and there is little in both lands that he has not seen and studied in his service to our king. But, please, tell me of your kinship to the House of Eorl.”
As Laenilas began to inform him of her grandmother’s journey to Gondor and the flowering of her bloodline in her adoptive country, Gríma’s gaze lingered long on her face. Such a bold gesture was forgivable when joined with avid interest in a tale well told, but his attention was not completely captured by the words she spoke. Her claims to kinship were sound and one could see it in her face. Though this woman was Gondorian by birth and the blood of its people ran in her veins, her Rohirrim blood had not noticeably lessened through the intermingling. Théda’s stock had indeed been strong, and her granddaughter had apparently been gifted with Gondorian fortitude as well. Her earlier comment about toiling in a kitchen seemed true when he marked the calloused hands that rested on the arms of her chair or gestured during the course of her tale. The fingers were wrinkled from exposure to extremes of heat and cold for many years, the skin pulled tight and dry, and they were thicker and more blunt in nature than what he had usually seen in nobility. They were the hands of a farmer’s wife. But her face. . .the blue eyes, hair that reminded him of the golden roof of Meduseld during a mid-summer sunset, and a visage as flinty as the peak of the Irensaga. It seemed natural and right that such a person should be in the country that had laid claim to every discernable feature. She possessed the traits dear to the Rohirrim that he himself lacked, and he fought the envy that rose in his breast.
Yet when she had finished, he nodded. “I will do all that I can, my lady.”
* * *
“Have you tired?” Faramir asked.
Myrhil did not hear the question through the pounding in her ears and the revelry around her. She cocked her head towards him, inviting him to repeat it. When he did, she shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you are huffing like you have run around the Pelennor in a full suit of armor with a dwarf on your back!”
She gripped Faramir’s hands tighter, squeezing them as though in rebuke. “No worse than you!” she replied. “Your face is as red as--”
Myrhil stopped when she looked over Faramir’s shoulder and saw a red dress. “As red as. . .” she said, pulling Faramir along with her as part of the dance. He followed along, puzzled, but his eyes widened slightly when Myrhil sidled up to another dancer, a woman he had often seen strolling about the Citadel, and deliberately stepped on the short train that dragged along the floor.
The woman -- Faramir recalled that the name Imían seemed familiar -- lurched into her escort when she found herself anchored. Impatiently, she looked behind her to see the cause. Upon spying a foot firmly planted on her dress, her head snapped up in alarm and her mouth set in a tight line upon seeing Myrhil. “Not satisfied with receiving one wound?” she demanded. “You wish for another?”
Faramir hauled Myrhil against him, removing her from Imían’s dress. He was uncertain exactly what was unfolding before him, but he would try to prevent it to the best of his ability. “Myrhil, what has possessed you?” he whispered sharply into her ear.
Myrhil struggled against him, but it was not to try to leave. Releasing her, he looked down as her fingers dug frantically into one of her sleeves and watched in complete confusion as a large wad of red thread appeared. Myrhil pinched it firmly and waved it in front of her opponent. “A wound? On me? Check your dress, my lady. You may need the services of a seamstress.”
Imían’s hand lashed out to try to steal the thread, but Myrhil pulled it close to her breast. “I shall keep this, whether you object or no,” she said.
Before anything more could be said or done, both women were parted as the men with them yanked them in opposite directions. The musicians had begun a slower tune and the gathered dancers were forming lines. Faramir darted through an opening, Myrhil in tow, and continued towards the wide doors that hung open to allow the night air to enter.
Once they passed through the doors onto the cobbled courtyard, he stopped and turned to her. “I will not even ask what that was about.”
“She insulted me earlier. I was obligated to return the favor.” She returned the thread to her sleeve. When Faramir looked at her in exasperation, she replied, perplexed, “If I fought wrongly, then tell me how I should have fought! Please, Faramir! Tell me. Only do not tell me that I should not have fought at all.” She brought a hand to her eyes, but she did not weep. She only felt weary.
He shook his head. “No, Myrhil, it is nothing dire. At least that is my hope. But I did not bring you out here to lay stern words upon you. I simply thought some fresh air was needed, to restore the senses. For both of us.” He inhaled deeply and sighed as he looked up at the sky. “Perhaps we should have gone to the library after all.”
Myrhil lowered her hand and managed a small laugh. “Yes, I would rather we had done so, now.”
He put a hand on her arm. “I should return to the table. Father and Boromir may again wish to have some assistance with the conversational duties. If you like, we can return together.”
Myrhil declined with a shake of the head. “I would like to remain here. It was not until now that I realized how close the air is in that hall. Make my excuses to Mother. I do not think I shall be going back in there tonight.”
“Very well.” He turned to leave and was about to enter the hall when he stopped and cast a final glance over his shoulder. “Myrhil, promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“By all accounts, Éowyn of Rohan is a kindly girl. Do not step on her gown. A king’s wrath is not a pleasant sight, I warrant.”
