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Hard Words, Chapter 5

Boromir/Original Female Character, Boromir Lives, a Shire wedding, culture clashes

Rating: M (but only barely, don't get your hopes up) (adult humor, language, and themes, alcohol use, tobacco/drug use, panic attack, crowds, mentions of PTSD, heavy making out; tw excessive drinking, playful but nonconsensual touching/kissing)

Chapter wordcount: 8200

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<Previous Chapter

It was the sloppiest, most disgraceful saber arch Boromir had ever witnessed. If he’d watched any group of Gondorian soldiers put on such a display, he’d have had them stripped of rank and saddled with a year’s worth of probation labor before the wedding couple had even left the grounds. But on that night in June, Boromir could think of no better send-off for Pippin and Diamond. He and Merry stood opposite one another at the lane gate, Merry in civilian dress, tie undone and missing his coat, and Boromir without his vambraces, gloves, or sash, with flower petals shedding over his shoulders. Instead of standing crisply at attention, heels snapped together, he was on one knee, so that his sword could connect with Merry’s in an arch. The folk of the Shire lined up beside them, and in their hands they bore flower stalks and cake forks, mugs of ale and fiddle bows. Some even had lit candles. The Bracegirdle boys had the rope they’d used to win the tug-a-war earlier in the evening. Fern stood beside Boromir with an armful of the flower sprays she had cultivated with such care. At the far end of the crowd, Pippin gave Diamond his arm, and they ran through the arch, laughing and ducking the eclectic assortment folk waved over their heads. They reached the lane beyond the gate, where a beribboned pony cart was waiting. Pippin helped Diamond climb inside, and then the two of them waved to their jubilant guests.

“Now, now!” Merry said, flapping at Boromir and fumbling for his horn. Boromir lifted his own horn, aware Fern was watching closely. He pinched his lips against the mouthpiece and blew.

In retrospect, he wasn’t sure if the Horn of the Mark and the Horn of Gondor had ever been sounded together. The sound cascaded outward like a flood, and later on, Boromir would hear reports from folk who swore they’d heard the call on the edges of Bree. All across the farthings, dogs howled and cats raced for cover. Chickens started from their roosts. Fruit fell from branches. In the lane, the pony leaped forward, startled, making Pippin and Diamond lurch in their seats before steadying themselves as the cart bounced away from the gate. Children and adults clapped their hands over their ears, shrieking with laughter. Fern threw her arms up around her head, sending flower petals cascading about her.

It took a full twenty seconds for the echoes to fade, and even after they did, Boromir could still feel the buzz ringing through his ribcage. He looked down at Fern, who was massaging her temples, but before he could ask if she was all right, a band of children came romping through the crowd. They leaped around Boromir and Merry, crowing and exclaiming that it was the loudest thing they had ever, ever heard. Boromir, who was still on one knee, allowed himself to be jostled backward onto his seat. The children tumbled over his lap, squealing with glee.

Merry whooped and slapped him on the back as he sheathed his sword. “We should probably never do that again!”

“Probably.” Boromir agreed, then raised his eyebrows as Estella Bolger burst from the crowd, face blazing. She reached out with both hands, snatched Merry’s loose collar, and crushed a bruising kiss to his mouth.

“Goodness.” Boromir scooted a few inches to give her more space to work, which was difficult with the children clambering over his lap. He looked up at Fern, who was still pressing her temples. “I’ve never achieved that particular reaction with my horn. Are you all right?”

“Have you ever been directly under a thunderclap?” she asked, rubbing her chest. “The kind that rattles the windows?”

“Bit like that, eh?” he asked.

“Like twenty of them,” she said, and she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “My, but you looked grand doing that. Perhaps I shall follow Estella’s example once all these children get out of the way.”

He flushed with pleasure, then felt a tug on his foot underneath the squealing pile of little bodies. Someone was trying to slide his boot off.

“Here, leave off, moppets!” he exclaimed. “I need my shoes on my feet, unlike you!”

They giggled en masse, and more hands pulled at his boot. He tried to fend a few of them off, but their companions took it as a challenge, and more piled on. He teetered backward into Fern, who didn’t try to push him upright. She tucked her skirts and settled down on the ground, and he flopped backward with his head in her lap and a pile of children pinning his torso down.

He gazed up at her as the assault on his foot began again.

“Felled,” he said.

She smiled and combed his bangs out of his eyes. “Brave, noble soldier, brought down by the horde.”

“It was bound to happen one day,” he said.

She frowned at him and tapped him between the eyes. “Don’t say that. I can tell them to get up, if you like.”

“And ruin their fun?” He wriggled his shoulder into a comfortable position under her knee and flexed his foot to make it harder for the children to maneuver his boot off. He had the sense that the longer it took them, the longer he could lay in the grass with his head in Fern’s lap. “I can endure it.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Perhaps I’m right where I want to be,” he said.

Oh, but that fine smile—he was starting to realize he would go to great lengths for the reward of that smile.

“I used to sleep like this,” he said without thinking.

She traced his nose. “Oh yes? Nestled into a maiden’s skirts?”

