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Too much love will kill you
By Nadrilin
Characters: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, Aewlyn ((figure of my imagination))
Cameo’s: Aragorn, Gandalf, Pippin, Eowyn
Genre: Romance, drama,
Rating: R Scenes of sexuality, nudity and course language (hetro)
Timeline: Set 4 years before the fellowship, concludes as the war of the ring ends.
Jacket flap: Two brothers’, one beautiful woman and a plotting father? Can the bond between the steward’s sons be broken by a woman? Can a once sensible girl choose between the two men or will the triangle break them all and destroy the will of the Gondorian troops?
Disclaimer: I do not profess to be a historian of Tolkien’s work; I have done my best to be true to his Gondor as I see it. Aewlyn is my character, Boromir, Denethor, Faramir, Gandalf, Pippin, and Aragorn belong to J.R. Tolkein, my knowledge is based on reading the books once and watching Peter Jackson’s directed version produced by new line cinema more times then I care to admit.
The beauty of the morning is lost as Aewlyn walks with her made to the seventh tier of the city. Her eyes watch her feet as they walk as she feels the eyes of the higher born watch her as she comes to their part of the city. She has no desire to become a lady of Ecthelion.
Her father had ridden out with his battalion to face a band of orc’s reported to the Steward several weeks ago, he had lived long enough to die in his beloved city and to soon for her to make it to his side to say goodbye.
“You are a lucky girl; your father was beloved of the Steward.” Her maid tries to comfort her as she walks. “You, you will become a ward of the Steward.” There is more to this but her Lady will learn of this in her own time.
Aewlyn does not comment she has her own opinions of the steward. Raised by her father since her eleventh year she knows more of politics and warfare them most woman. Her father had been loyal to Denethor and the few times they shared harsh words was when she spoke against the Lord of Gondor.
She had learned to bite her tongue when speaking of the army; her father had not seen it odd that the children of the rich were trained by the masters, and those of the lower levels by their fathers.
She was raised among the lower levels, her mother having been born there and refusing to move to the higher level of her father’s house when they wed. Her father went against his political parents and married a lower born and to their horror made a home with her on the second level of the city.
She is all rights a lady of the court, her father was not a poor man, she has not been left helpless and penniless.
“The Steward is awaiting you my lady.” A guard bows to her and she nods her head gently. Her maid smiles brightly excited about being a servant to the Steward’s ward. Smiling Aewlyn thinks as if her father does not lie cold and dead and her glare makes her maids smile dim.
They led into the great hall it is as magnificent as her father had told her it was. The floors are black marble and the ceiling higher then twenty men standing on one another’s shoulders.
Great pillars line the path they are treading towards the steward who stands in front of a throne, which has two seats, one above the other. She glances at the throne, the attitude of women being lesser carries even into the halls of the great kings of old as on seat sits high above the other.
The steward is a large man not yet stooped by age; his shoulders are broad and his features sharp. She supposes he was once a handsome man but he has aged enough that time has faded it from him. His hair shows signs of once being black as pitched, lightened now by the graying that comes with age.
He smiles at her and she struggles to smile back. How is it he can justify such grander when those in the lowest levels scratch a living out of rock. The only good thing that comes from the constant warfare is that the low born can earn farthings for their skills as blacksmiths, tailors, and weavers. There is a never ending need for swords to be repaired, armor to be crafted, or banners to be woven.
To his right stands Captain Boromir, the beloved son of Gondor. She knows who he is as does every citizen of Gondor. She has heard him crying out from atop the walls, and from the battalions stirring the hearts of men to frenzy before leading them to battle.
He perhaps is what his father once was; he is a large man with powerful shoulders. His face is strong with proud features. He wears his beard trimmed around his mouth and chin with clean shaven cheeks, his hair is a light brown, almost golden. His eyes are green and most charming but they do not move her to quiver like the fools how admire him from afar.
How many laments has she heard from her peers about how handsome he is, and how wonderful. She’s listened to silly professions of undying love for him and thought them just that. How can one love and fantasize about a person they have never met, or would not likely say hello if he passed you on the street.
The Captain of Gondor is well known for his carousing, always with low born women. An angry glint casts in her eyes as she considers this. Her father had spoken often of Boromir, praising him as a son and Captain.
She looks up now, surprised at the intensity of her angry. She looks at Boromir and does not see the great Captain. She sees only the man who led her father to his death.
Her grief is raw and she needs someone to blame, as sensible as she is she is a girl barely into her nineteenth summer who has just lost her father. Why is it he who leads the armies of Gondor always comes home to splendor when the men who fight with him lie dead on the field?
“Aewlyn.” The steward steps forward and with his arms extended and a welcoming smile on his face. She resists the urge to flinch as he places his hands on her shoulders. “I had prayed this day would never come.” She sees honest sorrow in his eyes.
Though raised by a man her father had insisted on her learning court etiquette, she had argued with him, insisting she would never need it. It was a battle she did not win her paternal grandmother had taken the task upon her own shoulders after her mother’s death. She had never felt warmness for her father’s mother and when she died of a strange malady a year ago Aewlyn had found it hard to weep. Her only living relative after the death had been her father. However her father was all she need, he was her best friend, and she his.
Her grandmother had never forgiven him and her displeasure her son had chosen to marry a lower born had not lessened over the years and she had made it known to Aewlyn very young and very often that her mother was not a good enough woman to be her son’s wife.
Realizing now is not the time to become lost in nostalgia she curtseys’s slightly as she had been taught when the Lord removes his hands from her shoulders. She is not a woman who cries easily but she feels her eyes sting. She does not want to be here.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my father spoke often of you and your sons often.” She glances to the left of Denethor’s throne and sees another man, Faramir; she knows his face as well though it is not nearly as public as the older sons.
He is slender and lithe, lacking the thick build of his father and brother. His cheekbones are higher then his brother’s making his face softer but no less handsome. They share the same proud features of their noses, and the way their brow is shaped.
Unlike Boromir Faramir’s beard moves up his face, though the cheeks themselves are shaved clean. His hazel eyes are sorrowful and haunting. A beautiful bluish green, his eyes are large and his best feature among many good ones.
He fills out the armor he wears, though he is slender there is definition to the skin under his neck before the sight of flesh disappears beneath leather. A bow is slung across his back and he looks battle worn as if he has rushed her from some errand to welcome her.
