Dweller in the Underground

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1. Discretion Chapter 12. Discretion Chapter 23. Discovery Chapter 14. Discovery Chapter 25. Disclosure6. In Extremis7. In Memoriam8. Revelations9. Trust 110. Trust 211. The Lost - 112. The Lost - 2

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Author's Note: This story falls midway between Discretion and Discovery, but after Revelations and Lady of Silences. Some knowledge of Kin-Strife will make some politics more understandable, but isn't required. Story written by Dwimordene.

A decided chill had settled over the Seventh Circle of Minas Tirith, despite the warmth of the early summer. It was not simply that the Dark Lord's forces had resumed their testing of Gondor's defenses along Anduin with a worrying vigor this spring; nor was it the news out of Edoras of more incursions and horse-thievery, which had sent men speculating as to whether Théoden had strength enough to rule in these troubled times. Nor could the tension in the Citadel be blamed upon Faramir's presence for once—not only was he in Ithilien, but he had been there much of the winter, and his brief return for Yule had not been marked by any particular quarrels between himself and his father.

No, for a wonder, the rather frosty atmosphere had its source in the Captain-General, who had returned home from a private errand to Lossarnach on his father's behalf not ten days past. Those who knew him—and who among the upper echelons of Minas Tirith did not?—might have blamed his mood on grief, for it had become known that the errand had been to one of Finduilas' maids, one Thaeryl who had been particularly close to the Steward's family, who had been gravely ill and had in fact died shortly after Boromir's arrival in Lossarnach. The Steward, being a man to balance all accounts, had always made a point to provide for the women who had served his late wife so well, especially when need reared its head, and it seemed Boromir intended to continue that policy in his own fashion. He had, after all, claimed the errand to his mother's sick maid himself, and if some thought his time better spent shuffling the army's ranks to try to cover the spring onslaught, most others were prepared to forgive him his sentimentality since it spoke well of the man behind the rank.

Still, none would have expected the visit to have quite so great an effect on him as it apparently had had. It had been subtle at first, but after a few days, men had begun to notice a certain coolness of the Captain-General towards the Steward. It never gained expression in words—if words were the measure of minds, the Lord Boromir remained in perfect accord with his lord father, and the business of the kingdom was attended to by both men with their usual care and precision. In itself, this was quite unusual: despite their sometimes energetic disputes over policy, rarely did the Steward and his elder son argue to the point of anger, and when they did, the eruption was hardly a secret nor were its reasons; this cool disaffection, therefore, had the councilors of Minas Tirith walking on eggshells, uncertain what to make of it. For if Boromir appeared determined to maintain a chill courtesy with his father, his manner was of late far more brusque with others, who found themselves subjected to the Captain-General's mercurial temper and to the impatience that lurked ever behind his energy.

Thus it was almost a relief when the messenger from Dol Amroth arrived with the ill tidings of an unusually bold Corsair raid on Gondor's western shores. For along with that news, he had brought word that the Prince of Dol Amroth intended to convene a council, and after some debate, Denethor had named Boromir Minas Tirith's representative. The Captain-General had at first protested—he had quite enough to do with managing the assault on Ithilien. "I may pass my days in the City, but my nights are in Osgiliath, and all other time is spent on the roads between the two. It cannot last much longer—I shall have to return for the season as soon as matters here are arranged," Boromir had argued. "Send another!"

"The Captain-General of Gondor is not concerned with one patch of earth, nor only with the army. Faramir can hold command for a fortnight. Besides which, you had time enough for Lossarnach," Denethor had pointedly reminded his son, which had proved a more effective means of silencing Boromir than any might have guessed. After a few moments' silence, Boromir had acquiesced.

"It shall be as you command, then, my lord," he had said. And so it was, and inside of a week, after a flurry of letters exchanged between Osgiliath, Henneth-Annûn, and Minas Tirith, the Captain-General had taken ship out of Harlond for Dol Amroth.

On the water, time was measured by the creak of wood and the sway of the lantern, as in the darkness, grey eyes opened suddenly on the breath of terror. The candle flickered, and the rush of water sounded all about him, as his heart pounded, loud in his ears as the current. After a moment, Boromir sighed wearily as he writhed onto his back, despite the narrow confines of a ship's berth, and stared up at the decking. I hate the dark, he thought. Every man did who knew what moved in it; every man did who had lost friends to the creatures of the darkness. Every man did who lived beneath the shadow of the east, and Boromir had hated the darkness even as a boy. For darkness was the herald of worse things than the mere absence of light. Almost without thinking, he slid a hand under his pillow; beside the dagger he kept there, lay his purse, and within it, a messenger's case. No writ for Imrahil, no princely address lay within, but the words of a dying woman that had drawn back to mind the knowledge that the child he had been had striven to forget. Drawn back to mind the dread of the darkness, of the coming of sunset—the coming of discord.