He blushed. “Not like that. I mean on the ground. Flat out like this.”

“In the army camp, you mean? Or while traveling?”

“No… I mean…” Shit. He hadn’t thought the direction of this conversation through—why had he brought it up? “Sometimes… sometimes I have trouble sleeping, that’s all. The bed feels huge and hot and too soft, like being swallowed, and I crawl down onto the floor. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” she echoed, and her fingers skimmed his jawline. “And why should the Captain of Gondor have trouble sleeping?”

“It doesn’t happen as often now,” he said evasively, and then he twitched and clamped his thighs together as a sharp little knee came dangerously close to his lap. “Ow! Steady on!”

Fern smiled, but it was soft and subtle. “I couldn’t sleep for months after Otto died. We slept all twined up together, like most folk, bodies touching. And before we got married I used to sleep with my sisters in the same way. So I wasn’t used to sleeping alone.” She brushed her hand over his face. “Don’t look so distraught. You just told me you sometimes sleep on the floor, which I assume means you sleep alone as well.”

He caught her hand and held it. “Yes, but my folk don’t have a habit of sleeping piled up together. I’ve always slept alone.” He remembered what Merry had said the previous day, about Fern keeping busy to distract from loneliness, and he imagined her balled up in a cold, empty bed. “I’m sorry, Fern.”

“I don’t tell you for your pity,” she said, curling her fingers around his. “My point is that I understand the toll grief can take, and why you, who have spent a lifetime surviving loss and ruin, might have trouble sleeping.” She drew his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

Warmth rose in him, not from the kiss, but from the quiet intensity of feeling understood. It bordered on the ridiculous—he was lying under a pile of hobbit children who were inches away from wrenching his boot from his foot, on the grass near a lane gate far from home, a little drunk, possibly slightly high, with his head in the lap of a lass older than he and half his size whom he’d known for barely two days. And despite it all he felt, with startling clarity, seen, heard, and recognized.

Surreptitiously, using her skirts as cover, he snaked his hand underneath and felt for her foot. He stroked the silky thatch there with his knuckle. The graceful curves of her breasts rose with an inhale, and her gaze flickered to the crowd of children hauling with all their might on his boot.

“Cheeky boy,” she whispered.

“I’m not a boy,” he said. “Though you make me feel a bit more like one.”

She smiled, lashes lowered, and she leaned down so her face was a few inches from his. Strawberry-blonde curls framed her cheeks. He wanted to open his mouth on her skin.

“Save it,” she murmured.

“What for?” he asked.

She combed his scalp. “For later.”

A thrill rushed through him, fired along by mead and music and bonfire smoke. Visions came to him of white lace sliding away to reveal a palette of cream and pink. She would be like a confection, something crafted on a plate, something to savor, decadent and indulgent. He wanted to taste her, bury his face against her, see her spread out in firelight. He wanted to make her gasp and arch and sigh. Beg, maybe.

Fuck.

Then the rational part of his brain—which was turning extremely slowly at the moment—caught up with the rest of him.

He was six foot four and not daintily built.

She could only be a few inches over three feet.

The math was difficult to reconcile.

“Er,” he said haltingly. “But what about…”

“I got it!” shrieked a voice, and the pile of children on top of him whooped in victory. Night air washed over his stockinged toes, and his boot was lofted above their heads like a trophy. Little fingers tore at his stocking until the fabric peeled away. There was the briefest hush of shock, and then a dozen shouts of surprise rose into the night air.

“It’s bald!”

“Smooth as an egg!”

“And so small!”

“Look at his tiny toes!”

“Tibby! Tansy! Come here! Look! Look at the Gondor man’s foot! It’s got no hair at all!”

“No, look.” Someone pulled his toes. “There’s some here, see?”

One little girl looked almost distraught, her hands clapped to her cheeks. “How’kin somebody so big have feet so small and bald?”

Other folk clustered around, peering curiously over each other’s shoulders to get a glimpse of his disfigured foot. Even Fern craned her head in interest, but she couldn’t see through the crush of bodies.

“I am an embarrassment,” Boromir said.

“Not at all,” she said. “You make up for it in other ways—great skies, they’re not joking!”

One of the children had heaved his foot into the air for the benefit of the crowd, and Fern stared at it, wide-eyed. Hobbits clustered around it, some darting out to touch him. He thanked the Valar that his feet weren’t ticklish, but it was a bit mortifying all the same.

“I thought you were just being modest,” Fern said.

“Regrettably, I’m not known for my modesty,” he said. “I suffer from an excess of pride, as you’ve seen. On that note, I’ll have you know that mine are perfectly adequate Mannish feet. Dare I say, even a bit on the large side.”

She snorted in laughter and then covered her mouth with her hand.

“You wound me,” Boromir accused.

“Sorry,” she replied through her fingers, unable to stop smiling. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

He wet his lips. “What about sooner, rather than later?” He struggled up onto his elbows. “Just let me find my boot, and I’ll walk you home. Then I shall make you forget about my feet.”

“Oh yes?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “I have a rather good memory, you know.”

He leveled a gaze at her as he sat up. “I am a hard worker.”