He catches her eyes and smiles softly at her and nods his head, he had known her father. It had been Mynith that had trained him with the blade while Boromir studied under the masters. He feels his own sorrows this day for Gondor has truly lost a man of quality.
“Your father saved my life once, in a battle long ago.” The Steward draws her attention back. “I promised him I would repay the debt one day.”
“So you take me in.” She had wondered why the Steward would care what happened to a grown war orphan. There are many like her, much younger who live in an orphanage run by spinster women and funded by the government.
“My son.” He points to Boromir with pride shining in his eyes. “Boromir.” She curtsey’s as he steps forward and tries to hide the anger in her eyes.
“I am sorry for you loss, he was truly a great man.” He bows to her slightly with his hand on his chest. She simply nods hoping her anger is mistaken for grief. She waits for the steward to introduce Faramir when it is obvious he is not going to her anger thickens.
The only ill words her father had ever spoken against his Lord had been of his treatment of his second son. She knows he trained Faramir for years when war did not call him away.
He had love for the boy and would often speak of how Faramir would try but he did not possess the heart of a warrior. When Faramir had taken up the bow and walked towards the path of the ranger her father had approved encouraging him to do so.
She glances at Faramir, though Boromir and Denethor stand within feet of her he lingers to the side as if he is an outsider in his father’s court.
Strong willed she gathers her skirts up and walks before him, showing him the same respect she curtsey’s and offers him a gentle smile as she rises. He looks at her and his face shows surprise.
She is not like the other women of Gondor, in place of olive skin hers is light as if she’s never been touched by the sun. In place of brown or hazel eyes hers are the color of the sky reflecting off a frozen pond. He looks at her eyes, the shape is even different and remind him of two almond lain sideways. Her nose is delicate and set above two full lips that hold a color no lip paint could mimic.
Her hair falls over slender shoulders and even from where he stands he can smell the perfume of lilies coming from her. Her body is that for which sonnets are written for, his eyes leave her face and trail down her delicate neck, his eyes follow the curve of her breasts which are full and high, her belly is flat, her waist is small and her hips curve out gently. She is tall, he stands but half a head taller then she.
He takes this all in with a single glance, she is never aware of the depth of imagery he has taken with the single stare.
“Your father was a brave man.” His voice is soft and deep and she feels tears sting her eyes as she nods. The exchange took only seconds but as she turns she sees the scowl Denethor tries to hide as a smile comes across his face. He sees the tears glistening in her eyes and the scowl returns. It fits his face so well she wonders if it his natural expression.
“Look what you’ve done Faramir.” His tone is harsh and not at all the smooth voice of his greeting. “You’ve upset her.” His disgust is evident and she sees first hand that which her father spoke of concerning the steward and his sons.
“Father he said words no differently then my own.” Boromir steps forward with a tight expression on his face. Aewlyn looks at him and sees the flicker of pain in his eyes as he glances at Faramir who simply sets his jaw as if knowing what will fall further from his father’s lips.
“Please.” Her voice shakes as she speaks, not wanting any contention to come from her presence. “He did not upset me anymore then I am. My father has died only a day ago, it will take time for me. I will do better to control myself in expressing.” She wants to run, she would rather live among the orphans then in this oppressive atmosphere. The hall is beautiful as are the grounds of the seventh tier, but it not her home. It can never be her home.
She has the inheritance her father left behind, the money of her father and his father before him. She has no need to be cared for by another though she does not dare speak it.
She had found a letter among her father’s papers, one telling her that if death should ever find him this would be her fate. He admonished her to behave as the lady her grandmother had taught her to be and put his raisings behind her. She can no more do that then command the moon to rise in the dawn.
“Of course my dear.” Denethor’s gaze leaves Faramir as he turns back towards her. “Boromir will take you to your apartment, if there is anything you desire to make it more to your liking simply let me know.”
“You are most generous my Lord.” she tries to smile for him but it is weak at best. Boromir offers his arm and she takes it and follows him.
The vast castle is filled with carved statues of the kings and stewards of days past, tapestries depicting battles hang from the walls and she sorrows that the history of Gondor is riddled with so much war.
There are guard’s stations along their path, dressed in full plate that shines like polished silver.
In the middle of a long corridor they stop in front of a large wooden door, the oak is stained dark and Boromir opens it.
“Your quarter’s my lady.” He follows her in and she stares in awe, the apartment is open, the floors tiled in pink and white quartz, the ceilings are pillared at various points. There is a wooden table with high back chairs beside a window that looks out over the King’s garden. Further in there is a comfortable looking couch and chair, covered in white velvet. On the floor in front of the couch is a thick pink area rug and set upon it is a smaller table of the same wood as the dining table.
The hearth is carved from white marble and the grate in front of it is bent and shaped like a garden of flowers. She walks into the room, and turns around taking it all in.
On the wall opposite the windows is a bookcase filled with tomes of the great poets. There is a door in the middle of the four large windows and she walks to it opening it to find a balcony.
Coming back in she walks to the alcove on the wall with the bookcase, within this alcove is a large bed, one larger then any would ever need. Its posts raise high towards the ceiling and as her gaze follows the posts up they find a large silk canopy of soft pink. The bed linens are the same pink as the canopy with large pillows of alternating pink and white.
A large armoire is against the wall at the foot of her bed and beside it a lady’s dressing screen. To the right of the bed is a lady’s table with a mirror, on the table is a perfume decanter of crystal and silver, beside it lies a brush and comb of silver and behind those is a jewel box.
“You will find all your mother’s jewelry within.” His father had set him to over see the removal of her belongings from her home on the lower level. It had been lavish compared to the other homes around it, it had often puzzled him why after his wife’s death Mynith had not returned to his parents home on the higher level but instead chose to remain below his station.
He watches her walk to the jewel box and opens it, taking out a gold chain with a simple teardrop diamond. He sees the reflection of her face in the mirror and the sorrow on it and feels as if he is intruding on a private moment.
“It is everything a girl could dream of.” She turns and smiles softly some of her anger towards the Captain dying. The way he spoke up for his brother, the pain his father’s harshness struck him with had softened her heart. Perhaps there is more to the Captain then war and womanizing as she had led herself to believe.
“I know it is not the home you know.” His words are gentle but hit her like a slap. She shakes her head not trusting herself to speak. “Your father will be laid to rest tomorrow, take some rest.” He stares at her for a moment and would like to help her with whatever she’s feeling but he is at a loss.
