'He saw her in the garden, as she strayed
Among the flowers of summer with her maid,
And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose
The meaning and the mystery of the rose";
And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"' –HW Longfellow, Emma and Eginhard, Tales of a wayside inn.
---
"Engaged? Faramir, tell me you are joking." Boromir looked his brother in the eye, an imploring look upon his face.
"Would I love to be, brother, I am, alas, not joking. Our father sends his felicitous tidings with this announcement, and asks...nay, commands, that you come home at earliest convenience, or within the week at latest." Faramir threw the piece of parchment he had been reading on the floor in anger. "Why now! Why, of all times, did you have to get engaged now? The men need you...I need you. I cannot command the garrison alone!" Boromir laid an understanding hand on his brother's shoulder.
"You will do fine...besides, I will be back. I am only going to the city, and I am sure you will be able to reach me with any bad news should that sort of state arise." The older man picked the discarded parchment up off the floor, and skimmed through it. "Funny, he didn't mention the lady's name...rather odd of Father to neglect to tell me something of that sort. Faramir, did you read this entirely?" His brother, standing by the door to their quarters, made a gesture with his hand as though brushing away a fly.
"No, just...most of it." Boromir clapped his brother on the shoulder.
"Well, then, you obviously missed the line in the post script...'Oh, and bring your brother home, too.' Don't look so mortified, I think if you were getting engaged too he would have told you right off."
---
"Engaged? To who? I must know, Rhoswen. Who is he?" The bright eyed, curly haired girl begged her friend for coveted news from the letter in her hand.
The girls were sitting in the solar of the castle of Anfalas, golden sunlight from the April sky streaming in, lighting the pale streaks in the lady-in-waiting's hair, and touching the raven curls of the mistress with silver.
"I don't yet know, Maire. But we are going to Minas Tirith to see my father, and my fiancé. We will celebrate the engagement in the city within the week." Rhoswen looked dejectedly up at her friend.
"Why so glum? This is the perfect age to get married. You are young, you are coming into the prime of your life, and you are beautiful, if I do say so myself. No man could not want you." The older girl smiled.
"But what if he's too old? I don't want to marry..." Rhoswen was at a loss for names.
"Denethor?" Maire cheekily put in. Rhoswen's jaw dropped in disgust.
"Yes! But I know 'tis not him...he is too heartbroken for his wife, and he has two grown sons already. His heirs have been provided by a womb other than mine, and for that I am grateful. He is a ruthless man, and his sons are, if anything, worse."
"Have you ever met them?" Maire looked at her companion, who was on the verge of crying.
"The elder, Boromir, once...but I did not care for him then. He was haughty and overly proud."
"And the younger?" Maire prompted her mistress.
"I care not for men who are easily seduced by books and paper shuffling."
"But what of Owen...the young man who works in the library? You told me you thought him handsome."
"I thought you said you liked him. So, I passed on." Rhoswen's face was set in a line, not wanting to reveal any hidden, deep seated and forbidden emotion to a member of the opposite sex below her station.
"Good heavens, NO! I care not for him either. Now, from what I hear of Rohan, I would want my husband to be of the Rohirrim. Maybe you will see someone in the White City who will take your fancy..."
---
The two brothers rode into the immense gates of Minas Tirith, the White City welcoming them home with open gates. Up and up, to the seventh, and highest level of the city they rode, handing their horses off to the stablemen waiting at the doors to the King's halls.
The immense hall of Kings was quiet, the soles of the pair's riding boots echoing on the marble floor. At the end of the black and white hall, a stooped figure in black furs stood to greet them. Both men bowed.
"Father." Boromir kissed his father's signet ring as a sign of respect. The Steward raised his son's golden head back to eye level, even though the lesser was taller than his sire.
"Boromir. It is good to see you in these halls once more."
"It is good to be home on such a...meritorious...occasion." Denethor laughed at the falseness in his heir's voice.
"Do not look so sad, son of mine. Your fiancé is not ugly. From what I have heard from her father, she is quite the rose. And young. She will bear many sons."
"And how young is 'young', father?" Faramir immediately doubted the wisdom of his comment, because Denethor now noticed his younger son, and some expression akin to a frowning sneer morphed from his beaming smile. Boromir, sensing a lash of displeasure from the Steward at seeing his younger son's face, interrupted quickly.
"You mentioned I should bring Faramir. I only thought it appropriate to have my brother here when I am engaged. He is a good council to me, father."
"And nothing more than a council. You two may go. I expect to see you both at the banquet tonight. You will meet your bride to be then." The two men bowed, and left off a side corridor.
"Why did you interrupt?" Boromir's voice was strained at his brother's idiocy.
"I only wanted to know...with your chances, she's probably fourteen, and a ridiculous girl"-he heavily emphasized this point-"with no knowledge of life, and an infatuation with some stable boy, able to make every cracked plate into a calamity."
"Nonsense, brother, I think our father would be a bit more wise in his decision for my bride. He knows what irks me. And childish women are one point very high on that list." Faramir muffled a chuckle as he opened the doors to their rooms.
The apartments of the sons of Denethor were clearly soldier's rooms, furnished in a minimalist fashion, plain and simple. Boromir unstopped the crystal bottle of red wine on the desk by the window, and sat down in a chair to enjoy it. Faramir looked at his brother, glass in hand, and shook his head. It was not a good habit to sit down with a glass of liquor when one had problems, because chances are one glass will lead to three more and a bar fight.
"So, what else is on this 'list of irks' then, brother?" Faramir sat down, rather roughly, causing a small dust storm to erupt from the cushion on his chair.
"Servants who don't clean in here as often as they should. Father knew we were coming today, he could have at least had someone dust." Boromir ran a gloved hand along the arm of his chair and frowned at the gray streak.
"Anything else, brother of mine?"
"As I said...small children no relation to me...servants who shirk from their work...women who do not know their place...a rather long list I would like not to recall at the moment, Faramir." The younger inclined his head in comprehension.
"Well then, if it please milord, I am going for a walk. If milord wishes to abandon his claret before he becomes drunk, he is welcome to join me." Faramir flashed a smile, and abandoned his traveling cloak on a hook by the door. Boromir looked at his half empty glass as if only just realizing what he had done, set it hastily on the table, and rushed out the door to join his brother.
---
The streets of Minas Tirith were crowded today, and having left their horses at the gates to be stabled in her father's name, Rhoswen and Maire wound their way through the streets of the Tower of Guard in a bit of confusion.
Upon arriving in the City, they were supposed to be greeted by a small group of soldiers sent by her father, Lord Golasgil. But there were no soldiers in the ivory courtyard in the golden brown trident and battle- ax of Anfalas, just Tower Guards, resplendent in the ironwork of the Tower.
