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Boromir waited until Denethor had left the hall before he set down his goblet with a force that spilt a few drops of the wine across the white cloth. The spatter was too thin for blood, he thought as he rose unsteadily to his feet, but it seemed lately as though their father’s blood was turned to vinegar.
The servants stood back from the young man with thunder on his brow, letting him stride away from the scene. All who saw him knew where he was bound and the word would go about that they should avoid that corridor for the time being.
Boromir reeled past a startled maidservant in a doorway, saw her flinch, and stopped for a moment, leaning against a stone pillar, letting the marble cool his anger along with his heated skin. The maid’s footsteps, hurrying away, were fading into the distance.
He pushed himself upright and began to walk towards the King’s Apartments. As he turned the corner he came upon a guard posted there. The man swallowed hard when Boromir dismissed him, but he went as ordered, leaving Boromir alone in the short corridor. There was sunshine streaming through the stained glass, scattering coloured splashes across the stone floor.
He should not have been surprised when he tried the door and found it locked, but at the same time, he was heart-sick to have this worst fear confirmed. As children, any transgression against what Denethor considered the proper respect for Gondor and the duties of its Stewards, would see the brothers sent to these cold, deserted, rooms to re-consider their behaviour and frame a suitable apology. They had sat in the gloom, huddled together in a window seat, trying to catch a glimpse of the city through the cracks in the wooden shutters, trying to hear something of the world beyond. Yet, for all the weight of the punishment Father had trusted them to be honourable; the doors had never been locked, no guard set on them that he knew.
Now Denethor would humiliate his brother as well as punish him. Boromir was old enough to be from home each day, in training or on patrol, drinking in the instructions of his sergeants and commanding officers, and all Denethor’s attentions were turned to the son who could not seem to please his father, no matter how hard he tried. Boromir closed his eyes and his brother’s face swam before him, more than a boy, but not yet a man. The wine was making his head begin to ache. Boromir hesitated and then rapped on the great doors.
“Faramir! Faramir!”
He thought he could hear movement, footsteps on the tiled floor of the ante-chamber. The outer doors were massive with carving and Boromir could barely make out his brother’s voice, but still there was sadness and Boromir thought bewilderment in Faramir’s tone as he tried to explain about the spilt ink and the spoilt letter which he had offered to copy out again, and again if that would make amends.
All at once Boromir knew that he needed to hold his brother close; he had promised their mother as much. Their father, Steward or no, was not going to keep them apart. Boromir knelt down to the empty keyhole and summoned Faramir, saying firmly,
“I want you to go into the bedchamber, Fara. Open the shutters on the first window!”
Then he was gone, running along the short corridor to the stone mullioned window at the end, where he leant out to judge the width of the decorative stone frieze that ran around this tower. It was barely a hand’s breadth and he had almost broken his neck when a section crumbled beneath his weight and he had to fling himself sideways towards the open casement, where Faramir was leaning, arms outstretched to catch him.
That seemed at once so long ago to Boromir, and yet, he could still taste the fear and the thrill of the moment sharp in his mouth. The brothers had collapsed together in a heap on the floor that day, gasping and then laughing so that they might not weep, and then they had gone from window to window folding back the shutters, letting light flood into the room for the first time.
It was bare, hangings long since rotted away and the remnants removed. The only furniture was one high-backed chair, set beside the empty grate, but the floor was swept clean, the boards gleamed with beeswax, and the brothers had lain on their backs in a patch of sunlight talking and gazing at the ceiling, panelled in lozenges of a dark wood.
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It was rare for Boromir to remain the whole night in the palace, but this had been a fond reunion and Aragorn had left the shutters folded back, so that they might see the stars from within their nest of blankets. The life was returning to the land, but the nights could still bring a frost to nip young leaves in the bud. Dawn was creeping into the room and awoken early, Boromir was savouring the last few minutes lying beside his King before he would rise, dress and pass unseen through the corridors and solid walls that would take him back to his own chamber ere his household was awake. Rullo would watch him return from the top of the stairs, but Rullo would never tell.