He said it without a trace of a smile, but Myrhil sensed he was speaking in humor. She laughed. “You have my word on it.”
Faramir’s lips curved pleasantly and his grey eyes grew light. “Good night, Myrhil. A pleasant sleep to you.”
After he disappeared back into the hall, she leaned against the cool stone of the structure and closed her eyes. The heat and vigorous dancing had sent blood rushing throughout her body, making her bruises throb with bearable pain, but the night air was soothing those minor aches. She was incredibly weary and, succumbing to this impulse, she slid down the wall until she was resting comfortably on the ground. Tucking her gown around her ankles, she laced her arms around her knees and wondered how long it would be before she fell asleep. She was hidden in the shadows and hoped that she could go unseen for at least a little while.
It seemed like she had barely nodded off when a heavy footfall scraped against the cobbles beside her. She raised her head and peered up at the shadow looming above her. She knew who it was before he spoke.
“So I find you at last.”
“I was before you all night, Boromir,” she replied. “You simply chose not to do anything.” She gave him her hand, expecting him to haul her to her feet, but instead he took a seat beside her against the wall.
“It seems you have kept yourself busy tonight without thought of me preoccupying you,” he said. Myrhil heard the bemused curiosity in his statement.
“You saw that scene while I was dancing, I suppose? Is that what you speak of?”
“Yes. Well, partly. It was interesting what I did see of it. Faramir supplied the other details when he came back to the table after I asked him for them.”
“I did not mean to be so. . .” Her voice faded. “What would you call it? Lowly? Uncouth? Stupid? I am inclined towards that one.” She buried her head in her hands. “I have stood on a woman’s gown twice today and enjoyed it!”
Boromir laughed. “Think nothing of it, whatever you have done. I would only like to know what prompted this little retaliation of yours. Was it this?” He took her hands from her face and ran a finger along the split on her lip. “Or this?” The finger trailed upwards to her cheek. “Have you been slapping the women in court while I was gone and they slapped back?”
“Faramir must have told you about the tavern,” she said.
“He has. You managed to get into trouble even though you remained behind.” He smiled when he saw Myrhil look at him uncertainly. “But it is truly fortunate that you were there, even to hear what little you did. I am glad you were there.”
“As am I. My injuries are nothing. I have suffered worse, but it cut my heart to hear them speak of what they had planned and carried out. I doubt we shall ever find them, but if we do--”
“No mercy, Myrhil. Vengeance for Gorhend and all the men who fell.”
Except perhaps for Belaród, she thought. If he is the one they spoke of. But she kept these thoughts silent. “Yes,” she said simply. “For them all.”
“But I did not venture Father’s wrath by leaving the table to talk of sorrowful things.” He took her hand and she heard him clear his throat softly. “You look most becoming in that gown.”
“You lie. I look hideous. I feel hideous.” Truly, she was surprised at those words coming from his mouth. They were not spoken expertly, as though he was not in the habit of commenting on such matters. And she was not accustomed to hearing them, either. She realized her response had not been gracious, but it was honest. She did feel hideous. The gown felt light and she sorely missed the close comfort of a good pair of breeches, shirt and boots.
“I will not play the gallant like the fools in Faramir’s soggy poetry,” he said, the back of his hand caressing her cheek in just such a manner.
“I would not like it if you did,” she replied.
“Then I shall not.”
Myrhil felt Boromir’s hand slip from her cheek to her neck. In one swift motion, he pulled her forward, bringing their lips together harshly. She was startled for but a moment before her own hunger for him took control of every thought and desire. The restraint she had shown earlier that day by refraining from meeting him at the Gate now slipped its bonds. Her arms flew around his neck and shoulders and she leaned her full weight against him, as though striving to get as close to him as she could. In response, Boromir embraced her tightly to him, his mouth crushing hers in urgent demand.
Myrhil did not know what Boromir was thinking, but her mind was full of remembrance of their parting on the banks of the Anduin and the promises they had made. She had kept her word and not followed him. Now he was keeping his. She insistently wrenched her lips away from his impassioned kiss and inhaled deeply. “You are utterly reliable, Captain,” she said breathlessly. “You did say you cared not where we might be when we found ourselves together again, or who may happen across us.”
“Are you having doubts about that promise?”
“I have done much today with an audience,” she allowed, “but I would rather enjoy some solitude to give you what you have waited for. I left you with too little on the Anduin.”
Boromir grinned. “Yes, nothing is too little.”
She ran her fingers through his locks and grasped them in two fistfuls, giving a playful tug. “So is that your opinion of my skill?” she demanded in mock anger. “The rest of the evening shall not go well for you if you do not speak more generously. Or does Boromir of Gondor feel he has more to teach me?”