But, when searching for royalty, there is only one way to go in Minas Tirith, and that way is up. So were the circumstances that found a princess of Langstrand and her servant walking through a strange city, searching for someone who could direct them to the seventh level. In their rough traveling clothes, no one would mistake them for nobility. But that could be a bad thing.
---
Boromir and Faramir were enjoying their stroll, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of a busy city. Hawkers everywhere cried their wares, wafting the smells of fresh baked bread, chickens and other meats sizzling in pungent sauces, and the occasional tang of oranges from the southern regions
"It is a welcome change from the silence of Osgiliath, that is for certain," remarked Boromir, a smile on his face as he gave a passing eye to a street juggler in bright red silk juggle apples far above his head in circles. "Give me the hustle and bustle of the city any day." Faramir stopped, his face a mix of emotions, as if confused by what he saw.
"What is it? What-"Faramir pointed to a side street. There was a small group of men in the uniform of the Tower Guard surrounding two women. Ordinarily, Boromir would not have taken that for anything strange, but somehow, there was an oddity about the cluster. The two men strained to hear the conversation.
"And what business do you have with the Lord Denethor, love?" The young woman, who was obviously the younger of the two, cringed as the guardsman put his face in hers. It was obvious from the start this woman was not of the common blood, or she would not have shrunk away. This woman wanted to protect her virtue and, if left to her own devices, would probably fail miserably.
"We are guests of his, and have urgent business in his household. My father awaits me there. If you would let us pass-"But the threesome were loath to let their quarry go. Boromir had seen enough. He strode through the crowd, thankful for the six feet of height heaven had blessed him with.
"Milady? Your father is waiting...gentlemen." His curt tone told them all to keep their mouths shut, or there would be hell to pay. Offering an arm to the raven-haired young woman, she took it, a questioning light in her eyes.
"You were looking for the Lord Denethor's house?"
"Yes, sir. Would you be so kind as to direct us there?" Faramir smiled as his brother escorted the lady and her maid back the way they had come. Shaking his head, he followed them back to the stairs to the seventh level.
Boromir left them at the gates to the top of the Tower of Guard.
"I will leave you here."
"Thank you, sir. I do not know what I might have done if you had not come to my aid." The young woman appeared flustered; as if this was the first time someone had shown her the common courtesy of escort. She was at a loss for words.
'Think nothing of it."
"You wear the white tree yourself. I imagine you must be a captain?" Boromir held back a snort. The captain-heir of Gondor was the full title, but he wasn't about to let her know that. It threw women off, to know that the heir to Gondor's rule was paying them heed.
"Yes, madam, and a very busy one. If you ladies will excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to in the city...oh, and milady. A caution, if you will. A maid such as yourself does not go about the city un-chaperoned...the men of the guard can be uncouth." The woman nodded, and made her way up the steps. Boromir turned to see his brother, a critical look on his face.
"You should not have done that." Faramir looked at his brother as they hurried through a back passage in the kitchens.
"All I did was be a gentleman. Is there something wrong with that?"
"You fancy her...I see it in your smile. You are engaged, Boromir, or as good as. It will not bode well to go gallivanting off with some lass you just met."
"Who said I was going 'gallivanting' as you say it?"
"The mischievous sparkle in your eyes tells all." Faramir frowned as his brother let loose a loud peal of laughter.
---
"Milord." Rhoswen curtsied to the steward. "I had come on business with my father, the Lord Golasgil."
"Ahh, you are his daughter, then? Rhoswen? Your father is waiting for you. Emon will take you to him." The graying man watched as the young woman followed the black liveried servant.
A rose indeed...this child was a white rose, but not unlike to the Raven he had sired.
---
"Rhoswen! I am sorry for not sending anyone...we had a bit of a problem in here." The elderly lord was sitting in a chair, resplendent in golden embroidered robes of azure. The young woman curtsied, and sat in front of her father.
"I think it only fair that I tell you the name of your husband to be now." Golasgil took his daughter's slender white hands in his own calloused and wrinkled ones.
---
"Lord Boromir!?" Maire nearly shouted as Rhoswen cried unceasingly on her bed. "He is nearly twice your age!"
"He's forty one." Rhoswen lamented through her tears. Maire laid a hand around her sodden friend and offered her a handkerchief.
"There, there, Rose...it can't be that bad...you will be a queen..."
"A miserable queen." Rhoswen wailed, blowing her nose with a sniffle. Maire wiped her friend's face, and looked the raven-haired woman straight in the eye.
"Lord Boromir has all of his teeth, is not balding, quite good looking, and a just and respected man. 4 very good reasons why you should not be crying like this." Rhoswen sniffled.
"When we were out on the street today, the man that saved us..." there was pregnant pause in which Rhoswen seemed not to know what to say "...and I didn't find out his name!" The hysterical girl collapsed into her friend's arms again.
"There, there, Rhoswen...it will be all right." The elder looked at the crying mass imbedded in her soaked bodice. "Besides," the older woman whispered into Rhoswen's hair, "I have it on good authority he doesn't carry on with kitchen maids. There's reason five."
---
Boromir looked out over the sea of courtiers, searching for his brother's face.
"Looking for me?" The tawny framed face of his younger brother peeped over his shoulder, causing the tall man to start.
"You seem exceptionally jovial today...have you been in the wine cellar lately?" Faramir laughed.
"No... when do I ever go in the wine cellars? I am in high spirits because I am watching you suffer. I have never seen you this nervous...Boromir, esteemed captain of Gondor, who can have an arrow whistle past his ear and not bat an eyelash, is paling under the stern glare of marriage." Ignoring his brother, Boromir checked his collar in the mirror for what seemed like the two hundredth time.
"Do I look well?" Faramir tweaked his brother's collar, and knotted one of the ties on this tunic.
"Aside from the fact that you're about as pale as the marble on the floor, you look-dare I say it-positively handsome." The younger man paused to tug the embroidered collar of Boromir's tunic into place, and running his fingers through his brother's hair in a last minute attempt to fix the somewhat unruly locks. He was standing back to view his handiwork when Denethor came to find his sons. Their father was wearing an ermine edged black mantle, with a heavy looking golden necklace around his neck.
"Ah, Boromir, you look wonderful. And Faramir- passable. Boromir, I would like you to wear this." A servant brought over a mahogany stained box. Denethor opened it, and took a large, ornamental chain, which he placed around Boromir's neck. The latter examined the pendant, a large star with crystal points on a black enamel field.
"Wear it with pride. It is ...dear ...to this family. Are you ready?" The two men nodded.
---
Rhoswen sat in her highly carved chair, the burgundy gown sitting high on her bosom, a pendant of a single ivy leaf heavily resting on the lacings of her gown. Next to her, the father squeezed her cold hand affectionately.
