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“So where, exactly, are you taking me?”
Rhosynel’s curiosity earnt her an amused glance from Boromir, her arm looped through his as the pair strolled through the streets of Minas Tirith. With spring starting to come to a close, the weather was warming up and the citizens of the city were making the most of it. Stalls were popping up, markets were beginning to bustle, and the scars of war were beginning to fade.
True, there was still reconstruction to be done, but the city was healing.
“I did say it was a surprise,” Boromir replied, glancing to her with a fond expression, “are you really that impatient? Do you have somewhere to be?”
“You know full well I don’t, considering you booked today in my schedule.”
He’d claimed this day over a month ago, the schedule of meetings and plans for the improved Messengers Service had been taking up hours and days and weeks of Rhosynel’s time. There were outposts that needed construction, stables that needed to be financed, and more Messengers that needed to be trained, not to mention the roads needed to be repaired or improved. Or built.
As such, when she wasn’t drowning in paperwork, she’d been run ragged, constantly hustling back and forth, be it in Gondor, Arnor, Harondor, or even north to the Vales of Anduin. True it was exciting and thrilling, not to mention her new and improved rank of Kings Messenger gave Rhosynel even more freedom and autonomy, but by Béma’s Bow she was exhausted.
“You’ll enjoy it, I promise,” Boromir attempted to reassure, “I did say I’d treat you.”
Somehow, Rhosynel didn’t doubt that.
Pausing, the pair let a cart stacked high with barrels being hauled by a donkey cross their paths, the owner of said cart nodding to Boromir as the wheels bumped and rattled on by. Even out of uniform, even not wearing any crests or motifs, Boromir was more than recognisable and respected.
It was a relief that her face wasn’t yet remarkable.
“Not far now,” he added, as they resumed walking.
“Good, I’m getting hungry and we’re missing lunch for this.”
It wasn’t a complaint, not really, Rhosynel was far too accustomed to going for days without food, an hour or two wouldn’t make a difference. Especially considering how pleasant the day was, their stroll leisurely and unhurried, cheerful chatter and friendly greetings filled the market of the fourth level, it was warm and comforting to see just how the city was recovering.
“Ah, here we go.”
At Boromir’s words, Rhosynel’s attention pulled away from the stalls of jewellery, leather work, books, flowers, and trinkets, to find that Boromir was heading towards a specific building at one side of the market.
A bright blue awning had been erected over the front door and window of the shop, adding more outside space to display their wares. The wooden table was covered with a white tablecloth, and atop it, arranged beautifully, were all manner of treats both sweet and savoury.
Breads by the dozens were piled high, brown, white, seedy, flat, long, square, fluffy, dense, raisins, fruit, and more all competed for Rhosynel’s attention. Cake upon cake was arranged in vibrant colours, one layer, two, three, even possibly four layers tall, with thick cream spread between then topped with even more, drizzled with icing and decorated with sugared fruits from across Arda. And then there were the pastries, with golden flaky surfaces, everything from herbed duck to slow cooked pork, or sweeter options like cream and sugar dusted parcels of layered pastry with fruit fillings.
Rhosynel’s mouth immediately started watering.
“Lord Boromir!” the stall keeper was greeting in clear familiarity, her face brightening into a genuine smile as the pair approached, “welcome back.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Tawardil,” he greeted warmly, “business is going well today I take it?”
His gesture to the stall drew Rhosynel’s attention back down to the delightful display of delicate desserts, but also the notable gaps where products had sold. True they were few and far between, but the fact there were gaps at all was impressive, considering the bakery was still active and churning out yet more food.
“Indeed, but I set aside a couple of your favourites to keep warm,” Tawardil replied.
Favourites? Just how often did Boromir visit this bakery?
The woman was already bustling into the building, her flour dusted apron whisking out of sight, and Rhosynel turned an amused look to him.
“What?” Boromir asked, grinning back at her. “The stuffed pastries they sell here are delicious, I always stop by when I’m passing through.”
“Well since you’re so familiar, what would you recommend?” she asked, her own smile broadening.
“If you fancy something savoury, then the duck and orange pastry, or if you’d rather a sweet treat, then the lemon curd is my favourite.”
The swiftness with which he answered drew a laugh from Rhosynel, shaking her head in disbelief. But squeezing affectionately with her arm threaded through his, she turned her gaze back to the staggering arrangement of baked goods on display.
It would be hard to choose, but Rhosynel had an inkling of what she’d get.
“Here you go my Lord,” Tawardil reappeared with a paper wrapped parcel.
“Ah thank you indeed!”
