"Come on, Jess!" a very young, very impatient Boromir cried out. The woods were dark around him, and silent. So silent. "It's getting dark! We should go back soon!" Anxious, he shifted his weight. Now, why did she have to go and run off again? At times he would swear she was part Elf, so easily was she able to up and vanish on him.

A melodious child's laugh drifted to his ears. There she was, in a branch high and to his left. He glared. "I am not playing hide and seek with you, Jess," he growled at her, but she only smiled, tossed her long chestnut braid over her shoulder. It was hasty and falling down, but she paid it no heed. In the forest there were other more important things that captured her attention, such as trees that needed climbing, and eleven year old boys that needed confusing. When you had all that to play around with, why bother with hair?

She smiled down at him. "But, Boromir, it's not quite night just yet. Do you have to go back so soon?"

"Yes, and so do you. My father will skin me if he knows I left you out here. Now come down here so we can be off." He put his hands on his hips and waited, expectant, as she climbed down the tree. Deftly, her feet found holds and her hands supported her. Her movement was graceful, even for a gawky child, as she shinnied down the wide trunk.

"Alright, grump," she pouted, coming to stand beside him. A quick dusting of her skirts and she barely looked as though she'd been off climbing trees and getting dirty, save a telltale smudge high on her left cheekbone. A mischievous smile on his face, Boromir elected not to tell her about it.

Sometimes he felt that, though she was quite a bit younger than he, she knew much more about life. She was always telling him new things, facts that his fresh brain gobbled up like a feast after a long famine. Her mother was a very wise woman, and her father as well. But his own father did not like them very much. Of course, they were not nobles, or wealthy, and that seemed to rub the Lord Denethor in a coarse grain. The disapproval was always in his eyes when he learned that they had been playing together again, for the son of the Steward of Gondor should have his mind on more worthy prospects, such as learning about Gondor and his own city, Minas Tirith, so that he could one day take his father's place. Certainly, it was not proper for the son of Denethor to gallivant about with the daughter of a farmer. The daughter of a man with no prominence or wealth, no grand tales of his ancestry.

He felt himself growing angry and realized that Jessalyn was looking at him in a strange way. "What is it?" he asked her.

"You're upset. What's the matter?"

Seeing the sharp slant of her eyebrows, drawn together in concern, made him smile. "It is nothing. I think only on saving my own skin when I get you home. Perhaps I will drop you off at the end of the road and run. Yes, I think that would be best."

Her delighted laughter echoed around them. "Well, so long as you're not mad at me. I do so like to play with you! You are my best friend, Boromir," she said happily, and grabbed his hand.

"And you're mine," he said with a big grin. "If only I could keep you out of trouble long enough to see the lady that's in there."

She snorted. "Ha. Lady indeed. Prancing about in fancy gowns and holding their little finger out when drinking tea. Why would anyone ever want to be a lady? What's the fun in that?"

He shrugged his shoulders, made an 'I don't know' face. "I suppose you'd get to marry someone rich and live in a nice house, or even a castle. You'd never have to worry about being poor, or being hungry, or anything."

Jessalyn grew quiet. "Have I upset you?" he asked softly, relieved when she shook her head. They had reached her house, a small wooden building on the outskirts of the city. Chickens milled about the front area and he could see the horns of her goat, Aro, chewing on something. Probably his own tail.

She turned and looked up at him, looked at her home. The look in her eyes told him something was coming, but he was completely unprepared for what she hurled his way.

"What would it be like to be married to you, Boromir?" she queried softly, her eyes large and open to him. Then she turned and ran into the house.

Stunned, Boromir could only stand there and stare. Now where had that come from? He shook his head and turned back down the road to the castle. Home.

Jess was always saying what came into her head. That wasn't unusual, but this. She was only eight! Why would something like marriage be popping into her head like that? He sighed and kicked at a stone in the path. Sure, she thought of him as her best friend, and he felt the same for her, but... He stopped himself. What was he thinking? Jess had just said another of those random things that popped into her head, just like always. There was nothing more to it and nothing less.

He wondered what it would be like to live how she did. Her father was a farmer, her mother an herb-mistress. They made enough to eat and get by fairly well, but he couldn't imagine it. His life had always been easy. There had always been food when he wanted it, and warm clothes, a soft bed. He wondered how he would react if he had to live like Jess did, from day to day, never worrying about tomorrow. As he thought longer about it, it sounded wonderful. Creature comforts in exchange for freedom? He would take the freedom any day.