She pursed her lips in a wry smile, and Boromir lifted his head to scan the crowd jostling around them. “Who has my boot?” he called.

“I dun see how a fellow can be all that great if he’s got no more fur’n a frog,” a voice said nearby, just close enough for him to hear. A glance showed one of the big Bracegirdle lads, who was wearing the tug-a-war rope around his shoulders.

“And feet no bigger’n a bread loaf,” agreed another.

Boromir ignored them and rose up onto his knees. “My boot! Where’s my boot?”

“Reckon we could beat him just the same’s we beat everybody else,” added a third, who was holding a mug of mead in each hand.

The knot of lads all chortled and roughed each other, and one stumbled sideways into Fern, who was attempting to get to her feet amid the massing crowd.

“Here, lads, watch where you’re shoving,” Boromir said, standing up and steadying Fern. “And mind who you’re slandering.”

“How strong are you, then?” asked the one with the mugs. “Are you as strong as they say?”

“I don’t know who ‘they’ are,” Boromir said, gripping Fern’s hand and sweeping his gaze over the boisterous crowd for signs of his boot. “But I expect they exaggerate.”

“Think you could hold up against us?” asked the one with the tug-a-war rope. He swung the knotted end threateningly.

“Who’s to say?” Boromir asked vaguely.

“Bet you can’t,” challenged the boy.

Boromir prudently turned away. He was starting to feel the effects of the day. There was a gentle throbbing in his temple, and his knees were aching from the hours of dancing, reminding him that his days of reveling through the night were many years past. He wanted to slip away with Fern before his energy flagged completely.

“How’s about a round, then?” the Bracegirdle boy asked. “We’ll go soft on you, just the five of us to start.”

“No, thank you,” Boromir said, still searching for his boot.

“You scared of a couple of Hardbottlers?” the boy with the mugs taunted. “Afraid we’ll make you look a fool in front of all the lads and lasses?”

“Not at all,” Boromir said. “But I have other plans for my evening, and I should like to get on with them.”

This sent the Bracegirdles into a tight huddle. Boromir decided to forget his boot—the road to Fern’s was packed dirt, anyway, with only a bit of gravel. He could make it half-barefoot without issue, though he was determined to retrieve the boot tomorrow, as it was part of his uniform.

“Tell you what, Mister Captain,” the Bracegirdle with the rope said. “We challenge you to a tug at midsummer. Hardbottle Green. What do you say, eh?”

“I won’t be here at midsummer,” Boromir said. Through his foggy head, he realized that midsummer was less than two weeks away, and he felt a sudden pang of regret. He had planned to be well into mapping Annúminas by midsummer, which meant he needed to be heading north in just a few days. A sense of urgency flared in his chest, and his hand involuntarily tightened on Fern’s. He tried to turn for the lane gate, but the crowd had grown, drawn by the spectacle of his bare foot and the Bracegirdles’ grandstanding. Folk were loose and rowdy with drink, and they pressed in close, hugging each other, hugging him, laughing uproariously, jockeying and hallooing.

“Not here at midsummer!” barked the Bracegirdle with the mugs. “And won’t face us now! Someone’s afraid, he is! We licked the Tooks and the Bucks—he knows we can lick him just as easy!”

This elicited a roar of outrage from the folk nearest, with old gaffers furiously shaking their fingers and sisters and aunts unleashing the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. The Bracegirdles laughed and congratulated each other, while young lads from other clans tried to muscle in around them. Boromir’s stomach turned—things felt very close to spinning out of control. Three feet above the crowd, he could see how folk were starting to buffet and swirl about in currents, the same way two armies looked when they were deep at each others’ throats in a confined space. This was the point when soldiers turned from rational beings to feral beasts, ripping and shredding at corpses long after they were dead. He felt Fern’s hand slide in his, and he tried to shield her from the crush, but folk were everywhere. Merry was guiding a few elderly grannies away from the hullabaloo. Samwise was attempting to back out of the crowd, holding little Frodo close to his chest. The toddler was crying.

“All right!” Boromir bellowed, turning on his commander’s voice. “All right!” He put his fingers to his lips and whistled just as he had that morning before the ceremony, drawing a momentary hush from the crowd. “You shall have your contest, if you like. Break up—folk on the edges, fall back to the barrels. You lot here, to the fence rails. Clear us a ring.”

The hobbits whooped and hollered, scrambling to open up a space and find a good vantage point. They clambered up on stall counters or climbed onto the fence rails. The Bracegirdles crowed and thumped their chests, and the one with the rope tossed it out into a straggling line on the beaten grass. In the middle of the rope was a tassel of ribbons, and the boy with the mugs hurriedly paced off ten strides on either side. He set his mugs down as markers.

“Them’s the lines!” he proclaimed. “First to pull the ribbons past their mug wins!”

“Fine,” Boromir said, setting his sword and horn against the fence rail and helping Fern climb up to sit on the top.

“Sorry,” he muttered to her.

She smiled at him. “Don’t be, Captain—as if I should be opposed to watching you put a bunch of mouthy Bracegirdles in their place. Go on, make everyone jealous of me.”

