Characters: Boromir, Theodred, Denethor, Eowyn, OCs
Rating: Insinuated slash, not explicit
Source: Pre-Ring War
Disclaimer: Tolkien dd not write this bit, but they are his characters.
The portrait unfolded for Denethor’s inspection showed a pale-haired young girl in white, slightly sulky at the mouth and sad of eye. The Steward raised an eyebrow.
“I’m told the likeness captures her well, a sweet-natured girl…” the minister trailed to silence.
“Really? The White Lady of Rohan… she looks too milk and water for Boromir… she might do for Faramir, I suppose,” mused Denethor, frowning. “But must we ally ourselves with the Horselords? A better alliance could be made with Dol Amroth. There must be suitable matches there.”
“Possibly, Lord – and there’s still time for them to be born.”
The Amah caught up with her cartographer after the presentation.
“And is the likeness good?” she asked.
“Good enough. He painted her as expected” he replied.
“What of yours?”
The man handed her a sheaf of sketches from his satchel – a small girl pirouetted with a dagger, a determined frown on her face – here, on horse-back crossing a white-water ford, there, heaving hay into a manger…
“She barely looks the same.”
He shrugged, “Gondor asked for a potential bridal offering, they got one.”
Amah nodded. “Anything else?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“I misliked the water at that ford… it seemed…ill-omened.”
Some years later, Theodred of the Mark came to Minas Tirith, herding horses to exchange for goods and the good will of the Steward. He and his cohorts were met by Gondor’s cavalry and it’s young Captain, who cantered straight up to Theodred.
“Prince Theodred, welcome to Gondor,” he swept a bow in the saddle, “Let us escort you to Minas Tirith.”
The man expertly wheeled his horse until they were almost stirrup to stirrup.
“The horns will sound from the White Tower at our approach – is it not a fine thing to ride out on such a glorious morning?”
Theodred bowed acknowledgement, “Forgive me sir, you have the advantage.”
“You had to be the prince, you look just like your cousin’s portrait, although older…”
Theodred smiled, lips set; he remembered the stilted portrait, he’d felt did his cousin no justice.
The man grinned roguishly and leaned in, “I am Boromir, neither betrothed, nor likely to be if I have anything to say… even to such a pretty little white bird as she.”
Theodred laughed, “if she were a bird, she’d be a falcon, not a dove!”
Boromir grinned, “Lucky then, I prefer a male hawk flying to my glove.”
Theodred said nothing. Had the young Captain… winked? Or was it merely dust in his eye?
He watched the man covertly as they rode, taking in his easy seat in the saddle, broad shoulders, wind-tossed hair, the firm control of the reins with fingers that seemed relaxed, but obviously were well able to grip a sword, or…
Theodred swallowed hard, it felt like one of the white stones littering The Pellennor had caught in his throat. He coughed.
Immediately Boromir had a water-flask ready, offering it.
Theodred stared at the embossed leather bracer on Boromir’s arm…
“Seven stars…” he muttered
“…and seven stones and one white tree.” Boromir spoke softly, almost wistfully, before smiling again, “the emblem of Gondor.”
“Hear?” He said, “The trumpets sound our arrival. Come!”
He spurred his horse to a gallop that Theodred immediately matched. The two sped across the open plain, exulting in being young, free-spirited; thigh muscles clenched to the saddle, absorbing the heat and power of fine stallions at full gallop.
At the gate they were both shining eyed, excited.
“Come my prince, we should stable the horses, they need rubbing down!”
Theodred cocked an eyebrow. Boromir threw back his head, laughing.