"When I Said I Would Die a Batchelor..." - by Nancy Brooke
‘ … I did not think I should live till I were married.’
Wm Shakespeare
Much Ado About Nothing Act II, Scene iii
A good meal had been dispatched, counselors dismissed, and several bottles of wine done away with. The day’s business was at an end for Aragorn, Elessar, King of Gondor. Now might he enjoy a few precious hours in the King’s Garden untroubled by concerns for the outside world on this, a truly lovely autumn evening.
He was even reluctant to cup his hand as a windbreak and impede the delightful breeze from going anywhere it would, but he could not light his pipe otherwise and lighting his pipe gave him a few more precious moments to put off one last, niggling agenda item, an item too long delayed already as his beloved wife had reminded him again only that morning.
The King shook out the match and took a long draw, then slowly let the smoke go out to join the breeze. Thoughtfully, he extended his long legs as far as they would go upon the flagstones and leaned his back up against a well-worn bench. Now, how to proceed?
He considered the man next to him. He, too, was sitting legs outstretched, flagon dangling from a relaxed hand, a rare smile of contentment gracing his handsome face: Boromir, Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower, Captain-General of the United Armies of Gondor and Arnor, etc. etc. Among other things, a man nearly impossible to take unawares.
But that smile, now, that smile showed promise. Aragorn took another draw to consider the source and had to smile himself.
For nearby sat his queen, contentedly absorbed in a small book. The fading golden glow of evening seemed to have gathered itself around her, and the breeze which had playfully shifted hither and thither now seemed content merely to feather her raven hair. By contrast, Arwen’s two spritely daughters – normally inseparable from their mother’s side – skipped freely about the garden playing together with unusual agreeableness. And the family’s newest member, Prince and Heir, lay bundled in his cradle peacefully absorbed in mouthing his blanket and being rocked gently by his mother’s delicately slippered foot.
It was, one had to admit, a scene of surpassing domestic tranquility, and in it Aragorn found his opening.
“Does it never tempt you?”
“What?” Joggled from reverie, Boromir turned his face to the flagon and lifted it to his lips.
“This.” Aragorn leaned closer to his friend and spoke low: “A wife, children, a home to … come home to.”
A snort came from deep in the cup. “Surely, you jest!”
“Assuredly I do not.” The former ranger leaned a little closer. He was nothing if not patient, after all. “Come! You must have considered it.”
Boromir’s face when it emerged from the cup, wore a smirk. “A wife? I’ve no need of a wife. My needs, I assure you, are well met.”
The king straightened again, best to affect a little distance. “Of that I’ve no doubt! I see the way the young ladies of the court linger after you – and some of their mothers, too.”
A cocked brow joined the Steward’s smirk, but even he could not keep some color from sneaking into his cheeks. Aragorn felt encouraged.
“There is more to marriage than ‘needs’, my friend. What of your house?”
“My house?”
“Yes. Will you let the noble house of Hurin fade through neglect?”
“Fade?” Boromir’s face broke into a genuine grin. “You have not heard the news out of Emyn Arnen – Eowyn is with child, again.”
“Indeed! Indeed?” That was news, and took much of the wind from Aragorn’s sails. He directed his surprise to the Queen who, like the moon, was just then rising quietly. She nodded, with an indulgent ‘I did tell you so’ smile, and sailed by to meet the nurse come to escort the Princesses toward their beds.
“Well,” Aragorn reached for his own cup which had waited so patiently by his feet all this time. “Faramir at least seems well contended with married life.”
“Aye, and his lady wife keeps him busy at it.” Together, the two men raised their glasses toward distant Ithilien, and drained them.
As Boromir reached down beside him for the ewer he spoke almost to himself. “My house …” He refilled the King’s cup and then his own. “This was once my house. ” A wave of the ewer took in the garden, the walls, and the residence beyond before Boromir set it back on the flagstones; “and truly I do not grudge it you. You have peopled it prodigiously well.” He proffered a toast toward the cradle, which Aragorn happily echoed. But here was another opening, and Aragorn could not let the matter rest; he had his orders.
“Do you want no sons of your own?”