She stopped seeing anything as the people in the hall rose for the steward and his sons, her staring vacant, fixed on a shield in the back of the hall. Her mind was elsewhere, determined not to see the man she would have to spend the rest of her life with. With a blank tone, she raised her glass in toast, the words not registering in her mind. And with a heavy heart, she sat back down.
She hardly tasted the food, didn't hear the conversations around her, and couldn't see the friends around the hall waving at her. She took a sip of the wine, tasted the food-she had lost what little appetite she had. The strains of music reached her ears-a call back to reality she did not heed.
Before she could remember what was happening, the dinner was over, and her dining companions were getting up from their chairs, and going down to the floor to dance. Her father was speaking to her, a scared tone in his voice, floating into her ears.
"Rhoswen? Rhoswen!"
"Yes, father?" She turned to see a servant in the livery of the Tower standing next to her father.
"A message for you." Lord Golasgil pointed to the servant, beckoning him to begin.
"My Lord asks if the Lady Rhoswen has had a pleasant evening, and wishes to speak to you before the evening is out, madam. He waits on the balcony, just there." The servant pointed to the white curtains, blowing in the evening breeze. The shadow of a tall man was just visible beyond the drapery. Rhoswen picked up her skirts, allowing the servant to draw her chair out. Maire followed, a proper lady in waiting.
"Who is it?"
"It looks like the captain from this morning. Come, we shall meet him." The young woman's pace quickened, anxious to see her rescuer again. When they reached the balcony, the man had his back to them both. Maire let out a bit of a giggle.
"What is it?" Maire swallowed.
"Rhoswen, I do not know how I could have not recognized him; that be the Lord Boromir." The girl let out a half a scream, and fainted.
---
When she woke up, Maire was fanning her face, and Boromir –was it really he? He seemed quite different-was kneeling next to her, a strange look on his face.
"Rhoswen? Are you quite all right?" Rhoswen ignored Maire's plea and continued to stare, besotted, into Boromir's blue eyes. Ah me, how those eyes are like to the sea, she thought hopelessly, for it seems I drown in them.
"The shock of seeing you, milord...I apologize for the scare." The large man smiled.
"'Tis nothing." Her father ran up, robes flapping like some obscene bird.
"Rhoswen? Be you in good health?"
"Yes, father, I am fine. It was the shock. I met Lord Boromir earlier without knowing it was him." Denethor, sensing trouble, had come over, a vexed look upon his face.
"Boromir, I demand explication! What is going on here?"
"My bride to be fainted, father. She mistook me for someone else this morning at a chance meeting in the city, and when told I was her fiancé, collapsed from the surprise." Boromir shook off the occurrence as if it happened everyday, and Rhoswen marveled at his composure
"Milady? Be you well?" The older man turned to his daughter in law to be, a look of concern written in the wrinkles.
"My lord Denethor. I thank you for your worry. I am well."
"Good. It is almost time for the toast." Denethor made his way back up to the head of the hall.
"If my lady will permit me?" Boromir offered Rhoswen his arm, and she took it, apprehension in her smile. With a wave of the steward's hand, the master of the hall rang in the toast on his bell. Denethor waited for the hall to silence before beginning his speech.
"Lords, ladies, gentlemen of the court, and honored guests, tonight is a special night. Boromir, the Captain Heir of Gondor, the son of your Steward, asks for the hand of Rhoswen, Lady of Anfalas, and she grants it full willing. So be it that they be troth plighted before you all." Boromir made his way around his father's chair, and took Rhoswen's trembling hand, and kissed it. Then, so that the whole hall could see, he raised their intertwined hands.
"A toast!" cried Faramir, rising from his seat. The hall's cheering quieted.
"To my brother's marriage. May it be accompanied by a long and fruitful rule." He looked at his brother, and smiled, raising his glass.
"To Marriage!" the hall raised their glasses in tribute, and drank them dry to the life and rule of the Captain Heir of Gondor.
---
As the hall went back to conversations and dancing, Rhoswen bid her father good night. But as she was leaving the hall, Boromir caught her sleeve.
"A goodnight kiss, milady?" Rhoswen blushed, her eyes downcast.
"If it pleases milord." She looked up, just in time for him to catch her chin and lightly brush her lips. Even if he is older, thought Rhoswen, his kisses are something to be desired.
"Would you care for a stroll? The gardens at this hour are beautiful in the moonlight." Boromir peered down into her eyes, his blue ones piercing and compassionate.
"Perhaps tomorrow morning. Milady needs her rest." Maire pulled the love struck Rhoswen away, the memory of the kiss still floating on her lips.
---
Faramir watched his brother kiss the younger woman on the cheek, and smiled as her lady in waiting pulled her away. Ever the charmer, thought Faramir. He strode over to his brother, who was still standing at the door, watching Rhoswen go.
"I give you 9 on the kiss, and a 7 on your manners. In a scale of one to ten." Boromir looked at his brother with a querying look.
"What are you on about?"
"You didn't offer to escort her back to her room." Faramir shrugged. Boromir shook his head.
"You are odd, brother."
"I am not the one in love, brother. So it is you who may be construed as odd. Let us say our good nights, lest some other maid catch your eye."
---
"So you admit that you find him charming?" Maire was trying to weasel an answer out of her smitten mistress. The young woman gazed off into space as her lady in waiting unlaced her from her gown.
"Perfectly charming. And handsome..."
"You've said that twice...what about his kissing?" Maire put away the dress, and began to brush Rhoswen's long hair.
"Terribly romantic. Like a soft breeze on a summer's day..." Rhoswen unclasped her necklace, laying it in its case. She pulled the coverlets around her chin, closing her eyes and smiling. Maire extinguished the candles. In the darkness, the companion could just hear a soft sigh.
---
"Well, You've seen her, and you've kissed her, and you've seen how she adores you...What think you of marriage now?" Faramir leaned against the door to Boromir's rooms, where the elder was readying for bed.
"I admit that she is beautiful, and I could ask fro nothing more in a wife...But Father has robbed the cradle of a child! I do not relish our wedding night."
"Perhaps, brother, you will find she is not as childish as she seems. Spend but a little time with her-perhaps her age and yours will not become an issue."
"One can only hope. I do not wish to break so delicate a flower so early that none else may enjoy it's charms." Boromir stripped off his shirt and shut the door between their rooms, climbing into bed as he blew the candle at his bedside out.
Rose indeed...but one that was only now just coming into bloom.
---
It was well past his normal hour of rising (dawn), and Boromir could not cram into himself another ounce of sleep. So, throwing on his clothes, he decided to go for a walk in the citadel gardens.
