Work Text:
Himmeth sat at the table in her study, gazing at two items before her. One was a small bouquet of athelas in a shallow bowl, the other a sachet of moon tea. The window was open, and the sun-washed air wafted in, carrying a trickle of voices, rapid steps, and creaking wheel-sounds.
She had sat in such an attitude before, and knew both items well. Many women did, both wed and unwed. It was a fact of life as common as people longing for one other, but not always desiring the outcome.
So why did it feel so different now?
On face, many things had changed in the last few weeks, but not in ways that should have affected her present question, and the solution.
Boromir had returned, and rumor of him floating down the river dead turned out to be just that. The new King was due to ascend the throne, after centuries of it standing empty. They buried her father, with all the pomp and honor his sacrifice required. The flow of sick and wounded gradually stemmed, and Himmeth’s home was still a sick ward, but more sparsely populated now. And most importantly, they found her brother Linnarion, who was indeed under a broken siege tower, with two broken legs, just as Boromir predicted.
Linnarion’s rescue, and his subsequent convalescence, occupied Himmeth the most in recent days. She tended him, though she hated tending to people in general. She encouraged him to eat with rousing words, and she distracted him with jests while coaxing potions down his throat. She helped him get in and out of bed, and she helped maneuver his limbs, confined to long and bulky casts.
What little time she had left, she still spent with Boromir, and just like before, they went walking on the ramparts, sparred with words and weapons, made love in secret. He did not press her to give an answer, and he was, as ever, funny, calm, wise when he needed to be, passionate whenever he had the chance.
And yet, just because the world had changed around them did not mean she had changed toward marriage. She still rued the fact that she had let him finish inside her that one time, and could barely comprehend it. Was it a moment of madness? Likely so. After all, when a ghost showed up on your doorstep, you were bound to do nonsensical things.
Now, it was weeks later and her courses were late—not that they were never late before, with all the privations and overwork. This time, though, there was another possible reason, and all it took to know was voiding on the athelas and waiting to see it bloom—or not. Then she would drink the moon tea, if it did.
Simple. So why was it so difficult?
She got up to look out the window, which always felt like the right thing to do when her mind grew too crowded. Outside, the sun spilled down into the avenue, the square gathered its people and pigeons, the water from the revitalized fountain caught the light. The air was balmy with bits of dust, not yet hot, and the windows of the house opposite reflected the sky.
She glanced into the street below, and what trickster Vala had intervened, she dearly wished to know.
Only steps away, coming toward the house, were two men: Boromir and Linnarion. She saw them well, for she was on the second floor. One was a large figure in a maroon jerkin with sun reddening his hair and a pack on his back. The other was smaller, still growing into his man’s body, and raven-haired.
Her brother had crutches under his arms, and with his legs still clad in long, white casts, he performed the laborious sequence of putting the crutches a half-pace in front of him, swinging forward with his feet off the ground and landing. Boromir walked beside him, and while he did not aid him, his hand was on his back and his eyes were fixed on his progress.
Linnarion’s strong brows furrowed as he toiled, and from time to time he glanced at his companion. Boromir said something that did not carry, and Linnarion nodded briskly. He replied rapidly and with some excitement, and Boromir’s mustache, beard and brows all moved together in a smile. He clasped Linnarion by the upper arm and kicked something out of his way.
Himmeth raised her hand to wave, and Boromir looked up.
“Ah, there’s the fair lady!” he cried. “Linnarion, it seems your sister waits so eagerly, she could not help but watch! Tell her of your triumphs!”
His voice was as big and proud as him, and it carried well up to the window.
Linnarion looked down at the cobblestones, his laugh bouncing off them.
“Oh, it is nothing, Lord Boromir.”
“Well, now he’s modest.” Boromir shielded his eyes looking up, his other hand on Linnarion’s arm. “I’ll have you know, dear Himmeth, that your esteemed brother has gone all the way to the dry goods store and back. Nearly five hundred paces! Five hundred thrusts, leaps, and fortuitous landings. That is a feat!”
Linnarion looked up, and between his smile-angled eyes and the gilded red of Boromir’s beard, Himmeth felt a tug in her chest.
“Wonderful! Well done!” she called, trying to sound jovial. “I shall meet you two downstairs!”
She stepped away from the window, but instead of heading down, she pressed herself against the wall between the curtain and the nearest bookcase.
In this alcove of sorts, her face flushed hot and her heart still tugged, but it was easier to weather.
She smoothed her hands over her face and then over her hair, taking a deep, slow breath.
Perhaps the athelas and moon tea could wait a little longer. Perhaps time would put everything in its place.
Her parents’ marriage put her off a union of her own, but if she was to have a husband, Boromir might be a good one. Had he not said that if they changed, their vows could change with them? Maybe there was no sense in letting the future rob the present.
Slowly, she peeled herself from the wall and headed downstairs.