Revelations

By Dwimordene

In Lossarnach Vale

The little household, so long still, was abuzz with quiet activity. Relatives and friends passed in and out, paying their respects to the deceased, helping to ready her for burial. Boromir, however, sat quietly to one side of the main room of the house. Kitchen and gathering place in one, the fire burned bright as he stared. Bread was being baked: funerary loaves, though one of the women–he could not recall her name–had hesitantly offered him one from the first batch of rolls. "You must be hungry after so long a journey, my lord," she had said. "It's no discourtesy, since you are staying for the burial."

"No, thank you," he had replied, and hoped he had not sounded terse.

"It was kind of you to come. And to offer to say the words over her. She would have liked that, I think. Aunt Thaeryl... she used to say how much joy she took in you and your brother, sir," the lass had said. It all had come out in a rush, that last part, as if she feared she had overstepped herself in saying such a thing. But Boromir had given her a smile and said only:

"I remember her fondly as well. But, it was a long journey, and I had not expected to come only just in time..." Here, he had trailed off, unwilling to say in time for what. Happily, the lass had taken it as he had hoped she would: weariness and grief over the loss of a beloved figure out of his childhood. That a captain would have suffered far worse and many more losses apparently had not occurred to her.

"Of course, my lord," she had said, sympathetically, and bobbed a curtsey. "Just you call if there is anything we can do for you while you stay with us."

Boromir had assured her that he would, thanked her again for her hospitality, and as soon as she had left to attend to her business, had breathed a furtive sigh of relief. For as he had hoped, Thaeryl's niece had taken it upon herself to whisper to each new guest, and after giving the Captain-General a wide-eyed look, they would file past without speaking to him, giving him as wide a berth as the room permitted.

That left Boromir to his own thoughts, and dark as they were, he had no difficulty in playing the part of the silent mourner. Which was not to say that he did not truly grieve for her–he did remember Thaeryl well enough for the kindness she had always shown his brother and himself whenever they had visited their mother's chambers. And whenever the arrival of their father and the beginnings of yet another argument had dictated that children be taken elsewhere, it had fallen to her, often as not, to hurry them out. "Nana" Thaeryl had always been especially kind to the two confused and unhappy boys after such incidents, which had grown more frequent as Boromir had grown older. He remembered Thaeryl's gentleness, was grateful to her for it, but her death did not account for his mood. Rather, it was her life that troubled him. A perfect lady's maid she was, he thought, broodingly. Ten years she served Mother, and she never said a word to Faramir or me of our household–never said anything which might upset us, kind soul.

Until today.

He had arrived in the afternoon, and after spare courtesy and some fabricated excuse of delivering a private message from his father, had expelled her kin from the sickroom and closed the door. And if he had greeted her gently enough, she had not spoken willingly, 'til it had become clear that he would not leave her in peace until she answered his questions. "Your lady mother found me most useful, for I was good with powder and paint," Thaeryl had confessed tearfully at last. "I could hide most anything he gave her, since he was ever careful about her eyes. He... he always loved her eyes, you know."

And indeed, Boromir did know, as the memories unfolded with terrible clarity:

In the drawing room, after supper, when conversation grew strained and Faramir would begin to cry quietly despite a mother's entreaties to silence: "You have such lovely eyes, my dear. Close them," Denethor would say softly, and would kiss her eyelids when Finduilas obeyed. And then inevitably: "Come away with me, my wife."

The boy that Boromir had been had watched in confusion, unable to understand the change in his father's voice, nor the stillness of his mother's face as they had left. They would go to their room, or to his study, and the door would close... Boromir shut his eyes and scrubbed at his face. His Uncle Imrahil had never taken that peculiar tone with his Aunt Nimrien. His Aunt Nimrien had never gone about with paint smeared thick on her cheeks, nor hesitated to throw herself into her husband's open embrace, nor to chastise him upon occasion. It was not so in the House of the Stewards. Boromir had understood early that there was something different about his father and mother. Perhaps he had thought it their stations, and so he had studied to learn his own part in all of it–to keep Faramir out of trouble, to keep all silent and orderly, as his father wished. To be responsible. To be in the middle. "If you did not make him angry, he would not have to hurt you!" he had told his mother that fateful day, her last day, angry that he had had to be reminded again of what passed between his parents at night, when by day all seemed so well. Why did I say that? Valar, why did I say that?