“Thank you my lord.” She puts the necklace back in the box, it is one she has never worn and was told she could not until the day she wed. She had always loved it, and the story her mother spoke of how her father had given it to her the day he asked her to be his wife, it had not left her throat from that day forth, at least not until she had closed Aewlyn’s hand around it as she lay dying.
She forgets he is in the room as she thinks of the day her mother died, many died that year of a strange fever and cough.
Her mother had been a healer, a gifted one whose knowledge went beyond Gondor, a knowledge passed from mother to daughter for many generations. She had been taught from the time she could understand words, and continued learning from her mother’s journals once she was gone.
Who will care for those who cannot afford the healers? Who will take care of them now that she is not among them anymore? Her mother had refused to leave the lower level because she knew among the nobles her healing skills would be worthless. It is a man’s world in the higher courts and spirited to the core her mother was not content to be a noble’s wife and take tea with the ladies.
Aewlyn is much like her mother in spirit, and carries with her the strength of her father. She prays there is a way she can slip away from court and keep helping those she left behind.
Boromir watches her as she is lost in thought, he does not have the quick eyes of his brother and they linger upon her longer though she does not sense it. She is a rare beauty and makes him think of a single rose growing among lilies.
Faramir had not seemed to even notice her beauty, he knows there are those that wield sword and bear plate that joke that the rangers are strange men, rather seeking each other’s company then to seek out women. He frowns as he thinks of this, if it is true his father’s wrath will be more then even he can protect his brother from.
The sound of the jewel box closing brings him from his dark thoughts and he smiles at her again.
“If there is anything I can do to help you get through this dark time just ask it of me.” He bows to her again slightly and takes his leave of her rooms.
Aewlyn watches the door shut behind him and goes to the large iron bound trunk at the foot of her bed. She opens it and sighs with relief as all her mother’s books are within it.
Helga knowing her had packed all that means the most to her, her clothes are already put away and she wonders what she is to do with herself.
She digs through the trunk slowly at first and then a bit more frantically, the sword her father had fashioned for her is not within it.
She gets up and throws open the armoire it is not there either. Neither is the leather armor he had made for her in the style of the rangers within.
“Helga!” She shouts and her maid comes from the one walled room within the apartments. “Where is my sword and armor?” Her father had relented to her pleadings to be taught the sword after her mother died. They had spent hours together as she learned. At first he had fought her and was stern, he had felt he already treated her to much like a son. She had pouted and carried her disappointment around with her until he could stand it no more.
“They are here.” Helga kneels beside the large bed and pulls a closed crate from beneath it. “I hide them, I did not think the Steward would understand or approve should he see them.”
“Very good.” Aewlyn smiles, thankful her maid is quick thinking. “I only needed to know where they were. How are your quarters?” Aewlyn asks as she walks to the window and looks out again.
“More beautiful then I could have imagined.” Helga smiles at her good fortune, she had not lived with Aewlyn she had her own home which was bare and gloomy. She is still a maid but feels as if she’s been turned into a princess.
“I am glad you are happy.” Aewlyn moves to the couch and sits upon it and rests her head on the back of it.
“I am weary Helga, might I be alone?” Her maid places a hand on her shoulder before departing again to her own quarters.
Among her friends the maid is considered lucky, her lady is not a pampered spoiled princess. She hears tales of other maids being slapped if they bring tea that is to cold to their ladies.
Aewlyn barely asks anything of her, she is humble despite her father’s wealth, a wealth he would have lavishly thrown upon her if she would but let him.
He had stayed on the lower level after his wife’s death because he knew it was where his daughter was happy. Like her mother she is pained to waste time. Always busy helping other’s with the knowledge of healing.
She glances over her shoulder as she reaches the door to her quarters and frowns softly. Aewlyn does not know why she was brought here, at least not the truth of it.
She only knows because she overheard Mynith speaking in hushed tones to a courier from the Steward. She shakes her head; she will not lay the troubles upon Aewlyn’s shoulders just yet. Best to stand back and watch what will come to pass as it transpires.
Aewlyn can find no rest in the strange room, as darkness falls the fire casts shadows on the wall. The moon is hidden from her as her gaze goes from the window.
It is Saturday and her father would be pouring over maps upon the table in their common room. His face would be pinched and troubled, after he sat in silence for several hours he would call her over to the map. Then as if she were a man in his army he would show her where the hot spots of battle were building. He would treat her as a trusted advisor, never staying her hand from the map as she moved the chess pieces that represented the armies of Gondor and the battalions of orcs.
At the break of dawn in the morning he would dress in his armor and go to the Citadel to meet with the Captain-General, the Steward and other captains like himself.
He would come home and speak to her of it and she would worry as she listened to him speak. She would hide the fear that built within here every time she knew he would ride with the dawn.
A fear she will never feel again for her worst fear had come to pass. She draws in a shuttering breath as she struggles to be strong.
How she wishes she had gotten to see him one last time before his eyes closed forever in darkness. Instead she arrived at the healing house in time to see his body being shrouded.
Her knees had gone weak as she watched him being lifted and carried to the morgue. Was it only a day ago? Why does it already seem as if she’s been without him forever?
They would not let her wash and anoint his body, it was not a job for a woman and no daughter should see her father so. She had been angry and lashed out striking against Hynar the highest ranking healer.
Her mother had hated that man and she understands why, he is cold and clinical. He was probably afraid she had her mother’s knowledge and would see that her father died of wounds he could have been spared from if only they would let women among their ranks.
Her mother could have saved him, she could have saved him, and she knows this in her heart. They possess something none other in Gondor hold something she must never speak of.
She stands and takes her cloak wrapping it around her shoulders. She finds her way into the night and the air bites her cheeks. It is the dawn of spring yet the night holds onto the cold like a desperate lover.
The cold numbs her skin but does nothing to ease her pain. She has not cried and her soul longs for the salty release but she struggles against it. She fears if she allows the tears to fall they will never stop and she will drown in them.
“The hour is last, you should find your rest.” She hears a smooth voice behind her and turns to see the youngest son of her guardian.
“Sleep eludes me though I wish to fall into it and never wake.” She looks back out over the Pelennor Fields, from this height she can see across them clearly, looking up at the horizon it is as if she can see the world from this vantage point.
“I will miss him.” His words are sincere as she glances at him and puts her hand on his arm to offer him comfort. The wind picks up and lifts her hair from her shoulders.