They called it a wasting illness. But I saw the cup that day, and I knew. So did your lord father. So spoke the dying woman, over and over again, alive in memory and refusing the grave decently earned. Boromir squeezed his eyes shut and endeavored to make his mind go utterly blank, tried not to let his thoughts follow down the dark paths they had strayed upon of late. Father knew. And I knew, tooï—not the end, but the way; the long way down, from words to blows. Words I can spit; blows, though... He did not know. On the battlefield, certainly he could deal in blows; in the bedroom... in the bedroom, there were words, at least. Would there ever be more than that? Were his habits—rough as they had grown in fact—portents of worse to come? How much my father's son am I? The uncertainty lay like a canker on his soul, and he was afraid of the answer.

Which might come all too soon, he knew. Dol Amroth was not simply the seat of the council of Western Gondor, and chief city of Belfalas—it was home to Andrahar of Umbar, armsmaster, captain, and lately, had others but known it, 'consort' to the Steward's Heir. Andrahar had forced him to rescind the last title, deeming it undignified, and Boromir's lips twitched in a hint of a smile at the memory of that most pleasurable wrestling match. But his humor faded swiftly, as through the lens of recent revelations, their bedtime sport took on a different and crooked cast. And the evening had ended as all the others had: Boromir on his back, Andrahar above him. Never the other way around. He knew the reasoning for that arrangement—Andrahar was nothing if not frank when cornered by necessity. And yet...

'You are a lad compared to me', Andrahar had told him the first time they had ever lain together, six years ago. The Armsmaster was no greybeard, but neither was he young. It was a long way from the streets of Umbar for him; a long way for one who had every reason to hate the coming of night for the awful memories it must bring. Andrahar was no coward to give willingly to Boromir what once had been sold to faceless men, or even taken by force against his will simply because a lad on the streets forfeited all choice. It was little enough that Andrahar demanded of him, taken in light of a dreadful childhood, where to lie beneath another was to lay oneself open to a savaging, to "admit" one's "rightful" place in a society that never allowed one to forget, even in bed, who was master, who was slave. Who would wish to return to that, especially when mastery sometimes meant not simply pleasing oneself only, but wounding the one beneath you? And yet...

He is no coward, and he knows I give no such meaning to the act. Therein lay the crux of the matter, as Boromir had lately come to conceive it. Andrahar was not one to fear aught from him, yet it was always Boromir who ended beneath him. Always. In his mind's eye, he saw his mother's face tighten, just ere his father rose... "Close your eyes..."

Swallowing the bile that burned in his throat, Boromir thrust the unwelcome conclusion back down. Rest while you can, for this time, Dol Amroth shall be no refuge for you....

It was a bright, fair day in Dol Amroth—the sort of day for which the coastal city was justly famous. The breeze that blew in from the bay smelled of salt and had the flags flapping gaily, as it carried the gulls far inland. The streets were crowded, for no one wished to be indoors on such a day. Particularly when a council full of ill-tempered, anxious, downright solemn lords awaited one there, one might be glad to find an excuse to take to the streets, and Andrahar, loitering about Dol Amroth's docks, was relieved indeed to be spared the mood at the keep.

It was hardly the season for such conciliar gatherings, nor was it wholly convenient, but then again, surprise attacks were hardly meant to render matters convenient. It was usual enough for summer to bring orc raids, and clashes along the Haradric border with Haradric "mercenaries", but it seemed that barely had summer begun this year than the Haradrim—all unofficially of course—had begun to press Gondor, hard, by land and sea. Indeed, one of their first acts had been to avenge, at long last, the humiliation that Thorongil had inflicted upon them during the Battle of Umbar: a month earlier, aided by a warm spring and an early turn of seasons, the Corsairs had burned four towns in the Langstrand, one after the other, and then disappeared back out to sea. And since bad news, Andrahar reflected, spread like fire, Imrahil had soon enough been besieged by letters and messages from frightened, outraged lords demanding an explanation of how such could possibly happen.

Personally, Andrahar was somewhat contemptuous of such questions. "They did not ask how it was possible that Thorongil took the docks at Hurrhabi in Umbar, but hailed it as only what should have been done long before," he had huffed to Imrahil one evening. The Prince had earlier retired from the hall and foregone the pleasure of the nightly paperwork for once in favor of some peace, quiet, and a good bottle of brandy. Andrahar, noting that last item, had quietly invited himself to join his lord and blood brother, and not simply because Imrahil's taste in liquor was exquisite. Although it had been two years since Adrahil's death, and Imrahil seemed to have accepted the burden of leadership gracefully, Andrahar knew him well enough to know when Imrahil might need a friend's company. "And to take those docks and the shipyards was a sight more difficult a task than slipping a ship or two past Dol Amroth's fleet to strike harbors that will put up little more than a weatherguard for their own protection. They've grown complacent behind Dol Amroth and the north."

"Now, Andra," Imrahil had said, with fond exasperation, gently swirling the brandy in his glass, "have a little pity for those who have not seen war yet. They shall get a gutful of it soon enough, as we both know. It is just the shock of it—the west has been mostly peaceful since Thorongil's raid, and before that, incursions were largely around the bay, not back along the western coasts. Even the raids in Beren's day did not reach so far."

"Pity I have for those harmed; but stupidity deserves none," had been Andrahar's unapologetic reply. Then: "What will you do?"

