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A young Edain maid brushed a pearl comb through her ladyship's dark hair. Aredhel of Dorwinion looked out the from the balcony of her chambers over the lush green vale of her father's land.
These were to be her last days within the country that had raised her. In a week's time, her household would make their way to Gondor. "They say he is very handsome," the maid noted.
Boromir of Gondor was who the maid spoke of.
Aredhel had been raised with the stories of Annatar the Giver. His fair form and gifts had deceived the rulers of Eregion until it was revealed that Annatar was a guise. Sauron, servant of Morgoth, had brought the peoples of Eregion to ruin. A handsome face meant nothing if a vile heart lie beneath.
The young Edain maid set the pearl comb down and began to braid Aredhel's hair. "What do they say of his person, though?" There was a deep sadness in her voice that began to shine through onto her expression.
Of that, the maid could not speak.
A newly named captain looked out over Pelennor Fields. Summer was turning to autumn, and the tall grass had turned to gold. Faramir approached his brother, hands clasped behind his back. "I've heard tales of her beauty."
Boromir had only just learned of his impending betrothal and that his future wife would be arriving in Minas Tirith within the next three days.
There were many harsh words that he wished to share with his father, but the Steward-Prince had bit his tongue and remained a dutiful son. Denethor had told him her name was Aredhel, a noble lady from Dorwinion. A great beauty who had been sought out by many men, yet Lord Brandir had not thought them worthy of his daughter's hand.
"As have I, brother." Bitterness tinged his voice. "That was one of the first things father thought to mention when he informed me of my impending betrothal."
Faramir clasped onto his brother's shoulder. "There are worse things in this world than marrying." He could think of several in a pinch. Most were related to battle. "She may not be well-versed with a sword nor is it likely that she will share your taste for battle..."
Boromir shook his head and stifled the chuckle rising in his throat. "If your intent is to make light of this situation, then you are failing miserably."
The Ranger stood straighter and withdrew his hand from Boromir's shoulder; the fleeting smile had disappeared. "What I meant is that Aredhel may provide a balance."
Faramir knew well that his brother was stubborn and proud, just like their father. But Finduilas of Dol Amroth had been a gentlewoman of great beauty and people had said that she softened the hard edges of Denethor. "Think of mother and father."
The green banners adorned with golden and pink roses had been spotted on the horizon, crossing the river Anduin early in the morn. Keeping pace, Lord Brandir and his household would arrive at the Great Gates by the early afternoon. And so with the announcement came preparations within the Citadel.
Trumpets had sounded at the gate as the sun was growing dim. Denethor and his two sons had gathered in the Fountain Court. Faramir leaned toward his brother, who had been shifting on his feet and pacing the entire morning. "I've never known you to be nervous."
Boromir gave his brother a soured look and straightened the brown leather waist belt on his deep grey surcoat. "Anxious to be done with it is more like."
It was with those words that the traveling party entered into the Citadel. Horses rising from the entrance two-by-two. Lord Brandir was a stout man of Faramir's height with curly ash-grey hair and a trimmed beard of the same color. The deep greens and vibrant reds in his attire spoke the riches of Dorwinion.
He dismounted the black-and-white palfrey and went to greet Denethor.
A man with a similar look to Brandir except with red hair was helping a demure woman from the saddle of a silver mare. Bregolas brought her to their father's side. "To the Lords of Gondor, I present my daughter Aredhel, after Írissë." She kept her gaze down, shielding most of her face with a curtain of dark hair.
Denethor looked over his guests and clapped his hands together. "You all must be weary from the long journey. Rooms have been prepared and matters can be discussed over the night's meal."
Lord Brandir gave a small bow. "Thank you, Lord Denethor." He motioned for the traveling party to leave their horses to the stablehands and follow the servants to their chambers.
Faramir elbowed his brother in the side and Boromir stepped forward, primarily addressing Lord Brandir. "If I may, I would like to speak to Aredhel-" his gaze flickered over to her "-if she is not too exhausted from the ride." Aredhel laid her hand over her father's arm and approached her future lord husband.
His expression was tense. Aredhel lifted her gaze, he was a head taller. Dark hair slipped away to reveal the entity of a face that harpers would gladly sing songs about, a face that men would go to war over. "Do I disappoint you, Lord Boromir?"