That buoyed him, kindling a spark under his pride. She reached into her hair and fished for one of the white roses in her loosening flower circlet. She threaded it into his own circlet, just as a lady might offer a favor to her chosen knight before a tournament. He smelled the scent he’d been breathing in all night from her hair, and he took her fingers and kissed them. Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and turned to the squadron of Bracegirdles.

“Right, then, lads,” he said, taking up position at his end of the rope and picking it up. “Let’s see you live up to all your talk. Or have you lost your nerve?”

The boys scoffed at him and elbowed into place along their end. The rope lifted, the tassel of ribbons dancing in the middle. The crowd cheered.

“Who says go?” Boromir asked.

“We do,” their leader said. “Go.”

The Bracegirdles all threw their weight backward, making Boromir slide on the grass. He dug his heels in just as the ribbons neared the far mug. The crowd shouted their disdain. Elanor Gamgee was up on the counter of the pastry stall, holding onto the canopy post, and her face went red with fury.

“Cheaters!” she shrieked. “You’re a big bunch of cheaters!”

Boromir leaned back, holding the rope with one hand, watching the lads puff and tug and grunt on the other end. Around him, the Tooks and Brandybucks jumped and shouted, encouraging him to hold on. At the fence, Fern clapped and beat her fists on the rail with the others around her. Boromir let the lads struggle for a moment longer. Then he saluted Elanor, smiled at Fern, and jerked his arm back.

The Bracegirdle boys went toppling like a set of ninepins. They fell flat on their faces, piling on top of one another. The cluster of ribbons shot past Boromir’s mug.

The children behind him erupted in screams of jubilation, rushing forward to hug him around the legs and waist. The crowd cheered wildly, clanking mugs of ale together in celebration. Elanor leaped on the counter of the stall, ribbons flying. Fern laughed in delight. Boromir raised his arms to the folk of the Shire, thinking he’d never been so roundly praised for so little effort in any contest before.

The big Bracegirdle lad climbed out from underneath his fellows, huffing and stamping.

“We wasn’t ready yet!” he accused. “We want a rematch!”

Boromir shrugged. “As you wish.”

He beat them again. A few of their brothers came to join the contest, and he beat them, too. But the work didn’t end there. The cluster of Tooks and Brandybucks drove them off, jeering, and then rushed to take up the end of the rope. Boromir heard a few bets being shouted. Someone offered him a mug of ale. He accepted it and tossed it back. He instantly regretted it—it was the heady Shire mead, which sloshed down his throat with a fierce sting. He coughed and shook his buzzing head, then grabbed his end of the rope again.

The Tooks and Brandybucks gave him more challenge than the Bracegirdles. He gripped the rope with both hands and dug his heels into the ground. They pulled, laughing and groaning, and for a moment he could only hold fast against them. The ribbons danced on the rope. He felt his surcoat pull alarmingly across his back, and, afraid it might tear along the seams, he threw his weight backward. The group tumbled, shrieking, to the ground. The crowd hollered and hurrahed, and he was swamped with children again.

From the crowd rushed older brothers and sisters, fathers and aunties—stout hobbits with strong hands and backs. They jostled for position along the rope, while in the audience, folk climbed stacks of barrels or jumped on each other’s shoulders for a better view. Boromir unbuckled his belt, then reached for the collar of his black uniform surcoat and tugged it over his head. He followed it with the quilted vest underneath. On the fence, Fern laughed and held up her hands. Clad in his white shirtsleeves and braces, he tossed her the surcoat, belt, and padding, which she caught and draped over the rail. He rolled his aching shoulders and retrieved the rope.

It was a struggle. His feet slid in the grass; the rope dragged at his palms. He bent double, head down, hauling against the weight of eight, then twelve, then fourteen full-grown farm-strong hobbits. His muscles quivered, creasing his forearms like bundles of wire. The draught of mead roiled in his stomach. He could smell Fern’s white rose tucked into his hair. With a tremendous heave, he yanked the ribbons just to the edge of his mug. A few of the hobbits stumbled, giving him the leverage to haul them over the line. The crowd roared, and more jumped to join their family and friends on the rope. Boromir bent over his knees, laughing and gasping and shaking his head, but the crowd wasn’t going to let him be. They pushed the rope back into his raw hands and clapped him on the back. A lass actually leaped up, clutched his face, and kissed his cheek. Somebody else slapped his ass, and, startled, he straightened back up. He flung his hair from his eyes, spat on his hands, and picked up the rope.

There were so many hobbits on the far end that they couldn’t all reach the rope—there were at least four or five simply hauling on the waists of others. Boromir grit his teeth and heaved with all his might. Sweat sprang on his forehead. His palms burned and his fingers cramped, while on the far end, the hobbits leaned back, their tough bare feet dragging the earth. Calls rang out for the Shire, for Tuckborough and Bywater, for Buckland and the four Farthings. But despite it all, Boromir held strong, shaking with the effort. A huge cheer went up—Merry, the Shire’s great commander, left the crowd and joined the rope, and when he added his strength to the hobbits, Boromir felt his feet drift. He bellowed wordlessly, head craned toward the ground, and spread his feet to stop his slide. But Boromir’s ultimate downfall was Sam, who handed little Frodo to Rosie and sidled quietly into place behind Merry. He flexed his strong hands, set them on the rope, and Boromir fell like a splintered tree.