You would think that, being a citadel and all, Minas Tirith wouldn't have any gardens. But these were very well kept, providing a quiet and peaceful sanctuary for the steward or one of his house to come and think. True, they were not large, but large enough to take a sizable amount of time to walk through, with benches and fountains to sit by and admire. But it was one thing that seemed out of place this morning-the sound of a human voice singing amidst the bird's chatter. Intrigued and entranced by the sound, Boromir strained his ears to find out from which way it came. Picking a path, he literally sprinted through the paved way to find the owner of the remarkable voice.
"The winter it is passed And the summer's come at last And the small birds They sing in every tree..." The voice started her singing anew, the plucking of a harp accompanying her music. Boromir increased his pace.
"Their little hearts are glad But mine is very sad Since my true love is Far away from me.
The rose upon the briar By the water running clear Gives joy to the linnet and the bee Their little hearts are blessed But mine is not at rest While my true love is absent from me
I'll wear a cap of black With a frill around my neck Gold rings on my fingers I will wear It's this I undertake For my true lover's sake He resides at The Curragh of Kildaire
A livery I'll wear And I'll comb down my hair And in velvet so green I will appear And straight I will repair, To the Curragh of Kildaire For it's there I'll find tidings of my dear
My love is like the sun That ne'er laments as one And always brews constant and true But his is like the moon That wanders up and down And every month is new..." Boromir was so close to the singer, he could smell her perfume, a light, breezy scent that put him in mind of seabirds and sand. Could it be his cousins had come in from Dol Amroth? No, he told himself, I would have seen them at the banquet last night. Who else do I know who lives by the sea? The answer hit him like a rock when he saw the singer, her black tresses hanging loose as her fingers gently plucked strings, her voice as beautiful as the sea itself, flowing free.
"All you who that are in love And cannot it remove I pity the pains you endure For experience lets me know That your hearts are full of woe And the woe that no mortal can cure A woe that no mortal can cure..." With a final flourish, she finished her song.
"I didn't know you played a harp." Boromir said, breaking the silence that hung on the garden like dew on a leaf. Rhoswen looked up from the harp case with a start, handing the instrument off to her lady in waiting, who took it with a knowing smile and bowed away.
"I did not know you were here...shall we walk?" Boromir smiled.
"I do remember saying something about a walk last night...the gardens are just as beautiful in the morning light."
"As I myself have noticed. Do you come here often?"
"With the promise of seeing your beautiful visage in the dawn's face, perhaps I shall."
Rhoswen giggled uneasily, her eyes focused on counting cobblestones. Boromir stopped, and raised her face to look him straight in the eyes, which were far up, considering she was nearly a foot shy of his immense height.
"You need not hide your face, Rhoswen. Do you fear me?" the young woman swallowed, obviously trying not to cry, and turned her head.
"Rhoswen, look at me! What was it I did to you that you recall and I do not?" the young woman turned away, bordering dangerously close to tears.
"You do me no justice...do you not remember me?"
"Nay, dear woman, I can say I do not."
"At your thirtieth birthday, I was in the city as well, and loudly declaimed, when introduced to you, that one day I would wed a man as like you, realized what had been said, and ran from the hall crying tears of shame. I was nine...do you not remember?" the weeping woman had sat down, while a confused captain stood, racking his memory for such an event.
"I can safe say I do not recall such an episode, though it does you justice, madam, that I said nothing, rather than humiliate you more. My tongue, on occasion, can be quite sharp. Comes from being a soldier." He sat down next to Rhoswen, and taking her sleeve, wiped her tear-streaked face with it.
"I must protest. This gown looks much better when it is not sodden with unnecessary tears." The young woman chanced a smile. The older man lifted her up off the bench, and set her back on the path.
"Now, if milady wishes, we may continue our walk?" He offered an arm, and she unwillingly took it, with a sniffle. Several minutes later, in a constraining silence, she said, in a small voice,
"You must think me ridiculous." Boromir stopped.
"Nay, only caught up in the fact that you believe I will make everything larger than it should be because I am older." He thought about this for a moment. "Which is not true."
"How comes it, then, that the captain heir of Gondor is not already married?"
"I...do not know. I have never found a woman in whose company I can stay for more than is polite enough to get away with. I am always away, in Osgiliath, and it is not easy to raise a family over a field." The taller man walked to look out over the city; it's habitants going about their business without any thought to the nobles above. "Besides, I would not trade the years I have spent with my brother and my men for a wife and children, if that is what you mean."
"I would do you no honor, milord."
"How so, Rhoswen?" Boromir already loved rolling the syllables over his tongue, loving the sound of her name. Oh, to take her in his arms, just once...he shook the romantically spinning thoughts back out as she spoke. Why must this woman break the Rammas Echor he had so carefully constructed around his heart?
"You should have a woman who knows her place within the home, who will be able to raise your children, and wait for you when you are away...I could never stand being without my husband for forever."
"Then that is all the better to appreciate me when I return." The girl turned to walk away.
"This body of mine is slight, and delicate. I know the limits of childbirth."
"I would rather you be slight and delicate than...stout. I can pick you up now." He did so, a warm feeling in his fingers as they touched her waist. Boromir spun her around once and set her back down. The young woman was still trying to think of a convincing argument to get him to hate her, but it was in vain. Boromir grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look up into his blue eyes.
"Do you fear me, Rhoswen? Is that why you show me all your faults? Fear of me?"
Rhoswen cast down her eyes again.
"Yes." Her voice was shy and small. "Why would you want me?"
"Because you are small, and slight, and you adore me, but are loath to show it. And I love you. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in the alley two days ago, and you have only increased my love ten fold! Gods in heaven help me, but I do! The very sound of your name brings a sunrise to my minds eye! So again, I beg you, why do you fear me?"
"Because you are a giant, and I am a sprite. Because you marry because you have need of an heir, and I marry because my father finds it well that I marry above my lower station." She stumbled over the words, as if a waterfall full of dread just exploded from behind it's carefully built dam. "Because I fear I will lose you, and I do not want my heart broken. There...I've said it." She finished, now crying again. The captain held her close, rocking her back and forth in what he hoped would be a calming manner.
"You need not fear for me, or fear me. And that is why I love you. You care so much for others that you never think of yourself. And that is why I want to care for you. You, my delicate rose." Rhoswen stopped crying and looked up from Boromir's redingote to his face.
"Your rose?" The larger man smiled, kissing her hair.
"My rose."
---
I do not own the song 'Curragh of Kildaire', and I don't own Boromir or any other recognizable character either, even if they do seem out of character. In your review-which I know you will write because you are caring people who want to help me- it would be most kind of you to tell me what you think of Rhoswen, as I am not quite grounded on Mary Sues and I want to know if she is one.