Boromir’s hands slowly kneaded her waist and back. His eyes looked into hers steadily. “Myrhil of Lebennin has always been a ready pupil.”
Myrhil grinned wickedly at him and slipped her arms around his neck again, resting her cheek on his shoulder. They remained thus only briefly before Boromir whispered in her ear, “It is nearly midnight, if you had not noticed.”
“I had not.”
“And I have had no rest in over four days,” he added meaningfully.
Myrhil kissed the skin behind his ear and smiled as she stroked his hair. “Sleep, then.”
“Are you saying I retire alone?”
A careless shrug. “If you wish for rest, then yes.”
She felt Boromir’s frame shake as he laughed silently. “The first lesson for tonight, Myrhil, is that there are many, many forms of rest.”
* * *
Boromir lay on his back and looked at the flickering shadows on the ceiling rafters. After spending four days and nights on his mission with thoughts of Myrhil woven among his concern for his Rohirrim charges, he desired to see the fruition of his imaginings and so he had not extinguished the tapers. He did not regret his decision.
From the moment he brought her into his rooms, it was as though Myrhil felt completely able to act with him as she willed. He may have claimed that the night would be his to dictate and that she would learn whatever he wished to teach her, but he found himself being instructed in the matter of speed and eagerness. Her complaint about her gown seemed amended by the ease with which she divested herself of it, and his tunic, the source of such a struggle earlier, quickly joined her gown on the floor after she nimbly pulled it over his head.
Their first coupling had similarly been swift, but too swift for their liking. Four days’ longing had ended in pitiful, impatient quickness and only brief fulfillment. Held in each other’s arms, still joined, they lay in silence. Then, as though the gift was late bestowed, all seemed to come together and Boromir’s strength resurged greater than it had been. Whether their first union had been a matter of carnal necessity taking precedence over satisfaction, he did not know. But soon the sensations flowing from and into him with the woman beneath him became nearly unbearable. He wanted to take her, fully and completely to the furthest recesses of her body and soul, and watch her as he did so. Here the candles by the bedside served their purpose, for he was able to see Myrhil’s face as he had imagined it. Lips parted, eyes closed, and brow beaded with sweat, she fiercely matched every one of his thrusts with one of her own as she clung to him tightly, as intent as he on prolonging this duel to the limits of their endurance. And so it had ended in such a manner, clashing against one another in one final stroke. He could almost hear the ringing scrape of blades in his ears before he succumbed to the exhaustion of a bout well fought, one ending in mutual victory.
Afterwards, they still lay joined and silent, but the silence was one of drained vitality and thorough contentment. And when Boromir heard her murmur “my love” in his ear, he responded in kind and found a measure of excitement in uttering such a thing. The sincerity, or lack of it, in those words did not seem to matter. Lazy caresses followed languid kisses until Myrhil fell into a peaceful slumber, but, for the moment, sleep came only to her.
Boromir turned his head. Myrhil now lay on her side, her back facing him. An arm was crooked under her head, her hand peeping out through the strands of her hair. The roughened fingers were curled loosely and invited him to hold them. This he did, his blunt, square hand gently seizing them. It was then that he noticed that three of her knuckles were scuffed and scabbed, presumably from the tavern brawl as she had fought her way through the throng. He shook his head and smiled in amused approval. She was indeed not afraid of a fight and, when cornered, thought nothing of plunging through danger to do what she could to get out of it.
But he would not see her in deliberate danger, such as serving under arms as men did; yet, he was all too aware that that was what she wanted. Perhaps she felt she was not equipped to do anything else. He could understand how she felt, and why. At least, he expected he did. Her father had been one of the ablest soldiers he had ever known, and her brother would surely have borne arms for Gondor had he lived. It was an enticing legacy to pursue, but Minas Tirith had never allowed women to fight and he would not see it done now. Not in the standing army, and not in the Rangers, no matter her skill and his regard for it and her. He regretted that he must refuse her should she ever make such a request, but he would take no other course.
He rubbed her fingers with his thumb, staring thoughtfully at her naked back. She could not be a soldier, and he somehow felt she would not be content to simply be a passive mistress. He wished her to remain, but her discontent would grow with the passing of time. A small, puzzled sigh escaped him. It was too much to think on, especially tonight when his mind had been taken through the torturous paths of diplomacy and second-guessing all day. No, he wished to dwell on simpler things.
He released her fingers and slid closer to her as gently as he could. Laying his cheek against her fingers, he snaked an arm around her waist and inched forward until their bodies curved in tight unison. Though the room was still oppressive from the summer heat and they were both flushed from their lovemaking, he grasped the edge of the bedcovers and pulled them up until both he and Myrhil were nestled snugly beneath them. Boromir soon fell asleep as the simple pleasure of a warm woman in his bed made cold, worldly matters fade into insignificance.