“I would see him if I but knew where to find him.” Her ears sting from the cold wind and she takes her hand from his arm and looks away from him.
“I can take you.” He watches her hair flow like a banner in the breeze, when she turns to look at him her blue eyes glimmer with unshed tears and a twinge tugs at his heart.
“Would you?” She steps towards him and puts her hand on his arm. “I know the council is in the morning, should you not find your rest?”
“Come with me.” He walks ahead of her and she quickly matches his step. They take the winding roads to the tombs and he nods those who guard the dead.
She follows him walking closely to him, the bodies of the dead look more like statues, bronzed and immortalized for all time. This is where the king’s knights are laid, her father has been granted honor among them.
There is a lantern above a bower deep within the tomb, before she can see it clearly she knows it’s her father and her strength falters and she stops.
“It’s okay.” He had come earlier to say his goodbyes it had been difficult for him, he cannot imagine what it would to hold the love of a father as she held his.
Though he was never introduced to Aewlyn he feels as if he knows her. Her father often spoke of her with adoration and pride. Something he longs to see in his own father’s eyes for himself along with Boromir.
She walks towards the bower, her steps echo in the silent tomb and it feels as if time has slowed around her. With each steps she gets closer to him and his features become clearer.
He lies dressed in his plate armor, his great sword in his hands lying down his body. The white flag of Gondor drapes his legs beneath the sword and lies as still as he in the windless tomb.
“Daddy.” Her voice breaks and she forgets she is not alone. “Wake up.” She is a healer, she knows he is gone and the healers of legend that could summon men back to life are no more.
She falls to her knees beside the bower bruising them as they hit the cold marble. She puts her arm across his chest and rests her head on his shoulder once she finds her feet again.
She leans over him as if willing her warmth to fall into him, she would trade her life for his and tells Valar so. The tomb swirls around her as she accepts he is dead. It was his face she saw being covered, this is not a cruel joke.
Faramir watches her, his throat tightens as he witnesses her pain and he looks away. This is like the stories told by the bards of old, sung sorrowfully along the mournful cords of a lute. Though no bard could ever hope to stir the sorrow and compassion building within him at this moment as he watches her suffer.
She stands and touches her father’s face, she turns her face up to the heavens and he wonders what her heart says to him.
She draws a shuddering breath and lets it out as if she would say something but cannot. She draws another and begins to sing, her voice is haunting, feminine and he knows he will never forget the sound of it.
Sleep Warrior in this dark night,
Your memory will forever kept in the light
Those you left behind will make the world see
All that you were, all we strive to be
Sleep Warrior, Sleep
Gondor weeps, weeps for her sons
They will continue the fight until it’s won
Go now to your father’s,
With her name upon your lips
Sleep Warrior, you have earned your rest
Her voice breaks and her shoulders shake, he has not heard the song, and realizes it is because her heart writes it as she sings. Not knowing how else to help her he steps behind her and puts his hand on her shoulder, he begins to hum the melody of it and she takes another breath.
Here you lay, a memory to be praised
To the end sword brandished and shield raised
Crying Gondor… Gondor….
The fields are red with your blood
As your soul flies to your father’s
Here you are not forgotten
Remember me….
Rest in the arms of who went before you
With my breath you will live, in my heart you will stay
In my children I will see you face…
She holds the last note and it drops low and her lips quiver as she closes her eyes and finally tears slip from beneath the lids. He watches her to struggle, struggle to finish the lament that is tearing his hear asunder.
Sleep warrior, find your peace
Leave me here alone
This pain will never cease
Sleep
Her voice is stronger as it fills with anger born of grief. He stands helpless as she again leans over her father and weeps onto his chest. Her shoulders shake and he fears she will collapse.
“Why!” Her small fist strikes her father’s armor. “You told me you’d always come home.”
“A promise no solider should make.” Faramir thinks to himself as he watches her.
She stands up and her eyes fall on Faramir, she flushes and wipes the tears from her cheeks but they are quickly replaced by others.
Though never a bold man when it comes to women he steps forward and puts his hand on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. She stares at him for a minute like an angel among the dead.
“Why him?” She whispers and he can barely hear her words. “He is all I had, and now I am alone.” Her lips tremble as two more tears streak down her cheeks. “He left me alone.” It’s then Faramir realizes she has lost more then her father, she has lost her whole life. Her friends should she have any, her home, and all the things she filled her days with. She will be expected to conform to the ways of the court and he puts his other hand on her other shoulder.
She looks up into his blue green eyes and sees compassion in them, and understanding. She wipes her tears again blinks new ones back.
“You are not alone.” His voice is gentle. “You have all my father’s house can offer you.” He touches her cheek and brushes a tear away with his thumb. “It offers you my friendship.” His kind words break the damn and her shoulders leave his hands as she collapses to her knees. He crouches down beside her, to stay with her and is nearly knocked backwards as her arms go around him. She buries her face in his shoulder and her tears are hot as they sink through the fabric of his tunic.
He uses his hands to go from crouching and sitting and then pulls her close and wraps his arms around her, his back resting on the bower. She clings to him as if she were drowning, her body shaking with the force of her sobs.
“It hurts.” She whimpers between sobs and clings to him tighter as if she would crawl inside him to get away from the pain. “Oh Gods it hurts so much.” He can offer no words of comfort instead he runs his hand up and down her back, with the other he holds her behind her neck.
His back begins to cramp as the hours of her mourning pass but he does not shift his weight for fear she will stop her mourning. Her sobs become less violent and reduce to shaky breathes. He holds her and will until she pulls away from him. She is silent and her grip around him loosens. He glances down at her face as sees she is sleeping, or the grief has overwhelmed her and shut her down, either way he does not move. He runs his hand down her long blonde hair, it feels like silk.
Her innocence and fear makes her precious, he had seen her strength when her eyes flickered in anger as she glanced at Boromir, then when she glared at Denethor when he failed to introduce him to her.
He has no idea of the time but knows the dawn must soon be upon them. He is expected in the great hall as all Captains are this morning. He has never been late and it has won him no respect from his father, he is torn between waking her and letting her sleep.
She stirs as if reading his thoughts and for a moment tenses in his arms, the as sleep leaves her she remembers where she is and lets go of him. She is embarrassed she has let anyone see her cry and she gets quickly to her feet.