The baker’s attention was already turning to Rhosynel with a broad smile. “You’re in luck, Rhosynel, I have a few of the cocoa and cinnamon swirls left, but you should have let me know you were coming, I’d have kept them warm for you!”
Rhosynel could have sworn she heard the click of Boromir’s neck, as his head snapped about to stare at her.
“I didn’t know I was coming, it was a surprise,” she replied, still smiling even as a flush began to creep up her neck at the intensity of Boromir’s gaze. “But yes, a cinnamon swirl would be lovely, thank you.”
A second wrapped parcel joined the first, and a handful of silver gratefully given.
It was almost impressive how Boromir managed to remain quiet until after they left the stall and the marvellous display of goods. The wrapped pastries in his hands, and her arm threaded through his as they ambled away.
At which point he spoke up.
“You absolute little—”
“I didn’t know that it was Tawar’s you were taking me to!” Rhosynel protested quickly before he could get much further. “It was a surprise!”
There was a grumble from the Lord on her arm, and she promptly steered him towards one side of the market, a low wall was in the sun and somewhat quieter than the hustle and bustle of the crowds milling about. A good place to settle and people watch.
“It was a good surprise though,” she continued, “I haven’t visited the bakery for at least a month, I was getting cravings for another cinnamon swirl.”
There was another grumble.
Hopping up onto the wall, Rhosynel reached out, catching Boromir’s arms and drawing him towards her. With her perch, she was for once slightly taller, and it made a nice change for him to be the one peering up at her as Boromir settled between her knees.
There was a scowl on his face, but she could see the twitch of his lips trying to hold back a smirk.
“Really though,” Rhosynel pressed on, “I didn’t know you were a patron of Tawar’s?”
“We’ve not exactly spent much time wondering the city together,” he pointed out.
“Then we’ll have to change that, make a date out of it. There’s a particular tavern in the lower level that sells the best ale.”
“If it’s the Twisted Latch then I’m already familiar, I’ve had to drag my men out of there on more than on occasion,” he retorted, and neatly scuppered Rhosynel’s plan. “Or is that the sort of place you make a habit of visiting?”
“Only when I’m getting the soldiers drunk to annoy you.”
The startled bark of laughter from Boromir was enough to banish the rest of his faux glower, and he shook his head ruefully. “Fine, fine. Eat your pastry and let me wallow.”
“No,” Rhosynel said sweetly, and pecked a kiss to his forehead –purely for the novelty of being taller– before plucking her pastry from his hand. “Where else do you frequent then? And don’t say the barracks.”
“The training grounds.”
Rhosynel would have swatted him on the arm if it weren’t for the fact she was halfway through unwrapping her pastry. The tantalizing scent of sweet cocoa cream and the subtle spice of cinnamon was one she’d not smelt in months. Her mouth was watering, and even licking the sugary dust from her fingers was enough to distract her from reprimanding Boromir for his sarcasm. The two key ingredients were imported from Harad, but with the War on, the supply had dwindled, and they’d become worth their weight in gold, it was a relief to have her favourite treat again after so long.
“How about,” he was saying, chewing his own pastry in deep thought, “the gardens on the third level, the roses there are some of the sweetest I’ve ever smelt.”
“Sounds nice, we could take a picnic.”
“Load up on pastries on our way down to them?”
“Maybe in summer when it’s a little warmer?” Rhosynel added.
There was a soft chuckle from Boromir, shaking his head and neatly dusting his deep burgundy doublet with powdered sugar, automatically she was reaching out to brush it free from the fine silk before it could stick.
“You are always cold,” he said with a fond smile, “but yes, if you want, we can wait till summer, although that’s a long way off.”
“A week or two, you mean,” she countered, holding up one hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around a mouthful of cocoa.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Fwuk uff.”
That earnt a snort.
“Alright, in two weeks we’re going for a picnic, so you better not be halfway to Erebor by then,” he said, with a nod, as though it was that easy to settle on a date when they were both free.
“Fine, but if he wants to argue you’re telling Aragorn that I’m ‘indisposed’ that day, since this is your idea.”
“He won’t argue if he knows what’s good for him.”
Rhosynel swatted at his chest in mock horror. “Don’t be rude, that’s the King you speak of!”
All too easily, Boromir caught her offending hand in his, already rising it to his lips to lick up some of the flakes of pastry and cinnamon sugar that had stuck to her fingers.
It was an entirely far too intimate act for such a public place, and as Rhosynel turned scarlet with the heat of a hundred suns. Although, if she were to judge by his sly grin of triumph, she suspected he’d done that entirely because he knew how red and speechless she’d become.
