Archive of Our Own

The Captain of Gondor’s quarters remained little changed after the War of the Ring. Well, that was not exactly a great surprise, given that said war had only ended seven months ago. And even within those months, he had often been absent, out scouring the wilds of Gondor for rogue orc bands. So his quarters remained much as they had before the war. A spacious room, taken up with a comfortably large bed, several chairs scattered by the window and a desk which nowadays seemed to be ever more busy. The chairs had not been his idea. Eirlys had introduced them because, as far as Boromir could tell, she liked to drape herself over pieces of furniture and stare out towards the north.

She had been doing just that tonight, only to abandon her seat about half an hour ago. Ever since she had fallen pregnant, her sitting positions had become increasingly creative and at this point she was seated on the floor in a circle of papers, legs set wide in such a way that it was probably a good thing she was wearing a pair of his trousers.

“You’re staring again.” She did not look up as she spoke, bending down to scribble something on a form that particularly offended her. 

“I was just wondering,” said Boromir, leaning back in his chair and abandoning his own substantial pile of work, “whether that is truly comfortable.”

Eirlys looked up, a strand of red-brown hair falling into her eyes. Her braid was coming apart after a long day. They had been overjoyed, in the immediate aftermath of the war, that their hard work was over, but it had not been that simple. Minas Tirith needed a great deal of work before it could be said to have recovered. Buildings needed to be repaired, houses needed to be filled with people, businesses needed to be revived. Schools and libraries and every type of infrastructure was crying out for more funding. The army, after years of constant warfare, needed to be restructured and (to an extent) disbanded. And orphans, of which there were many, needed to find homes. And so their work, as the Captain of the White Tower and as the caretaker of the government’s orphan care continued. 

Eirlys shifted, rubbing absently at her belly, which was growing more and more apparent. “It’s more comfortable than I was before,” she said. “Although he’s still trying to kick me in the ribs.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow. “He? You think it’s a boy?”

Eirlys put down her pen and leaned back against the chair. “I don’t know, why?”

Boromir shrugged. “Mother’s intuition maybe? They say women know.”

Eirlys smiled, stifling a yawn. There were heavy bags under her eyes and he suspected that he looked much the same.They had spent so many evenings like this, tired, working their way through papers that only seemed to bring bad news. Yet now, much as things had remained the same, they were completely changed. They were still tired, not from the constant crush of hopeless struggling, but from the struggles of rebuilding. The papers they waded through were not a constant stream of reports on deaths, lack of funding and disaster (although those did still appear), but were sprinkled through with sparks of good news, of families reunited and homes rebuilt and hope beginning to spring up again.

“I am afraid I must disappoint you,” said Eirlys. She did not seem at all put out by such a disappointment, smiling slightly. “I have no idea. This could be the result of over-eating, for all I know.” She poked at her belly, only to wince and glare down at it. “The insolence! No kicking your mother!”

“Maybe he objected to you comparing him to an overlarge meal,” Boromir teased.

“Touchy,” Eirlys pouted.

They returned to their work, or at least pretended to. Maybe it was the exhaustion or maybe it was the way the torchlight turned Eirlys’ ever-loosening strands of hair to copper, but Boromir found himself watching her thoughtfully. There were grey streaks in her hair now, turning to silver threads in the candlelight. She blamed her father’s bloodline but Boromir suspected that it was the strain of the war years taking their toll. “Have you thought about names?” he asked.

Eirlys leant back, considering. It occurred to Boromir that most couples probably had this conversation together, maybe seated on the same couch, as opposed to several yards apart with one of them on the floor. They likely also had it earlier. But it had taken them three months to realise that Eirlys was pregnant, so taken up with all the chaos and rejoicing and the overwhelming load of work that had come with the end of the war. And then in the four months afterward, they had been so busy attempting to calm down their increasingly meddling families, assuring her father and his aunt that yes, they would be getting married soon, as well as taking care of the duties they were actually assigned to, that they had never gotten round to considering names. Aragorn had offered to have someone else lighten his load but he had declined. If his child would be born, Boromir would ensure that they would be born into the best version of Gondor he could create.

“Miryeman has been asking me about that,” said Eirlys, shifting into a hopefully more comfortable position. He realised that the shirt she was wearing was one he had been looking for several weeks ago. It was lucky for her that they were fairly close in height and with her growing girth they were increasingly comfortable private wear.