“My lord I am sorry.” She does not glance behind her to see her father, she has said her goodbye and cannot bear to do it again.
“It’s alright.” He stands and his body screams from being in one position for so long. She shivers suddenly cold without his body heat to keep her warm.
“I must go.” She turns and almost runs from him, he watches her go and follows her letting her stay a few steps ahead of him.
She feels empty as she makes her way back to her room but some of the pain is faded. Thoughts of taking her father’s sword and thrusting herself upon it had taken her mind. Had it not been for Faramir she may have done it.
What kind of man sits with a stranger and catches her tears? She lies on her bed exhausted she can smell him on her. The scent of the forest, of clean sweat, and leather lingers on her.
“You have all my father’s court offers.” He had said. “It offers you my friendship.” She closes her eyes and berates herself for being so fragile. Her heart is hollow as she thinks of how wrong it is that she had to find comfort in a stranger’s arm.
Faramir takes a breath and enters the great hall and it interrupts Denethor’s words. He scowls at his son and Boromir looks over his shoulder away from him, bracing himself for what is to come.
“Finally manage to pull yourself out of bed.” Denethor’s eyes are malicious. “It shames me to have a son of such weak constitution he cannot rise before the sun. Perhaps this is why you are such a dismal failure upon the fields of battle, you sleep through them.” Denethor lifts a goblet to his lips then slams it upon the table.
“I apologize father I was detained.” He hears someone whisper and muffled laughter. None of his captains are included in these council’s. He knows despite all the good they do the rangers are considered a joke. To those bearing plate they are an army of weak men to cowardly to choose the sword over the bow unless they have to.
He lifts his chin and stares his father in the eye which only angers Denethor further.
“Since you did not see fit to come arrive on time there is no need for your presence.” Denethor waves his hand in dismissal. Boromir takes his feet and glances at Faramir then turns to his father.
“You will not send him away.” Boromir’s voice is louder then he intended it. “I am late most weeks.” Faramir shakes his head, as if to tell Boromir not to bother but he is ignored.
“You are busier with all you do, you have reason.” Denethor’s voice is softer with his older son. Most everyone in the room knows when he is late it’s because he has not been able to untangle himself from whatever whore’s arms he is with.
“I am sure he had reason.” Boromir cannot think what it might be but knows Faramir would never put himself through his father’s wrath without a good one.
“What reason is it then boy?” Denethor watches Faramir and his eyes flicker. He will not betray Aewlyn’s grief.
“I had a friend who was in need.” He offers no more and ignores a few snickers which are silenced as Boromir casts a dangerous glare down the table.
“Then I suggest you find your way back to him since he is so much more important then the defense of your city.” Denethor turns back to the maps and Faramir’s gaze lowers to his feet. Once again he is humiliated and reduced to ashes in front of his brother and his brother’s army.
He turns on his heel and leaves ignoring Boromir’s voice calling his name. It is several hours later when Boromir comes to his quarters. He sits next to his brother and sniffs and looks at Faramir then as if not trusting his senses she leans closer to him and sniffs again.
“You smell of a woman.” Boromir sits back up, a wave of relief filling him, he had never believed the rumors of his brother being one who lies with other men or had he begun to wonder?
“You seem shocked.” Faramir knows all of the rumors, and it is true there are those among his men who find love with one another. He is sure if Boromir looked he would see them among his own men.
He does not understand the horror of which it is thought of, in these dark times love is needed more then ever. Why does it matter to any where another’s love comes from? What business is it of anyone who falls into each other’s beds and more importantly whose arms anyone finds comfort in?
He has lain heartbroken in the arms of the man he trusts more then any man save Boromir. He has wept into Dyntin’s chest and taken comfort from his embrace, as Aewlyn did last night he fell asleep there. He knows if Boromir knew this he would be horrified but he feels no shame in it. It was the embrace of his friend that pulled him through that night, when he would have gladly ended his own life. Would Boromir scorn that? Knowing it saved his life? He glances at his brother and decides he probably would regardless of the reason.
He shakes the memory from his head, he had never spoken of that night nor had Dyntin but he will remember it. He had found comfort in a strange place that night and understands those who find comfort there and it is not strange to them. He will scorn no one for who they love, at least these men are lucky enough to love and be loved back.
“Who was she?” Boromir brings him from his thoughts. “Was she beautiful?” Boromir doesn’t want to talk of their father and Faramir even less so.
“Like none other.” A soft smile touches the corners of Faramir’s mouth, a rare smile and it warms Boromir to see it. To often his brother is brooding, or sorrowful.
“An army of orcs are marching towards Mordor, we do not know where they hail from but they are heading straight towards the mountain.” Boromir’s face turns serious. They come though the lands of the horse lords along the west road.” Boromir stands and walks to the map table they each have in their room.
“Who knows what they left behind
them in the wake.” Faramir gets up and
looks at the map. “Where were they
spotted?” He watches as Boromir places
his finger on the map on the edge of
“If we make haste we can ambush them as they come from the forest.” Boromir leans over the map.
“How many?”
“Four hundred is the estimate, they travel on foot, we leave in the morning on horseback we should be able to overtake them.” Boromir stands up and scratches his beard.
“We’ll leave tonight.” He knows his men can be ready in less then an hour. “I will take a hundred men with me, with us flanking them and you pushing them from the front I should not need more then that we have the cover of the forest.”
“I would not wish to tread in their shoes.” Boromir says and Faramir glances at his face, so use to his father’s abuse he even takes compliments as insults at first thought. Boromir’s face is serious and Faramir glances back down at the map as his throat tightens.
“With your bows at our back, we have no other option then victory.” For all Denethor denies him his brother makes up for it. In many ways Boromir is his father, his mentor, and his best friend. Since they were boys Boromir has always shielded him from his father, taught him to swim, Boromir even got one of his admiring fans to give Faramir his first kiss on his thirteenth birthday. He smiles at the memory and clasps his brother’s shoulder.
“Let’s show these things what happens when they venture to near our lands.” He is in good spirits. He summons a servant and has word sent to his rangers to gear up.
“Faramir, what do you think of father’s ward.” Boromir looks down at the map. He thinks having a woman like her around may be distracting and his reflection is based upon her looks. He does not even know her yet.
“I think she’s nice enough.” He wonders if Boromir is testing him, to see if the rumors are true, to set his mind at ease.
