#heilith

Into the Light

“I can’t let you be cold.”

You had to admit you were a tad uneasy. Probing your way through the seemingly casual talk, a goblet of fine Gondorian wine in your hand, the chilly breath of early April seeping in through the undraped windows and reminding your battered body it hadn’t been too long since the last time you had found yourself in a less comfortable environment. 

His chamber was not what you could expect of a warrior’s abode. Somehow you had always been under the delusion that someone like him would choose to surround himself with daily reminders of his masculinity – a collection of weapons, perhaps, lonely pieces of the most austere-looking furniture, a sturdy bed, covered with wolf hides or a biting woolen blanket, boring gray or worn-out black or jokes-aside, simple brown.

There was a blanket, after all, a rich and furry one, the one he had wrapped around your shoulders when you shifted closer to the fireplace and sniffled a bit, forgetting your manners. And there were two grand soft chairs, and a small table of mahogany between them, and intricate tapestries, and books – there were books in this place! – lined up on a tall shelf next to a sturdy bed - you guessed it this time - covered with wolf hides

“You’re very hospitable,” you settled on a smile and a lighthearted tone.

He snorted, the sound not something you thought as characteristic of him.

“I’m not. I don’t like guests.” 

“Shall I leave, then?”

It used to be so much easier, when you regarded him as an equal to you, someone whose back you had to have in a battle, someone who had to have yours. He had treated you as a battler those days, an inexperienced one, but deserving all respect. Now it seemed he was doing all to show you who was the master of the situation. He had taken it upon himself to patronize you, as you were getting yourself acquainted with the place. You couldn’t make a single step without feeling you were guided by him or assisted by the rest, because it was his order. You probably had to be thankful for the attention that other members of the Fellowship couldn’t be seen to receive from him, but you were constantly under the impression that he was trying to make you feel at his home, rather than just at home in the White City.

Like you had never fought or slept side-by-side, or cheered on each other when the road was becoming too much to bear.

His motives were unclear, and so was your role in all that. It was redundant and at the same time not enough.

“You’re not a guest.”

“And who am I, Boromir?”

He had the most unsettling way of keeping his eyes fixed on yours. You wondered if it was the same for the others. 

“A friend,” said he after a pause, softly, “A sister. A fellow-in-arms.”

It was not once that you noticed how different his voice sounded when he was addressing you. It had a mild indulgence about it, that changed even the pitch of its melody to deeper, stronger notes. The first time you had heard it was when he was telling your name to his brother.

You didn’t appreciate the condescending manner at all.

There was no knowing why you had accepted his invitation for a midday meeting at his chamber.

You picked up your goblet to give yourself something to be busy with.

“How is the wine?” asked he, as you savored the bitterish taste with too much diligence.   

“It’s good, thank you.”

Was it a special treat or something he was used to?

What the servant that had brought it in was thinking of you and this one-on-one with the Captain-General, that you had tangled yourself into?

“Do your ribs feel better?”

“They don’t,” you confessed, glad to come back to the safe ground. The blood spilled was something that united you, the thing you both had the right to be proud of. “And neither does my back.”

“It was a nasty blow. Will you bear the coronation?”

“It’s just a few hours,” you shrugged, “It’s not like there will be a wedding night after it.”

You longed to speak the same language with him, like you had for the six months since the day you had stepped out of Rivendell. If you had to be shameless to restore those terms, then shameless you could be.  

His eyes narrowed slightly, before he nodded, an amused chuckle coming off his lips.  

“Here’s to you welcoming your wedding night, when it comes,” muttered he, touching the rim of your goblet with his.  

The shift in the subject was seamless. As if he took the hand you didn’t realize you’d been offering him and pulled you out into the light. Now you had to decide whether to stay there or move back into the shadows.

A fair dozen replies caravanned through your mind.

How is it your concern, Boromir?

Same to you, Boromir.

I’ll do my best, Boromir.

Promise me I will. 