“And what does she suggest?” Boromir asked. It was no surprise to him that Eirlys’ stepmother would be the one to broach the subject, given how closely they worked together. 

“For a boy she suggested Derufin or Duilin,” said Eirlys. Her expression was soft, sadness heavy in her grey-blue eyes. “I think my father would also have suggested it, but he cannot yet bring himself to speak of my brothers’ deaths.”

Boromir had expected that. He had spoken to Lord Duinhir fairly recently, at the time that he and Eirlys had announced her pregnancy. The Lord of the Blackroot Vale had been appropriately angered at Boromir getting his daughter pregnant out of wedlock, making all the expectedly graphic death threats, but Boromir had not missed the joy in his eyes. That even with two sons killed in the war, there was life and hope for his family yet. 

“And for a girl?” Boromir asked.

“She suggested Éowyn, in honour of our new sister-in-law,” said Eirlys. “However, I am not so sure. That is quite a legacy for a child to live up to.”

Boromir thought of his sister-in-law, not as he had seen her in the Houses of Healing, stiff and cold and pale, but as she had been when he last visited her in Ithilien. Tall and strong, golden hair bound back from her face, a sword at her side as she and Faramir bent over a map of Ithilien, making plans to wage war upon the fading shadow of the Enemy, down to root and rotted stem. To be named after the Slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar would be weighty enough, but he had a feeling that Éowyn would be known for many great deeds to come in the cleansing and ruling of Ithilien. 

“I think you are right,” he said, “much as I would wish to honour her.”

“How about Finduilas?” Eirlys asked. “After your mother.”

Boromir thought on that. He thought of his mother, of her soft voice and the smell of roses that seemed to follow her everywhere, of chasing after her on a child’s ungainly legs, trying to catch a tall, graceful figure in blue. “I would love to,” he said, and he would. “And yet …” He remembered how pale she had become, lying so still and silent in her bed. “I would not wish to name a child after her that I could not raise within hearing of the sea.”

Eirlys considered that and nodded. “I can understand that.” She smiled slightly. “And besides, I think it likely that Elphir will name one of his daughters after her.” Much to everyone’s amusement, Elphir and his wife Lindis had also revealed that she was pregnant only two months after Boromir and Eirlys. Boromir was just relieved that there was someone else who would have to endure jokes about having ‘celebrated too much’ after Gondor’s victory.

“For a boy’s name,” said Boromir, suddenly struck by inspiration, “I think we must consider Beregond.”

“Oh, that is very true,” said Eirlys with enthusiasm. “That man is owed a great deal more thanks for saving Faramir than he will ever be willing to accept.”

“And if one Beregond will not be allowed within the city walls, at least ours will,” Boromir joked.

Eirlys laughed and Boromir felt his heart warm. In all his dreams, he had never thought it would come to this, discussing names for an unborn child at some late hour of night. “Although,” said Eirlys, shifting to face him properly, “if we wish to honour those who saved your brother, I think we must consider Peregrin.”

“Peregrin,” said Boromir, unable to stifle a smile. The thought of naming a child of his after that fine, brave little hobbit … It was the least honour that Pippin deserved.

“So,” said Eirlys, folding her hands over her belly. “We have plenty of names for a boy, but none for a girl.”

Boromir considered a moment, before grinning. “We could name her after your mother.”

The quill that came flying through the air missed him by a foot but the message was sent. “Over my bleeding corpse!” Eirlys exclaimed. “Which reminds me, if she tries to be in the room when I’m giving birth, you’re to drag her out yourself if necessary.”

“Understood,” Boromir assured her. And then, out of curiosity, “I assume that Miryeman will be there.”

“I should hope so,” said Eirlys. “She’s the only one who won’t completely lose her mind about the whole thing.”

“I would not —” Boromir began.

“You would!” Eirlys insisted, grinning. “You’d be lying on the floor like a beached fish in seconds. Faramir told me about that time one of the camp followers gave birth, I know how you’ll react.”

“I was worried about her,” said Boromir, frowning. “And I was also only twenty.”

“Alright,” Eirlys allowed. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You can be in charge of calming down my father.”