The king stretched a foot to set the cradle to rocking again, and sent a beaming smile toward the bundle of princeling which gurgled obligingly.
But Boromir refused to be baited on his own hook. He faced his friend bemusedly. “What, is it my legacy which concerns you?”
Aragorn shrugged non-committally. “You must think of the future. It will come whether we will or no.”
“Feeling it already, are we?”
“Aren’t we? How’s that shoulder?”
The warrior reached for his sword arm reflexively. “Aches, damn you, Healer. The back, too, now you mention it. And what of it? Old Age has never frightened me, although, I will confess, I never thought to see it.”
Standing, Aragorn took a few paces to relight his neglected pipe and disguise his frustration. This was not going at all as he had expected. Arguing with Boromir was like trying to down a stag unarmed: impossible if you went at it head on.
Aragorn let go a long plume of smoke and gazed off into the middle distance. “You are not too old to be a father.”
“This from the voice of experience!”
“Of course, you are older now than your father was when he married and sired sons. Still, there is absolutely no reason to assume you are unable.”
“Unable!”
There, at last, a hit! As casually as possible Aragorn resumed his seat, the better to press this fragile advantage.
“And what of your office?”
The Steward sighed, resigned now to a pleasant evening ruined, or at least deferred. “Yes, what of it?”
“You absent yourself from the Citadel …”
“As you never do.”
“… miss council meetings, trade negotiations, ambassadorial visitations …”
“And you wonder at my absence?”
“I cannot have you always living rough, never in one place for two nights together.”
“Ranger, now I know you jest!”
“Charging about half-cocked –”
“Half-cocked? No fear of that!”
Aragorn sent a smoke ring to the stars like a prayer. “I knew it was a mistake to let you keep all your titles and become Steward. Perhaps I should revoke one or two …”
“You would not!”
“No.” Aragorn abandoned any further pretence. “No I would not.”
Silence and twilight settled in about them, before the Steward spoke again.
“Would you see me tamed?”
Aragorn sighed. He had no wish to alter his friend, but the years since the war had not been kind to Boromir. While the land renewed and the people rebuilt, Boromir had gone without rest or reward, unceasingly scouring the realm of any remaining evil. “My friend, I would see you at peace.”
“And for this you recommend marriage?” Boromir could not resist one last wry retort, but he delivered it without rancor. The Steward took a deep breath, and let it go. He reached again for the ewer, and then decided better of it, rose restlessly to pace away, and then returned.
“I have never known peace.”
Aragorn could only nod his understanding. “But familiar or not, my friend, peace is what we have achieved. Is this not what we fought for?” He gestured toward the now sleeping prince. “The war is over.”
“Over?” With surprising speed Boromir’s temper flared. “ It is but six years since aid came to us at Amon Hen and you and I were delivered from the Uruks, Uruks which, I need not remind you, still roam the Ephel Duath, befoul the Morgolduin, and plague the peaceful peoples of South Ithilien. Only yesterday I lost a man, a good man, a man who had what you would sell me on: wife, children, peaceful domesticity. A single Orc arrow took all that away from him.”
Measuredly, Aragorn replied “this man – ”
And was interrupted: “Maerborn. His name was Maerborn, Maenborn’s Son.”
Aragorn bowed his head. “Yes. Yes, I know. I saw your report. I have written to his wife. Arwen will visit.”
Quieted now, Boromir resumed his seat. “I went this afternoon.”
“And? How was she?”
This time when the Steward reached for the ewer, he refilled his cup and drained it fully before answering.
“Thankful for their time and their children.”
Then for a long time, neither spoke, but just listened together to the breeze, the night birds, scraps of song, laughter and conversation that floated up to them from the peaceful city below.
“So.” At last from out of the deepening dark, Boromir took a deep breath. “If I were to consider … who do you think would be suitable?”
But before Aragorn could answer a sudden building cry erupted from the neglected cradle, along with a particular, tell-tale odor. The King quickly rose to scoop Eldarion up into his arms.
Saved not for the last time by his son, Aragorn shrugged an apology to his Steward before heading off toward the residence:
“Speak to the Queen! I believe she has a list …”