He was remembering the hours that he and Faramir had spent in these rooms. There was hardly a part of their decoration, to the figures etched into the floor of the anteroom, that he did not know and yet, looking up at the ceiling now there seemed to be something different about it, or perhaps the morning light cast new, less forbidding, shadows.
Beside him, he heard Aragorn’s breathing change as he began to stir. A few moments later lips framed in a soft beard were pressed to his shoulder. Boromir let his head loll sideways to rest against Aragorn’s, felt hot breath on his neck and closed his eyes for a last few moments of peace.
It was later that day that a guard in the corridor outside the King’s Apartments reported the sound of a crash from within the empty rooms. When the Lord Steward had come to investigate, accompanied by the housekeepers, they had been met with a scene of destruction.
A large part of the dark ceiling had come down, covering the bed and the floor about it in chunks of wood, the covers seeded with sharp splinters and over all there lay a thick film of dust. Gazing upwards Boromir could see the remaining ceiling sagging alarmingly and he ordered the women from the room, sending them to fetch men from the joiner’s shop and a surveyor.
As the housekeepers retreated, Boromir was dry-mouthed, looking at the heavy panels smothering the pillows, piled up against the headboard. Anyone in the bed would have felt the full force of the collapsed ceiling. There was a sharp intake of breath behind him and Boromir turned to see the Queen in the doorway. Eldarion was beside her and pointing excitedly.
Boromir held up a hand to indicate that she should stay in the threshold and he himself retreated to the bay window, stepping over the wreckage of the panels. Arwen caught his eye and Boromir saw her lips press together in a thin smile.
“We have been fortunate today, I think, Lord Steward,” she said quietly.
“Aye, lady,” he replied. Then he saw her eyes open wider and her mouth formed a silent ‘O’.
“Did you know this chamber of old, Lord Boromir?”
“Right well, lady. It waited on the return of the King,” he replied, “lay empty all the days that I knew it. It always smelt of the beeswax on the floor,” he added.
“And did it always have that wooden ceiling?” she asked and Boromir became aware that the hand shielded from Eldarion’s enquiring gaze was gesturing upwards.
“Aye, ma’am,” he said and glancing up he gasped and then was hard pressed not to gape.
“I think, sweetheart, we should let Lord Boromir get on with his work and it’s nearly time for your bath.”
Eldarion immediately forgot the interesting scene before him and protested loudly, as Arwen had known that he would, and as she steered their son and heir away from the wreckage she passed her lord and smiled at him so guilelessly that Aragorn knew immediately that something was afoot.
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They brought ladders and took down the rest of the old ceiling as carefully as they might, but once some of the panels had gone others were loosened and twice the men had to jump clear to avoid pieces falling. It was evident that after so many years left unoccupied, the return of the King had meant sunlight and fires lit, the chamber had warmed through, old glue had begun to crack and beetles had done the rest. Boromir immediately ordered the inspection of all the ceilings and floor joists throughout the palace.
The King had moved into other rooms whilst the work was done and the Lord Steward thought it a good opportunity to refresh paint and plaster, particularly when everything was covered in an age of dust that had collected above the wooden ceiling. There had been an oak chest beside the King’s bed, with a salver, goblets and flagons of wine on it. They were mangled beyond repair, the silver good only for bullion, but Boromir took one of the flattened goblets and kept it always on his desk.
When the last of the dark wood had been cleared away, an elderly joiner had been given a ladder and a soft paintbrush and the task of removing the dust clinging to the moulded plaster ceiling set with gems that had emerged winking into the light. It had taken him several weeks to clean all but, thought Boromir, he had done an excellent job and above them, in panels bordered by swags of flowers and vines laden with bunches of grapes, white plaster lovers engaged in varied and energetic congress. The figures were naked and rock crystals had been set into the wet plaster to represent eyes, earrings, jewellery wherever it might adorn the person. The effect in morning sunshine was glittering. Boromir had seen it at dusk, when the ceiling shimmered and the figures seemed to writhe in the candlelight.