The idea of Lord Duinhir not being calm was not exactly a reassuring thought, but Boromir resolutely pushed that problem away as something for another time.

“Speaking of my father,” said Eirlys, “whatever we call the child, he’ll probably call them a White Mountain name.”

Boromir supposed that made sense. Duinhir’s attachment to his White Mountain roots had only grown stronger with age. His two sons had been the only ones of his children to have Gondorian names. Even his youngest daughter, called Aya by Miryeman, also went by the name Eirian in the Blackroot Vale.

“Maybe we should just make him do the hard work,” Boromir joked. “He can name the child.”

“Be careful,” Eirlys warned, “if you give my father an opening, you’ll blink and suddenly our child will have mysteriously found her way back to the Blackroot Vale and be speaking Westron with a White Mountains accent.”

“You speak Westron with a White Mountains accent,” Boromir pointed out. “And I see nothing wrong with letting a child spend time with their grandfather.”

Eirlys considered, then nodded. “I suppose.” She shrugged, shaking off a thought. “Yes, I suppose that my father’s house would not be so stifling for a child not raised there.”

Boromir frowned, hearing the uncertainty in her voice, and abandoned his desk, coming to sit down on the floor beside her. It was an oddly reassuring return to form, to afternoons of their childhood spent curled in some corner, hoping that their parents — his father, her mother — would not find them and drag them back to reality. He took her hand in his, long fingers stained with ink, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Things are not as they were,” he assured her. “Between you and your father, between your family and mine. It will be different. We will make it so.”

Eirlys’ frown lightened slightly. “But it will be difficult,” she warned him. “My family is not easy.”

“And neither is mine,” said Boromir. Yours was probably good training for mine. “We are remarkably similar in that regard.”

“We are so ununited,” said Eirlys. “That is what worries me. My family is barely coherent and now with yours added …”

“That is what families are like,” Boromir shrugged. “All we can do is provide our child with as much safety and calm as we can.” I should probably speak to Uncle Imrahil about this. There must be some wisdom he can impart to me concerning fatherhood.

And they could do it. He believed that. It would be hard and they would be busy, but they could do it. This child would be among the first of a new generation, born into a world in which the Dark Lord was gone, his shadow being chased away before a great light. This child had the chance to grow up as one of his family had not for generations. And he would ensure that they did, whatever the cost.

Eirlys was yawning, her eyes heavy, and Boromir rose, still grasping her hand. “Come, to bed.”

“I still have work to do,” Eirlys complained, already reaching to take his other hand. “And so do you.”

“It will wait,” said Boromir, knowing that he would likely have to work even later tomorrow evening to make up for the luxury of going to bed before two o’clock in the morning. “And you need to rest. Even more so than I do.”

“I can’t wait for you to not be able to use that excuse on me anymore,” said Eirlys, pulling herself up.

Boromir raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll stop when the baby’s born? Oh no, this is going to be my excuse for a good three years after,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead.

Eirlys scowled up at him. “You’re using our child to make me go to bed?”

“Come on, as if you haven’t manipulated me into going to sleep before,” Boromir teased, beginning to guide her toward the bed.

“I did,” Eirlys acknowledged with a wink, “but my means were much more fun.”

“And it’s exactly that attitude that got us in this situation,” said Boromir, unable not to grin, “so payback.”

Eirlys was silent for a moment, but it was a different kind of silence. An uneasy, tense sort. “What is it?” he asked, pausing.

She turned to him and he saw that her posture was stiffer, something defensive in her stance. “Queen Arwen offered to have my duties … reduced. Shared with someone else.”

Boromir considered, looking at her carefully. “Do you want that?” He knew that Eirlys was proud of her work, proud of the role she had fought so hard to gain, and, much as he might want her to step back and rest more, he knew it would be unfair to demand of her what she would not demand of him. Yet if she is only continuing out of guilt …

“No.” There was no doubt in Eirlys’ eyes and the sight made Boromir smile. It was familiar, the resolve burning in tired eyes. “I have put too much of myself into this work to be relegated to the role of a pregnant lady of the house the moment the trumpets of victory sound.”

Boromir frowned, his hand grasping hers. “You know that if you step back, it could be only for a time. You could have a few months to yourself, to get used to the child, before you went back. You have won your place; you need not continue to fight for it.”

