#improvised dinner

Decided to prove to Aubrey that he was not the pampered, indolent royal she might have expected – and to redeem himself for the truly abysmal speech he had prepared and that she had been good enough to amend in long hours of meticulous work – he had invited her to dinner. 

The small cottage he had been granted – for security and privacy reasons – by the gracious government whose esteemed guest he was had the cutest, little kitchen he had ever seen, and he had been eager to make use of it.

When they had been but lads, Faramir and he would sneak down to the kitchens and learn how to make a proper roast and the best potato dishes at old cook’s side; a pang of nostalgic longing overcame him at the thought of a woman long dead and buried now for he had been very fond of the patient, kind woman who had taught him many a good trick and an easy dish that he had devotedly recreated and adapted over the years.

The storm was spewing rain against the windowpanes as if it tried to tear them asunder, eager to hammer down on tender flesh and delicate skin; illuminated by the bleak light of lightning slashing through the darkened sky, Aubrey’s eyes looked huge and unfathomable, but her smile was generous and cheery.

“Candles?” she asked in a soft tone, feeling her way along the kitchen counter; Boromir’s hand brushed hers as he made to open the same drawer she had already started pulling out and she shrunk back in surprise.

“I had a roast in the oven,” he lamented, only minimally pacified by the feeling of cold wax underneath his fingertips as he pulled out half-burned-down candle stumps and a nearly empty matchbox from the messy pile of lost buttons and stray keys.

“And I am sure it would have been marvellous,” Aubrey appeased him without the slightest hint of disbelief or irony in her voice. In the wavering light of the flickering tapers, she looked like the ghostly apparition of a much yearned-for soulmate, Boromir found, akin to the visions the servant girls were seeking in antique mirrors when they stood – in their nightdresses – in dark corridors, holding hallowed lights in their trembling hands.

As she grinned though and nodded at two cans of tomato soup, he had to amend his assessment; Aubrey was beautiful in a vivacious, winning way that could barely be captured by a reflection or even a picture. One had to see her move, smile, speak, or laugh to truly be able to even fathom how painfully alive she was.

“You deserve better,” he moaned, but – remembering his training and evenings in much less hospitable circumstances – he resigned himself to serving a woman he desperately wanted to impress lukewarm soup from a tin can and stale bread from the previous day.

He had half-expected her enthusiastic reaction but was still charmed by the way she ladled the bland fare – only barely heightened by the old spices they had unearthed in a cupboard – as if it was an award-winning dish presented to her on a golden plate by a three-star chef. 

“You are marvellous,” he breathed as he watched her wipe up the last drops of her soup with a handful of bread, smiling mischievously at him and motioning for him to do the same.

Her face went expressionless with stunned surprise upon seeing him so intensely moved by an emotion that she could not easily identify or name.

“How about you tell me more about that?” she then prompted with a wink, ambling over – candle in hand – to the fridge and giving a small shout of cheer when she opened the heavy door. “We shall be here for quite some time as these have to be taken care of before they go bad.”

Boromir doubted that the few bottles of beer and wine would turn sour and become undrinkable within a night, but the idea of keeping this miracle by his side – sleepy and slightly tipsy – was too good for him to resist.

He was a good, honourable man, but – at the end of the day, in a deluge of biblical proportions – he was still only a man.

@fellowshipofthefics some Boromir for your nerves!!!

Lots of love from me (as always)...

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