It took him a little over half an hour to reach the castle, and he slipped silently up to his room, taking care not to be seen. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was unlikely that his father would seek him out to berate him about where he'd been at this hour. He was always absorbed in other matters in the evenings, such as war, and the situation on their borders.

He dressed down to his leggings and climbed into bed, and within minutes, he was fast asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So where were you last night, brother?" Faramir queried, and though his young mind had never held any mischievous thoughts toward his brother, his question could not have been timed more poorly. Denethor was always present during the morning meal, and now his eyes sharpened considerably.

"I was out, walking," Boromir answered evasively.

"With that girl again, no doubt," his father said, his voice laced with derision and near to dripping with it disdain.

Boromir said nothing. He waited for the lecture that was to come, and sat through it with stolid determination. He listened to all the reasons why he should have nothing more to do with her, why she would bring him down to her level. He was the son of the Steward after all, and no common urchin would do for him. At this he bristled, but said nothing. Out the corner of his eye he saw Faramir flinch and shoot an apologetic glance his way. It wasn't his fault, but all the same it would have been appreciated had he not mentioned anything.

Finally, his father finished his tirade, satisfied that he'd schooled Boromir to the right and proper way of things, and they finished their meal in silence.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," Faramir said, after their father had left the room. "I didn't think..."

"It's alright, Faramir." He sighed. "He will never understand..." Then, he turned and silently left the hall. Faramir watched his brother leave, shoulders bowed with sadness, and felt very bad for him then. Why couldn't their father just leave him alone about the girl? She was very nice, for Faramir had met her once before, in the city market. He thought she was pretty. But for some reason his father held some grudge against her, as though she were evil or unworthy of trust.

Shaking his head, he went about his daily tasks.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Jessalyn, dear, finish picking the beans, then come try on your new dress!" her mother called to her through the back door. She laughed and shook her head, happy that finally she would get the gown her mother had been sewing on for weeks. Excited to be finished with her chore she picked the green pods ever faster, caring not about the dirt that got on her hands.

The sound of hoof beats, coming fast down the road, startled her. She glanced up to see two horses, large and breathing heavily. A large older man sat astride one and a younger man on the other. He looked to be a little older than Boromir, and he cast a critical eye upon her, then looked back at his father with a smile.

Curious, Jessalyn stood and wiped her hands on her apron. Her father came out the door, her mother slightly behind him. He looked at Jess and, without his usual smile, bade her go into the market and stay there until he came to fetch her . "But, father, why -"

"Do as I say!" he growled. Her mother said nothing to contradict him.

Upset, she lifted her chin and fled the garden. Her father had never spoken to her like that before. Whatever could she have done to make him so upset? She supposed it didn't matter. He wouldn't stay angry with her for long. Whatever she had done, she would figure it out and apologize. Yes, she would apologize.

What of the two visitors? Why were they at her house? They looked to be quite wealthy, with their tailored robes, velvet and soft to her eyes. Their very manner had been of a regal air, stuffy in her opinion. And the way the young man had looked at her, as though he were assessing a horse or cow. How rude.

She busied herself in town, looking through the booths, chatting with the kind women that worked there. Their husbands were all doing the farm work, or hunting in the forests for wild game. Sometimes she wished she could hunt. Just to know how to use a sword would be wonderful. How very powerful she would feel! she thought. No one would ever make a timid lady out of her, that much she knew. Getting in and out of carriages, drinking tea, tittering brainlessly. She would rather roll around in cow muck.

In her pocket she found a little money, and purchased an apple from an old woman. Wrinkled and haggard, it looked as though she had seen naught of light-hearted days, and that tore at Jess's heart. Her childish innocence told her that the bit she paid for the apple would help the woman, though in reality it would only be a strike to get through the day. But yet, the woman smiled gratefully at this young child who had such compassion, and beckoned her close.

"You are young, are you not, my dear?" the woman asked of her. Her voice was surprisingly clear and strong.

"I am eight years old, ma'am," she replied proudly.

"Then I will tell you something that you must remember always, young darling." She took a deep breath and sighed. "You are too young yet, but heed these words well. Always follow your heart, love. Never let anyone beat down that fire that I see in your eyes. If you ever come to a fork in your road where your choice is between true love and safety, I bid thee take the path to love. That is all you need to know in your life, young one."