The stories his father had told of Aredhel's beauty had fallen short now that she stood before him. He shook his head. "On the contrary."
"Then why do you not smile?" She asked.
"I could ask the same of you," he challenged and nigh regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips. This was not what he had intended to speak of. "Arranged marriages are never ideal," Boromir started and that caught her attention once more. Out of impulse he reached for one of her hands but then feared she would break within his grasp. "I wish to make it known that even if you cannot love me I will be kind to you, care for you, and protect you and your honor."
That brought the faintest of smiles to her pink lips. "They speak highly of your looks yet it seems they gloss over your person." In honesty, this was not how she had expected their first interaction to go. Aredhel sighed and felt it was only right that she returned his courtesy. "I cannot promise to be an idyllic wife. I often speak out of term and overstep my bounds-" she met his gaze and did not shy away "-but I will try and perhaps we may both find some happiness in this arrangement."
Aredhel looked over her shoulder, back toward the open plains and lower levels of the city. "Is your city always so dismal?" She questioned, hoping he would not find offense in the words. In comparison to the city beneath her home, Minas Tirith appeared to be dying.
"Only in the days following a battle," he explained and a swell of guilt rose in Aredhel's gut. "Come-" Boromir offered the crook of his arm "-I will escort you to your chambers so that you may rest before tonight."
Brandir and Denethor sat at opposite ends of the head table. Boromir and Faramir sat on one bench and Aredhel and her elder brother, Bregolas, on the other. There were several smaller tables within the room too, that is where other who had traveled with them and lesser nobles sat, quietly conversing amongst themselves.
"A year's time," Brandir announced. He believed it was a good match and that Boromir was a good man, but he did not take his daughter's happiness lightly. Denethor had not planned for such a long wait, yet he could not risk losing an ally, nor the fighting men this great house could provide.
The Steward nodded and lifted his cup of ale. "Agreed."
Faramir pulled another scroll free from one of the bottom shelves when he took notice of his brother's betrothed, skimming over the books.
"It is well to see another person among these books and scrolls," he said, stepping out of the shadowy shelves. She jumped and dropped the book that she had been holding. Faramir stooped down and picked it up, passing it back to her with a soft smile. She had chosen a book filled with stories of Gondor, meant for children. "I did not mean to frighten you."
Aredhel smiled, accepting his apology. "How are finding your time in the White City?" Faramir enquired. He had overheard some of the people in her household speak of their home with a longing voice.
"It is very different," she admitted. "My lands are green and lush except for when the winter snows come." It was the temperance that allowed them to produce so much. Dorwinion was a land of plenty. "The people are happy there. We do not have war only small squabbles over which house could produce the sweetest wines."
Faramir smiled and thought of the farmland in the plains of Gondor that spanned for miles. Green fields and tall trees. "Come the spring I shall tell my brother to take you to the famed orchards of Lossarnach. It may be a poor substitute for the vales of Dorwinion, but it is impressive nonetheless."
After a month in since arriving in Gondor, Aredhel's time with her betrothed was short and he remained a stranger. When not on a ranging, Faramir had helped acclimate her to the city, explaining that Boromir was often swimming in battle plans, training new soldiers, and meeting with officers about how to address the Haradrim invaders.
The sun had yet to rise but those leaving for Poros were gathering throughout the city. It was customary for the women to see the men off before battle. Throughout the city mothers, wives, and children would be saying goodbye and praying for a safe and swift return. Aredhel stood in the Fountain Court as one of the stable hands brought Boromir's chestnut steed.
It was the first time she had seen him in the shining silver plate of Gondor and alas she understood the rumors that her young Edain maid had whispered to help make light of the predicament.
The light was not silver but not yet golden, but Boromir shone in his full harness. She stepped up to Boromir and rose up on her toes, placing a very short, reserved kiss upon his cheek. "Be safe, Lord Boromir." He nodded and stepped back toward his horse. She turned to her brother then. Bregolas was riding with them too. Aredhel embraced her brother, mindful not to get pinched on the fittings and rivets of his armor.