He could see the battle of will being waged in Eirlys’ face. The desire for rest and the comforts of her family home warring with pride, the devotion to something that had been part of her for so long. He knew that feeling, that exhaustion coupled with an inability to step back. She gripped his hand back, her face softening. “I know. And I thank you for saying it. But I think I shall continue as long as I am able. After all, I shall not be alone when the baby comes. I shall have Miryeman and Aya and your Aunt Caeveneth and my father and you, of course. And your Aunt Ivriniel will probably find some way to get involved.”

“She always does,” said Boromir.

“So there you go,” said Eirlys. “Between the lot of us.”

“You do know,” said Boromir carefully, “that it will not happen. You becoming a ‘pregnant lady of the house’, as you put it.”

Eirlys let out a deep breath. “I know. I know. That does not mean that I do not still fear it from time to time, however. I went to a lot of effort to escape my father’s house and I will not become trapped in another.”

Boromir reached to push a strand of hair out of her face. Her braid was almost entirely fallen apart now. “You command and so it will be,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead.

Eirlys smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I appreciate your belief.”

Since they were both already dressed only in the loose tunics and trousers they had donned after shedding their courtly attire, there was little need to change for bed. By the time Boromir was under the covers, Eirlys had already curled up into her habitual ball, her eyes shut and her breaths beginning to slow.

Boromir considered slipping out of bed and returning to his desk, but the mattress was so soft and it had been weeks since they had gone to sleep together, let alone woken at the same time. I’ll get up early in the morning. So he blew out the candle by his bedside and lay down, pulling his lover’s already sleeping form close.

Boromir knew that he was dreaming, and he knew that it was no mere dream. There was a clarity, a reality, a sense of physical presence that he remembered only from that terrible dream that had summoned him north to Rivendell. Instantly he was tense, his eyes darting in search of any new shadow or danger. Yet no darkening skies or words of doom greeted him. He sat in a study, not his current one, yet he knew with a strange certainty that it was his. Afternoon sunlight streamed down onto his desk, dust motes dancing in its golden beams, the polished wood of his desk warm beneath his fingertips. Just like his current desk, it was scattered with mounds of paperwork. Of all the things that should remain the same.

The room about him was spacious, furnished with a couch that looked fit to drown oneself in, although it looked to have endured a great deal of scuffing on its legs, and tapestries hung upon its walls. He noticed too that letters were pinned to the wall alongside the usual maps and plans. He was just leaning forward to investigate when he heard a muffled giggle and a rustle of paper. Turning, he was just in time to see a slip of paper slide beneath the door and hear the patter of running feet as the messenger hastily ran down the corridor.

Curious, Boromir rose to examine this delivery. The paper had been decorated with carefully drawn spirals and what he took for artistic interpretations of roses and other flowers along the edges. Yet it was the writing at the centre which drew his attention. Written in careful, rounded letters were the words: An invitation to the Captain of the White Tower demanding his presence at the Lady of the Pond Garden’s Tea Party this afternoon. Three in the afternoon exactly.

Boromir raised an eyebrow, reflecting that he had never seen the word ‘demand’ used on an invitation before. Part of his mind was confused, yet he pushed it aside, overwhelmed by a sudden burning hope, a hope that he refused to voice, fearing that the dream would melt away around him. So he did not question this new invitation, instead carefully folding it in his pocket and heading to his rooms in search of clothes of a suitable standard to honour the Lady of the Pond Garden.

By the time Boromir had changed his tunic for something silken and silver-embroidered and brushed his hair, it was almost time for the appointed tea party. He looked himself over in his mirror — not his current mirror, just as these were not his current quarters — and was surprised at the man who met his gaze. He was little changed in many ways, his dark hair maybe slightly longer, his stomach softer, a new scar on his wrist to add to the arrow wounds in his chest and the myriad other old nicks and scrapes. Yet it was his eyes, Boromir thought, neither heavy with exhaustion nor guilt, but alight with something entirely strange and bright. He thought it might be contentment. 