Imrahil had sighed. "Send what help I can, of course. And I think it would be well to call a conference of the western lords. Not," the Prince had said quickly in response to the rather thunderous look on Andrahar's face, "as a means of placating them only. In all seriousness, Andra, you have seen the reports from our spies and from Boromir and Faramir; we speak frequently on matters military and you have been to the front in Harondor training esquires. This is but the first test of Umbar's power after many years' rebuilding. War is coming—the war is coming, and it would be best to prepare for it a little at a time. But not too soon, nor yet again too late. It is a matter of timing, and it may be that what has happened in Langstrand need not be a tragedy only. After all, bruises teach best, do they not?"

At that, Andrahar had snorted, but he had smiled that wolf-white smile of his that all esquires quickly learned to fear. "I have found them very effective, certainly. Though how you shall convince them to see four burned out villages as a 'bruise', I have no idea."

"It shall not be easy, but it shall be done," Imrahil had replied firmly. "The messengers shall go out tomorrow, since we should see to this as swiftly as possible. And one must go to Minas Tirith—the Steward must be informed of the attack, and also of our plans." And when Andrahar had grimaced, Imrahil had chuckled and clicked his tongue at him like he would at a sulky child. "Give Denethor his due, Andra. Never has he dismissed as of little importance any breach of Gondor's borders, nor done less than his duty."

"Mayhap not, but you know that he will remind you of this in the future."

"I don't doubt it. Ah well," the Prince mused philosophically, staring at the candlelight's refraction through his glass. "Were it not for Denethor, whom would I have to put me in my place from time to time?" And there, for a moment, had been the grief that Andrahar had waited for all evening. Once, the answer had been "Nimrien", and when that could no longer be said, it had been, "Your father". But Adrahil was more than a year in the tomb. And so Andrahar, scowling, had growled only:

"Me, of course, you sot!"

Imrahil had laughed at that. And then he had raised his glass, and said gratefully, "To old friends."

"In spite of it all," Andrahar had finished their private toast.

That had been weeks ago, and the messengers had long since returned bearing word of those who would come. Not that anyone would ignore such a summons, but some brought sons or captains with them, that they might hear the news as well, and be better prepared for the future. And to Andrahar's (pleased) surprise, the messenger to Minas Tirith had returned to say that the Steward would be sending the Captain-General to them as his representative. Given that the war season was now well underway, Andrahar had rather expected Denethor to send someone else—Lord Húrin, perhaps, or some other counselor not bound to a military post. However, he would hardly complain of seeing Boromir again, and Imrahil had certainly brightened at the prospect of seeing his nephew, which had pleased Andrahar as well.

Ordinarily, however, he would have been overseeing the esquires, and seen Boromir no sooner than the Prince himself did if not later than that, but Imrahil had had other ideas that morning. "Boromir ought to arrive this afternoon, and I need someone to fill him in on the news since the messengers left for Minas Tirith."

"You mean you need someone to take him in hand, since he never did get his sea-legs," Andrahar corrected, and Imrahil grinned.

"That, too, and I think he would prefer it if you were his escort. Who better than one who shares his dislike of the sea?" Imrahil had said, and grinned at Andrahar, who glared at him, but did not correct his prince, either. "So tell Peloren he'll have to mind the esquires on his own until the council is finished—you're off to the docks this day," the Prince had ordered, and Andrahar had been only too happy to comply.

At the moment, there were three ships in the harbor flying Minas Tirith's colors, and a fourth had just put bow to berth. Andrahar watched as the dockworkers and sailors hurried to secure it and bring the gangplank. At length, as men made their way down to the docks, a familiar figure appeared. Though he had learned to hold his own on the river, Boromir had never been much of a seafarer, but he had learned how to disembark without falling over. Still, once upon steady ground, the Captain-General leaned against one of the dock posts, pretending to examine some missive that he dredged out of his purse. He was still feigning it when Andrahar approached and hailed him.

"Uncle, 'tis good to see you," Boromir replied, blinking twice and giving an odd, swift shake of his head; when the two men clasped arms, his grip was harder than affection warranted.

"Likewise," Andrahar replied, and then, in a lower voice: "Steady, lad! Rough passage?"

"Summer storm round the cape," Boromir replied. "Haven't felt right since then."

"Are you going to be sick?" the captain asked, ever practical.

"In front of everyone? That would be poor form," Boromir replied, with just a hint of wryness to his voice, and gave Andrahar a reassuring final squeeze ere releasing him. "I'm fine, Andra. I may not be much of a sailor, but I've always been quick to recover."

"True enough," Andrahar acknowledged, and, with a wave to the porter who was hovering nearby with the Captain-General's trunk, began steering Boromir towards the street. "Nevertheless, since your Uncle charged me not only to escort you home, but to tell you of recent events here, I hope pride will not be offended that I commandeered the carriage." Boromir shook his head at that, his resigned expression indicating that he knew very well that Andrahar would not have cared overmuch if pride were offended—in any task that touched upon the safety of any member of the Prince of Dol Amroth's family, Andrahar would do as he judged best unless one were willing to invoke the privileges of rank or to mount a lengthy and careful attack upon his reasoning. As Boromir was generally willing to do neither in Andrahar's case, the Armsmaster's task was rendered considerably easier on them both.

