Collection of One-Shots

》torment

A small council of men had gathered in her home unbeknownst to her. It was her father's doing no doubt. She had been working at the Citadel as it had occurred. The infirmary halls were lined with the wounded as a mass of soldiers had returned to Gondor from defending Osgiliath from the latest orc raids on the ruined city. It was after she had supped with the healing men did she return home to hear the news. Gerda had accidentally made mention of it while helping her lady prepare for bed.

Belegorn was still sitting at the dinner table sorting through a ledger of information that Denethor had charged him with while mulling over a pewter goblet of spiced wine. His daughter strode forward with all the surety of an experienced warrior marching off to a certain victory, "Am I always to be the last to know when you speak of my marriage?" It would not be the first time this subject was at the center of their conversations.

"You are a woman now, Daewen, fit to bear children and to wed." Her expression soured at his poor excuse. Had her mother still lived she would have loved to see her only daughter wed, but she too had been a healer and knew well enough the sacrifices they were expected to make. Now her father had grown weary of her protests. Daewen shook her head, "I am a healer of the Citadel, father. My duty is my husband."

Her father sat aside one ledger and picked up another, "That much may be true for widows but you are a maiden flowered and it is time for you to marry. I grow weary of seeing you and Denethor's sons together."

Daewen took a step back, the hurt on her face evident, "They are my friends and on many occasions my patients," she tried to explain but he was beyond reason. His temper flared. Daewen flinched when her father stood and slammed his fists down on the table so hard it knocked the goblet of wine over. The liquid was as dark as congealed blood. "I'll hear no more. You will be married."

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Her duty could wait for now. She would be of no use to the wounded if she only injured them further due to her anger. She did as Faramir and Boromir advised. With a sword in hand, she swung with all her strength at the straw dummies and targets. Hacking away until an arm or head had fallen off. Sweat mingled with tears and soon her eyes were burning though she still swung the bastard sword. She hadn't even noticed someone watching her, "I have not seen you swing a sword with that much anger since my father threatened to have you sent off to Rohan," her spectator's tone was clearly amused.

She turned. The Captain of the White Tower wore a burgundy doublet, his hands behind his back. "Boromir," she teased him, hoping he had not come with the intention of training as he still had wounds healing.

"Daewen," he said in the same mocking tone. In three strides he stood before her and took her sword and laid it aside. She had already exhausted herself and it was not even midday. "What is it?" Her longtime friend lifted her chin up with his forefinger but she shrank away from him and ignored the flutter of butterfly wings in her tummy at his touch. "My father," she was reluctant to even mention the infuriating man.

"What has the old man done now?" It always felt wrong to lay her woes on the brothers despite their insistence that she do so. When her mother had died only the tomfoolery of a young Boromir and Faramir had been able to make her smile again.

Daewen looked up, ashamed almost, before speaking of her predicament. "He wishes to see me wed by the next full moon and as I have turned down every suitor I have ever laid eyes on, he is hosting a tourney. The winner may claim three-thousand gold pieces and a bride," there was bitterness in her voice that Boromir had never heard before. She forced herself not to cry. She could bring men close to the brink of death back, wield a sword just as any warrior could, and speak as elegantly as any politician, but she was helpless when it came to her father.