Among the flowers of summer with her maid,
And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose
The meaning and the mystery of the rose";
And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"' –HW Longfellow, Emma and Eginhard, Tales of a wayside inn.
---
"Engaged? Faramir, tell me you are joking." Boromir looked his brother in the eye, an imploring look upon his face.
"Would I love to be, brother, I am, alas, not joking. Our father sends his felicitous tidings with this announcement, and asks...nay, commands, that you come home at earliest convenience, or within the week at latest." Faramir threw the piece of parchment he had been reading on the floor in anger. "Why now! Why, of all times, did you have to get engaged now? The men need you...I need you. I cannot command the garrison alone!" Boromir laid an understanding hand on his brother's shoulder.
"You will do fine...besides, I will be back. I am only going to the city, and I am sure you will be able to reach me with any bad news should that sort of state arise." The older man picked the discarded parchment up off the floor, and skimmed through it. "Funny, he didn't mention the lady's name...rather odd of Father to neglect to tell me something of that sort. Faramir, did you read this entirely?" His brother, standing by the door to their quarters, made a gesture with his hand as though brushing away a fly.
"No, just...most of it." Boromir clapped his brother on the shoulder.
"Well, then, you obviously missed the line in the post script...'Oh, and bring your brother home, too.' Don't look so mortified, I think if you were getting engaged too he would have told you right off."
---
"Engaged? To who? I must know, Rhoswen. Who is he?" The bright eyed, curly haired girl begged her friend for coveted news from the letter in her hand.
The girls were sitting in the solar of the castle of Anfalas, golden sunlight from the April sky streaming in, lighting the pale streaks in the lady-in-waiting's hair, and touching the raven curls of the mistress with silver.
"I don't yet know, Maire. But we are going to Minas Tirith to see my father, and my fiancé. We will celebrate the engagement in the city within the week." Rhoswen looked dejectedly up at her friend.
"Why so glum? This is the perfect age to get married. You are young, you are coming into the prime of your life, and you are beautiful, if I do say so myself. No man could not want you." The older girl smiled.
"But what if he's too old? I don't want to marry..." Rhoswen was at a loss for names.
"Denethor?" Maire cheekily put in. Rhoswen's jaw dropped in disgust.
"Yes! But I know 'tis not him...he is too heartbroken for his wife, and he has two grown sons already. His heirs have been provided by a womb other than mine, and for that I am grateful. He is a ruthless man, and his sons are, if anything, worse."
"Have you ever met them?" Maire looked at her companion, who was on the verge of crying.
"The elder, Boromir, once...but I did not care for him then. He was haughty and overly proud."
"And the younger?" Maire prompted her mistress.
"I care not for men who are easily seduced by books and paper shuffling."
"But what of Owen...the young man who works in the library? You told me you thought him handsome."
"I thought you said you liked him. So, I passed on." Rhoswen's face was set in a line, not wanting to reveal any hidden, deep seated and forbidden emotion to a member of the opposite sex below her station.
"Good heavens, NO! I care not for him either. Now, from what I hear of Rohan, I would want my husband to be of the Rohirrim. Maybe you will see someone in the White City who will take your fancy..."
---
The two brothers rode into the immense gates of Minas Tirith, the White City welcoming them home with open gates. Up and up, to the seventh, and highest level of the city they rode, handing their horses off to the stablemen waiting at the doors to the King's halls.
The immense hall of Kings was quiet, the soles of the pair's riding boots echoing on the marble floor. At the end of the black and white hall, a stooped figure in black furs stood to greet them. Both men bowed.
"Father." Boromir kissed his father's signet ring as a sign of respect. The Steward raised his son's golden head back to eye level, even though the lesser was taller than his sire.
"Boromir. It is good to see you in these halls once more."
"It is good to be home on such a...meritorious...occasion." Denethor laughed at the falseness in his heir's voice.
"Do not look so sad, son of mine. Your fiancé is not ugly. From what I have heard from her father, she is quite the rose. And young. She will bear many sons."
"And how young is 'young', father?" Faramir immediately doubted the wisdom of his comment, because Denethor now noticed his younger son, and some expression akin to a frowning sneer morphed from his beaming smile. Boromir, sensing a lash of displeasure from the Steward at seeing his younger son's face, interrupted quickly.
"You mentioned I should bring Faramir. I only thought it appropriate to have my brother here when I am engaged. He is a good council to me, father."
"And nothing more than a council. You two may go. I expect to see you both at the banquet tonight. You will meet your bride to be then." The two men bowed, and left off a side corridor.
"Why did you interrupt?" Boromir's voice was strained at his brother's idiocy.
"I only wanted to know...with your chances, she's probably fourteen, and a ridiculous girl"-he heavily emphasized this point-"with no knowledge of life, and an infatuation with some stable boy, able to make every cracked plate into a calamity."
"Nonsense, brother, I think our father would be a bit more wise in his decision for my bride. He knows what irks me. And childish women are one point very high on that list." Faramir muffled a chuckle as he opened the doors to their rooms.
The apartments of the sons of Denethor were clearly soldier's rooms, furnished in a minimalist fashion, plain and simple. Boromir unstopped the crystal bottle of red wine on the desk by the window, and sat down in a chair to enjoy it. Faramir looked at his brother, glass in hand, and shook his head. It was not a good habit to sit down with a glass of liquor when one had problems, because chances are one glass will lead to three more and a bar fight.
"So, what else is on this 'list of irks' then, brother?" Faramir sat down, rather roughly, causing a small dust storm to erupt from the cushion on his chair.
"Servants who don't clean in here as often as they should. Father knew we were coming today, he could have at least had someone dust." Boromir ran a gloved hand along the arm of his chair and frowned at the gray streak.
"Anything else, brother of mine?"
"As I said...small children no relation to me...servants who shirk from their work...women who do not know their place...a rather long list I would like not to recall at the moment, Faramir." The younger inclined his head in comprehension.
"Well then, if it please milord, I am going for a walk. If milord wishes to abandon his claret before he becomes drunk, he is welcome to join me." Faramir flashed a smile, and abandoned his traveling cloak on a hook by the door. Boromir looked at his half empty glass as if only just realizing what he had done, set it hastily on the table, and rushed out the door to join his brother.
---
The streets of Minas Tirith were crowded today, and having left their horses at the gates to be stabled in her father's name, Rhoswen and Maire wound their way through the streets of the Tower of Guard in a bit of confusion.
Upon arriving in the City, they were supposed to be greeted by a small group of soldiers sent by her father, Lord Golasgil. But there were no soldiers in the ivory courtyard in the golden brown trident and battle- ax of Anfalas, just Tower Guards, resplendent in the ironwork of the Tower.
