Masks

I am returned from the great unknown. ;) And with another chapter, no less. Sorry for the delay. Enjoy!

*

In the wee small hours of the morning Boromir found himself standing on the terrace adjoining his rooms. The air was cool, soothing to his hot, bare skin. He had come from a night of tossing and struggling, dreaming of things off in the west, of the skies darkening. And these dreams had left him bathed in his own sweat, nearly feverish from turning in his own sheets. He had wandered out in very little more than a cloth draped along his hips and now stood against the chill wind clad thus, for his mind took small notice of the physical discomfort. Boromir's hands tightened along the stone rail beneath them as he watched his city sleep, murmuring, "Isildur's Bane," as if the whisper would conjure the subject of his dreams.

Subtly the light began to change from dusty orange and black, allowing for shades of blue to creep in and overthrow the colors of torchlit night. The guards that stood watch changed and Boromir grunted as he pushed himself from the railing finally, knowing his peace would not last. Not today.

Moodily he abandoned his post and entered his bedroom even as a servant entered bearing a breakfast tray for him. He should have known. Today he would be pampered and probably forced to stay away from anything remotely fun or interesting. "Good morning, Lord Boromir," the maiden said, placing his tray on a table near the fire. He wandered to it and picked at the banana slices sprawled nealy on the edge of a plate of fruit.

"This it, then? No bread or wine?" he asked, glancing at the goblet of water.

She nodded as she spread a napkin over his lap when he sat down. "You're to eat light today, sir. The head cook said so. There will be a large feast tonight. Not as large as he had hoped, given so little time, but we won't disappoint you or the Steward, my lord."

Boromir sighed and took a drink of the water, shaking his head. "Thank you," he murmured, nearly coughing as two more servants entered, briskly carrying what was sure to be his wedding attire. He frowned as another two entered carrying bath supplies. An older one stopped before the table and sized him up.

"You'll want to hurry with your breakfast, my lord. So much to do today."

Sticking a knife into another banana slice, Boromir grunted and shook his head. "Like what? We marry tonight, or so I am told."

The man grinned. "Surely my lord understands there are preparations to be made, choices that need his attention and of course he must be properly groomed before the sun sets." He raised his eyebrow. "Unless you wish to marry wearing that."

Boromir looked down at his scant form, then grinned. "Not a bad idea. Tell me, is anyone troubling Lady Éowyn at this hour?"

The little serving girl shook her head with a smile. "Of course not, my lord. A lady needs her sleep if she's to look her best."

"That figures," he grunted, trying to ignore the impatience evident on the older gentleman's face as he waited for Boromir to finish his breakfast.

The moment he was through eating the young lady took his tray away from him, scurrying out, and Boromir found himself being urged towards the bath where he observed a few servants waiting to help him. "My last day as a free man. The least you could have done was arranged for a few lovely females to do the bathing," he commented sourly.

The head attendant grinned. "Perhaps I could go and fetch that lovely maiden that just left." He said it, but made no move to actually do so.

Boromir endured the bath with grace and in silence, which left him open to return to his previous thoughts. He pondered the state of Minas Tirith as he was washed, as he was dried and his hair was seen to. Faramir had not revealed very much despite Boromir's attempts to learn more last night. Still, he knew something strange was going on. Something that he probably wasn't going to like. Well, if they thought he would marry and forget it, they had another thing coming. He had invested all of his life into the service of this city and was not about to let himself slip out of the loop.

Properly dried and attended, he was taken from his bath out into the bedroom where he was shown two outfits. One, he was told, was of course the traditional garb he would wear for the wedding. The remaining was non-descript, black and very fine; something reminiscent of bedclothes. This he would wear until the actual event took place. Fighting the urge to groan all through his dressing, Boromir considered what was ahead of him. Being attended only made it that much more real. He was going to be married tonight. He did not look forward to this with as much joy as he would have hoped. Éowyn deserved more than he was feeling, he knew, but there was no backing out of this. He would have gladly gone to his father for advice except there was a dark void there as well. It pained him, the realization that he no longer trusted his father. And Faramir, that cut like a knife, but the truth would not hide from him this morning, no matter how much he wished for it.