But this time, had he glanced over his shoulder, he might have seen a brief flicker of unease darken Boromir's countenance. Only for a moment, and another might have attributed it to Boromir's lingering discomfort, but the Armsmaster was an observant man; one did not survive the streets of Umbar without a good eye for men's dispositions. But Boromir mastered himself a moment later, and by the time the two of them settled in the carriage, no trace of that emotion remained.

"So," Imrahil asked, and handed Boromir a glass of brandy, "how go matters in Minas Tirith? How is your father?" The Prince poured a glass for himself and then stoppered the decanter; from long association, he knew not to offer any to Andrahar when the Armsmaster considered himself to be on duty.

The three of them were ensconced in the Prince's dayroom. As soon as they had reached the castle, Andrahar had sent a runner to inform Imrahil that his nephew had arrived, and barely had they reached Boromir's room than the lad had returned, requesting the presence of the Captain-General and the Captain of the Swan Knights in Imrahil's chambers. The Prince had greeted his nephew lovingly, embracing him ere he held him at arm's length for avuncular scrutiny, and then had given a dramatic sigh and declared himself relieved to see him: "For you have saved me from another hour with Golasgil."

"Anfalas is making a nuisance of himself?" Boromir had inquired.

"As ever," Imrahil had replied, and he and Andrahar had shared a knowing look. For Andrahar especially had no reason to remember Golasgil with any fondness; indeed, he took a great satisfaction in watching the Lord of Anfalas quietly seethe over his presence at Imrahil's elbow. But that did not mean that he enjoyed seeing the man or even thinking of him, and so he had been grateful when Imrahil had made a dismissive gesture and said, "But let us leave him for the council tomorrow."

And so instead, they had turned to more familiar matters. Boromir took a sip of his brandy, considering his reply to his uncle's question ere he shrugged and answered, "As the Steward goes, so goes the city. Father watches the Enemy's movements with concern, and business with Rohan is growing more difficult. Théoden's advisors seem to be pulling him in two directions lately." The Captain-General shook his head over that, and grimaced. "If he would but move his nephew back to court and send Elfhelm to the Eastfold, matters would improve there."

"Is Elfhelm among those who would see fewer ties to Gondor?" Imrahil asked.

"No, but he is no kin to the king, and not much of a speaker—solid captain, no doubt of that from what I have seen of him, but when last I was in Rohan, he did not strike me as one who aspires to be more than a captain. In a Marshal, that may be a good thing for a strong king, but in these times—?" Boromir drew a finger across his throat. "A counselor is needed. Éomer would be the better choice, even if, as Father says, he is headstrong and impulsive at times. But he is far from Edoras and can do little. Father worries that the Rohirrim may not be ready for war when it comes if this continues. But what can he do? We have our own troubles, and overmuch pressure from him might strengthen the opposition in Meduseld."

"That is unfortunate," Imrahil murmured, and for a time was silent. Andrahar watched the Prince's brow knit, as he ran through the implications of trouble in Rohan. But as there was little Dol Amroth could do to help or hinder matters in that arena, Imrahil shook his head and asked then, "Speaking of our own troubles, how fares your brother?"

"Harried. Worried. The Orcs multiply and they are testing us hard, though the line holds still and I think is not in any danger of failing. Still, 'tis a bad time to be a Ranger, or else the best of times, depending upon how one looks upon the matter. Certainly they are sorely needed," Boromir replied, sounding worried himself. But he did smile slightly, and chuckle, as he added, "In his latest missive, Faramir claims he is happy to report that none have complained of boredom yet this season."

Andrahar snorted at that. "Cheeky lad. That tongue of his may one day bring him trouble. No complaints, indeed!" Imrahil chuckled and raised his glass briefly in silent salute of his younger nephew.

"And yourself?"

Boromir shrugged again. "Well enough. I have been up and down the length of Ithilien more than once since the weather turned in March, and am often between Osgiliath and Minas Tirith lately. But Faramir speaks also for me—I cannot complain of being underused, and the line does hold."

"I suppose that given all your travels, you will have had little time for courting, either," his uncle observed, raising a brow.

"I have not, much to Father's chagrin," Boromir replied, and tossed off the rest of his brandy in a single gulp. He grimaced slightly, for it was strong stuff, but then settled back in his seat and gestured to Imrahil with the empty glass. "And now that I am fortified, Uncle, you may proceed with the chiding and the recitation of The List."

Imrahil laughed, but he held up a hand, declining the invitation. "I am not so heartless as to accost a man on so intimate a matter ere he has been an hour in Dol Amroth, Boromir. Another time, for in truth, The List has quite a few ladies upon it." Boromir groaned, and Imrahil's wicked smile grew briefly broader, ere he banished it to say in all seriousness, "For the moment, I will say only that I do worry that neither you nor Faramir are wed; with the Enemy pressing us hard this year, misfortune may carry the day with one or both of you. As the Prince of Dol Amroth, I am of course concerned that the House of Húrin continue; but as your uncle, I would be greatly grieved if there were nothing left of either of you."