But, when searching for royalty, there is only one way to go in Minas Tirith, and that way is up. So were the circumstances that found a princess of Langstrand and her servant walking through a strange city, searching for someone who could direct them to the seventh level. In their rough traveling clothes, no one would mistake them for nobility. But that could be a bad thing.
---
Boromir and Faramir were enjoying their stroll, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of a busy city. Hawkers everywhere cried their wares, wafting the smells of fresh baked bread, chickens and other meats sizzling in pungent sauces, and the occasional tang of oranges from the southern regions
"It is a welcome change from the silence of Osgiliath, that is for certain," remarked Boromir, a smile on his face as he gave a passing eye to a street juggler in bright red silk juggle apples far above his head in circles. "Give me the hustle and bustle of the city any day." Faramir stopped, his face a mix of emotions, as if confused by what he saw.
"What is it? What-"Faramir pointed to a side street. There was a small group of men in the uniform of the Tower Guard surrounding two women. Ordinarily, Boromir would not have taken that for anything strange, but somehow, there was an oddity about the cluster. The two men strained to hear the conversation.
"And what business do you have with the Lord Denethor, love?" The young woman, who was obviously the younger of the two, cringed as the guardsman put his face in hers. It was obvious from the start this woman was not of the common blood, or she would not have shrunk away. This woman wanted to protect her virtue and, if left to her own devices, would probably fail miserably.
"We are guests of his, and have urgent business in his household. My father awaits me there. If you would let us pass-"But the threesome were loath to let their quarry go. Boromir had seen enough. He strode through the crowd, thankful for the six feet of height heaven had blessed him with.
"Milady? Your father is waiting...gentlemen." His curt tone told them all to keep their mouths shut, or there would be hell to pay. Offering an arm to the raven-haired young woman, she took it, a questioning light in her eyes.
"You were looking for the Lord Denethor's house?"
"Yes, sir. Would you be so kind as to direct us there?" Faramir smiled as his brother escorted the lady and her maid back the way they had come. Shaking his head, he followed them back to the stairs to the seventh level.
Boromir left them at the gates to the top of the Tower of Guard.
"I will leave you here."
"Thank you, sir. I do not know what I might have done if you had not come to my aid." The young woman appeared flustered; as if this was the first time someone had shown her the common courtesy of escort. She was at a loss for words.
'Think nothing of it."
"You wear the white tree yourself. I imagine you must be a captain?" Boromir held back a snort. The captain-heir of Gondor was the full title, but he wasn't about to let her know that. It threw women off, to know that the heir to Gondor's rule was paying them heed.
"Yes, madam, and a very busy one. If you ladies will excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to in the city...oh, and milady. A caution, if you will. A maid such as yourself does not go about the city un-chaperoned...the men of the guard can be uncouth." The woman nodded, and made her way up the steps. Boromir turned to see his brother, a critical look on his face.
"You should not have done that." Faramir looked at his brother as they hurried through a back passage in the kitchens.
"All I did was be a gentleman. Is there something wrong with that?"
"You fancy her...I see it in your smile. You are engaged, Boromir, or as good as. It will not bode well to go gallivanting off with some lass you just met."
"Who said I was going 'gallivanting' as you say it?"
"The mischievous sparkle in your eyes tells all." Faramir frowned as his brother let loose a loud peal of laughter.
---
"Milord." Rhoswen curtsied to the steward. "I had come on business with my father, the Lord Golasgil."
"Ahh, you are his daughter, then? Rhoswen? Your father is waiting for you. Emon will take you to him." The graying man watched as the young woman followed the black liveried servant.
A rose indeed...this child was a white rose, but not unlike to the Raven he had sired.
---
"Rhoswen! I am sorry for not sending anyone...we had a bit of a problem in here." The elderly lord was sitting in a chair, resplendent in golden embroidered robes of azure. The young woman curtsied, and sat in front of her father.
"I think it only fair that I tell you the name of your husband to be now." Golasgil took his daughter's slender white hands in his own calloused and wrinkled ones.
---
"Lord Boromir!?" Maire nearly shouted as Rhoswen cried unceasingly on her bed. "He is nearly twice your age!"
"He's forty one." Rhoswen lamented through her tears. Maire laid a hand around her sodden friend and offered her a handkerchief.
"There, there, Rose...it can't be that bad...you will be a queen..."
"A miserable queen." Rhoswen wailed, blowing her nose with a sniffle. Maire wiped her friend's face, and looked the raven-haired woman straight in the eye.
"Lord Boromir has all of his teeth, is not balding, quite good looking, and a just and respected man. 4 very good reasons why you should not be crying like this." Rhoswen sniffled.
"When we were out on the street today, the man that saved us..." there was pregnant pause in which Rhoswen seemed not to know what to say "...and I didn't find out his name!" The hysterical girl collapsed into her friend's arms again.
"There, there, Rhoswen...it will be all right." The elder looked at the crying mass imbedded in her soaked bodice. "Besides," the older woman whispered into Rhoswen's hair, "I have it on good authority he doesn't carry on with kitchen maids. There's reason five."
---
Boromir looked out over the sea of courtiers, searching for his brother's face.
"Looking for me?" The tawny framed face of his younger brother peeped over his shoulder, causing the tall man to start.
"You seem exceptionally jovial today...have you been in the wine cellar lately?" Faramir laughed.
"No... when do I ever go in the wine cellars? I am in high spirits because I am watching you suffer. I have never seen you this nervous...Boromir, esteemed captain of Gondor, who can have an arrow whistle past his ear and not bat an eyelash, is paling under the stern glare of marriage." Ignoring his brother, Boromir checked his collar in the mirror for what seemed like the two hundredth time.
"Do I look well?" Faramir tweaked his brother's collar, and knotted one of the ties on this tunic.
"Aside from the fact that you're about as pale as the marble on the floor, you look-dare I say it-positively handsome." The younger man paused to tug the embroidered collar of Boromir's tunic into place, and running his fingers through his brother's hair in a last minute attempt to fix the somewhat unruly locks. He was standing back to view his handiwork when Denethor came to find his sons. Their father was wearing an ermine edged black mantle, with a heavy looking golden necklace around his neck.
"Ah, Boromir, you look wonderful. And Faramir- passable. Boromir, I would like you to wear this." A servant brought over a mahogany stained box. Denethor opened it, and took a large, ornamental chain, which he placed around Boromir's neck. The latter examined the pendant, a large star with crystal points on a black enamel field.
"Wear it with pride. It is ...dear ...to this family. Are you ready?" The two men nodded.
---
Rhoswen sat in her highly carved chair, the burgundy gown sitting high on her bosom, a pendant of a single ivy leaf heavily resting on the lacings of her gown. Next to her, the father squeezed her cold hand affectionately.