After being poked and prodded for an hour he was told he could have the next one to himself, but by 10 o'clock he was going to be expected to arrive in the Great Dining Hall to hear what the cook had to say about dinner. Not that he cared. He would have gladly given the burden to his father, who had more interest in this wedding than the groom. But the attendant had been adamant about Boromir taking place in every major choice involved in this occasion. He had made a slip during their conversation, a very telling slip indeed, saying that Boromir needed to be kept busy. Boromir would have thought nothing of it except that the attendant seemed flustered by having said so and hastily covered it with ongoing chatter. Now it was left to him to wonder whether or not he was being kept busy for a certain reason. They probably wanted him busy to keep him from examining the fate ahead of him too closely, too keep him from becoming nervous or agitated, but if truth be told being thrown into the mix made him nervous enough already.

Having lost ten minutes of his precious hour lost in thought, Boromir sighed and stopped fiddling with his appearance, abandoning the mirror in his room so that he could find Faramir and take out his aggression on his little brother. He exited his room and padded across the hall to Faramir's, trying the door without knocking. There was no better way to begin the day than to give his little brother a rude awakening. A smile spread across his lips--one of the few he thought he would have today--as he crept through the darkness towards the bedroom. There were no sounds betraying movement, so Faramir was likely sleeping soundly.

He entered the bedroom and stopped at the foot of the bed, getting ready to pounce, but was halted by what he saw. His eyes fell upon Alura's bare breasts, her dark hair framing her face, pooling over her shoulders. The sheet seemed to have been brushed down her hips in the night, exposing the creamy skin of her belly where his brother's hand lay splayed tenderly along her abdomen. Faramir was nestled tenderly against her, looking peaceful in the dim light of a morning denied entry by shutters.

Boromir sighed and ran his hand through his hair, forsaking his brother to look upon her again. It had not been like this for them. It would never be like this for them after tonight. She looked pale, but there was no evidence of abuse on her soft skin. The vision made him consider now that there was really no one he felt he could trust here. Faramir and his games, his father and Éomer, they taunted his thoughts and now Alura as well. Had she given in to Faramir's demands hopelessly or had she been lying all along, giving herself to Faramir willfully, with desire? This did not look like a scene she should be rescued from.

Angry, he left the bedroom and stalked away from the royal apartments without a destination in mind, ashamed of himself for wanting that his brother had forced her into bed, for wanting her to loathe Faramir's touch for the sake of loving him instead. He had half a mind to sneak out of the city and ride off for a few weeks, alone with the wind and nature. The more he imagined it and fleshed out the fantasy in his mind, the more tempted he became. His father would positively throw a fit when he returned.

Feeling trapped and angry, he decided not to show up for the cook precisely on time. His father was so good at running things. He should make the necessary choices.

*

“You look so tired,” Éowyn said softly, twirling Alura’s hair around her finger as her cousin aided her with tying her dress. Alura grunted and said nothing, pulling tight one of the ribbons resting on Éowyn’s hip. The Rohirrim princess continued on. “Where were you anyway? I wanted so badly to see you yesterday.”

Alura stopped and looked up into her eyes, thinking she wasn’t the only one that looked tired. She resisted the urge to rub at her sore shoulder and cocked her head. “I needed to think, so I spent much of the day alone.” It was a lie, she could not escape that, but she had certainly felt more alone yesterday than any other day here in this sad city. Today was no different, except she was glad to be alone—truly alone. Faramir had left her before she had even awakened and she was grateful to him for that, at least.

Her pale cousin exhaled and gave her a very haunted look that made her wonder. Éowyn had not been very talkative despite her few questions. Something was bothering her. “I guess I should have known, what with…what happened.”