"I know," Boromir replied, in a gentler tone of voice, and Andrahar lowered his eyes, suddenly absorbed in studying his hands, which were clasped before him. He was not a man well suited to deal with sentiment himself, and he knew it, but even so, witnessing such displays, he felt... awkward. It was not a feeling he enjoyed, particularly not when, in addition, he had his own reasons to dread both the prospect of losing Boromir wholly to war, but equally the solution, however much sense it made and however much he himself prodded Boromir to marry. Fortunately, the moment did not last, as Boromir gave his uncle a wry smile and said, "At least I have no such worries about you. How are my cousins?"

And so the conversation turned then to the doings of Imrahil's children, and since the Prince was both a proud and doting father and possessed also of a silver tongue, the most mundane events acquired a meaningful hilarity. By the time the servants looked in to announce that supper was ready, and would the Prince care to have his nephew's dish sent up with his own, even the Armsmaster had laughed a time or two. "Please do so," Imrahil said, and then added, "and send another plate for Andrahar. Andra," he continued without missing a beat, smoothly forestalling his friend before Andrahar could do more than open his mouth to protest, "you are no longer on duty. The guard has changed—you will note the sun is setting as we speak, and Peloren has charge of the esquires until such time as the council has closed. So, you have no excuse—join us. Besides, you cannot convince me that you would not benefit by a night off ere you are reduced to kicking your heels at the doors to the council chambers, to say nothing of listening to some of the arguments we shall doubtless endure."

At that, Andrahar was forced to acquiesce, and he even laughed a little at being outmaneuvered. And in truth, a night off was not unwelcome, particularly since it meant a little more (and much more substantial) time in company he had long missed. His gaze drifted to Boromir, who met it an instant, ere the Captain-General reached for the brandy decanter. It was never safe to look too long, and both knew it. Even though Andrahar did not truly worry that the Prince would object should he discover their affair, it might make matters awkward—More awkward, Andrahar amended to himself—when next he faced the Steward. And so he schooled his thoughts, and accepted a glass from Boromir, and settled in for a more relaxed evening than he had allowed himself for quite some time.

And later, after a lengthy and enjoyable supper, and a long and meandering conversation among family, there were other forms of companionship to enjoy. It was long ere Boromir or Andrahar slept, and when the sinking moon shone through the windows of Boromir's chamber, its light fell upon them both—dark skin on pale, they lay twined about each other in exhausted slumber.

It was barely dawn the next day when Andrahar knocked on Imrahil's door. There was no immediate answer, which did not wholly surprise the Armsmaster, and so he waited patiently until the Prince's esquire cracked the door open. But seeing who it was, the young man quickly stood back and bowed him in with a murmured "Good morning, sir."

"Good morrow," Andrahar replied, and from the table before the window, Imrahil raised an eyebrow as bleary grey eyes flicked over the Armsmaster's immaculate appearance. "My prince," he offered, crisply.

"I think it one of your more repulsive traits, Andra, that you must be ever so terribly proper and alert at this hour," Imrahil replied by way of greeting, and clutched his teacup closer.

"I do but return the favor of the last evening. You need to get out of this castle for a ride before you face the morning session," Andrahar replied. And when Imrahil sighed, he added, in his most persuasive manner, "If, however, you wish to spend the entire day cooped in a council chamber, fairly tied to your chair, with no better company than the disgruntled lords of Gondor, then I need not remain."

Imrahil considered this for a moment, then downed his tea in a single swallow and rose, reaching for his cloak. "When you put it that way," he said, and Andrahar smiled slightly.

Within a quarter hour, they were underway, just the two of them. They could not go far, of course, but the shorter distance meant that there was no real need to spare their mounts. Usually, Andrahar had the advantage in such races, given his lighter frame and also the fact that his usual mount was a match even for Imrahil's great grey charger. However, Andrahar had foregone the pleasure of riding Rahur, his notoriously foul-tempered stallion, since in truth, he was not much in the mood to create challenges for himself today. When they reached the bottom of the gentle slope atop which sat Dol Amroth, his lead was therefore appreciably smaller than usual, though he won cleanly enough. On unspoken agreement, they gave the horses their heads, and if the pace was not nearly so frantic, they rode at a good clip, and the damp morning air licked over them.

When at length, they finally reined their horses in to a comfortably brisk walk, Imrahil urged his stallion closer so that he was knee to knee with Andrahar, and said, "Well, I shall own that that was invigorating, and that I am grateful."

"You're welcome," Andrahar replied.

"And now that that is acknowledged, it is my turn. What prompted this outing?"

"You needed it." Imrahil snorted.

"You might as easily have asked for a sparring match, and gotten a lesson out of it for the esquires you've been forced to abandon to Peloren's tender mercies since yesterday," the Prince countered. "What so pressing that Dol Amroth's confines seem too narrow for it?"