She stopped seeing anything as the people in the hall rose for the steward and his sons, her staring vacant, fixed on a shield in the back of the hall. Her mind was elsewhere, determined not to see the man she would have to spend the rest of her life with. With a blank tone, she raised her glass in toast, the words not registering in her mind. And with a heavy heart, she sat back down.
She hardly tasted the food, didn't hear the conversations around her, and couldn't see the friends around the hall waving at her. She took a sip of the wine, tasted the food-she had lost what little appetite she had. The strains of music reached her ears-a call back to reality she did not heed.
Before she could remember what was happening, the dinner was over, and her dining companions were getting up from their chairs, and going down to the floor to dance. Her father was speaking to her, a scared tone in his voice, floating into her ears.
"Rhoswen? Rhoswen!"
"Yes, father?" She turned to see a servant in the livery of the Tower standing next to her father.
"A message for you." Lord Golasgil pointed to the servant, beckoning him to begin.
"My Lord asks if the Lady Rhoswen has had a pleasant evening, and wishes to speak to you before the evening is out, madam. He waits on the balcony, just there." The servant pointed to the white curtains, blowing in the evening breeze. The shadow of a tall man was just visible beyond the drapery. Rhoswen picked up her skirts, allowing the servant to draw her chair out. Maire followed, a proper lady in waiting.
"Who is it?"
"It looks like the captain from this morning. Come, we shall meet him." The young woman's pace quickened, anxious to see her rescuer again. When they reached the balcony, the man had his back to them both. Maire let out a bit of a giggle.
"What is it?" Maire swallowed.
"Rhoswen, I do not know how I could have not recognized him; that be the Lord Boromir." The girl let out a half a scream, and fainted.
---
When she woke up, Maire was fanning her face, and Boromir –was it really he? He seemed quite different-was kneeling next to her, a strange look on his face.
"Rhoswen? Are you quite all right?" Rhoswen ignored Maire's plea and continued to stare, besotted, into Boromir's blue eyes. Ah me, how those eyes are like to the sea, she thought hopelessly, for it seems I drown in them.
"The shock of seeing you, milord...I apologize for the scare." The large man smiled.
"'Tis nothing." Her father ran up, robes flapping like some obscene bird.
"Rhoswen? Be you in good health?"
"Yes, father, I am fine. It was the shock. I met Lord Boromir earlier without knowing it was him." Denethor, sensing trouble, had come over, a vexed look upon his face.
"Boromir, I demand explication! What is going on here?"
"My bride to be fainted, father. She mistook me for someone else this morning at a chance meeting in the city, and when told I was her fiancé, collapsed from the surprise." Boromir shook off the occurrence as if it happened everyday, and Rhoswen marveled at his composure
"Milady? Be you well?" The older man turned to his daughter in law to be, a look of concern written in the wrinkles.
"My lord Denethor. I thank you for your worry. I am well."
"Good. It is almost time for the toast." Denethor made his way back up to the head of the hall.
"If my lady will permit me?" Boromir offered Rhoswen his arm, and she took it, apprehension in her smile. With a wave of the steward's hand, the master of the hall rang in the toast on his bell. Denethor waited for the hall to silence before beginning his speech.
"Lords, ladies, gentlemen of the court, and honored guests, tonight is a special night. Boromir, the Captain Heir of Gondor, the son of your Steward, asks for the hand of Rhoswen, Lady of Anfalas, and she grants it full willing. So be it that they be troth plighted before you all." Boromir made his way around his father's chair, and took Rhoswen's trembling hand, and kissed it. Then, so that the whole hall could see, he raised their intertwined hands.
"A toast!" cried Faramir, rising from his seat. The hall's cheering quieted.
"To my brother's marriage. May it be accompanied by a long and fruitful rule." He looked at his brother, and smiled, raising his glass.
"To Marriage!" the hall raised their glasses in tribute, and drank them dry to the life and rule of the Captain Heir of Gondor.
---
As the hall went back to conversations and dancing, Rhoswen bid her father good night. But as she was leaving the hall, Boromir caught her sleeve.
"A goodnight kiss, milady?" Rhoswen blushed, her eyes downcast.
"If it pleases milord." She looked up, just in time for him to catch her chin and lightly brush her lips. Even if he is older, thought Rhoswen, his kisses are something to be desired.
"Would you care for a stroll? The gardens at this hour are beautiful in the moonlight." Boromir peered down into her eyes, his blue ones piercing and compassionate.
"Perhaps tomorrow morning. Milady needs her rest." Maire pulled the love struck Rhoswen away, the memory of the kiss still floating on her lips.
---
Faramir watched his brother kiss the younger woman on the cheek, and smiled as her lady in waiting pulled her away. Ever the charmer, thought Faramir. He strode over to his brother, who was still standing at the door, watching Rhoswen go.
"I give you 9 on the kiss, and a 7 on your manners. In a scale of one to ten." Boromir looked at his brother with a querying look.
"What are you on about?"
"You didn't offer to escort her back to her room." Faramir shrugged. Boromir shook his head.
"You are odd, brother."
"I am not the one in love, brother. So it is you who may be construed as odd. Let us say our good nights, lest some other maid catch your eye."
---
"So you admit that you find him charming?" Maire was trying to weasel an answer out of her smitten mistress. The young woman gazed off into space as her lady in waiting unlaced her from her gown.
"Perfectly charming. And handsome..."
"You've said that twice...what about his kissing?" Maire put away the dress, and began to brush Rhoswen's long hair.
"Terribly romantic. Like a soft breeze on a summer's day..." Rhoswen unclasped her necklace, laying it in its case. She pulled the coverlets around her chin, closing her eyes and smiling. Maire extinguished the candles. In the darkness, the companion could just hear a soft sigh.
---
"Well, You've seen her, and you've kissed her, and you've seen how she adores you...What think you of marriage now?" Faramir leaned against the door to Boromir's rooms, where the elder was readying for bed.
"I admit that she is beautiful, and I could ask fro nothing more in a wife...But Father has robbed the cradle of a child! I do not relish our wedding night."
"Perhaps, brother, you will find she is not as childish as she seems. Spend but a little time with her-perhaps her age and yours will not become an issue."
"One can only hope. I do not wish to break so delicate a flower so early that none else may enjoy it's charms." Boromir stripped off his shirt and shut the door between their rooms, climbing into bed as he blew the candle at his bedside out.
Rose indeed...but one that was only now just coming into bloom.
---
It was well past his normal hour of rising (dawn), and Boromir could not cram into himself another ounce of sleep. So, throwing on his clothes, he decided to go for a walk in the citadel gardens.
