Summary: What is it that Queen and Steward face together when the King is from home?

Rated: G

Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir/Arwen

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: None

Chapters: 2 Completed: Yes

Word count: 3549 Read: 1634

Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 19 Jan 2012

Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."
The engraver set the coin down on the desk before Boromir with a dull clink and stepped back respectfully.

Boromir reached out and picked it up, held it between first finger and thumb and let the light play on it. He was tilting it back and forth to get the best sight of the image stamped there, brow furrowed in concentration. The guildsmen clustered about the Steward’s door waited to have his lordship’s approval.

It was a great thing, thought Boromir, to set a new coin to wander across Gondor from palm to palm; to be earned, gifted, hoarded, lost in a wager, lost through a worn purse, sought and found, found in gladness and spent on food, a shoe for a horse, sweets for a bairn.

He remembered the day at the mill when he had seen the first silver penny with Aragorn’s image, his captain’s face in outline but unmistakable and now he let his thumb sweep along the line of Aragorn’s cheekbone, felt the raised pattern against his skin.

This was a new gold crown, King and Queen facing, in silhouette, their winged diadems as mirror images. The Queen’s grace shone out, long neck and straight back, but with a spurt of anger Boromir realised that the artist had smoothed away all trace of the upswept ear. The sunlight glowed on the angles of the stamped metal and Boromir’s mouth tightened in a thin line.

The engraver quailed as an implacable gaze, hard as emeralds, bored into him and a sudden still fell on the company.

“Did you check the die before you stamped out the coin?”
“I did, sir.”

Boromir tossed the gold piece to the startled man. It spun and glittered in the air as he scrambled to catch it. The Steward’s grasp on his ear pulling him close, made his eyes water, but he knew better than to protest the treatment when the low voice rumbled in his ear.

“My lady, your Queen, chose a mortal life out of love and duty. Gondor would do better to honour her elven heritage than try to erase it!”

Set free once more, the man gaped at Boromir and when the others crowded around to peer at the rejected proof and realised their error, there was a general muttering at the work to be done again. Men were thinking of the coins already struck, the journeymen left at home, busily hammering out pieces destined only for the furnace.

The senior guildsman pushed through the knot and came to stand foursquare before the Steward.
“There was no ill will here, Lord Boromir,” he began and then faltered as though searching for words. “We do not…see the Queen as aught but our gracious lady.”
Boromir held his gaze for a moment, until the man stepped back.

“Aye, well, mortal or no, the Queen will outlive us all, but this,” Boromir said sternly, “will outlast her children and their little ones too. None who sees this token in years to come should be in doubt of her sacrifice and Gondor’s gain by it. Break the die and begin again. Not one of those coins must find its way to a merchant’s or a maid’s hands.”

As the chamber cleared and the guildsmen spilled out into the corridor beyond, trudging homeward nursing their ire till they were well out of earshot of the Lord Steward’s offices, in the corridor above a knot of the Queen’s maids were bound in the opposite direction, in high spirits with laughter and much jollity. They were returning from an adventure, a most successful expedition to the market. After much thought and scheming they had found the perfect gift for their lady.

Arwen heard their noisy approach, for all they shushed one another outside the doors to the Queen’s suite, and smiled softly to herself. For the first few years, in secret, she had measured the slipping away of those parts of herself she had imagined as like as to her skin. It was as though she fought to cling to an icy slope and her feet could make no purchase…and below lay a chasm without bottom to it. Sight, hearing, strength all waned gradually and inexorably and at times she was hard-pressed not to cry out at each diminution.

Arwen kept all hidden, learned a woman’s strength in sorrow, for her Estel was beset by troubles a-plenty in this shattered land. Perhaps she was not so secret as she might have imagined, but Aragorn would not offer her further insult by acknowledging the struggles of an elven warrior of high renown.

They had won through in good measure; as the new double kingdom came together to be reborn, they made good those promises made and kept over so many years, with honour and deep and abiding affection. Arwen had felt herself come to rest and found an equilibrium in senses yet far beyond the ordinary reach of men. She had seen too, the human side of her lord, unfolding sometimes painfully. He honoured his Elven foster family, he honoured her and the rare Dunedain blood in his veins, but as King Elessar took his place at the heart of the world of men that looked only forward, it was then that the other lost part of his soul showed as a gaping wound that could hardly be healed.

The return of Boromir had come to offer, she sometimes believed, as much to her as to her lord. The King had not altered one jot in his affections, or attentions, to her, but now there was a fierce joy and a deep peace at the heart of him that succoured them both. And it was with awakening hope that Arwen began to sense an older magic still, too long suppressed, begin to murmur in the earth that begrimed her fingers.

There were some things she thought she might never become reconciled to…to birth and raise a child for so few years in which all care and schooling and love must be passed on was a terrifying prospect, so she schooled herself to cherish every moment of these precious years, to confine her influence for now largely within the household and the city and to rely on her network of correspondents for news of the world beyond Minas Tirith’s walls. She had discovered in herself a gift for growing things that was perhaps a legacy from Elrond, and she could still hear her maidens chatter as they came across the tiled floors of the lower court although, out of a delicate feeling she never, well very rarely, listened.

Just now the King was from home on a matter along the border that could not wait, but the Lord Steward’s steady hand allowed all to sleep peacefully and the Queen’s Festival day would not be derailed by his absence. They could have two parties, Eldarion said solemnly, hoping for more cake.

In the event, all had gone off excellently, with laughter and music, gifts from the family and household. So it was with shock and a jag of sharp anxiety that Boromir, who had slipped away from the music and bustle of the great hall to enjoy the cool of Arwen’s garden, heard weeping coming from the depths of a rose arbour. It was the Queen’s voice, no doubt, and though stifled, they were tearing sobs that spilled into the night air.

He could not forsake her, not make enquiry, for Aragorn had left all in his charge and in truth Boromir’s heart had a place of honour for the elf-maiden who loved his man, who had succoured him through the years, who loved him still, bore him princes, welcomed home his lover and their son, who honoured Gondor. So striding along the gravelled path, not trying to conceal his approach, Boromir came to the bench, wreathed in shadows, and fell to his knees before her, saying softly,

“Lady, madam, what ails you? It is not the children? A message from the King?” Then when she struggled to contain her tears, a momentary chill came over Boromir’s soul and he groaned, “Is it the King?”

At that a white hand fluttered faintly out of the darkness and clutched at his sleeve and a pale, tear-soaked face, stared into his own.

“No, Boromir!” Arwen whispered urgently, “the King is well for all I can tell…” and she hesitated a moment, adding, “if aught should befall him, you will know. It is a small thing…I am ashamed, Boromir, of my tears and would not have let any see them but I know that you will understand…” and from out the depths of the bower Arwen put into Boromir’s hands a small wooden box.

It was the casket presented to her by her ladies so recently. A simple shape, warm in his hands and just then a moonbeam lit up the scene and it glowed, a thing of great beauty. Boromir looked up into Arwen’s eyes, and saw her mouth twist painfully as she said softly,

“They bought it from a trader in the market and only thought to please me with something so beautiful, but Boromir…” and there was agony in her voice, “this is mallorn wood,” and Arwen buried her face in her hands, crying out, “men are cutting down the trees!”