The difficulty with having perceptive friends, Andrahar had discovered long ago, was much the same as the difficulty with having perceptive enemies: they tended to perceive precisely what you wished them not to, at just the wrong moment. In truth, he had suggested riding because it was a form of exercise that would afford him the opportunity to think, whereas sparring, particularly with a swordsman of Imrahil's quality, demanded the sort of fine-honed attention that made careful musings impossible. And as for the narrow confines of Dol Amroth...

Andrahar had awakened early that morning and crept from bed and lover to don his somewhat rumpled uniform and slip back to the chamber within the castle that he used whenever his morning business required him to be in the keep rather than on the field. There, he had washed thoroughly and climbed into a clean set of clothes before going to stand at the window and watch for the first hint of dawn. And while he had waited, he had considered the vague feeling of unease that he had awakened with that day. It was, he had realized, the same feeling he had fallen asleep with. However, he had been too weary at the time to give it any attention, and in truth had not expected it to linger. And yet it had, and so he had set himself to scrutinizing it.

He had not left Imrahil with that feeling the night before, of that he was certain, which had sent him back to the bedroom, to Boromir, and Andrahar had frowned as he reconsidered how matters had gone there. There were limits to every relationship, but the one that weighed most heavily on the pair was that of time. Short hours made for a narrow bed, as it were: the knowledge that every tryst was but a brief interruption of the long months of separation lent a certain hurried intensity to their lovemaking that remained ever with them, no matter how they came together. Hence nights tended to be long and tiring affairs as they grasped for time. Certainly, the night before had left Andrahar pleasantly fatigued, despite a couple of somewhat uncomfortable moments. Nor was it that Andrahar was adverse to playing rough or being played roughly, within limits, but he had winced a few times from Boromir's attentions and he had spent longer than usual that morning checking for incriminating marks. Still, Andrahar was not convinced he had uncovered the source of his unease, for as in war, so in love: one took one's chances in bed; sometimes one misjudged and the other suffered a little for it. It had happened before, to both of them, but such minor discomfort had never hindered their enjoyment before.

So what is it, then, that troubles me? And what shall I tell Imri? Andrahar wondered, aware that his friend was growing concerned by his silence. He could hardly tell him the truth, but he had never been particularly comfortable lying to him, either. And so he settled for the best compromise he could manage: "My dreams troubled me last night, and I, too, shall be trapped in the conference hall today. A little air seemed called for."

"What dreams, if I may ask?" Andrahar shrugged.

"Umbar, the streets... any number of closed rooms." Which was a lie only insofar as he had not dreamed such, but bedroom anxieties, no matter what their nature, were ever haunted by memories of the past. Indeed, they had led to the end of more than one affair, and Andrahar did not much like the implication of that observation. Imrahil, however, knew nothing of his thoughts, and, as the Armsmaster had hoped, sought no further. The Prince, of all people, knew intimately how painful the past was for his oath-brother, and it was with deep sympathy that he replied:

"I did not know that you still dreamt of that, Andra."

"'Tis an uncommon dream," Andrahar replied, briskly.

"I see," Imrahil responded, and his tone made it clear that he knew very well that Andrahar was attempting to preemptively dismiss the subject before it could affect his composure. For a moment, it seemed that he might pursue the matter nevertheless, but to the Armsmaster's relief, the Prince shook his head slightly and sighed, and let it drop, though it was plain that he was troubled on his friend's behalf. Seeing that, Andrahar bit back on a grimace, for though he had had no choice but to answer in some way, he had never wished to give Imrahil cause for grief of any sort, particularly not today, when an unfriendly council chamber awaited the Prince.

As they crested a low rise, Imrahil brought his mount to a halt, and Andrahar hastily checked his horse beside him. The Prince gazed out over the scrub-covered plain that stretched before him to the white sand strip and the waves beyond. As ever, the sea seemed to have a calming effect on him. Andrahar had never truly understood that; though not a sand-rat of the deep desert himself, he had an ingrained mistrust of the ever-shifting waters and had been very glad, as a young man, to put ship to port whenever his duty to Imrahil had taken him out upon them—which in truth had been far more often than he would have preferred.

But if the sight gave Imrahil some peace and enjoyment, then he'd say nothing against it, though he felt honor-bound to remark, casually, "Why the world needs such water, I do not know."

Imrahil chuckled. "You swim in it readily enough," he replied.

"Yes, where it is safe, near the shore. 'Tis nothing a small lake could not provide. Or a river."

"You're incorrigible, you know."

"Absolutely," Andrahar agreed, deadpan. Imrahil shook his head, chuckling, then kneed his mount to turn it back towards Dol Amroth, Andrahar following suit.

"I would ask for a rematch, but you'll forgive me if I insist upon a slower pace upon the return. No sense in hurrying home to the 'disgruntled lords of Gondor' since we've the time," Imrahil said then. It was Andrahar's turn to smile, as the two of them urged their mounts to a comfortable trot. But a moment later, he grew thoughtful once more, as his mind turned back to the matter of this strange unease that attached to Boromir. Could it be that he is troubled, and so I am as well? he wondered. Boromir had much on his mind, that was clear enough, and equally, he was the Steward's Heir: happily or unhappily, he was his father's son in other ways than merely blood—if Boromir did not wish a thing to be known, he would do all he knew to hide it. But even Denethor could not keep all things hidden...