He had no further time for contemplation, for it was time and something told him that he should not be late. Following his instinct, Boromir found himself ignoring both the dining quarters and Eirlys’ sitting room to arrive at the courtyard. There, in the summer heat, the scent of flowers and fruit trees lay heavy over the scent of freshly dug earth. He had deduced that he must be in one of the large townhouses favoured by Minas Tirith’s nobility. In the last years, many had fallen into disuse, abandoned by families fleeing to their own fiefs. He remembered dark doorways, boarded shut windows, abandoned courtyards, empty reminders of what had once been homes but were now only empty shells. Yet the quietness of this house was one of peace, the lazy silence of a warm afternoon, underwritten with the half-hearted humming of the odd insect, a bee dawdling between the soft peach roses and the geraniums and lavender that bloomed in the courtyard. He had passed no servants in the house, although he could not tell whether that was because they were sleeping through the afternoon heat or whether the dream had chosen not to include them. So it took him a moment to realise that someone else stood beneath the shade of the pillars with him.

It was as if every sound, of leaves and bees and distant voices, faded away. She was young, her face soft and pink and freckle-painted, yet something told him she was tall for her age. The girl stood, the sunlight transforming her hair into fire-bright strands, the blue ribbons wound through them unable to contain the flickering waves. The light green dress she wore was skillfully embroidered, pink flowers blooming at its edges, yet due to its lack of sleeves he could see the scabs on her elbows where she had scraped herself in some adventure. She smiled on seeing him, grey eyes bright, and he would have had to be mad not to recognise that smile. Faramir’s smile. Their mother’s smile.

“Welcome, my lord!” exclaimed his daughter — my daughter — and knelt down in a curtsey, her dress pooling slightly on the floor before she leapt up again.

Instinctually, Boromir bowed, hearing the faint giggle at their theatrics. “My lady. I am honoured to have received an invitation to such a prestigious event.”

He had barely straightened before her hand was grasping his, her grip warm and insistent as she pulled him along to a table he had only just noticed. It was a small piece of furniture, delicate and flowing and suspiciously elf-looking, as were the seats which surrounded it, meticulously polished with gold-embroidered green cushions. A flower-patterned teapot steaming with what smelled like real tea and two cups balanced on delicate saucers. At the centre of the table was a plate piled with a seemingly random assortment of sweets, biscuits and pieces of cake. “Of course you’re invited, Papa,” his daughter was saying as she pulled him forward. Then, as he made to sit down, “No, that’s where I sit.”

The forceful tone was familiar too. “You sound like your mother,” he remarked, sitting in the chair that she indicated. It was not intended for one of his build and he was almost folded in half, his knees narrowly avoiding bumping against the table and his arms far too long for the armrests.

His daughter tossed her hair, apparently familiar with that remark. “Is it just us?” he asked.

“Only us,” said his daughter, as she began to fill his cup (it was tea!). Then, leaning closer, she whispered conspiratorially, “This is a secret tea party.”

“Ah,” said Boromir, winking and tapping the side of his nose. “Just between you and me then.”

“Just between you and me,” she confirmed, also tapping her nose. He noticed that her accent was blended, a mixture of the White Mountains and the Minas Tirith accent that her grandfather so despised.

As she poured a cup for herself, Boromir pondered his tea. The cup was tiny, designed for a child’s hands (or a hobbit’s, he thought suspiciously, wondering if it was his aunt or his friends who had instilled this love of tea parties in his daughter). Indeed, it would probably take little more than a large mouthful to drain it. Of course, that would not be polite, he thought, watching his daughter carefully set down the tea pot and take up her tea and saucer. He followed her example, sipping delicately.

“It is good,” he said, and meant it.  “Did you make it yourself, my lady?”

She straightened and her eyes brightened at his praise. “I did!” she chirped. “Sir Merry said tea should always be made with care and love. He said that about scones too, but I haven’t made any scones. But I did make the tea with a lot of love! A whole barrel of it!”

“Really?” Boromir asked, his heart warming at the thought of his daughter hanging on Merry’s every word. “You listen to Sir Merry very much then?”

He could tell by the light in her eyes that he had hit upon a favourite topic. “Of course I do, Papa! Sir Merry is so smart and Sir Pippin is so brave, how could I not listen to them? They are better at telling stories than you, Papa,” she added.

“Better than me,” Boromir spluttered, almost choking on his tea. “I am a master at telling stories.” A slight exaggeration maybe, but after years of passing on their mother’s stories to Faramir, he liked to think that he was not completely inept. And after all, when the night watch is long and dark, what else do soldiers have to do?