Why do I ever say the things I say? At that, Boromir lowered his hands and stared once more at the flames, eyes unseeing. It was a question he had asked himself for long now, and it seemed that he had finally to answer it. That, indeed, he had come here to answer it as much as he had come to ask after his parents' marriage. I am an honorable man, he told himself. He had always paid his women well for their services, even in the later years when his appetite for them had soured. And he had made certain that they knew the extra was precisely for the fact that they endured him, both the spleen he vented at them for even he could not remember what ridiculous reasons and for the bruises he sometimes–Very well, oftentimes!–gave them in the heat of passion. And he had never thought the two related... had he? The ladies of the night wore painted faces, played at pleasure with him, smiled falsely bright... And seeing them thus, you claim you never caught on the 'ridiculous reasons' purposefully, Boromir? he accused himself. It is never purposeful, is it? You never intend for them to cringe, nor to hurt them, do you? Just as Father never intended what he said and did? Or no, he must have known. You know he did–it was always the same: the kisses, the excuse, and then the door...

"You must marry, soon, Boromir," Denethor would say, and more and more often found ways of broaching the subject.

"When I find one suitable," he always replied, and found arguments against the choices his father suggested. And all the while, you knew your reasons had naught to do with the fear that came at the very thought. What matter, then, that the words for it come only now with any clarity? For that matter, what import, that you never struck one of your women? You wished to, a time or two. Or three. More than that. Ever you sought to follow the path laid at your feet by Denethor, and look where that has led you! And if that were so–since it was so–what did that say then about his love for men? What of his love for Andrahar, so recently conceived? Am I a danger to him? Or do I love him truly? And it was with a kind of panic that Boromir found he could not answer that question. Do I love him? Certainly, Andrahar would never permit him to do anything like what he had done with women, and Boromir had never felt so much as a flicker of temptation to do so. That suggested he loved him. But that said nothing of whether he might not one day turn on Andrahar as he had on the women he had slept with, and suddenly Boromir found himself clutching Thaeryl's testimony. He must have taken it from his purse, but he could not recall doing so. Rather, it was as if his hands had reacted of their own accord, obeying the primitive conviction that whispered now: Unmake it, and it shall not have happened. Ashes can harm no one. The fire crackled invitingly...

Ashes are not the matter! said the inner voice of conscience, speaking with merciless certainty, even as another voice asked aloud:

"My lord? Are you all right?" It was Thaeryl's niece. Boromir shook himself slightly and when he looked sharply over to her, he found her staring curiously at the paper in his hand. "I-is that a letter? Did you wish it sent somewhere?"

"No," Boromir replied briskly after a slight hesitation. "I shall take it myself. It is nothing that concerns you, child."

"Oh. I am sorry," she apologized quickly–so quickly that, given his recent thoughts, it put a chill in his heart. Hastily, he stuffed the testimony back into his purse, then took two long strides to stand before her. Catching her chin in his hand, he raised her head 'til she looked him in the eyes.

"You mourn for your aunt, lass," he said in a much gentler tone. "I should not add to your sorrow. Forgive me."

"Of course, my lord," she replied, eyes widening with surprise.

"Thank you. Off with you, then, and please do not trouble yourself on my behalf. 'Tis a poor guest as gives his host grief." Releasing her, he waited until she had scampered away before he turned back to the fire. And he thought of Thaeryl with her powder and paint, worrying over bruises on his mother's too-pale skin. Unmake it, and it shall not have happened. Boromir shook his head, then looked down at the floor. I learned too well the lessons you set me, Father, in this, and in other matters, it seems, he thought, feeling bitterness transform then into a dark resolve. And since I cannot unmake this knowledge which I neither want nor love, I shall make something of it, even as you taught me.

"Politics are not for the weak," Denethor had said once. "War is made not only upon the fields, but in the council chambers, and just as kinship must be no protection against the sword when oaths are betrayed, so also it must not be a shield in council that hampers you. Lay up a weapon therefore against the day of need, especially against kin, for there you are most exposed, for they will know best how to silence you. Do you understand?" Denethor had reached then and laid a hand upon Boromir's face, compelling him to meet that steely gaze. The ring of the Stewards had lain chill against his cheek, numbing flesh, as his father had solemnly intoned, "Gondor is the rock upon which all other ties break: friendship, lordship, vassalage... fraternity. It cannot be otherwise."

So be it, Boromir decided. I came for answers knowing well I would find also a weapon. Be glad, Father, that you have such a son. For I have laid up the dagger, even as you wished.

Pray now, Father, give me no reason to use it!

****

"If you did not make him angry, he would not have to hurt you!"—quoted from Lady of Silences, by Altariel.