By the time he met Imrahil and Boromir outside the council chambers, he was nearly convinced that the matter might be resolved if only he could loosen Boromir's tongue later that evening. Though how to go about that remains to be decided. How fortunate, he thought, wryly, that I have naught to do today other than, as Imri put it, kick my heels at the door! Still, it would not be easy, and perhaps he was fooling himself to think a few questions would resolve the matter. Certainly, he had been skeptical about many more certain things in the past—indeed, was so on a regular basis when it came to matters of the safety of Dol Amroth's royal family. And so he did not silence that doubtful inner voice wholly, only ignored it for the present; there would be time enough to pursue it if matters did not become clear that night.

"Ready to face the council, gentlemen?" Imrahil asked just then, eyeing the two of them.

"Since we must."

"If we must." Andrahar's answer came at almost the same moment Boromir's did, and Imrahil laughed. Boromir, too, chuckled, and Andrahar quirked a smile, unable to help it, though he felt no particular mirth of himself. Imrahil has always had some power to move me despite myself, and Boromir begins to. When did that happen, I wonder? he thought, and felt the matter of his own uneasiness the more urgent for that. But such intimate questions must wait, for Imrahil, replying to them both, said then:

"Then we shall." And he led the way in, with Boromir and Andrahar falling in tow behind him to face the unhappy assembly of the lords of Gondor.

As was the way of such gatherings, the council lasted through the day, and for much of it, Andrahar found himself either bored or just to one side of incensed. It was not that he knew nothing of the value of trade, or had failed to appreciate the strategic and monetary advantages it offered, but having discussed the matter extensively with Imrahil before, there was little to hold his attention, unless it were the short-sightedness of certain of the more remote western lords. Patience having never been much his strong suit in such arenas, and entirely too conscious—as he usually was in such circumstances—of the fact that he was surrounded by Gondorians, it was a trying afternoon as treaties and revenge were debated. But if he stood a Haradrim alone in council, at the end of the day, he was not alone in his assessment of the arguments.

"Can Anfalas not understand that it is not a matter of just deserts for past action, but of prudence for the future?" Boromir demanded irritably when at last the three of them withdrew to Imrahil's chambers that evening, after a rather subdued supper in the great hall. Imrahil had brought the brandy out once more, and Boromir had immediately tossed back a glass in the council's honor. He was now nursing his second, while Andrahar and Imrahil sipped more restrainedly at their drinks. "Breaking the treaty we have with the Haradrim over this offense will not help us. Or have they forgotten that that very treaty is what kept us from war when Hurrhabi was sacked?"

Andrahar grunted, shaking his head over the memory of that tense, emergency convocation which had begun so badly and ended so unexpectedly well for Gondor. It was, he admitted, one of Denethor's finest diplomatic moments, particularly given the circumstances of that raid. Andrahar, ever at Adrahil's elbow that day, had gotten the distinct impression that the Steward's Heir had been well pleased to clean up so spectacularly after Thorongil.

Not that either Ecthelion or Denethor could have claimed to be anything but in the very thick of the plans to destroy the shipyards at Umbar, and well Andrahar and Adrahil had known it, but there had been no means of challenging the story Denethor had put forth, that a Gondorian fleet exercise had just happened to discover the Corsairs "using" Hurrhabi's shipyards and had fortunately been able to destroy the ships docked there. And the newly laid keels. And the harbor. And the shipyards and the timberhouses, and several businesses known to trade slaves with the Corsairs. And (of sad necessity, of course) several other naval vessels that the pirates had been "holding" at dock. All of it had been excused under the piracy articles of the treaty, which had bound both Gondor and Harad to stamp out identified pirates wherever they might be found. Umbar had got a new lord within the year, so bloody had been the fall out in Harad. Of course, fortune liked to balance such successes...

"I rather doubt," Imrahil said, dryly, "that the irony is lost on any, but none shall wish to admit it. Fortunately, none of us shall lose our heads over this matter, which is more than can be said for Lord Nazad's late and unlamented predecessor." With a wave of his hand, the Prince continued more seriously, "What is done is done. We must look to the future, as you say—this may be the very lever needed to put all the South onto a footing of war. For we know very well that it is coming. We must see that the treaty is renegotiated next year, yes, to buy us time and keep our coffers full, but the next time Gondor and Harad meet, I do not believe it will be across a table."

"True enough, " Boromir sighed, and then raised a brow at his uncle. "Indeed, this may have come at the very nick of time. You ought to see the tax schedules Father and the Exchequer are already preparing for the next five years."

"I'll see them soon enough," Imrahil replied, with more calm than one might expect from one who would be among those bearing the brunt of such taxes. "In truth, there is no avoiding the fact that we pay for war in both blood and taxes. With regard to the latter, I've had my own chancellor reviewing Dol Amroth's accounts in anticipation of an increase. But to return to our still disgruntled lords—" and here, Imrahil flashed Andrahar a grin "—we must endeavor to keep them so, that they shall not rush to war, but equally, that they shall not balk now to prepare for it. They have had their say this day; tomorrow, and every day after it, must be ours."

