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Night had fallen, and a quiet stillness rippled through the halls of the Citadel. The courtiers had returned to their residences in the city, and the servants had just finished their chores and were readying for bed. The Citadel Guards at their posts and doing their night rounds were the only break in the silence, their footsteps echoing in the halls and their cloaks fluttering in the breeze making it sound like the white stone was a living, breathing thing. The light of the full moon illuminated the courtyard and made the helms of the men standing guard around the White Tree gleam with the soft glow of silver dust.
In the chambers of the Steward, attendants had been dismissed for the night. Candlelight had been extinguished, and the faint smell of smoke still lingered in the balmy night air. A fire crackled in the hearth, emitting a warm glow and casting shifting shadows upon the white walls and ceiling.
A brush of fabric against skin. A breath released to the air. The soft press of lips.
Boromir traced his fingertips over the curve of her parted lips, along her jawline, then down the length of her throat before coming to the ridge of her collarbone. The rise and fall of her chest mirrored the ebb and flow of the waves he had seen in his mother’s homeland when he first visited.
She lifted a hand, touching the outer edge of a faded scar above his brow. It was a scar that most people did not notice, unless they were standing close to him. But even in the darkness, she was able to find it, thanks in no small part to her Elven sight.
He placed his hand over hers, his calloused fingers following the peaks and valleys of her knuckles before slipping down to gently press the inside of her wrist, feeling the pulsing of her heart. She laid her other hand over his heart, close to the newest of his scars that he had earned in the war. It did not heal as cleanly as the others, leaving behind a patch of pink raised skin, resembling coral growing at the bottom of the sea. This was likely due to the poison that had coated the arrow that entered his body. Most of his other scars had come from swords, the blades polished and pristine except for those that had already taken lives, wearing the blood of their victims like a badge of honor.
As he released her wrist, she turned onto her side facing him, the swell of her belly barely touching him. His eyes traced the red marks that stretched towards her navel, reminding him of the rivers that spanned the region of Lebennin, or the Mouths of the Entwash in Rohan. Most of the noblewomen in Gondor viewed similar marks on their own bodies unfavorably and used creams and ointments to hide them from their husbands—or lovers—but Boromir could not understand how something that symbolized new life should be shamed and hidden away. As the woman who he now referred to as his wife had said many months ago, the marks on our bodies were like the maps of our lives—we remembered where we were and how we got them, and they served as reminders of our proudest triumphs and moments that caused us to reflect and choose to grow and learn.
As far as he was concerned, creating an entire person and bringing him or her into the world was a feat that was just as honorable and esteemed as a great victory in battle, for it could be just as painful and violent. But it was never recognized as such, for it was seen in society as an expectation, rather than a lofty goal or a patriotic duty to one’s lord and land. Women were expected to bear children for their husband, and there were many—far too many—who did not live to see their child grow up, or through a stroke of misfortune the child did not live to see their mother’s face. But for the ones who did succeed, there were no honors or medals.
Boromir had been so deep in thought that he did not realize he had been stroking a finger along one of the red lines until he heard a giggle. Anael’s muscles tensed and her body shook with stifled laughter. He quickly drew his hand away and gave her an apologetic smile. He had forgotten she was ticklish in that particular spot.
“I am sorry for that,” he whispered.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” she replied with a smile. “What were you thinking about so intently?”
About her. About himself. About their child. About things he knew, things he had learned, and things he still had to work on.
“About many things,” he said. He linked his fingers with hers and drew her hand to his lips. “Things that do not need to be discussed at this very moment. We both need our rest in the coming days.”
Even though the world was at peace, preparing for the first coronation in nearly a thousand years was just as busy and tumultuous as it had been to prepare for the almost year-long war that had just ended, or any other major life upheaval.
“I am looking forward to it,” she said. “Everyone seems so happy to have a king again.”
“I hope so.”
The joy that thrummed through the city was palpable, and he hoped that their voices would drown out the voices of those who might have any objections to a man from the North ruling the kingdom of the South. He knew of a few individuals who did not seem pleased with the notion, but they also respected those who had wielded the power in this city for many generations after the kings no longer ruled. If he had to intervene on Aragorn’s behalf, for any reason, they would listen to him.
He laid down on his side, resting his head on his arm, while his free hand found the curve of Anael’s back. She moved closer to him, placing her ear near to his heart. Her eyelids lowered, leaving a thin sliver of green and white still visible. Boromir continued to watch her for a few moments more, until at last he fell asleep to the soothing sounds of the crackling fire and the guards patrolling the halls; sounds of comfort and safety. Sounds of home.