“Theirs are better,” she insisted. “They talk more about you.”

Boromir froze, indignation transforming to softness in his chest. She smiled up at him, kicking her leg slightly. He realised that she was not wearing shoes, her scuffed, dirty soles a sharp contrast to her carefully chosen dress and delicate ribbons. “They say you were very brave and kind, Papa. They say that you looked after them and Pippin says that you were a knight of Gondor even before he was.”

Boromir frowned slightly, wondering what hyperbolised age and aura of respectability Pippin had conferred upon himself in speaking to his daughter. “They exaggerate,” he assured her.

She looked up at him, a thoughtful expression on her face that reminded him of her mother. The face that meant she did not believe him. “They said you were the bravest man they ever met, Papa. Sir Pippin and Sir Merry said that, and they wouldn’t lie. They said you fought so bravely for so long.”

Boromir cast his gaze down, attempting to hide the tears which pricked at his eyes at the thought of his friends. Friends he had thought lost to him, despite all his efforts. And had it not been that way for so long?  Hopelessness upon hopelessness, failure upon failure, defeat upon defeat, a lightless struggle whose end was beyond any of their power to stop. A warm little hand grasped his and Boromir turned to find his daughter smiling at him warmly. “That’s why I invited you to tea.”

“Because I was a brave knight?” Boromir managed, hoping to veil his thoughts behind a smile.

To his surprise, she frowned and set her cup down completely, grasping his hand in both of hers. “No, Papa. Because you should not have had to be so brave and fight so long. You should be here.” She gestured about them, indicating the sun-warmed garden, the shade of the house, the miniature tea set. “Having tea.” She smiled knowingly. “I think that’s why Mama had me. Because she knew someone had to make sure you did.”

For a moment Boromir was amused at the idea of explaining to Eirlys the apparently highly orchestrated decision-making his daughter thought had preceded her coming into the world. Then her words struck him, as heavy as a mallet. “You have it entirely the wrong way around, dear one,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I fought all those years so that you and your friends could have afternoon tea.”

“With you,” she insisted after a moment. “Because you see,” she continued, more certain of herself, “you’re the only adult who knows how to behave properly.”

“Really?” Boromir asked, unable to stop the surge of pride.

“Oh yes,” she assured him, all business. “Uncle Faramir doesn’t hold his tea right and Mama always scoffs the biscuits.”

“I am honoured,” said Boromir, his hand on his chest, “to be part of your inner council, my lady.”

“Good,” said the girl, eyes alight. “Because there is more news.”

“Of what sort?” Boromir asked.

In answer, she offered him a biscuit, which he accepted. She glanced to the garden before speaking, her voice low and confidential, just how Aunt Ivriniel’s always was when she shared a new piece of gossip. “There has been a very big scandal among the lords and ladies.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, his interest truly piqued now, wondering what gossip his daughter could have gleaned from Minas Tirith's nobility. “Of what sort?” he asked. “A betrayal? An assassination? A coup?”

“Not yet,” said his daughter gleefully, clearly overjoyed that he was thinking along the correct lines. “The squirrels here are much more polite than the ones in Grandpa’s lands.” It took him a moment to realise what she had said. Boromir did not remember there being many squirrels in Minas Tirith, yet as if his thought had summoned it, he saw a small shape bounding along the gable across from him. He remembered Legolas’s complaints about the lack of trees and wildlife in the city and he reflected that he would not have put it past the elf to make sure that both populations increased. “It began when Lady Nettle arrived in Minas Tirith, while you were away in Dol Amroth,” his daughter continued. “You will see her about. She has a long red tail and very twitchy ears. Sir Walnut of course fell in love with her, he falls in love with everyone.”

“A very unfortunate flaw,” said Boromir wisely, shaking his head at the misfortunes of the unlucky animal.

His daughter nodded in agreement, sipping in a lady-like manner from her teacup. “He was embarrassing himself. Showing off and causing a lot of trouble for everyone. I think he supposed Lady Nettle would fall for his charm. But Lady Nettle’s father was afraid that he was not taking it seriously, so then Sir Acorn challenged Sir Walnut to a duel for Lady Nettle's honour," his daughter informed him solemnly.

