Characters: Boromir, Aragorn, OFC elves.
Disclaimer: Made from Tolkien’s words… but not the order he put them in.
Notes: Happy Birthday Tay!
Boromir was inclined to sneer at the ‘rustic tree-dwellers’ of Lothlorien, but soon realised that simplicity did not been naivety. Here, as much a Court held sway as in Gondor… even to the length, complexity, and tedium, of a grand banquet held in their honour.
Another voice lifted in yet another interminable lay… Boromir found his fingers moulding the delicate foils wrapping the sugar fondants that had ended the meal – mint, his mother’s favourite. She’d shown him how to sculpt these…
The slender elf-lady next to him reached over to pick up the miniature…
“A swan-boat - how delightful!” She whispered.
Boromir blushed, furious with himself – now he looked the barbarian, unable to pay courteous attention as correct form demanded. He went to crush the remaining swans by his plate.
“No, no…” his dinner companion stayed his hand, “these are too pretty… and that song is certainly too long.”
She laughed softly, a merry sound, harmonious as nightingales’ song. Her fingers lingered on his hand, Boromir stammered out an impulsive offer.
“Then I give them all to you.”
She smiled. Suddenly Boromir felt clumsy, overwhelmed; no longer hostile and suspicious, he felt more dazzled and awkward than at his first tryst.
Aragorn glanced over, hearing the tinkling laughter, but his attention quickly focussed on Boromir’s reddened face. Fearing some slight was about to lead to an unfortunate outburst of anger from Boromir, he half started from his seat.
A hand stayed him, “She dallies with him, nothing more”, murmured a voice in his ear.
Aragorn turned to find a warden at his back, sombre in linen and pale brown leathers among the shimmering robes. He was momentarily confused, before realising this warden was female, one who’d put aside gowns in favour of martial duties… drab as a thrush among snow-white doves.
Formalities over, the dinner guests rose to walk, or talk, Aragorn and the now attendant warden, strolled to where Boromir appeared to be in animated conversation with the lady beside him.
“I’m Captain of Gondor, we have no Kings, or princes there, titles are bestowed by merit. To some… I am the Blade of Gondor, and my brother, through prowess at war, is called the Raven of Ithilien…”
The lady nodded, but at their approach rose.
“I should not dominate our guest…” She glided away. Boromir gazed after her.
“I would hear more of your Raven,” the warden said quietly.
The Moon was well past its zenith by the time they retired to bed. Boromir, when he’d recovered from his awkwardness, seemed more than happy to discuss blades, and spears versus arrows with the warden, Tasarion by name. The three even went so far as moving some distance from the other guests to show off techniques of blow and counter-blow.
They’d parted as warriors do, with a firm grip of hand to forearm.
“A good man that...”, mumbled Boromir, pulling his blanket up “...umm ...elf. Fletches his arrows with eagle feathers…”
Aragorn smiled to himself, misapprehensions could be rectified later.