Raising an eyebrow, Alura moved to stand in front of her cousin, ignoring the presence of the other handmaidens helping with the wedding dress. “What do you mean ‘what happened’?” She wondered just how much Éowyn knew of what was going on.

“I mean with Éomer of course,” she replied, watching Alura with pain in her blue eyes.

Alura shook her head, still uncertain about what she meant. Before she could ask the head seamstress stepped in with a firm voice. “This is not the right time for such talk. Princess Éowyn will not want to cry before her wedding.”

Looking up at her one could plainly see it was nearly too late. Éowyn’s eyes were already pooled, though she tried to hold her pain back. Bewildered, Alura again tried to ask, but was ushered out of the fitting room before she could say another word. The door was shut and angry, she stalked off muttering to herself. What were they on about, anyway? Someone was going to answer her. Even if she had to face Éomer herself. She came to the dining hall after a few moments of walking, but saw no one there she cared to speak with. She supposed she could try the Hall of Kings, but she had no desire to see Faramir or his meddling father.

Knitting her brow in frustration, she headed away and decided to ask questions later. A view of the dimming sky outside drew her away from her curiosity and with a sigh, she headed out to one of the terraces for a breath of fresh air. It was cool out, sending shivers down her spine as she melted from the warmth of the indoors into the evening air. It was a welcome illusion of freedom to be outside. She combed her fingers through her hair and moved to the railing, trying to stay the thoughts of despair that had been threatening to drag her down all day. Uneasily she had considered running or staying or dying. She just didn’t know what to do against the foes that stood between her and freedom. And what of Éowyn? She didn’t want to leave her cousin here to face what was ahead of her alone.

Alura looked out at the shadows over Mordor. The sky looked infected over there, dark and sickly. It seemed like it was growing. Suddenly the view out here didn’t seem so beautiful. She wondered what would happen if Denethor had given himself over to the darkness. What would Minas Tirith be like a year from now? Théoden came to mind painfully. Her beloved Rohan was dying because of the shadows that had befallen it. Yet what could be done to stop this?

Wrapping her arms around herself, not bothering to rub the fresh wetness from her eyes, Alura turned away from the rail and headed back inside, determined to find somewhere to be alone for the next hour before the wedding. She found that in a small sitting room not too far away, or so she thought. Entering the room, she found a chair and sank down with a great exhale. A voice from the shadows startled her. “Hiding?”

Alura glared at the form of Boromir not far from her. “Getting away from all the so-called excitement. You?”

His chuckle suggested help from a drink. As he moved from his place in the darkness to a couch nearby she was not surprised to see a little glass in his hand. “Much of the same.”

“You’re drunk,” she accused him tartly.

He snorted with a grin. “You might say that. Though not as bad as I could get. I can still act like a gentleman for the wedding.” He looked at her gravely. “My condolences to you, by the way.”

“What for?” she asked, feeling irritated by his presence. His words of the day before had not dwindled from her memory. She still resented his treatment of her.

Boromir took a drink and eyed her. “For Éomer, of course. I assume that affected your cold little heart. Or am I wrong?”

She shook her head and hissed, “What about him? Everyone keeps talking about him, but no one will tell me what’s wrong with him. Where is he?”

For an uncomfortable long string of moments Boromir was as silent as the grave, watching her, studying her with those glittery, sea-colored eyes that betrayed a rare warmth bleeding through as he considered her. He sat forward and said softly, “Do you not know what happened yesterday?” When she shook her head he exhaled, running his fingers through his auburn hair. “Valar, I thought you knew. You seemed keen enough to take comfort from my brother.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, frustrated by his attitude. Take comfort from Faramir? The only way he could give her comfort would be if he perished in the night.

“You slept with him last night,” he said to her, rubbing his glass between his fingers as he looked at her. His tone seemed to be a dull accusation that had once carried sharp emotion, but was blunted by the drink. He polished off what was left in his little glass, then waited for her to respond.