“Nice? She is beautiful.” Boromir smiles slightly as her image flickers to his mind. “She will be a nice distraction.”
“I am a gentleman unlike you, if I were to speak of her plainly I would lose this quality.” He dresses in his armor, the boiled leather etched with the King’s tree. Boromir laughs as he watches his brother fastens his wrist guards.
“It will certainly make life a little more pleasant.” Boromir glances out the window at the noonday sun.
“She is trusted to our father Boromir, don’t get any ideas.” He half jokes. “Besides you’re too old for her.” He smirks and Boromir laughs. He walks over to his brother and embraces him slapping his back.
“Come home little brother.” Boromir lets him go and Faramir is about to promise he will but remembers Aewlyn’s grief at her father’s broken promise.
“I will do my best.” He leaves his quarters and heads down the stairs towards the stables. He bumps into Aewlyn on the stairs of the third level as he travels down to the second level.
He stops short, her dress is covered with blood and he grabs her and looks her over for a wound but there is not tear or cut in her dress.
“I’m okay.” Her face is lit up by a smile that reaches her eyes. “I just delivered a baby girl.” She wipes her hand across her brow.
“You shouldn’t be doing this, you don’t have to do those things anymore.” He had not realized she worked as a midwife.
“I am who I always was, and something I will not conform for your father’s court.” There is an edge of challenge to her voice.
“Just don’t let father find out then.” He glances down the stairs and she senses he must be off. “I will see you if I return.” He nods his head and turns to leave her but she grabs his arm.
“If you return?” She looks at him, sees he is fully armored with his sword at his side and his quiver and bow upon his back.
“What is it?” Her eyes widen in fear? “Why do you ride again so soon? The army just returned.” She still has a hold of his arm and her blue eyes are intense.
“Orcs are moving in the west.” He isn’t sure why he is telling her, it is nothing she needs to be concerned with.
“How many men are you taking?” Her blue eyes demand an answer and her hand closes tightly around his arm. “How many?”
“A hundred, Boromir rides with three hundred.” He answers quickly.
“If you took more rangers there would be less for the army to face hand to hand.” Her father had often spoken of the power of the ranger’s bow.
“My men are spread thin through the lands others are wounded or exhausted from the last battle.” He doesn’t add his army doesn’t consist of the numbers Boromir commands.
“You did not sleep last night.” She lowers her eyes ashamed she kept him from his rest. “I should not have kept you from your rest.” She does not look up, he rides without sleep into battle because of her.
“I go many days without sleep for reasons not so important.” He glances down the stairs. “Do not bear yourself ill will for needing a friend in your grief.” He bows to her. “I am honored you allowed me to be that friend.” He rises and with the grace of a cat bounds down the stairs towards the main level.
She goes back to the top level and quickly changes her soiled clothing, the moment the baby had come into the work had renewed her spirits. The screaming baby had reminded her that new life replaces old and some how it comforted her.
She runs through the King’s Garden out onto the needle that juts from the city and stands on the end. The rangers are riding out, looking little more then green and brown speck atop horses from this height.
She raises her hand in goodbye wondering how many of them will come home. She does not like to think about.
Faramir glances back over the city and sees a form standing at the edge of the needle. He cannot see her clearly but he knows it’s his father’s ward. The wind whips her hair up behind her head and he raises his hand in farewell. Part of him looks forward to coming home a little more then usual.
Aewlyn rubs the back of her neck as she walks back to her quarter’s, her father was remembered in the great hall of feast this night, his name read along with the others who had died in the last battle. She shakes her head, there had been so many.
The army rides out in the morning, she has to admit with the army meeting the orcs head on and the rangers flanking them it should be a fast battle.
There is a knock on the door and her maid answers it, she hears heavy footfalls and looks over her shoulder and stands as the Steward approaches her.
“My lord.” She curtsey’s and he smiles at her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I wish to show you something.” She watches as he walks to the door to her balcony, he beckons for her to follow him and she obeys.
Once outside he removes a great leather tarp from a full size harp. Her eyes widen and her face breaks into a joyous smile.
“Lord Denthor!” She runs the hand up the wooden frame, flowers and birds have been etched into the hardwood then their forms brought out by ichor rubbed into the notches of the carver’s blade.
“I have heard that you enjoyed playing the harp.” He stares at the instrument. “It was my wife’s.” She glances up from the instrument and he smiles sadly at her.
“I cannot accept such a gift!” She exclaims even as her fingers itch to pluck the string.
“Since you cannot move it by yourself, you have little choice.” He takes a seat on the small iron couch and leans back against the cushions upon it. “Would you play for an old man?”
“When ever he wishes.” She sits and stretches her arms out and runs her fingers along the strings. The sound is perfect with not a single string out of tune. Her fingers strum the strings as she plays the songs of Gondor. They sit there for well over an hour and he listens to the music with his eyes closed.
When her fingers can bear no more she stops, the harp she had used at her grandmother’s was not as fine as this. He opens her eyes as the music stops and she is surprised to see tears in her eyes.
“That was beautiful.” He stands. “I wish for you to play in my hall.” It is almost a command.
“I would be honored to play for you.” She means it. “My Lord can I ask a blessing of you.” The music has softened and she senses now is the time to speak.
“Anything.” He is pleased she has come to his house, he had always wanted a daughter. When his wife carried Faramir it had been his hope that the child would be a girl. His smile fades for a minute, it is just another dream Faramir robbed him of.
“My Lord, I love Gondor with all my heart. I cannot lift a sword or draw a bow in her defense as the men do.” She pauses as his eyes study her in confusion.
“Of course not.” He shakes his head. “What is it you ask of me?” It is not hard to tell she is nervous, or that whatever she would ask of him is important to her.
“Among the lower levels my mother was known as a healer of great skill, I assisted her, she taught me all she knew and when she died I continued to learn through her journals, and through taking care of those who could not come to the healing house.” She holds her breath as he shakes his head.
“You wish to continue to do this? Among the lower levels? I cannot allow this, you are a lady of my court now.” He sees the disappointment on her face. “It is not your duty any longer.”
“Then who will do it.” She thinks bitterly, she tries to hide her disappointment. He cannot watch her at all hours she decides she will do as she wishes.
“Perhaps Hynar could use your help in the house of healing, he will not be happy.” Denethor crosses his arms. “This is not something a woman usually fills her days with.”