The roar was deafening, and he curled up, laughing, as he was buried under bodies. Children tumbled over him; the adults pounded him on the back. Lasses and lads alike bent to kiss his face, and he laughed harder and tried to shield himself with his elbows. His hair was pulled from its half-tail, his shirt dragged loose from his trousers, his collar wrenched open at the tie. His bare foot was pinched and tickled. Hands pawed at him; a lass wriggled through his arms until her face was crushed against his. She framed his jaw in her hands and planted her lips on his.

He didn’t have a chance to be astonished. As quickly as she’d come, the lass was pulled away to make room for a strapping lad, who cupped his face and kissed him as well. A frail old auntie was next, followed by a startlingly buxom young maid. Estella Bolger pulled her away and gave him the same crushing kiss she’d given Merry, followed by each of Pippin’s sisters, and the old fellow Abenard, and then Merry was there, beating the crowd back and roaring for them to give the man some space. He hauled Boromir upright by the shoulders, and then he smashed his cheeks in both hands and kissed him, too, smack on the lips.

Boromir sputtered, overwhelmed. “By all the Valar…”

Merry took his rope-burned hand and lofted it in the air. “Hail, hail!” he shouted. “For the champion of Gondor, what took twenty stout hobbits to bring him down!”

“What’s happening?” he choked.

Merry waved Boromir’s hand in the air. “Folk kiss the winners.”

“I didn’t win,” he said. “I lost.”

“Only at the very end. Don’t look now, Captain.”

Through the laughing faces and grasping hands, he caught sight of mint skirts and eyelet lace, and his heart leaped into his throat. His indulgent visions from earlier filled his head, but now they felt petrifying. He had imagined kissing Fern since that morning, but he hadn’t pictured it like this. His breath quickened and his stomach churned—the draught of heady mead that had buoyed him earlier now boiled around his ribcage, sickly sweet. He felt dizzy and flushed, and in an unpleasant flash, something akin to battle-panic fired inside him. The cheers melted into a wordless roar, and the congratulatory slaps flared that part of his brain that told him death was just a sword-stroke away. The kisses to his face and head and arms became lunges and jabs. His vision narrowed. His breath shorted out.

When Fern slithered through the last few folk barring her way, he took one look at her and then set his feet under him—one shod, one bare. He shot upright, rocketing above the seething crowd. Hobbits tumbled off him like autumn leaves, and he froze, not knowing what to do, not wanting step on someone, not wanting to hurt anybody, but at the same time needing to be far, far away.

Through his blurry tunnel vision, he realized one hobbit was standing still in the chaos, staring at him. He struggled to focus. It was Samwise, again holding little Frodo in his arms. His brown eyes were big and wide, locked purposefully on Boromir.

He cocked his head to the right.

Boromir followed his nod and saw a dark line of trees behind the tents and food stalls. Sam put his hand over his son’s tiny ear, drew a deep breath, and shouted, “Last call at the wine barrels! Last call! Get your Stockbrook before it’s gone!”

Folk whooped and tussled, and the fevered crowd broke apart. Boromir didn’t wait for them to disperse. He darted into the narrow gaps between bodies and ran. He ran like a green country recruit from his first volley.

The noise of the crowd dwindled as he broke past the party tents and toward the dark line of trees. A few lumpy haystacks dotted the fringes, and he swerved around them to reach the first trunk. Ears ringing, he stumbled over the roots and fell against the bark, gulping deep, sour breaths. He bent his head, wondering if he was about to be sick.

This hadn’t happened in several years. Two? Three? Granted, he usually found excuses to escape hot, noisy crowds before the panic fully manifested, but it had caught him off-guard here. The last time it had been this bad, he’d nearly punched his king in the face before he realized Aragorn was trying to wrestle him to the doors leading from the grand ballroom to the gardeners’ courtyard. Boromir had lain face-down on the cold flagstones amid terracotta pots and trowels, dragging gasps of soil-scented air, while the king of Gondor sat on the ground beside him, one leg thrown heavily over his back, puffing gently at his pipe and humming an old Dunedain walking-tune.

Boromir set his forehead against the tree, trying to will his body to relax, trying to force his brain to remember that he was at a jolly June wedding in the Shire, and not caught in the middle of a company of orc warriors. Not that this tactic had ever worked. His skin continued to crawl. His body shook, his heart pounded, and his stomach turned.

Damn his pride. He could have walked away, could have ignored the puffed-up Bracegirdles, brushed off the eager crowd, and disappeared into the night with Fern. He could be holding her in the firelight, indulging in all the things they’d hinted and promised over the long course of the day. Now he could barely force a breath past his breastbone.

“Boromir?”

His whole body gave an involuntary shiver at the quiet voice. She couldn’t see him like this. Not like this. Understanding grief was one thing. Comprehending panic in a perfectly benign situation was another.

