Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Pearl of Great Price (#2014)
Author: DreadLadyFreya
Chapters: 2

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: Boromir falls in love with the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who sees her as a commodity to be traded for his gain.
Published: 28 Jun 2005
Updated: 29 Jul 2005
Warnings: None
Type: Romance
Characters: Boromir; Faramir; Denethor; Assorted OCs


Chapter 1 - Chapter One

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain’t mine. If you feel the need to sue, I have two words for you: blood and turnip. You do the math.

A/N: Thank you to my tireless and long-suffering betas Terreis and CaveTroll.

* * *

The early summer sun glinted brightly off armor as the soldiers made their way up through the streets of Minas Tirith. Even this early in the season, marching in the heat of the day could be oppressive, but this was a duty none resented. For the first time in many months a patrol was returning at full strength, not one man had been lost during this tour. The citizens had lined the streets, welcoming home their protectors with flowers gathered from the Pelenor, from lovingly tended window boxes, and the rare ‘proper’ garden. Thrown loose to the soldiers or strung into garlands and placed about the neck of a favored young man, no offering was too small and each was appreciated.

At the head of the column rode the focus of much of the attention, Minas Tirith’s favorite son, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain General, and heir to the Stewardship. Returning the waves of the crowd, and touching babies and children lifted up to receive his blessing, Boromir leaned over to his lieutenant and asked, “Refresh my memory, Ardoron, why did I not send you with the troops while entered by the back door? I tire of this spectacle, and we are not yet to the fourth level. One would think I was sent by the Valar themselves.”

“Two reasons, my lord. First this ‘spectacle’ as you call it, is exactly what your people need. Too often have they met the returning troops, searching desperately for the face of a husband or son only to have their worse fears realized. You have accomplished the impossible and safely brought all back to hearth and home. To many you were sent by the Valar.”

Acknowledging the explanation, without actually accepting it, Boromir prompted, “And the second reason?”

The deadpan delivery was marred only by the twinkle in Ardoron’s eye, “Why, Minas Tirith has no back door.”

Resisting the urge to knock his lieutenant from his horse, Boromir instead shook his head and looking to the heavens murmured, “Valar, give me strength.”

The company continued through the third and fourth circles of the city, collecting more flowers and dodging the occasional child who, caught up in the excitement of the day, ran between the ranks. More than once Ardoron was grateful for the well-trained war horses that effortlessly avoided the children.

‘What a wonder these Rohirrim are,’ thought Ardoron, to be able to teach these beasts the difference between friend and foe.’ His musings were cut short as they approached the gate leading to the fifth circle. Ahead he could see a somber carriage drawn by two black horses, walking behind the carriage was a large group all dressed in mourning garb.

“An interment procession, so much for our homecoming.”

At his lieutenant’s comment, Boromir looked up from the smiling child who had reached out to pet his mount. “At least we meet them upon our return and not at our leave taking.”

Both men gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of what some of the poorer, less educated of their men would have made of such an evil omen. Yes, it was better to have met the procession today, even if it did cast a shadow on their homecoming.

The troops moved to the side of the road, allowing the mourners to pass. Hats and helmet were removed and heads bowed in a show of respect. After the carriage had passed, Boromir lifted his head and idly scanned the group following behind it. At the head was an older man; leaning heavily on a cane and assisted by a woman, behind them walked a man escorting two women. Although they wore the traditional color of mourning, the well-made clothing spoke of wealth. After all, in these times who but the wealthy could afford specially made clothes to be worn for a short time and burned as custom dictated? Boromir frowned at this obvious show of ostentation. A mourning sash would have served this purpose better, he mused. One look at the two men told Boromir they were father and son, but what of the women? He wondered. Daughters? The one in front, perhaps.

As he started to look more closely at the woman in front, a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Looking in that direction, what he saw brought a smile to his lips. There, walking just behind the deceased’s family, was Faramir, waving while trying not to look like he was waving. Ah, Boromir had missed his little brother. Not so little anymore, he corrected himself. While Boromir still held the advantage of weight and breadth, Faramir had inched past him several years ago and was now the taller of the two. Dipping his head to acknowledge his brother’s greeting, the elder wondered why Faramir would be part of this procession. He was wearing his robes of state and not his dress uniform, so he must be here representing their father, the Steward. The deceased must have been someone of importance to warrant an appearance from the House of the Steward.

Once the procession passed, the company was able to continue up through the city, their presence brightening the pall the funeral had cast on the crowd’s mood. Upon reaching the barracks on the sixth level, Boromir ordered Ardoron to dismiss the men from ranks, and took his mount to the stable. After seeing to his horse, the Captain-General (for that was how he regard himself; he was, after all, still on duty at least until he reported to the Steward) pondered whether to go directly to his father or freshen up first. Knowing his father would be anxious to see him, he decided to forego the bath. Was he not a soldier newly returned from patrol? Who would expect lilac water and a spit polish? He chuckled to himself, who indeed?