“I’ll send you a letter, Boromir.”

Just the thought of doing such a daft thing made you smirk. You lowered your head to hide it, retreating to those comfortable shadows.

“I’d rather have first-hand knowledge,” Boromir said.

You dropped your goblet. The rich crimson wine leaked into the faded grays and browns of the heirloom carpet. Boromir picked the goblet back up, placed it on the serving table, and fixedly blotted the stain with a napkin.

His act of servitude gave you an idea for a comeback.

“Why, of course,” you answered.. “You can play my lady-in-waiting, and prepare my unnecessary wedding night attire.” 

He stood up. “Close,” he said, tossing the soiled napkin onto the table, “but not quite.”

As he slowly removed the blanket from your shoulders, his lips slid into the most devilish grin you’d ever seen on anyone, ever. Swallowing, you felt yourself slipping back into the light of your truth: that you, most deeply and truly, loved him. 

On the quest, you might have put on a scowl and playfully pushed him for being so cheeky. You thought about doing it now, but your sore ribs would have punished you. Boromir lay the blanket on his bed and headed for his wardrobe. With one mighty pull on the door handles, he opened it. The smell of history wafted from its depths: the robust old wood from which the furniture was crafted, the pungent iron from rusted chain mail hidden from view. The smell wasn’t unpleasant. 

Boromir removed a nondescript large brown parcel from the bottom. 

He returned to you, extending the deceptively plain package in your direction. You took it gingerly, as if it might break from the hand-off. After easing it onto a tufted bench behind you, you opened it with care, revealing a long, elegant dress with flowing sleeves and jeweled detailing across the bodice, awash in your favorite colors.

“Boromir,” you breathed as your heart leaped. You held the dress up against you and turned around. It was the last thing you ever expected him to give you. A new sword? Yes. A basin and a large cake of soap, to hilariously point out your need for both? Definitely, especially during the quest.

But not this. This was elegance. 

“It’s lovely. Absolutely beautiful,” you said. 

He must have seen the ‘why?’ in your furrowed brow, because he said, “To upstage King Aragorn, of course.”

You indulged in the laugh, despite the discomfort in your chest.

“How do I look?” you asked in earnest. 

Boromir glanced at the dress as if it were nothing, then refocused on your eyes, holding your gaze for what felt like an hour. His expression landed somewhere between solemn and wistful. If anyone could find such a place, it was Boromir. 

You had to pull him out of it. Besides, you’d waited long enough for him to approach you. Perhaps a more romantic soul would have felt the urge, but not your Captain. 

You carefully lay the dress across the bench, then strolled up to him.

“Do you not love it?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper. 

In one tender, natural, gradual move, he circled his arms around your waist and held you close to him, careful not to press too hard against your healing rib cage. You clasped your hands around his neck. 

“I do,” he said, “love.” He repeated the sentiment three times, rearranging and augmenting its delivery until he got it came out right: I do, my love. It’s you. I love you.

Lifting on the tips of your toes, you planted a small kiss to his lips. 

“And I, you, Boromir.”

He lowered his head and resumed the sweet kiss, but took it no further. You were in no physical shape for intensity, nor was he boorish. Besides, his dress and his confession had been profound enough. They left you as breathless as a deeper kiss would have. 

“I should have told you long ago,” Boromir lamented. The sorrow in his voice touched your heart. 

Attempting to reassure him, you produced a soft, easy smile. “How could you?” you asked. “Whilst battling Uruk-hai? Running for our lives?” You shook your head. “Now is perfect, as is your gift.”

“Not as perfect as first-hand knowledge of your wedding night.”

He was too much of a gentleman to ask for a preview, and, despite his lack of romantic finesse, he was too proper to formally propose under these circumstances: in his bed-chamber, spilt wine underfoot. 

But you understood that all of this - the invitation, the dress, the confession, and the embrace - was just a shadow of him asking for your hand, which you suspected would be sooner than later. Perhaps even this very day, out of the shadows and into the light.