“I’m all right, Fern,” he said without picking his head off the tree. “Too… too much drink.”

Her small hand touched his back—his braces were hanging loose at his waist, when had that happened? His brain reeled. He felt the bump of a mug against his elbow.

“No more,” he groaned.

“It’s water, Captain,” she said, pressing on his arm. “Just water.”

Gingerly, he unpeeled himself from the tree and looked down. In the darkness, she was illuminated only in faint washes from the lanterns past the tents. She stood on tiptoe and held the mug up toward him.

He accepted it and drank, letting the water wash his sour mouth. He wanted to spit, but propriety told him not to. He swallowed.

“Not too fast,” Fern said. “Sip it slowly.”

He drank again, aware that she was watching him closely. He didn’t want her to watch him—didn’t want her to see how his hand trembled as he held the mug to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound normal. “I’m all right. You can go back.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I’d hate for you to miss the last of the festivities.”

“Things will break up soon,” she said. Her hand was still on his back. “Folk will wander home, or tuck up around the party field.”

“Well, you should be off, then,” he said. “You deserve a proper rest after all your hard work. You go on home, get a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m not a child, Boromir,” she said. “And I’m not going to leave you here all alone.”

He closed his eyes and put his forehead back against the tree.

“Fern, sweet,” he said, his voice more anguished than he meant for it to sound. “I like you a great deal—more than I should. But I’m just an old used-up soldier. Body full of scars and head full of ghosts. Don’t waste your night on me.”

Her hands closed on his wrist, and she tugged him gently away from the tree.

“You’re not old and used up,” she said, guiding him over the roots. “You feel that way because you’ve had to fight for so long.”

“I’m tired,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I’m drunk. Go enjoy yourself.”

She pulled him to the nearest haystack. “Perhaps I’m right where I want to be, Captain. Has that occurred to you?”

He inhaled at the echo of his words earlier and let her settle him down onto the haystack. She cradled his head to rest in the fragrant hay and slid down to stretch out his legs. She trailed her fingers briefly along his bare foot, smiling, and then climbed to curl up by his shoulder. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and dipped it in the mug of water, then pressed it to his forehead.

“I’m all right,” he said desperately.

“Aren’t we all,” she murmured.

“This isn’t how I wanted the night to go,” he said.

“No?” she asked, dabbing the cool cloth down his temple. “Curled up in our very own haystack in a dark corner of the party field?”

“I wanted to walk you home,” he said. “Light a fire in your hearth. Lie down with you on the rug.”

“And go to sleep?”

His gaze flicked to her. “Only after a long while.”

She smiled and kissed his temple. “You’re in luck, then. Little would you know that I can’t abide sleeping in a room with a fire going. During the winter I must pile every quilt I own onto my bed, along with a hot water bottle, because I have no one to sleep with, and I cannot sleep with a fire.”

“What?” He turned his head toward her. “Why?”

“Because I wake in a panic, unable to breathe,” she said simply. She pressed her fingers to his sternum, right where his breath was catching. “Right here.” She rubbed the spot, easing his stifled lungs. “When those foreign folk razed the High Wood holes, you see, they didn’t just dig them under. They burned us out, like rabbits in a warren. It was the middle of the night, and they blocked up every window and door except one, and then they tossed burning pitch inside. Otto and I tried three different doors before we could get out, and my grandmother died from the smoke.”

He blanched, staring at her. “Fern…”

She held up a hand. “Once again, I don’t tell you this for your pity. I just don’t want you to think you’re the only person alive who gets overcome by an ordinary thing like the snap of a fire or the jostle of a crowd. A body full of scars?” She took his hand and drew it to the hem of her lace petticoat. She set his fingers against her calf and guided them upward, past her knee. He brushed over a patch of skin that felt different from the smooth, silky expanse below—rough, puckered, hairless. A burn.

“That’s from where my nightdress caught fire,” she said. “Runs all the way up to my hipbone. As for the ghosts…” She left his fingers where they were and set her hand back on the handkerchief she’d left on his forehead. She pressed the damp cloth. “You think six years is enough time to shake the terror from the war? My uncle, the Mayor, can’t endure being in a room with no windows after being locked in a cell for a year. Good old Merry and Pippin like to wear their swords around—not because they look so dashing, like some folk think, but because they feel so vulnerable without them. Dear Samwise still goes pale when he hears the scream of a barn owl—something about the sound those terrible hooded fiends made while they were out in the wilds.” She combed his scalp. “Most of us still have ghosts in our heads, Boromir. You’re not all alone in that respect.”

He closed his eyes, thinking of Merry and Pippin carting their swords around. He thought of Sam startling at echoes of Nazgul. Sam, who had gone farther and seen more horrors than any of them, had known what was happening to him in the crowd—Boromir wondered how often he’d quietly maneuvered Frodo out of stressful situations after they’d returned home. He would have to thank him privately tomorrow, perhaps buy him a pint at the Dragon and catch up as they hadn’t been able to before now. But then his thoughts moved to the idea of waking in terror to choking smoke and leaping flames, to rushing from exit to exit and finding them blocked, to watching a home and a life being devoured by fire, and he rolled onto his side to face Fern. He moved so quickly she squeaked in surprise, twitching the damp handkerchief away.