Denethor was holding audience when Boromir entered the Hall of the King. Standing just inside the doors to the great hall, he watched his father, surprised at how much the Steward seemed to have aged while Boromir had been out with the patrol. For the first time he questioned the wisdom of his decision to lead this most recent patrol. Many of his father’s counselors had argued against it. The Captain-General of Gondor’s army had more important things to do than lead a routine patrol, they reasoned. He should leave that duty to one of his captains. But Boromir would not be swayed. He had wanted to see for himself how things were progressing or deteriorating as the case may be. As good as his scouts were, as much as he trusted his officers, he had wanted to see for himself how things stood. Boromir knew the Steward understood his son’s reasons for going and had given his official approval and a father’s blessing to the undertaking. The intelligence he had gathered would be invaluable, but was the price Denethor had evidently paid been worth it?

The Steward’s heir was roused from his musings by raised voices coming from the pair of petitioners now before Denethor. While he could not make out what was being said, it was clear that his father’s judgment had been … unexpected to say the least. Boromir smiled to himself, Denethor certainly was in his element here. The mantle of leadership agreed with Denethor. Not that there had ever been a choice, he had been bred for one purpose and one purpose only, to be Steward of Gondor after Ecthelion’s passing. That he enjoyed and even flourished in the role was a happy coincidence.

So here the Steward sat, listening to what some might regard as petty grievances, carefully considering all sides of the tales told. His advisors repeatedly tried to dissuade him from these weekly audiences, maintaining that his various ministers were more than capable of handling these minor crises and that his time was better spent on other, more pressing matters. What his advisors failed to realize was that he truly enjoyed it. He had once confessed to Boromir that he looked forward to these sessions, they gave him a real sense of purpose. Not only was he able to connect with the citizens, but what he did, the decisions he made had an immediate, tangible effect on those people’s lives. His people’s lives. When dealing with the whole of Gondor, it was too easy to get caught up in the numbers, 2,000 troops here, 500 bushels of grain there. Being able to impact his people on an individual basis, however, helped him keep his focus. He felt it was important that his people know he was concerned about their welfare. How could he convince them if he passed their concerns off to some underling? Besides, he had added with a chuckle, the smell of livestock and hard work was a refreshing change from the wind blown by some self important lords and preening diplomats.

Without raising his voice, Denethor promptly quelled the rising protests. The petitioners bowed respectfully and made their way from the great hall as their Steward watched. Denethor smiled as his gaze fell upon his eldest son. He raised his hand beckoning Boromir to come before him.

“Your pardon, my lord father, I did not mean to interrupt your audience.” Boromir stated as he went to one knee before his father, kissing the Steward’s ring of office.

“Nonsense,” the elder admonished, raising Boromir up with a hug and a kiss to the cheek. “Who of these assembled would deny a father the joy of greeting his beloved son? That we are Steward and Captain-General is of no consequence.”

Boromir returned his father’s embrace, ignoring those around them, content for the moment to be simply father and son reunited after so long apart. Finally, regretfully, the two released each other.

“You are newly returned from patrol, are you not?” Denethor prompted, smiling at his son, unobtrusively taking in his heir’s appearance and the unmistakable bouquet of horse and unwashed soldier.

“Forgive my appearance, Father, I wanted to give you my preliminary report immediately.”

“Of course, of course. I am most anxious to hear how things fare on our borders.” Denethor had thought to delay Boromir’s report, allow him to freshen up and take some food, until he noticed those standing closest to his son taking a discreet step backwards. ‘Self-important snobs,’ the Steward thought, ‘let them suffer. It will do them good to get familiar with the scent of an honest day’s work.’

For the next half-hour Boromir outlined his patrol of Gondor’s northern borders, including reports on orc numbers and movements as well as an encounter with a Rohirrim patrol. “Théodred Prince sends his regards and those of his father, Théoden King. He reports an increase in Dunlending activity along their outlying holdings.”

“And Théoden has taken no action to defend those areas?” Although couched as a question, it was clear from his expression Denethor already knew the answer.

“None, my lord,” confirmed a shocked Boromir.

“None,” repeated Denethor. In a voice almost to low to hear, he added, “Then it is true.”

The council began voicing their concerns at once, each trying to make his voice heard over his fellow’s. All assembled knew that with Gondor’s main strength holding the evil of Mordor at bay, they would be hard-pressed to fight a battle on a second front if Rohan fell.

“Silence!” Denethor’s voice cut through the din. When the noise had died away, he motioned once more to Boromir. “Pray continue, Captain.”