Thankfully Rhosynel was rarely short on words.
“If you get to steal some of my pastry, it’s only fair I get some of yours,” she objected, face still hot.
There was no hesitation from Boromir, holding it up to her lips in clear offer. Fully expecting him to snatch it away before she could get a bite, she all but lunged at the offering, taking a far too large a portion of the lemon curd filled pastry. The sweet and sharp preserve was tangy, almost grimacingly so, but the sugared flakes of pastry settled it to just tart. It was nice, she had to admit.
“Whoa hey now!” Boromir exclaimed, having nearly lost a finger in the process. “What happened to some!”
“Wha’ y’gonna do bou’ it?” Rhosynel challenged through a very full mouth.
Boromir lunged.
A shriek left her mouth –slightly muffled– as Rhosynel lurched back, his teeth snapping shut on her own cinnamon swirl. She’d have toppled backwards off the wall, if it wasn’t for the fact Boromir had moved quicker and gotten his free arm about her back. So instead of toppling, she yelled, flailed, hooked her legs about his waist in a panic, and generally made a scene, drawing a few chuckles or confused glances from those passing by.
“I’ll do that.” The Warden of the White Tower looked like a smug teenager, grinning with a mouthful of pastry, and his arm securely anchored about her back.
Swallowing the lump of lemon and pastry, Rhosynel mock lunged for his again, and the grip about her waist tightened to pull her flush against his chest. Now pinned against him, Boromir simply held his arm up, so she couldn’t reach. It was true that the wall she’d perched on gave her a height advantage, but Boromir’s arms were outlandishly long, and the sweet dessert was now entirely out of reach.
“Cheat!”
“I’m defending what’s mine!”
It was incredibly tempting to bite him in retaliation, but that was a little too much for a public space even by her standards. So instead Rhosynel very maturely crammed as much of her cinnamon swirl into her mouth as physically possible so he couldn’t steal any more of it from under her nose.
“That is horrifying.” He sounded almost proud, watching her aggressively chew.
She grinned at him.
“But, while you’re unable to speak, I must admit to an ulterior motive, with this date,” Boromir continued, and Rhosynel abruptly found herself feeling mildly alarmed as to what this was entailing. “I’ve been thinking about my apartments, and while it suits me quite well, its starting to feel a little… cramped now that you’re leaving your own work scattered all over the place.”
Rhosynel managed to anxiously swallow half her mouthful, unable to decide if she was worried as to what he was going to say, or curious as to what he was leading up to. Had she been too messy? Was he annoyed that her paperwork and belongings had scattered across his once spotless quarters?
But Boromir was inhaling deeply. “So I was thinking of moving to a larger set of rooms, and whether or not… you’d like to move in with me?”
That, was not what she’d expected.
Choking down the last mouthful of cinnamon, Rhosynel tried to marshal her thoughts, but all she managed was a stunned, “what…?”
“I know you’ve got your own apartment,” he hastened to continue, clearly taking her shock for discomfort, “but you spend just as much time up in the Citadel and I figured it would be easier if you had your own study and space within rather than having to traipse back and forth at all hours after your meetings not to mention its closer to the stables so you’d get back quicker after your missive ru—”
Boromir was silenced as Rhosynel kissed him. True it was only fleeting, and she was quick to lean back and watch the expression on his face as she answered. “I’d love to.”
It was his turn to look stunned, going to far as to blink several times as though trying to understand that it was that simple.
“What…?”
“I said yes, dear.”
“I-I know, but, are you sure? You didn’t exactly take time to consider it,” Boromir replied.
“I don’t need to consider it.”
“But surely…”
“Boromir,” Rhosynel sighed, one part exasperation, one part fondness. “You said it yourself, I already spend so much time up at the Citadel, and within your quarters, it makes sense. But Boromir, you should have said that my mess bothered you.”
“It doesn’t.”
The response came so swiftly that Rhosynel knew he was telling the truth.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, despite the fact she’d already confirmed as such. “If you want to take some time to think about it—”
Rhosynel kissed him again, lingering this time. “I’m sure,” she murmured quietly, “I’d love to move in with you.”
There was a shaky exhale against her lips, and Boromir’s free hand rose to cup her jaw, silver and grey eyes searching hers as though looking of any hesitation or doubt.
“Very well then,” he said, voice soft and breath ghosting across her skin. Against her lips, Rhosynel felt the moment Boromir started smiling. “I guess I’ll have to get used to sharing with you.”
“You can start with that pastry.”
“I take it back.”
Rhosynel laughed, kissing him again, the sweet taste of sugar on her tongue. “You love me really.”
“That, I do.”