He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

She made another noise, high and breathy in the back of her throat. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she dropped the handkerchief and took hold of his shirtfront, twisting it in her fists. Boromir opened his mouth on hers. She tasted of honey mead and strawberries. She smelled of rose and jasmine. And when he slipped his hand around the small of her back, he could feel the gentle curve of her spine, the sweet swell of her hip. She wriggled in the hay, and he pressed his palm to help her until she was flush against him. Her long toes pressed just above his knees, giving her purchase to deepen the kiss.

He broke away a fraction of an inch, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Is this all right?”

“All right?” she repeated, her small nose sliding against his. “I’ve been looking for an opportunity to get away with you for hours. I was afraid I’d been too subtle for you today.”

He smiled and pressed his lips to hers again, but only for a moment. He pulled away again and set his forehead against hers.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For kissing you?”

“No. For just… being so kind and yet so frank. For looking past my thoughtless blunders. Looking past my pride.”

She squirmed closer, so her stomach was against his chest. Her breasts just below his chin. He could feel their warmth. “I haven’t looked past it. I see it. You wear it like a big silly hat.”

He nodded in humble concession. “I know. It has fueled my worst misdeeds.”

She brushed his cheek with her knuckles. “And, I expect, your greatest acts.”

He sighed. “I’m not sure that makes up for anything.”

“Only if you view life as a ledger to be balanced,” she said. She nudged him with her hips. “I wove a beautiful wedding today, did I not?”

He looked up at her, perplexed at the sudden change in topic. “Certainly.”

“Go on, flatter me a little. It was well done, wasn’t it?”

“Extremely well done,” he said, running his thumb up her spine. “In fact, it was the most beautiful Shire wedding I’ve ever been to.”

“Yes, cheeky boy,” she said, tracing his jaw. “And do you know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Because I trend toward perfectionism and an extremely stubborn reluctance to ask for help,” she said, pressing her thumb to his lower lip. “They are some of my dreariest qualities and have brought me some of my greatest strife.” She kissed him. “But if I use them carefully, they can create good things, as well.”

He smiled in understanding and bowed into the kiss. “How wise and poetic.”

“Do you see the parallels?”

He tilted his head to kiss her cheekbone. “Between what?”

She slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Between your pride and my perfectionism.”

“I’m afraid it’s too dark to see much of anything,” he said, sliding his lips to the curve of her jaw. “More’s the pity.”

“You’re being tedious on purpose,” she accused, and then let out a short, breathy moan when he kissed her behind her ear. The sound raced through his veins, and he kissed the same place again, wanting to hear more.

She tightened her fingers in his hair. “Do you want to know why I was late this morning?”

He could barely process her words, he was so wrapped up in the feel of her. “Hmm?”

“This morning. Before the wedding.” She tugged his hair again, making his blood run hot. “I was late with the flowers. Remember?”

“No,” he said, dipping his chin to answer the siren call of her pale throat. “I can’t recall anything that’s ever happened to me before this moment.”

She tilted her head back to let him kiss her neck. “I was late. Shall I tell you why?”

“Were you lying in bed thinking of me, as I was thinking of you?”

“No. That was last night in the bath. I got up quite quickly this morning.” She drew her nails against his scalp, and he hummed in appreciation and set his tongue against her skin. Her voice became breathier. “I went down to the archives under town hall. It took me a while, but I found the book I’d remembered seeing on foreign plant life.” She stuttered as he slid his mouth down to her collarbones. He felt her swallow. “I found your rockrose.”

His lips were parted over the alluring curves of her breasts, but he lifted his head in surprise. “You what?”

She smiled at him, her eyes hooded and her cheeks and lips flushed deep pink. “The rockrose on your shoulder. I found it, and its meaning.”

A spark of genuine surprise worked its way through the heat in his head. “You got up early to look for the flower in my tattoo?”

“I did. It was bothering me that I didn’t know it. And I admit I had ulterior motives.” She brushed a white petal that had come loose from his circlet. “There was an illustration with the text, so I’m sure it’s the same.”

“And?”

She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him. He rolled onto his back again and, quick as a fox, she loosened the tie of his shirt. She hooked the fabric with her finger and pulled the collar aside to bare his right shoulder.

“Five thin petals,” she said, tracing his tattoo, “suggest delicacy.”

“Ah,” he said. “An ill fit, then.”

“Don’t interrupt, Captain,” she said briskly. “Thin petals suggest delicacy, but the plant grows in the harshest of places. Poor soil. Beating sun. Salt wind.” She circled the flower with her fingertip. “But because the plant has tough armor—resinous leaves—it thrives. It spreads itself over whole hillsides. Sea cliffs. Sand dunes and coastal bluffs. And in doing so, it prevents them from sliding into the sea. They endure the worst conditions to protect their home.” She smiled, bent her head, and kissed the ink. “They mean valor, Boromir. And yours in particular—white, with a red bloodspot on each petal—means a selfless valor, not a showy one.”