“I am no ordinary woman.” She holds her head high. “My Lord, with the dark times that are upon any with skill to ease the pain of Gondor’s sons should be given the chance to do so.”
“I will speak to Hynar and see how he feels about it, I am sure you could help with something there.”
“My Lord, I do not seek to go there to fetch water, make beds, or roll bandages.” She puts her hand on his arm and her blue eyes glaze with intensity. “I have skill, I have saved lives, and I go to heal.”
“A woman does not belong in a hospital full of wounded men.” He frowns torn between giving the child what she wants and what he sees as proper.
“A battle looms before us, when the men return there will be wounded. If I can save one of them, it is one more then would be saved if I was not there.” Her words have wisdom to them.
“I will think on it.” It is more then she hoped for and she smiles which lifts his spirits. He does not regret bringing her here.
“The army rides out in the morning, would you like to come with me when I see them off?” She can see the concern in his eyes.
“I would love to.” He smiles and takes his leave and the sound of the harp echo through the garden as she takes to it again.
Her mind works as she runs her fingers out the harp strings Perhaps Denthor will allow her to help in the hospital, it would be something to give her life meaning and fill her days.
She prays he does not expect her to sit and spin, or do needle work with the daughter’s of the other nobles. Her friends are few and live with those on the lower levels of the city. She has found no kinship with other’s of high birth. She is not like them.
She cannot fill her days day dreaming of balls and of men. Her father had insisted she spend one afternoon a week at tea with girls of the court and each hour had seemed a tortured eternity.
They cared not for the war that is upon them, their concerns always seemed to be centered on what color silk they could find to make their new gowns, or giggling prattle about Boromir.
She misses her father, she would like to have talked to him about the campaign Boromir and Faramir are leading at this moment. Her father would have been pleased the two brothers are set out together.
She stands and covers the harp with the great hide tarp to protect it from the weather and then goes into her room.
Helga comes out and brushes her hair, it is the one thing she will allow her maid to do for her. She enjoys it and it makes her remember her mother.
“Do you think you can be happy here?” Helga runs the brush through the girl’s smooth hair.
“I don’t know but I will try.” She closes her eyes as the brush runs over her scalp. She has warmth for Helga though she never allowed the woman to replace her mother.
“The steward’s son is handsome.” Helga smiles. “He is such a powerful man.” Helga sets the brush down and fluffs Aewlyn’s hair with her fingers.
“Of which son do you speak?” Why is Faramir so invisible? She doesn’t understand it. It’s as if Denethor’s neglect of him fills the kingdom. She knows of who Helga speaks.
“Boromir.” Helga goes and pours a cup of tea bringing it to the girl. “What the envy of all the woman of the land you must be, to be in the house of such men.”
“I have no desire to be the envy of any.” She sips her tea and a frown touches her lips. “My heart is cold Helga, I do not seek love from any in this house, or any at all.”
“So you say.” Helga chuckles. “You heart is still filled with the grief of losing your father and you’ve been here but a day.”
“Yes, I have been her but a day so please contain your desire to settle me with a man for a time yet.” She sets her tea down with a cross look on her face. “I am tired and I have to be up at dawn.” She watches Helga leave and goes to her bed, she rolls onto her side and looks out the window filled with a nagging feeling that there is more to her being here then a debt owed to her father.
The dawn is clouded and Aewlyn looks at the sky as she walks down to the main level with Denethor. She holds his arm and is very away of the glares of those they pass. Her father’s lineage forgotten most of the finely dressed women they pass see her as an intruder. One who does not belong among them and a threat to whatever fantasies they may hold for Boromir.
Aewlyn lifts her dress to keep it from becoming soiled among the horses as they go to the stable. It is noisy the men talking among each other, the horses whinnying in anticipation of the ride ahead and the clash of steel armor and the men move.
“Father!” Boromir walks towards them and Denethor lets her go to embrace his son. The man looks powerful in his armor, his broad shoulders made larger. She wonders how the men can move in such a cumbersome outfit but they move with ease.
“Do not tarry, get the job done and return home.” Denethor releases his son from the embrace.
“We will and when we return we expect the ale to be flowing.” Boromir’s face shows no fear of the battle ahead and his green eyes shine as if there is nothing he would rather be doing.
“Do not be confident my son, even the mightiest can fall to a blade.” Denethor’s voice is tense.
“My brother will have my back, you have no worries.” Boromir’s confidence in his brother makes Aewlyn smile. She had her own opinions of Boromir before she had come here and they were not kind.
“Another has come to bid you farewell.” At Denethor’s words Boromir’s attention falls on her and she shift uncomfortably. Not knowing what else to do she steps forward and bows to him slightly.
As she bows her dress falls away from her cleavage sending a jolt through Boromir, he does not let it reflect on his face as she rises again. She truly is a lovely woman.
“I wish you safe travel My Lord.” She smiles at him, there is an impish gleam in his eye.
“Keep my father company, he grows sullen and brooding if I am gone to long.” He winks at her and Denethor grumbles though there is no anger in the sound.
“I shall do what I can to cheer him.” She smiles at Denethor and watches as Boromir mounts the great horse that will bear him away.
“Go with my blessing my son.” Denethor looks up at Boromir and his son nods then spurring his horse he rides out of the stables to the fields where his men are forming. There is a great blast of a horn and it is followed by the hoof beats of three hundred horses. For a moment Aewlyn is caught up in the excitement and she runs up the stairs of the battlement and watches the men ride out.
Realizing she has left the Steward without being dismissed she runs back down before the men have completely faded from view. He watches her bemused at her young and energy.
“Gondor is blessed to have such sons as these.” She catches her breath. “I pray for their safe return.”
“As do I child.” Denethor takes her arm and they begin walking up the stairs again. Their pace is slow and the sun begins to break through the clouds.
“I thought on what you asked of me.” Denethor glances at her. “I have instructed Hynar that you are to be treated as any other healer in his house.”
“My Lord.” She smiles brightly. “I will not let you down.” Surprising him and herself she hugs him and her returns it, delighting in the girl’s happiness. He would spoil her as his daughter if she would let him.
“Understand he was not happy, and I doubt you will be welcomed with open arms. I am not sure of this myself, you are a lady of the court.”
“I am a daughter of Gondor and I serve her as I can.” She releases him. “I was blessed with a wise mother, a mother wise enough to not allow me to become pampered so that my only use to our city is to bear sons.”