It was by chance that he saw his sister in the market. He ran to her. "Bregolas?" She'd almost dropped her basket of fruit. His red hair was matted with sweat and mud, golden armor spotted with blotches of blood. "What has happened?"
He gripped onto her arms and regained his breath. "Boromir!" He answered, low enough that others would not hear. "He's been injured!" The words took a second to register, but then she was racing up the main street of the city toward the Houses of Healing, her fruit basket forgotten in the market square.
"You will not lose your betrothed," the head healer reaffirmed after she'd regained her composure from sprinting through two levels of the city. Ioreth's skills in healing were only rivaled by the elves. If she said that Boromir would live, then he would.
Aredhel stood next to the cot and looked down. Thick white bandages were wound about his abdomen, specks of blood had stained them in places.
It had been half a year since arriving in the White City and her time with Boromir had been punctuated by battles against orcs and southern invaders. He had always returned with little more than scratches and to see him in such a state struck something deep within her chest. Though their time was scarce, they had each learned to enjoy one another's company during those rare moments.
"When will he wake?" She asked Ioreth.
The healer shook her head and spared another glance at the Steward's eldest son. This was far from the worse injury he procured over the years. "Only he may answer that question."
Bregolas entered the room, now free of his armor and clean of the grime and scents of battle. "Faramir?" She questioned as he sat next to her.
"Still with the other Rangers," he told her. The sun was close to setting on the horizon. The night would soon come. Bregolas had tried to tell her to take leave from his side, to at least eat something but she refused, unwilling to leave his side.
Boromir woke in the late evening with a sharp pain in his side as the ginger and peppermint tonic had worn off. A deep groan started Aredhel from her daze, she'd been reading a scroll by candlelight.
"You frightened me," she admitted. A phrase that held two meanings. It was a strange feeling in her stomach and heart that affirmed that she could be happy with him. She was happy with him.
Boromir reached for her hand and let his thumb run over her knuckles. "I'm sorry." He did not like entertaining the thought of her worrying over him.
There was still specks of dirt on his cheeks. Aredhel brushed the dirt and blood from his face and from his beard. She needed to do something to distract herself from the way he looked at her. "Aredhel," Boromir sighed her name and moved his hand to her cheek.
She leaned into his touched and he propped himself up with an elbow, finding her lips with his own. It had surprised her, at first, but Aredhel leaned into him and slipped her fingers into his hair. "Forgive me," he breathed upon parting, tracing the gentle curve of her cheek.
She smiled and shook her head. "I cannot do that," was her soft response, for she had taken just as much pleasure in the kiss as he had. Aredhel held his hand close to her chest and leaned forward. Returning the kiss with a tender one of her own.
After a week of celebration, Minas Tirith held a grand feast for the arrival of summer. Gone were the bitterly cold nights of winter and cool spring days, warm days and nights were welcomed.
Boromir knocked on the wooden door of Aredhel's chambers. After not receiving a response, he dared to push open the door just enough to peer in. She and Bregolas were deep in conversation over a game of chess.
Bregolas brought his sister's attention to her betrothed and rose from the table. Both them had already prepared for the final night of the celebration. He gave Boromir a slight nod accompanied by a look of approval as he passed the Captain on the way out.
"Aredhel," Boromir greeted, unable to keep a smile from his lips. He'd almost forgotten about the small weight in his closed hand. "There is something I have meant to give you for some time-" he held out a silver chain with a pale stone wrapped in silver wire that shifted colors in the changing light "-it was my mother's." Boromir did not speak often of his mother. Only that she had died while he was still a boy and with her passing his father grew grim. That had truly marked the start of the disparity in Denethor's love for his younger son.
He pushed her hair aside and clasped the chain together. At the moment it was a pale blue color, nearly the same shade as her dress. Aredhel touched the gem. "It's beautiful." She rose up and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."
They had been wed on an autumn morning beneath the White Tree. Aredhel wore a white gown with no adornments side from Finduilas's necklace. Her hair was left to flow freely into the cool wind.
Boromir wore his silver plate, with the sigil of Gondor emblazed upon his chest. There was a sword at his hip too, for there would be no ceremony to follow, but battle. It was a year to the day that her household had arrived in Minas Tirith and Denethor refused to delay the marriage any longer.