You would think that, being a citadel and all, Minas Tirith wouldn't have any gardens. But these were very well kept, providing a quiet and peaceful sanctuary for the steward or one of his house to come and think. True, they were not large, but large enough to take a sizable amount of time to walk through, with benches and fountains to sit by and admire. But it was one thing that seemed out of place this morning-the sound of a human voice singing amidst the bird's chatter. Intrigued and entranced by the sound, Boromir strained his ears to find out from which way it came. Picking a path, he literally sprinted through the paved way to find the owner of the remarkable voice.
"The winter it is passed And the summer's come at last And the small birds They sing in every tree..." The voice started her singing anew, the plucking of a harp accompanying her music. Boromir increased his pace.
"Their little hearts are glad But mine is very sad Since my true love is Far away from me.
The rose upon the briar By the water running clear Gives joy to the linnet and the bee Their little hearts are blessed But mine is not at rest While my true love is absent from me
I'll wear a cap of black With a frill around my neck Gold rings on my fingers I will wear It's this I undertake For my true lover's sake He resides at The Curragh of Kildaire
A livery I'll wear And I'll comb down my hair And in velvet so green I will appear And straight I will repair, To the Curragh of Kildaire For it's there I'll find tidings of my dear
My love is like the sun That ne'er laments as one And always brews constant and true But his is like the moon That wanders up and down And every month is new..." Boromir was so close to the singer, he could smell her perfume, a light, breezy scent that put him in mind of seabirds and sand. Could it be his cousins had come in from Dol Amroth? No, he told himself, I would have seen them at the banquet last night. Who else do I know who lives by the sea? The answer hit him like a rock when he saw the singer, her black tresses hanging loose as her fingers gently plucked strings, her voice as beautiful as the sea itself, flowing free.
"All you who that are in love And cannot it remove I pity the pains you endure For experience lets me know That your hearts are full of woe And the woe that no mortal can cure A woe that no mortal can cure..." With a final flourish, she finished her song.
"I didn't know you played a harp." Boromir said, breaking the silence that hung on the garden like dew on a leaf. Rhoswen looked up from the harp case with a start, handing the instrument off to her lady in waiting, who took it with a knowing smile and bowed away.
"I did not know you were here...shall we walk?" Boromir smiled.
"I do remember saying something about a walk last night...the gardens are just as beautiful in the morning light."
"As I myself have noticed. Do you come here often?"
"With the promise of seeing your beautiful visage in the dawn's face, perhaps I shall."
Rhoswen giggled uneasily, her eyes focused on counting cobblestones. Boromir stopped, and raised her face to look him straight in the eyes, which were far up, considering she was nearly a foot shy of his immense height.
"You need not hide your face, Rhoswen. Do you fear me?" the young woman swallowed, obviously trying not to cry, and turned her head.
"Rhoswen, look at me! What was it I did to you that you recall and I do not?" the young woman turned away, bordering dangerously close to tears.
"You do me no justice...do you not remember me?"
"Nay, dear woman, I can say I do not."
"At your thirtieth birthday, I was in the city as well, and loudly declaimed, when introduced to you, that one day I would wed a man as like you, realized what had been said, and ran from the hall crying tears of shame. I was nine...do you not remember?" the weeping woman had sat down, while a confused captain stood, racking his memory for such an event.
"I can safe say I do not recall such an episode, though it does you justice, madam, that I said nothing, rather than humiliate you more. My tongue, on occasion, can be quite sharp. Comes from being a soldier." He sat down next to Rhoswen, and taking her sleeve, wiped her tear-streaked face with it.
"I must protest. This gown looks much better when it is not sodden with unnecessary tears." The young woman chanced a smile. The older man lifted her up off the bench, and set her back on the path.
"Now, if milady wishes, we may continue our walk?" He offered an arm, and she unwillingly took it, with a sniffle. Several minutes later, in a constraining silence, she said, in a small voice,
"You must think me ridiculous." Boromir stopped.
"Nay, only caught up in the fact that you believe I will make everything larger than it should be because I am older." He thought about this for a moment. "Which is not true."
"How comes it, then, that the captain heir of Gondor is not already married?"
"I...do not know. I have never found a woman in whose company I can stay for more than is polite enough to get away with. I am always away, in Osgiliath, and it is not easy to raise a family over a field." The taller man walked to look out over the city; it's habitants going about their business without any thought to the nobles above. "Besides, I would not trade the years I have spent with my brother and my men for a wife and children, if that is what you mean."
"I would do you no honor, milord."
"How so, Rhoswen?" Boromir already loved rolling the syllables over his tongue, loving the sound of her name. Oh, to take her in his arms, just once...he shook the romantically spinning thoughts back out as she spoke. Why must this woman break the Rammas Echor he had so carefully constructed around his heart?
"You should have a woman who knows her place within the home, who will be able to raise your children, and wait for you when you are away...I could never stand being without my husband for forever."
"Then that is all the better to appreciate me when I return." The girl turned to walk away.
"This body of mine is slight, and delicate. I know the limits of childbirth."
"I would rather you be slight and delicate than...stout. I can pick you up now." He did so, a warm feeling in his fingers as they touched her waist. Boromir spun her around once and set her back down. The young woman was still trying to think of a convincing argument to get him to hate her, but it was in vain. Boromir grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look up into his blue eyes.
"Do you fear me, Rhoswen? Is that why you show me all your faults? Fear of me?"
Rhoswen cast down her eyes again.
"Yes." Her voice was shy and small. "Why would you want me?"
"Because you are small, and slight, and you adore me, but are loath to show it. And I love you. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in the alley two days ago, and you have only increased my love ten fold! Gods in heaven help me, but I do! The very sound of your name brings a sunrise to my minds eye! So again, I beg you, why do you fear me?"
"Because you are a giant, and I am a sprite. Because you marry because you have need of an heir, and I marry because my father finds it well that I marry above my lower station." She stumbled over the words, as if a waterfall full of dread just exploded from behind it's carefully built dam. "Because I fear I will lose you, and I do not want my heart broken. There...I've said it." She finished, now crying again. The captain held her close, rocking her back and forth in what he hoped would be a calming manner.
"You need not fear for me, or fear me. And that is why I love you. You care so much for others that you never think of yourself. And that is why I want to care for you. You, my delicate rose." Rhoswen stopped crying and looked up from Boromir's redingote to his face.
"Your rose?" The larger man smiled, kissing her hair.
"My rose."
---
I do not own the song 'Curragh of Kildaire', and I don't own Boromir or any other recognizable character either, even if they do seem out of character. In your review-which I know you will write because you are caring people who want to help me- it would be most kind of you to tell me what you think of Rhoswen, as I am not quite grounded on Mary Sues and I want to know if she is one.