“As I said, my lord, Theoden King has taken no action to protect his people. However, Théodred has taken it upon himself to order increased patrols in those areas being harried.”

Denethor’s frown deepened, shaking his head in concentration and speaking as if to himself. “This makes no sense, Theoden would never allow…”

“I do not believe…” Boromir cut into his father’s musings, but hesitated to continue.

“Pray, complete your thought,” urged the Steward.

“It is only that…” again Boromir hesitated, wondering how to convey his concerns, deciding after a moment that the direct approach was the best. “Théodred spoke of a new advisor to the king. He says the king heeds this man’s counsel almost to the exclusion of all others’. And Théodred fears not all his counsel is for Rohan’s weal.”

“Who is this new voice?”

“He is Grima, called Wormtongue by Théodred.”

“I am not familiar with that name, though if what Théodred Prince believes is true, he is rightly named Wormtongue.”

From outside the bells announced the noon hour. Denethor noticed the slight slump of Boromir’s shoulders, and recognizing that telltale sign of fatigue in his son, was no longer Steward, but Father.

“Come, we can discuss Rohan’s court intrigue later. The bells have sounded and we shall heed them. I will await your full report, Captain. As for this audience, we shall resume at the third hour.”

With that the assembly bowed to their Steward and dispersed. Father and son, after ordering lunch to be brought, made their way to the Steward’s rooms.

* * *


Chapter 2 - Chapter Two

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain't mine. If you feel the need to sue, I have two words for you: blood and turnip. You do the math.

A/N: Thank you to my tireless and long-suffering betas Terreis and CaveTroll.

***

By the time Denethor and Boromir arrived at the Steward’s rooms, the table in the private dining room had been set for lunch, and a hot bath drawn in the bathing chamber. Cambar, Denethor’s valet, had been observing the audience; he had the uncanny ability to see without being seen, as do all exceptional servants. He had seen Boromir’s arrival and, knowing his lord as he did, knew the two would share the noon meal. He also knew that despite Denethor’s objections to the contrary, Boromir would worry about offending his father’s “sensitivities,” and so had dispatched a page to have a bath readied for the Captain General. The standing order with the kitchen staff to have his master’s lunch ready to be delivered by the noon bells relieved him of that responsibility. So it was that a smiling, composed Cambar met his lord at the door.

“So the horse trader said, ‘But he only needs one to breed.’” Boromir delivered the punch line as he and his father walked through the door.

Denethor laughed heartily at the joke. “The Rohirrim are an … earthy lot, are they not?”

“Aye, some might call them unsophisticated, but the Sons of Eorl are a good people. Fierce warriors, and loyal allies.”

Denethor made no comment, but instead addressed his valet. “Ah, Cambar. Help me out of this accursed costume. I swear that tailor of mine is in league with The Eye.”

Cambar did as he was bid, silently helping Denethor out of his court robes.

“Oh,” sighed the Steward, dressed now in the lightweight tunic and leggings he had worn under his robes. “Much better, much better. Thank you, Cambar. Lunch …,” the Steward paused as he noticed the table. He continued with a smile, “…has been seen to. My apologies, I should never have doubted you.”

“Of course, my lord.” Cambar answered with a smile of his own. “I’ve had a bath prepared for the lord Boromir, if he is so inclined.”

Boromir’s answering smile spoke volumes. He started towards the bathing chamber, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, then paused, turning towards his father.

“Father, your lunch …”

“Nonsense, my boy, go have your bath. I will amuse myself with some correspondence. Lunch can wait.”

The Steward’s heir continued toward his bath. Once inside the bathing chamber, Cambar helped remove his lightweight traveling armor and boots, leaving the rest for Boromir.

“You will find a fresh change of clothing there,” the valet indicated a neatly folded pile on a bench in the corner.

“As always, you’ve thought of everything.” Boromir sighed as he slipped into the warm water. “And Cambar? Thank you for taking such good care of Father, in my absence.”

“It is my great pleasure, Captain Boromir. Enjoy your bath.”

By the time Boromir drug himself from his bath, the water had cooled significantly and his fingers and toes were nicely pruned.

‘How is it,’ he wondered to himself, ‘that too much time in the water causes one to resemble dried fruit?’

At the thought of the amount of time he must have spent in the water, Boromir hurriedly dried himself off and dressed in fresh clothes. His own clothes, he noticed, not his father’s, not that he would have minded it simply felt good to be clean. Leave it to Cambar to have the foresight to send for Boromir’s own clothes.

Still drying his hair with a towel, Boromir started toward the door. He was half-way through his father’s bed chamber when he heard voices coming from the sitting room. Had one of his father’s counselors followed the Steward to his private quarters? Who in court would have the audacity to do so, and to what end? Boromir was loathe to consider the options. Opening the door to the bed chamber slightly, he peeked out making sure he could close it quickly and quietly in case he didn’t want to help his father entertain this “visitor.”