It was sealed with a kiss and with him draping a deep blue mantle with threaded silver designs at the hems over her shoulders. Moments later he'd mounted his horse and set to join the others that had gathered at the Great Gate.
Lord Brandir saw the distress on his daughter's face though before he could come forward to comfort her, she was racing down the steps toward the lower city.
The first call of his name was far away and he accredited it to the guilt plaguing his heart at the thought of leaving his bride, though at the second cry he glanced over his shoulder and immediately slid off the saddle. "Boromir!" She cried, running into his arms.
He held her close and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair but then she stepped back. Aredhel tore a strip of the diaphanous fabric from the sleeve of her wedding dress. "Take this," she said, threading the torn piece beneath the buckle of his vambrace.
Boromir ran his hand over the strip of embroidered silk and surged forward. The stubble of his chin and cheek was rough, but his lips were soft and smooth.
Faramir had been right. She was his balance. The light in his growing darkness. Aredhel pulled him closer, even more reluctant to be parted.
The commotion had drawn a small audience from the city's sixth circle. "Come back to me," Aredhel commanded with tears glistening in her eyes.
"As my lady commands," he replied, stepping backward. Boromir remounted his steed and beheld his wife one last time as she stood wearing white in the streets of his city.
Little less than a month passed before the Gondorian army returned, but they came in the dark of the night, unannounced. Boromir had not thought to see his father upon arriving for the only thing that had occupied his mind since beginning the journey back to his city was Aredhel. The wife he wedded and then abandoned.
He slid into her chambers and knelt at her bedside. Boromir reached out to brush a lock of dark hair from his face and thought better of it, lest he wake her. With a deep sigh, he rose to leave. They would be reunited at dawn.
The grating of metal and metal stirred her. At first, it seemed to a waking dream. "Boromir," she gripped onto the hanging length of his sword belt, forcing him to turn back. His wife had sat up and moved closer to the bed's edge.
His smile was weary and with no forethought, he lurched forward and took her face into his gloved hands. Aredhel gasped into his mouth at the urgency and force behind the kiss. "Stay with me," she breathed against his lips, fingers brushing through his unkempt beard.
Boromir nodded and kissed her again as Aredhel rose from the bed, her white nightgown slipped off her shoulder and dark hair framed her pale face in the silver light. She began to find the clasps, closures, and buckles of his armor. Vambraces and pauldrons clattered against the stone floor. His breastplate and gloves followed next, still spattered with the dark, dried blood of orcs
Freed from plate and mail, Boromir now stood bare from the waist up. The dim fire in the hearth cast faint shadows upon the scars from battle. One day she would ask how they came to be. His hand was calloused and warm against the bare skin of her shoulders. The feel of his hands running down her arms sent her heart racing and caused chills to creep over her skin. "Boromir," Aredhel gasped. He took the moment to press a soft kiss to her shoulder and another to her clavicle.
"I wish it would have been different," he said in a hushed whisper. While in Poros he had often thought of his new wife standing in the streets of his city, wearing white with fresh tears running down her cheeks. "You deserved better than that." He and Lord Brandir had both asked to have the affair pushed back until after he returned. It would have been a proper ceremony if Denethor were not so paranoid, but the Steward would not allow it.
Aredhel laid her hand upon his chest and leaned forward. "I am glad that we were wed, even if it was not the ceremony everyone had hoped for-" her gaze rose from the scars on his breast "-and I am glad that you have come back to me."
The warrior's façade faded from her lord husband upon hearing those words, his shoulders fell and a soft sigh left his lips. Aredhel took his hands and pulled him forward. "You are tired," she noted. Boromir tried to deny the accusation, found no words for his defense. He had not slept well in more than two weeks. She lay back on the featherbed, arms open and extended toward Boromir.
He loomed above her for a brief pause, taking in the fair pattern and shadows of her face before capturing her lips once more. Aredhel pushed her fingers through his knotted hair, smiling at the way the stubble of his chin tickled her cheek.
Boromir laid his head upon her breast and wholly relaxed in her arms. He gave a quick kiss to the soft flesh by his lips and whispered, "gi melin." Aredhel's heart fluttered at hearing those words in her native tongue.
Her arm tightened around his shoulders, cheek pressed into the top of his head. "And I you."