Jessalyn smiled. "Is that the path you took, ma'am?" she questioned her, and instantly regretted the thoughtless question. The woman's eyes clouded and went thoughtful for long moments before she spoke. "Yes, child, that is the path I took."

"Did it make you happy?"

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Beyond words. Happiness is not in money and trinkets, child. It is in the living. Now, run along, before someone notices you missing."

Jessalyn smiled brightly at the old woman before turning and bustling off in the opposite direction.

A long time passed, and still no one came for her. One hour, then two, and another. She stood at the entry to the market, and waited patiently for her mother or father to show over the horizon.

There. Her mother's familiar walk gave her away, and Jess hurried to her. "Mother, what's going on?" she wondered. Perhaps now she would get some answers for her father's strange behavior towards her.

But no answer was forthcoming; at least, not the answer that Jess desired. Her mother said only, "Your father had business to attend to. Now, come and try on your new dress."

And so, they made the journey back home in silence. Jess forgot her worries on the subject, for the most part, and gave them no more thought. Instead, she wondered why she had not seen Boromir as yet. Normally, he came every day to go on walks. At their age it wasn't improper just yet, so no one worried about her. Boromir was known to be a noble young man, even at his young age. It was assumed by her parents that Jess was in safe hands when they went together, and she was.

She would ask him on the morrow where he had been.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

But there would be no meeting on the morrow.

Jess awoke abruptly, startled by her mother shaking her.

"Wake up, my daughter, the sun is up!" her mother said urgently, bustling about in a very busy manner. Something strange was happening, something that couldn't be good. Even her young mind could feel the current of tension in the air; feel the thread of betrayal as it snaked around the room. Something was very wrong.

She sat up in her small bed and blinked, clearing her eyes of all her dreams and sleep. A pack rested against the wall nearby, and it looked to be full. Wary, she stood and began to dress in the clothes her mother had laid out: a riding habit, one used for traveling long distances. Despite her growing anxiety she put it on, and faced her mother squarely.

"What is going on, mother?" she queried, but her mother would not meet her eyes when she replied.

"You're going to live with your aunt, Jessalyn. She will teach you to be a Lady, and you will be free from this place." At last she sighed and knelt before Jess, gripped her hands in her own. "Don't you understand, Jess? No more dirty sheep. No more mud. You'll always have food to eat when you want it. It's what's best for you, darling," she said, and clasped her close.

Tears threatened to spill over as Jess closed her eyes tightly. "Don't you want me, mother? Did I do something to upset Father?"

"Oh, no, sweet. No, you're the very best daughter anyone could ask for. But we want you to have a better life than this. And that's what you're going to get. Do you understand?"

Jess nodded.

"Alright, then. No more tears. Think of it as an adventure, one that you always wanted to have. You'll be alright, don't worry."

A few hours later, Jessalyn was placed inside a carriage, sent by her aunt Bryn, and ready to depart.

"But, mother, I want to tell Boromir goodbye! Please! I must see him!"

At this her father stood firm. "No, Jessalyn. You will not see that boy again." And though his words were stern, there was sorrow in his eyes. "Goodbye, my daughter." He nodded to the driver, and the carriage lurched forward. Jessalyn cried out for him to stop, tried to open the doors, but to no avail. She was trapped, headed for a place she didn't know and a person she had never met.

And as they crested the first hill and left the borders of Minas Tirith, she wept; she wept the sounds of a heartbroken and lost little girl, until she hadn't the strength to weep any longer. And then she sat up, dried her eyes, and watched stolidly as the land passed her by.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Boromir sat silent in his bedchamber. The silent tear that dropped from his cheek went unnoticed. For many hours now he'd been locked up in his room, not eating or drinking for fear that it would come back up. Never in his life had he felt such anguish or grief, so deep it was too much for words.

She was gone. Just gone. He wouldn't see her again, not ever. He'd gone over to Jessalyn's house early this morning to see her, and her father had told her sternly that she had gone to live with her aunt and would not be returning to Minas Tirith. Later, Jess's mother had whispered to him that she would return when she was seventeen, a good age for marrying. This had sounded suspicious to him, but she would say no more.