His neck was beginning to ache and he looked away from the ceiling to the assembled company. Aragorn was pointing to one panel and conducting a running commentary for Eomer, who had his face buried in his host’s shoulder, almost breathless with laughter. Arwen and Legolas were talking rapidly in Sindarin, whilst Gimli appeared to be sketching. Beregond, with a faintly shocked expression, had found a stool for Prince Imrahil who, despite his age, had insisted on travelling to see the wonder, and was now chuckling away and describing to Beregond what he imagined Denethor would have said if he’d known about it. Faramir and Eowyn were wandering hand-in-hand about the chamber, but every-so-often Faramir would turn to meet his brother’s gaze, amazement in his eyes, and Boromir knew that he was thinking of their childhood and this hidden marvel above their heads.
It was a marvel of the craftsman’s skill, of that there was no doubt, but Boromir was faintly troubled by it being in the King’s Apartments.
“This figure,” said Arwen, and her voice carried so that all in the room quietened to listen, “we think is Luciele.”
She pointed to a slender female figure enjoying the well-endowed favours of a muscled warrior. Boromir noticed for the first time, the knots in her hair peeking out beneath the wreath of flowers that hid her ears from view.
“She loved a Captain of the White Tower long ago.”
“We do not think,” put in Legolas, “that these have always been the King’s Apartments.”
This rang true to Boromir. The revealed ceiling gave a new character to the chamber, a more noisy, public, one. He was not convinced that it would be an easy matter to sleep, to find rest, beneath its gaze. Yet the chamber’s location within the palace, central but defendable, and the high windows giving the occupant one of the finest views of the city and surrounding countryside all made it a fine place for the King’s Apartments.
The assembled company turned to Aragorn, who knew that he was being asked to rule on the future of the ceiling. He gazed up at the panel above his head where a young man, his hand still clasping his lover’s wilting cock, was licking the cum from that man’s stomach.
“Our forefathers left us an inheritance that continues to surprise,” he began wryly, but then became graver, his voice deepening, “and it is our task to care for it, but also to remake things for a new age knowing that someday we may be thought backward in our turn.
I should be loath to leave these chambers. I feel at home here, surrounded by what is dear to me and here I have found peace.”
He paused and the company waited silently as Aragorn wandered about the room gazing upwards at the plasterwork. At last he turned to them.
“I have asked friend Gimli to make a record of the ceiling which will go into the Library,” he said, “and Lord Steward I would like you to ask the joiners whether they can put in place a light wooden ceiling, to the pattern of the other, that can be removed as desired.”
In the end a ceiling had been created in sections that could be slid aside by simply pulling on a cord hanging by the fireplace. Although it was made of thin boards it had to be set lower to allow for the sections to stack one beneath the other, but this time it was made in a light ash wood, rather than dark oak, and so the chamber did not feel smaller.
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They had endured a mild diplomatic scandal when the story had come out. Unsympathetic powers had sought to portray Elessar as a careless, self-indulgent ruler, surrounding himself with indecent luxury, but once the drawings were set in the library curiosity had died away. Visitors to the palace granted the honour of a tour were always shown the King’s Bedchamber, plain and light, with the ash wood ceiling in place.
In truth, Aragorn preferred the simple peace of his old apartment, but they learnt, the lovers, how the ceiling wished to be used. The Queen loved the stories behind each panel and sometimes, they would uncover it in the sunset’s glow and watch the figures turn to gold, imagining the lives together that could inspire such wanton joy.
The connection to his Steward was more immediate and once, as it glittered above them, Aragorn had been startled when Boromir had suddenly wrenched himself free of his embrace, stalked to the fireplace and pulled across the wood ceiling before returning to his King, saying gruffly,
“I can hear whispering.”
Then as he settled himself once more beneath his Captain, re-threading their limbs and rubbing his bearded cheek gently against Aragorn’s inner thigh, he murmured softly,
“That should quiet them some.”