Delight bloomed in his chest like the Pelennor after a rain. He knew it must have shown on his face, for when Fern looked up, her smile brightened. Her eyes sparkled in the distant light. He looked down, unable to bury his own smile.

“The design is for my mother,” he said. “Selfless valor is fitting for her.”

“I believe,” she said, “that it is also fitting for you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?” She leaned back. “A little while ago, I thought you wanted to take me home and strip the last of your clothes off and make love to me?”

He struggled to make sense of this statement, mouthing wordlessly in flustered consternation. His hands tightened around her waist.

“I… did,” he sputtered. “I… do, if, I mean—that is, if you want… if you think… I…”

“But instead,” she cut in wryly, “you accepted the Bracegirdles’ silly challenge as a way to get folk to ease up, to break up the crowd. You put your own wants to one side to keep others safe. I think that’s the definition of selfless valor.”

His heart felt like it was lodged in his throat and his brain felt like it had disintegrated entirely. He didn’t know how to start arguing back, how to push against this glorified image of himself. Fern gazed at him with a look of extreme satisfaction on her face.

“You needn’t look so smug,” Boromir said.

“Sorry,” she said, brushing his cheek. “But I do like dismantling your self-deprecation. It’s very fulfilling.”

“A fair portion of accepting that challenge was thanks to my pride,” he pointed out. “It wasn’t all selfless.”

“Ah, we’re back to your pride again, are we?”

“Yes, and you’re going to argue that you think my valor outweighs my pride,” he said. “I’ll head you off by saying you’ve only known me for two days, and I have wrought a great deal of damage out of pride.”

“You’re wrong on that front.” She propped her head on her hand. “You’re again thinking of yourself as some kind of scale that must be balanced. I don’t think your valor outweighs your pride. I think pride and valor go hand in hand. Pride without valor is just conceit, and valor without pride is just showmanship. You are neither. Why should a rockrose choose to armor itself and fight to hold its home together, if it’s not proud of where it grows?” She gestured in the air. “It could grow tall and flamboyant, like the hollyhocks in rich Shire soil, but it stays and protects its own despite the difficulties.” She burrowed her fingers into the hair on his chest. “And do you know why? Do you know what I think holds valor and pride together? I’ve been thinking about this, you see, because I’ve been thinking about you. Shall I tell you my profound thoughts?”

“Go on. What holds valor and pride together?”

She reached up and tugged his circlet down so the apricot dahlias fell over his eyes. He smelled the rose she’d stuck in with the other flowers.

“Love,” she said. “You are proud and valiant because you love so much.”

He inhaled, a spring of gratitude welling inside him. He blew petals off his lips and pushed the flowers above his eyebrows. For a moment he could only look at her, her face softly lit by the distant lanterns.

He swallowed. “I give in. I don’t know what to say. You humble me, Fern. I’m honored you see me in such a way.”

She slid her hand under his open shirtfront. “I have ulterior motives.”

He laughed, took her hand, and kissed it. “I shall fulfill them to the best of my ability.” Practicality nudged him again. “Though—ah. We should probably discuss the… logistics.”

“Whatever for?”

“Good strategy reduces obstacles,” he said dryly. “Week one of officer training.”

“Oh, don’t be dreary,” she said, gliding her hand down his shirtfront to his untucked hem. She flicked it up and set her palms on his ribcage. “Fuck.”

“Fern, my beauty,” he said, with a gravelly edge creeping into his voice. “I am twice your size.”

She smiled. “I’m aware.”

“How exactly are you expecting…”

“Oh, Captain,” she interrupted. “Have some imagination.” Without warning, she rolled onto him, pressing her body against his. She leaned down and kissed him deeply, her mouth opened wide. She raked her fingers through his hair to cradle his head, and he decided it was foolish to pretend he had charge of himself any longer. He put one hand on the nape of her neck, while with his other he hoisted her knee up alongside his ribs. He could reach all of her, everywhere, easily, from her toes to the top of her head, but he settled for halfway between. He buried his hand under her mint skirts and lace petticoat and curled his palm inside her upper thigh. She moaned into his mouth, and he realized that his missing boot wasn’t going to be a problem, because they weren’t going to be walking back to her house. He hoped the night would be a warm one.

Her tongue slid against the tip of his, and he chuckled darkly at how short her reach was. He set his jaw and thrust his own tongue into her mouth, filling her. She hummed and arched her back, making his fingers slide farther inward between her thighs. He brushed slick fabric, and it was his turn to moan, low and deep. He hoisted her higher up on his body so she straddled his stomach, her knees splayed on either side of his ribs. Her breasts rounded over her neckline, and she began to unlace the ribbons at the front of her bodice. She panted through flushed lips.

“I hoped you would see my side of things,” she said breathlessly, her fingers traveling quickly down the laces. “After all, I laid out my expectations to you this morning in the ceremony tent.”

He watched with hazy anticipation as her bodice loosened, and he reached up to help her pull the garment off. “Which were?”

She let him free her from the mint fabric, and then it was only lace and cream and pink. She tilted her head back as he took a delirious handful of her.

“Enjoy yourself,” she murmured.

With great pleasure, he obeyed.