And so here he sat, grieving over the loss of his best friend. But there was nothing he could do. If his father had wanted her gone so badly he could have arranged it, but Boromir doubted that even he would do such a thing. Something else was afoot, that was certain, but he wouldn't know today, or tomorrow. And until he could find out what it was, he would concentrate on something else, something to take his mind off the pain.

And he laid eyes on his sword...

Across A Crowded Room
Part 2:

Years passed, and Jessalyn grew older. The aunt she had been sent to live with, in Edoras, was indeed a lady. But she was also hard and held no compassion for others beneath her class. Jessalyn was beneath her class also, and made to remember it every day. Yet she endured the stuffy gowns, the tight unforgiving plaits of her hair. She took many baths and wore fragrance of flowers and fruit. And yes, she even held out her little pinkie when she drank her tea.

But underneath it all Jessalyn, the real Jessalyn, was still there. Her eyes still burned whenever her aunt tossed a casual insult her way, still burned whenever her cousin Bered taunted her for being a 'ignorant country girl.' She saw the way his eyes followed her around, hated the way he would cruelly trip her when he passed by.

Somehow, she endured it. She became everything her parents had wanted her to be. Sometimes, she would sit by the window of her new home and wish with all her heart to see Boromir riding up the lane, intent on rescuing her from her prison. But he never came. She wrote to him, but she doubted very much that the letters made it into his hands. Yet she never gave up hope. Never gave up trying to reach him.

At night, she would think of him, and try to picture what face she could give him, now that he was older. She was now sixteen, so he would be....she counted in her head, remembering that he was eleven when last she'd seen him. Eight years! Eight years had passed since last she had laid eyes on him. Eight years and no word, no token. Nothing to tell her that he was alright and well, or that he missed her. He would be nineteen now. A man, she thought.

Perhaps he was already married. The thought brought anguish unbidden into her heart, so sharp and terrible it took her breath away. She didn't know when she had fallen in love with Boromir. She hadn't seen him in eight long years. In her mind she'd made him into some grand hero, dreamt of him rescuing her someday, sweeping her off her feet. Her fantasies had led her to fall in love with him, and even though she knew they were just that, fantasies, she held onto them with all she had. Nothing else gave her interest in her life.

Every day, in the afternoons, she was permitted to ride her horse, Lassair, for two hours, so long as she stayed within sight of her home. Therein lay the only joy she found in the daytime. During those two hours, she was free. Free from all the inhibitions she was forced to adopt when she was inside those walls.

She sat up from her chair, straightened her long skirts, and left the room. She could ride now, and no one would bother her. Her aunt and Bered were into town. Jessalyn wasn't allowed to go with them, because they claimed that her place was in the home, and that she should get used to it. Sometimes she would swear they were dressing her up for marriage.

Sighing, she slipped inside the barn. Lassair's large head perked up immediately, and he whickered at her. Efficiently, she saddled up the large black horse; remained patient while the stallion pranced and tossed his head. Self-satisfaction crept through her when she thought back on how Bered had thought this horse would kill her. How wrong he'd been.

He'd told her she could ride the stallion when she'd taken her first ride, a full three years after she'd come to live there. Lassair had stomped and kicked and bucked, but Jessalyn had quickly figured out the reason: Bered had beaten him when he'd tried to ride. Every time he would stomp or toss his head he would hit him, which was why when Jessalyn reached out to him he shied away. Still, Jess had remained calm and patient, approaching the large stallion with caution and a smile on her face. Eventually she had managed to saddle and bridle him, more than Bered had been able to accomplish. At this he'd led his own mount out of the barn and sneered at her, "I hope he stomps you."

But Jessalyn had only smiled, and within the hour was riding comfortably and relaxed upon the stallion's back. Trust had formed then, and the bond grew only stronger.

Now, she stroked the stallion's powerful neck, smiled when it arched beneath her fingertips. This horse was one of the most valuable in all of Rohan, for it had come from the very best bred mounts of that kingdom. It had been a gift to her aunt from some friend she knew, but they had found no use for the beast, for he was black and an undesirable color to her aunt. To her, black meant evil, and all but whispered of Mordor. How lucky that had been for me, she thought to herself, as she climbed onto the stallion's back.