"Oh my!" Boromir exclaimed, helping himself to another biscuit. They really were good, he thought. "And whatever happened next?" Up above them, another squirrel had joined the first and Boromir stifled a smile at the thought of two mutually gossiping parties.

"Well," she said primly, "Sir Acorn triumphed, although they say that there may have been foul play."

"Truly?" Boromir asked, realising that he really was enthralled by this tale of rodent courtship and sabotage.

"So they say," she confided lowly. "They say that Sir Walnut may have fought with an enchanted sword or bought the favour of a fairy."

"The cheek!" Boromir exclaimed, wondering if she thought of the King's great sword and the golden-haired river's daughter who accompanied the halflings' tales. "So is Sir Acorn to wed Lady Nettle then?"

"So we thought," the child answered gravely, "but when the time came for the wedding, Lady Nettle was nowhere to be seen. It turns out that she ran off with Treebark, who has no title at all, or ancestral holdings."

Boromir stifled a smile, wondering if his daughter was maybe spending a little too much time with her maternal grandparents. Ancestral holdings indeed. “That is fascinating news,” he murmured. I will never look at squirrels the same way again.

“It is,” said his daughter proudly. “And if you did not go away all the time, you would not be so behind.”

Boromir nodded, accepting her criticism. “I am afraid that I have many duties, little one. So I must rely on you to bring me news of the squirrel court to make up for my absence. But I promise you one thing,” he continued, “when you are a little older, I will take you with me.”

Her eyes brightened, before immediately narrowing. “How much older?”

Boromir sipped his tea before responding. “After your next birthday.”

“And you will take me on a diplomatic mission?” she prodded him.

“I will.”

“And I can sit with you in your meetings?”

Boromir stilled at that. He remembered when he was young, his father returning from meetings, describing the proceedings to him in detail, detail which Boromir would be wise not to forget. And then, when he was slightly older, only a little older than his daughter was now, he had attended them, seated at his father’s side, fighting to keep fidgeting limbs and wandering mind in check. He doubted that the meetings he now attended were as dark and wearisome as his father’s, yet still he was wary of the idea. “You may,” he said after a moment, “but you know that you may leave if you become bored.” Then, as she began to frown, he said, “For I shall certainly be bored and at least then I may comfort myself with the knowledge that you are doing what we all should.”

She nodded wisely, back on firm ground. “Climbing trees and drinking tea,” she said.

Boromir nodded, drinking more tea so as not to meet her gaze. He feared that she would see the joy and sadness mingled in his eyes, that a child of his, an impossibility in herself, should spend her childhood dirtying her feet and scraping her knees clambering about in trees and playing make-believe in the garden, that accompanying her father in his work should be a privilege that she looked forward to rather than a burden she dreaded. She cannot be real , whispered a voice, as she prattled on about a new game she had been playing with her friends. She is only a dream. He was familiar with that thought. It had struck often in the aftermath of the Ring's destruction. He could not be alive, Gondor saved, his friends greeting him with smiles and laughter. It could not be, none of it. All were equally impossible in themselves but together ...?

“What is your name?” he asked, attempting to banish the insidious whisper.

His daughter giggled, scrunching a freckled nose. “You know my name, silly! You gave it to me!”

She smiled up at him and Boromir was lost for a moment in the warmth of her smile, the bright light in grey eyes that mirrored his. And then he saw it. Twined in the hair behind her ear it bloomed. A white flower, stark against auburn locks, its star-like petals curving back to reveal silver stamens. 

He knew that flower, had first seen it several months ago. He could still remember the joy that had overwhelmed him, how tears had streamed from his eyes as he looked upon it. He passed those flowers every time he entered the Tower of Ecthelion and every time his heart leapt for joy, hardly daring to tread over their fallen petals that lay strewn across his path. 

She smiled up at him, glad that he had remembered, and he realised that she was holding up another flower, identical to the one wound through her hair. “For you, Papa,” she said. “For remembering.”

Without thinking, Boromir bent down, feeling small, nimble fingers wind the flower through his hair. She stepped back to admire her work and grinned, revealing a gap in her teeth that he had not noticed before. “There,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Now you are almost as pretty as I am!”

“Almost?” Boromir asked, half laughing.