Alura crossed her arms, too weary to fight with him. She had felt drained all day and wasn’t up to what she felt this leading towards. “Okay, so you think I slept with him. Yes, I slept in his bed. Whatever you choose to make of it is your business. I won’t even ask how you know where I was.”

He grunted, seeming a little disappointed with her response. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again quickly and shook his head. “So that is it then? I will marry Éowyn and you my brother?”

That statement more than any other made her feel heavy inside. “I guess that’s the plan,” she breathed listlessly.

He eyed her at that, fiddling with his empty glass. “You don’t sound pleased. Why is that?”

“Why should I tell you?” she hissed in retort, feeling very defensive against him. Her eyes flickered angrily, then drifted off towards the floor in an expression of sorrow. “I’m not in the mood to be man-handled.”

Boromir grunted at that and watched her. His gaze was unreadable as he said tonelessly, “Are you saying he forced you into bed? And you did not scream?”

It was on her tongue to tell him what all had happened, but for the fear of that dread creature if, in fact, Boromir was in on what was going on behind the scenes. She just didn’t know if she could trust him. She had thought she could trust Éomer, after all. Which brought the question to her mind again. “You never told me what’s going on with Éomer.”

Closing his eyes as he leaned his head back, Boromir brought his hands to his temple to rub away his anxiety. She wondered what it was he was going to tell her. He seemed hesitant and she grew nervous in the silence, fidgeting with her skirt. When he met her eyes it only increased her tension and when he spoke, it was gently. “Éomer is dead, Alura. We found him yesterday morning. Faramir did not say anything?”

There was a sudden lump in her throat and she sat forward on her chair, not sure whether to stand or sit or pace. She wasn’t sure what to say or think. Éomer dead? It wasn’t possible. “Faramir has better things to do than to talk to me, I’m sure,” she said darkly, then cleared her throat. Suddenly her face felt very hot.

Boromir pursed his lips and moved closer to her on the couch he was perched upon. He reached out and took her shaking hand in his, startling her with the gesture. “I am sorry no one told you before. And also sorry that you have lost your cousin.”

“Sorry?” she repeated, standing abruptly and pacing away, only to turn and look at him with wide eyes. “How did this happen?”

“He fell upon his sword, so we believe. He wrote a note. Éowyn recognized the writing as his.” He looked on the verge of rising, but seemed to wait to see what she would do next.

Alura paced closer, her arms folded as she relived a thousand childhood games and then ultimately what had led her to her final night with him. The last memory made her shudder and close her eyes as they became wet. Despite even that a part of her loved him still. And that part of her was screaming. Not now, she told herself as she felt her emotions bubble violently to the surface. Not here. But the weight of everything she had bore the past week was close to crumbling her walls. Suicide was not Éomer’s way. He would never do something like that. It was all too much for her to have to carry.

Without her realizing it, Boromir had stood and was now at her side, his hand clasping around her arm softly. She opened her eyes to glare at him but melted when she saw the concern written in his expression. His eyes followed a tear that streamed down her cheek and abandoning all else, he drew her closer, pressing her head against his shoulder. Alura went down without a fight, even going so far as to wrap her arms around him as he embraced her. She couldn’t stop the tide now, no matter how much she wanted to keep herself aloof from him. His warmth, his concern, it smothered her with the need to unburden herself, to let go of the emotions she had been holding in. And for a brief time she felt better in the outpouring, as if the terror and pain would never return even though she knew inevitably it must.

She was aware of his hands smoothing through her hair, aware of lips against her forehead and his whispers of comfort, of apology. When he spoke of her cousin he didn’t know the horrible feelings twisting inside of her, but somehow his innocent condolences seemed to work enough to give her the illusion of not being so alone. When it was done she could only stand there in his arms, feeling numb and pleasantly thoughtless. Until his hand landed against her wounded shoulder. Fire surged through her skin and Alura yelped, jerking back away from him.

...