A burst of speed took them right out into the fields and to the forest. The tree line was nearly a mile off, but she bet Lassair could make it there in no time flat. She whispered to him, and his ears perked up. Beneath her, she felt his strides lengthen and his pace quicken. They were flying. The speed was night to unimaginable for her, as it was every time she rode. Their rhythms were perfectly matched, horse and rider, and they moved seamlessly along, not caring that a single stumble could mean both their deaths. For now, there was simply freedom.

Another horse shot up the road in front of her, and she drew up Lassair short. It was running fast, and the rider appeared a little worse for wear. Wary, she knew she had no means of defending herself should he mean her harm. It was a necessary risk, for who knew who the man was.

She edged closer to him. "What is your business here, sir?" she called out, adjusting her skirts around the saddle.

Out of breath, he waited a moment before speaking. "I am Derohir, a messenger, lady, and I have ridden long and hard from Minas Tirith. Pray, are you the Lady Jessalyn?"

Fear and hope sprang unbidden to her chest, and she nodded. "I am."

"Then this is for you. My master bade me bring it in person, for fear it would not reach you unless I laid it into your hands." He pulled a package from a bag upon his saddle and dismounted. Jessalyn did the same, holding Lassair's reins while he snorted and stamped his hooves. "Thank you," she said, as he delivered it into her hands.

Realizing he did not intend to leave until she saw the contents of the bundle, she opened it hastily. Inside lay a velvet pouch, made of purest violet. She opened it, and gasped. There was coin, and a rolled up map. Also inside she found a folded piece of paper, which she hastily opened. Still, the man called Derohir made no move to leave.

She read the message, her eyes slipping over it so fast her brain could not keep up, and she was forced to reread it:

'Jessalyn,

I fear this message may not reach you. Long it has been since I last looked upon your face. But children we were then. I still remember the day you disappeared. I have written time and time again, but with no reply. If you have forgotten me, then I will mourn that. But I have not forgotten you. Your mother told me a little of what happened to you, and in my letters I have begged you to escape, to come home. Now I make my last attempt. Inside you will find coin enough to get here safely, and a map to help you find your way. Eight long years I have dreamt of your face, as I hope you have dreamt of mine. In my heart I know I will see you again, but when I do not know.

War grows along our borders. Travel is dangerous, I warn you of this. I am the Captain of the Tower Guard now. My father says the youngest man ever to become so. Things are trying at times, and all that gets me through is the thought of seeing you again. I fight for you, Jessalyn, my best friend.

But now I must impart sadder news. Your father passed on last week, Jess. He is in Mandos' care now. I am sorry that I must impart this grief upon you, but it is your right to know. Your mother is in failing health. You are needed, Jess, now more than ever, and not only by your parents. I hope that within you still burns that fire that I have known. I pray you have not left behind tree climbing and catching frogs with your bare hands. But perhaps I will see soon enough.

I have sent my most trusted messenger, Derohir, to aid you if it is your choice to return home. You will always have a home here, Jessalyn.

Always your loving friend,

Boromir'
 

Hastily, Jess wiped at the tears that formed in her eyes. She hadn't realized they were even there until one dripped onto the paper, smudging a bit of the ink from the quill Boromir had used. She took a long moment to take everything in.

He had written her! He had written time and again, and the letters had never reached her. That was not so surprising. It was obvious that her letters had never made their way to his hands either. His script was elegant, yet bold and regal, just as she had pictured Boromir to be. His words were written with frankness, and yet there was a poetic flow to them. He wrote beautifully. And he wanted her home. He had dreamed of her as well, and that warmed her heart to no end.

"That's it, then," she said, and Derohir perked up. "I shall need to fill a pack, but it will only take me a moment to do so. Follow me. In the barn you will find a fresh mount. Take whatever horse you like." She mounted up onto Lassair's back and nudged him, only nudged him. The stallion exploded into movement, and she didn't look back to see if the messenger followed. Soon she was at the door. She paid no heed to Lassair's reins, dropped them on the ground and hurried up the stairs to her chambers.

Somewhere she found her old pack that had come with her on the journey to this place, and she began to fill it with things she would need. Riding garments, a cloak, a pair of soft boots. Down in the kitchen she found some apples, a loaf of fresh bread, some cheese, and a bit of dried beef. Also she took a large water skin for their journey. It was a bit of a distance from Edoras to Minas Tirith, and she didn't intend on getting caught unprepared.