Which was easier said than done, of course, but necessity had mothered creativity countless times, as Andrahar had good reason to know. And, as it happened, good reason to repeat. "Need finds its own way, lad," he replied to Boromir's worry later that evening, between panting breaths. Boromir made a noise deep in his throat that might have been a muffled reply, and Andrahar groaned softly in response. Unfortunately, if he had harbored any hope that that might end the matter for the night, he was disappointed, for his lover drew off with a grimace and crept up from the foot of Andrahar's bed to lie beside him, tucking an arm beneath his head. With a sigh and a silent plea for patience, the Armsmaster asked, "What is it, Boromir?"

"So you think that Uncle can carry the council in this matter?" Boromir asked.

Andrahar frowned. "Why should he not? With your support, he should be able to persuade them. The lords of Gondor are unfortunately prone to complaints at times, but they will see the truth of your words quickly enough when forced to it by circumstance. Gondor has not quite the taste for vengeance, either, that Harad has—if Harad can wait for war, so also can Gondor." Boromir grunted at that, in a rather dispirited manner, and closed his eyes, and Andrahar bit his lip, considering this unexpected turn of affairs. Once more, that unease prickled to life, reminding him that he had hoped to speak with Boromir this night, to sound him out as to whether something troubled him. And clearly something does. But I had rather thought to ask later... Still, perhaps his lover's strange mood this evening was for the best—certainly, Boromir had no grounds to deny him his concern, and so he asked, "Boromir, what is the matter?"

Boromir shrugged. But rather than answer directly, he said only, "You are right, of course. Uncle has persuaded more obstinate parties in the past; he shall surely succeed this time."

"But?" the Armsmaster prompted, and his lover sighed.

"But," Boromir said in a low voice, "I should not underestimate the desire for vengeance among Gondorians. You of all people should know better."

Which was hardly what Andrahar had expected to hear, and he blinked, surprised. "I said not that it does not exist, only that you have not the taste for it that we have in Harad. And indeed," he replied emphatically, "I, of all people, should know it—I am, after all, still alive, beyond that free, and quite whole despite the enmity of some of the highest lords of this land." Among whom, naturally, the Steward himself stood first, but there was no need to say it. At that, Boromir gave a soft snort, and the arm that he had draped about Andrahar's waist shifted, as Boromir trailed a slow, spiraling caress down his body, 'til his hand rested over the scar on Andrahar's left leg. Fingers teased gently, tracing the contours of that old mark.

"You never fear for anything, do you?" Boromir asked, opening his eyes of a sudden, and regarding Andrahar closely. And despite the lovely, dark quality to them that bespoke arousal, it was not desire that put a shiver up Andrahar's back.

"Are you truly worried about the council demanding revenge?" he asked.

"Should I not be?" came the rejoinder. Before he could reply, though, the hand on his leg moved, as Boromir drew it up the inside of his thigh, brushing lightly against Andrahar's loins with the palm of his hand... and then suddenly withdrew with what sounded like a frustrated sigh when Andrahar drew his fingers down the line of Boromir's spine, pausing to rub suggestively just beneath his tailbone.

"Boromir?" Andrahar asked, confused, nonetheless ceasing his attentions just as swiftly.

"Sorry, Andra. I fear I'm not quite in the mood tonight," Boromir replied after a moment, squeezing his eyes shut again.

"You could have said so earlier, lad," Andrahar admonished after a moment.

But Boromir's brow furrowed slightly nevertheless, as he repeated, somewhat tautly, "I had thought I could please you at least tonight, and then sleep. I'm sorry to have troubled you for naught."

"Lad, trouble me all you like—'tis not that. I meant that you need not force yourself with me only because I am here. If you wish to sleep soundly for once, you have only to say it. I can keep you company in that as well, if you wish," Andrahar replied. And his voice hardened noticeably as he continued, "And in the future, you tell me what you want. You are not here to play only to what you imagine I desire or even what I do desire; if I wished for that in a lover, I could have my pick of lads at The Fairweather."

There was a profound and uncomfortable silence after that, until Boromir said once more, and softly, "I'm sorry, Andra."

With a sigh of his own, Andrahar laid a hand gently on Boromir's shoulder, and when the other allowed that, slipped it around his back in a somewhat awkward, if firm, embrace. "Go to sleep, Boromir," he urged, in a much gentler tone. "You've enough on your mind; we can speak further of this tomorrow."

Boromir gave a soft grunt, and obeyed with that swiftness that every warrior develops with time. Andrahar sighed once more, as he drew Boromir a bit closer. Gently stroking the other's hair, he stared past his lover at the wall even as thought crowded out vision. Ah, lad, what is it that troubles you? he wondered. For certain he was now that his feeling of the night before had not been mistaken. But inquiries would wait—he would not wake Boromir now to demand answers, for truly, it had been an exhausting and frustrating day in council. Tomorrow, Andrahar decided, brushing a light kiss against Boromir's brow ere he settled himself for the night. I'll ask him tomorrow. And worried though he was for the lad, he had but to close his eyes and his dreams took him.

To be continued...