But she did not laugh in turn. Instead Boromir felt two small hands cup his face, found himself meeting those eyes, so similar to Faramir’s. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. “I’m going to go hide.”

Boromir knew then, that when he closed his eyes, he would open them to another world, one in which his daughter was still curled in Eirlys’ belly, attempting to kick her ribs. He stilled, taking it all in, as if he could soak it into his skin; the warm afternoon air, perfumed with pollen, the cool, smooth shapes of the pillars about them, the meticulous little tea set. The child, a flower blooming in her hair as she smiled, already thinking of somewhere to hide. And he closed his eyes. He let the dream dissolve around him, the hands on his face fading along with the house and the sun and the flowers. And he did not dread his waking, for he knew that he bore good news.

Boromir woke with a start, somewhat hampered by the fact that Eirlys was lying on his arm. The latter muttered something, half-asleep, and shifted slightly. Boromir lay for a moment, orienting himself. By the dim light about him, he would judge that the sun was still a little while off from rising, meaning he could maybe get a head start on work for the day if … None of that mattered. He remembered the dream only vaguely — a tiny chair, a miniature tea set, a pair of grey eyes and a gap-toothed smile — and it was fading more with every second. But one word remained, clear and certain and fit to make him dance for joy. 

Bending down, he gently brushed strands of Eirlys’ hair from her face. He considered waking her to pass on the good news but decided it was best to let her rest. Yet he could not linger in bed and suddenly he knew what he wished to do and his legs itched with a desire to be up. 

Boromir carefully extricated himself from beneath Eirlys, a feat made much easier by her deep sleep. He did not bother dressing properly, only flung a cloak on over his tunic and trousers and pulled on the nearest available pair of shoes.

The sapling of the fourth White Tree was nowhere near as tall and imposing as its forebearer, yet its white blossoms, the dark leaves which burst forth with ever-greater vigour, foretold that it would at least equal its predecessor. In the predawn darkness, its blossoms bloomed white as stars. On windy days, the carpet of petals about it leapt and danced but now all was still, as if the whole city held its breath. Boromir was familiar with that feeling of waiting, accompanied by dread that only seemed to grow ever more powerful until one was unable to breathe. Yet he felt no such dread now, only an irrepressible impatience which tasted like joy. He could remember when the sapling had first bloomed like it was yesterday. The first he knew of it, Aragorn had bolted across the practice yard, shouting for him to come. He had once wondered if that hectic, long-strided run was ranger practice, but he had since realised that it was an oddity particular to the King. Aragorn had grabbed his hand and hauled him away, refusing to give any more information than, “Come, you must come and see!”

Aragorn had dragged him to the tree and for the briefest moment he had not noticed, squinting up into the light of the setting sun. And then there it was, a small, slender black bud just beginning to unfurl, the faintest sliver of white visible. “By morning,” Aragorn said, “we will be able to see the flower fully.” But Boromir did not hear him. He had reached for the tree, dumbstruck, his hands caressing the rough bark with careful reverence. Hardly able to believe that it lived, that hope for Men flowed anew through its sap. It cannot be , that voice had whispered. You are dreaming. Yet it had been no dream. And the next day, a fragile white flower tilted toward the rising sun, blushing with delight at the new dawn.

Now that he thought of it, it had been less than a week after that Eirlys had told him the news. I really should have thought of it sooner. She had sprinted into the steward’s dining room, interrupting his meal with Faramir as she grabbed him into the hallway. “We are going to have a child,” Boromir murmured, the exact words that she had said, eyes bright as stars, laughing with disbelief. And he added, “She will climb trees and hold tea parties and love storytelling.”

For it was not only a fool’s dream, just as the hope of Men had not been only a fool’s dream. His people, against the grinding weight of hopelessness that had sought to crush him so many times, had survived and one day soon they would thrive. The White City stood and already it hummed with more life than it had in decades. The White Tree flowered, its white-clad branches swaying gracefully in the wind. And his daughter, still sleeping and unnamed …

Yet you know what you will name her. She told you.

The white blossom, bright as starlight and snow on tall mountains, wound through sun-softened auburn hair.

“Nimloth,” Boromir whispered, like the answer to a prayer. And, in the soft whispering of the tree’s branches, he thought he heard a child’s laughter.