“Do not joke about that, it is a great thing when women risk their lives bearing children. It is something when warriors come home defeated, or heart broken and have the warm arms of someone they love to hold them.” His grey eyes mist for a moment and she guesses he must be thinking of his wife.
“That is not my desire, at least not now.” She smiles as his frown deepens a bit. “I do not wish to be a spinster, but I am young and there is much more I can do now.”
“Are you always so bold in your confidence?” She truly is like any other maid he has ever met. Every aspect of her appearance is feminine, she moves gracefully, speak well but there is strength within her he admires.
“Yes my Lord.” She gives him a crooked smile and he can well picture her as a mischievous child.
“You had better go to the house of healing, I told him you would be there by mid morning.” He touches her arm. “I pray you are as strong as you seem to be, for he will do all he can to break your confidence.”
“Don’t worry My Lord.” Her smile widens. “If he wounds my soul to much I shall come to you.” She winks with one eye. “As my guardian I would expect you to cleave him.” She laughs and his joins with her and he shakes his head as he watches her bound up the stairs.
“Mynith you did not lie about her.” His friend had spoken of her often, always with deep love and awe. He very much felt for her how Denethor feels for Boromir. Once again he ponders what life may have held for him if his wife had not died and his house had been blessed with a daughter.
Once again he wishes Faramir had been a girl and he frowns as soon as his son comes to mind.
Faramir is an embarrassment to him, with his nose always stuck in a book. Perhaps if he had spent more time in practice with his sword he would be a warrior like his brother but he never had the fire that burns in Boromir’s soul.
It seemed the only way to save face for the weakness of his youngest son was to allow him to become a ranger. Faramir seemed to take better to the bow and the forest campaigns. Denethor’s face darkens as he returns to the hall and sits upon the borrowed throne.
Thinking of Faramir always darkens his day.
As Denethor warned the healers are not pleased but wise enough not to question their Lord’s decision as the girl moves among them.
She is not shy as she moves among the house as if she owns it. She does not like what she sees. The place is ill equipped considering the warfare they face.
The first thing Aewlyn does is inventory the pharmacy, writing down what is low and what she feels is missing takes most of the day. She presents it to the man whom she assumes is in charge and he glances at it before discarding it.
Angered Aewlyn picks it up and puts it in front of him again, he glares at her and glances over it once more.
“Most of what you ask for is not available to us, we use to gather it in the wilds but it is too dangerous now. We make do with what we can grow within our gardens.”
“Forgive me, but you have no supplies of Asilith, how do you ease their pains when you operate? How do you set them to sleep?”
“With a lot of brandy.” His reply is curt. “You are here because it is Denthor’s instruction, do not think child that you will purge me from my spot. This is my hospital and I run it as I see fit.”
“What of Osilith?” She ignores his comment. “You use Nyrim to fight infection, which in the early stages is fine but how do you treat serious infections?”
“There are bandages to be folded woman, I suggest you busy yourself with that and leave the real medicine for the men. Or I can give you a list of women near the end of there confinement, perhaps you would serve us best looking in upon them.”
“What do you have to ease their pain? I saw nothing, of course they are women and the pains of birthing are not worth easing.” Her teeth click sharply together in her rage. The hospital is pitifully stocked and arrogantly run. It is a small wonder to her that any survive a stay here.
She goes to baskets of bandages that have been brought up from the laundry and begins to roll them. Stocking the shelves with them she then stares out upon the ward. There are few men left within them. The battle that took her father left few survivors.
One man with a stump left where his sword arm had once been sleeps fitfully. She can imagine the pain of his wound and is angered that the herbs offered are not enough to ease his suffering.
Tired she returns to her quarters and falls onto her bed clothed. She ignores the tray of food Helga places on her table and allows herself drift. In a week the hospital will be a different place.
The rangers stay hidden crouched in the forest along the west road, in the distance they can hear the hoof beats of their comrades horses as can the orcs. The orc camp breaks as the dark skinned creatures scramble to gather their swords.
Faramir notches an arrow and makes the sound of a bird chirping several times and his men draw their bows. The estimation of four hundred orcs had been at least a hundred short.
The orcs charge forward to greet Boromir and his army, it is a large battalion at least five hundred strong. Boromir and his men charge forward with battle cries on their throats and the sound of drawing steel echoing it.
A hundred bows creak as they draw and the rangers prepare to reduce the ranks, these orc’s are strange, bigger and move swifter then the orc of the past.
As the swords clash arrows reign out from the trees and the orcs at the back of the fray fall. As quick as the orcs around those who are simply wounded fall the rangers move changing their positions. The orc’s mutter guttural cries as another spray of arrows fall upon them taking down another layer. Snarling the back half of the battalion turn and stare into the forest.
Again arrows reign down on them and those that are not hit begin to charge towards the woods. The rangers do not panic as they draw their bows again. They continue firing until the orc’s are upon them.
“Swords.” Faramir calls and draws his, the rangers are not easily seen as the orc’s move in. The thirty men stationed in trees continue to provide cover for the sixty on the ground. These men are newly married, or have small children and though they objected when he ordered them to the trees they obeyed their captain.
Too many times as Faramir held a weeping woman as he showed up at their do to apologize for the loss of their loved one. Those on the ground understand and support protecting the younger men. He would put them all in trees and keep them safe if he could.
He hears a strangled cry of pain and whirls to see on of the younger men being slammed into a tree, his feet dangling as the orc holds him up by his throat. He charges forward driving his body into the orc. It frees the man and turns on him and sneers he raises his sword and raises it as the crude cleaver comes down upon him.
They circle each other and he draws his blade across its belly, the orc doesn’t react to the pain and he doesn’t get his sword up in time to block a swing and feels the flesh at his side slice open.
He continues to fight it and finally if falls whether from its wounds or his last blow he is not sure. He has no time to care as he turns to meet another.
The sound of battle fills the night as those on horse back mow through the orcs, every now and then the dying scream of a man breaks through the din.
Faramir pulls his sword from large orc and looks around, bodies litter the ground, and the dead orcs smell polluting the night air. He sees several of his men have fallen but there is no time to stop. He picks his bow and head out of the trees towards the battle his brother fights. Already they have fought half the night and exhaustion threatens them all like a blade.
The orc’s numbers have fallen and again the ranger’s arrows take Orc’s in the back. They cannot simply fire randomly now; Gondor’s men are mixed in the fray. Each target is chosen and aimed for.