Back in the barn she swiped a bedroll out of the servants' quarters and quickly tied that onto the back of her saddle. Her haste was in the hopes that she would make it gone before her aunt and cousin returned. Fear of being caught lent her speed and strength as she fastened everything she would need together on the saddle. Lassair tossed his head and stomped his feet, feeling the anxiety and excitement that filled the air. She hurried back into the barn one last time, and Derohir watched in puzzlement as she pushed aside a bit of hay. Then, she pried up a board in the floor and reached inside. Finally, she pulled out a bundle of leather, rolled up and tied together at both ends with leather thongs.

He saw, as she unrolled the leather, that inside lay a large sword, nearly three feet long and double-edged. It was plain as swords go, but he could see that it was sturdy and of good steel. "Do you know how to use that, lady?" he hedged cautiously, and she turned to him, fire dancing in her eyes. "Let's hope we don't ever have to find out, yeah?" She nearly stumbled in shock when she heard the words that came out of her mouth. Her aunt would have a fit. Too bad she wouldn't be around to see it, she thought to herself, and quickly strapped the scabbard onto the saddle as well.

"Alright, my ladyship, are you ready to be off then?" Derohir queried as he brought out his fresh mount. He had chosen Brenos, Bered's horse. Good. The beast needed a rider with a gentler hand, and he could run tirelessly. They would need to.

"Yes, Derohir, and let us go with all haste. I could not have this place behind me soon enough."

So saying, they set off, avoiding the road, and at breakneck speed. The farther away they got from that place the better she felt, the lighter her spirit became. In less than two weeks time she would see Boromir again. For the first time in eight years she would get to look in his eyes, his beautiful green eyes that had once been so familiar to her. She would get to see her mother, which she was more than grateful for. With that thought came the realization that hearing of her father's death really didn't upset her that much. She mourned him, of course, but grief didn't shower her as she thought it would. Perhaps it was because she was thinking so much of Boromir, all her thoughts bent on him, that there was no room for anything else.

Would he be handsome? she wondered. Would he be tall, or strong, brave, noble? Those questions were easily enough answered: yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. He had told her in the letter that he was Captain of the Tower Guard. How wonderful! And not only that, the youngest man ever to do so. Her heart swelled with pride for him. Then came the uneasiness. She had changed, too. In eight years, she had grown and changed, more than he probably could imagine.

She looked down at herself. Her nails, gripping the reins, were perfectly manicured and well kempt. Other than a few strands of hair that had slipped out, her hair was perfectly coiffed and coiled, its color a bright and shiny chestnut. Her deep blue riding habit was spotless and pressed, her riding boots shiny and polished. In surviving, she had become what she most loathed to be. A lady.

Across A Crowded Room
Part 3:

They rode long and hard, stopping only for brief rests for themselves and their mounts. Lassair seemed unflagging in his endurance, never tiring or becoming sluggish. Derohir's mount, the one he had taken of Bered's, was only slightly behind him. Both beasts gave their all, sensing their riders' urgency.

It took them many days to make the journey to Minas Tirith, but Jessalyn's heart soared as she looked once again upon the White Tower. She thought it would be many years before that grand beauty lay in her vision again, but alas, things changed. And a more wonderful change she could not have asked for. It had been so easy to escape, to leave. Why hadn't she done so before?

That answer, too, was simple. There was nowhere to escape to. But now that Boromir had sent for her, had asked her to come home...There could be no greater satisfaction.

His words haunted her. Her mother's health was failing, but he said she was needed more than ever, and not just by her mother. Who else could need her so much? Boromir?

She could only hope.

As they entered the city, she let her thoughts dwell on him. Tried to picture his face, his body. All she could conjure was the image as she had last seen him. He had been young and defiant then, stubborn to the last. But he had been her friend; her most trusted friend and ally to the end. And now he'd called for her.

"We are to go to the Palace, Lady," Derohir informed her, guiding the horses onto the main causeway that led to the grand house.

People glanced at her as they passed, smiling politely. 'They are still as charming as ever they were,' she thought to herself. 'It seems not much has changed.'

"Will we see Boromir today, Derohir?" Jessalyn's eyes never left the large doors that would put her inside his house. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin as a shiver snaked up her spine. She was afraid, she realized. What would he think of her? She was not the carefree girl she had once been, nor would she ever be the same.

"I cannot wait to see him," she said softly, and was so focused on the palace doors that she missed the look of amusement that crossed the messenger's face.