The sight that greeted him was not at all what he had expected. There on the settee were his father and brother, with their backs to him, apparently deep in conversation. Boromir smiled to himself. It was good to see the two of them together, talking and at ease with each other. It was not that Denethor did not love both his sons equally, never that. It was simply that Denethor and Boromir were so much alike. Their time together seemed effortless, each enjoying the other’s company; both were born soldiers and could talk endlessly about battles, strategy, weaponry and the like. But with Faramir… With Faramir the love, the respect, the desire for camaraderie were all there. Only the connection was missing. Denethor and Boromir could spend hours on end in each other’s company discussing the current state of affairs, the latest court gossip or simply in companionable silence. For Denethor and Faramir most attempts at conversation felt forced. It wasn’t that Faramir did not understand or appreciate the subtleties of war craft, he was an excellent soldier and commander, intelligent, and insightful. Nor was he above a little court intrigue, truth be told he had spent more than his fair share of time in the limelight. No, the sad fact was that Boromir was not sure what it was. He only knew that right now his father and brother, the two upon Arda he loved the most, were sitting, heads together apparently at ease one with the other.

As he neared the two on the settee, he could make out what his father was saying to Faramir.

“And so the horse trader said, ‘But he only needs one to breed!’”

Faramir joined Denethor’s throaty laugh, clapping his father on the shoulder.

“Taking credit for my hard work, Father?” Laughed Boromir. Ah, but that joke got better with each telling.

“Boromir!” Faramir exclaimed as he stood to greet his brother.

Boromir sighed contentedly as he engulfed his brother in a hug. “Little One, have you grown while I was away?”

It was an old game, left over from Boromir’s days at the academy, when for the first time the brothers had been separated for any length of time.

“No,” came the expected reply. “You are shrinking. Soon I shall be the big brother!”

The brothers laughed, glad to be in each other’s presence once again. Boromir had been gone since the first thaw and even before his departure, Faramir was spending most of his time in Ithilien, so it had been a long time since they had been able to spend any time together.

“I may, indeed, be shrinking, Little Brother. After so long on the road, with nothing but trail rations, I can fairly feel myself wasting away.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow at his son’s blatant over exaggeration. “Well, then by all means let us hurry to table before Gondor is deprived of her future steward.” Eyeing Faramir carefully, the ruling Steward added, “Of course, Faramir would make an excellent steward, so …”

It took a moment for Faramir to realize his father was teasing, and answered with a chuckle. “Oh, no. Not I, thank you. That is an honor I will gladly decline. Days on end of state functions, foreign dignitaries, treaties and trade agreements?” Faramir feigned a shudder. “I’ll gladly keep to my Rangers, at least in Ithilien one knows who one’s enemy is.”

“Oh, you two are vastly amusing,” stated Boromir, eyes rolling skyward. “You really should consider taking your comedy troupe on the road.”

Boromir allowed himself to be dragged to table by a chuckling Faramir. After facing west for the Standing Grace, father and sons set to their meal. Conversation was kept light, Boromir sharing anecdotes from his patrol, Faramir passing on some of the juicier court gossip. Through it all Denethor remained silent, content to simply enjoy his sons’ company.

“I had meant to ask about the interment procession. I thought perhaps it might be one of your Rangers, except that you were not in uniform.” Boromir asked around a mouth full of boiled potato.

“Gah, do not speak with food in your mouth. No, not one of my Rangers. Do you remember old Telmist?”

“He had that shop on the Fifth Circle?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Oh, I loved that shop. He always seemed to have whatever you were looking for.” Boromir chuckled, adding, “I always wondered what kind of connections he had, and if all of them were above-board. Do you remember when Mamma would take us there for sweets? Old Telmist would always sneak an extra into our pockets when Mamma wasn’t looking.”

“I remember,” answered Faramir with a smile.

“Oh, your mamma saw all right,” added Denethor with a similar smile. “Tried on several occasions to get Telmist to stop, even threatened to go to another shop, but he knew his business. He knew the two of you would insist on going back to his shop. As for his connections, we never had reason to suspect his dealings. He has, or rather had, a brother in Dol Amroth, I believe most of his goods came from his brother.”

“What will happen to his shop?” Asked Boromir. “His wife died a few years ago, did she not? And I do not recall any children.”

“Evidently his brother from Dol Amroth will be taking over.” Denethor smiled fondly at his eldest. “So you can rest assured, Boromir, that the quality of merchandise will not suffer.”

“Well, I am merely thinking of you two,” the Steward’s heir began. “After all, I was away for my naming day and I know you will want to make it up to me.”

Boromir’s father and brother rolled their eyes skyward in unison and continued their meal as if they had not heard.
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