'The feeling is mutual, Lady,' he thought to himself. Boromir had been beside himself lately. Denethor had become increasingly persistent in getting Boromir married off. His only option had been to take the position as Captain of the Tower Guard. His father had been ecstatic when he'd learned of Boromir's desire to be such, and had immediately dropped his pressuring on the subject.

But his master was lonely. It showed on his face when he was alone, when he thought his men weren't looking. Derohir had seen it time and time again, for Boromir was a good friend. A look of such sorrow and sadness would come into his eyes that he would wonder if a smile would ever come to his face again. It was those times he knew Boromir was thinking of Jessalyn. Eight years had not lessened the bond between them.

But now she was home, and his friend would have happiness at last. Something troubled him, though, about Jessalyn. Boromir spoke animatedly about her, their adventures together. He couldn't connect that wild-hearted creature with this quiet, subdued one.

"We shall see him shortly, Jessalyn."

They dismounted at the bottom of the steps and handed the reins of their horses over to two young boys who waited patiently nearby. "I wish I'd had time to change," she mumbled, smoothing her habit self-consciously. She touched her hair, no longer coiffed, but disheveled and dirty. She probably looked awful.

"Do not think on your appearance, Lady. The sight of you will be enough to banish all his sorrow."

Wide-mouthed, Jessalyn could only stare at him as he led her up the steps and through the doors. A man met them. "Who is this with you, Derohir?" he demanded, looking Jessalyn up and down with a critical eye. She cast her eyes down to the floor, and Derohir's told the man in clipped and curt tones that she was the Lady Jessalyn, sent for by Boromir himself.

This seemed to surprise the man at the door, for her closed his mouth quickly and swept a bow to her. "Please, come this way. You will wait for him in the drawing room."

The room itself was huge! Books lined every wall, and a warm fire roared from a fireplace that was easily as tall as she. She studied the spines of them for a long time, while Derohir stood casually by a table, taking off his riding gloves and cloak. He draped them over a high-backed chair, upholstered in deep burgundy leather.

"I shall leave you here to await Boromir, Lady Jessalyn. I will find him later to speak with him."

She glanced at Derohir, surprised. "Are you sure you do not wish to stay?"

"I am certain. This meeting is a special one, I believe, and should be held in certain reverence. I will return."

"Thank you, Derohir. For all you have done."

He inclined his head respectfully, and left the room.

Jessalyn stood there with her arms wrapped around her middle, in front of the fireplace, losing herself in its flickering glow. It soothed her, warmed her, made her unsettled nerves calm to a low roar.

Boromir stopped, nearly skidding to a halt as he came to the door. She had her back to him, hugging herself. There was tilt to her head, and a bundled energy in her posture. His heart pounded in his chest, so much so that he felt it was burst forth if he did not calm it. But no, it did not matter. She was here, here at last, after all these years!

Her spine was slim and straight, her bearing proud despite the insecurity of her stance. There was strength in her; he could see that from the start. Her hair was beautiful: long, soft, though it fell in dirty chunks and waves around her shoulders. He remembered her eyes, even after all this time. Beautiful and dark brown, they had always reminded him of a fawn's eyes, innocent and unflinching. They never backed down from a challenge, be it a tall tree or a deep stream.

"Valar, Jessalyn," he heard himself say, as he closed the door behind him. His voice was rusty with emotion, as though a fist had suddenly closed itself around his throat.

She spun around to face him, and he nearly cried out to her. The sadness he saw around her eyes was near to unbearable. And then she smiled. The smile deepened to a laugh, and she took a step toward him. "Boromir...you are here. You're finally here," she cried, and he rushed to her side.

Jessalyn was in his arms at once, and he stroked her hair, relishing in the nearness of her. He took in her scent, that of the road and her own distinctly feminine smell. The smell that was Jess. Woodsy, natural, sweet. He felt her body shudder and realized she was weeping. And with her tears his own followed suit.

"I have missed you," she choked out, clutching him tightly with her arms, fearing that he would vanish at any moment.

"And I you. I wrote so many times, Jess. I thought...I thought you had gone from me. That you had forgotten me."

She looked up at him, touched his noble, beautiful face. He was everything she had dreamed him to be, and more. "I could no sooner forget you than stop loving you."

The words were unbidden, and she gasped as she released them.

Boromir stared at her, shocked. "You...love me, Jessalyn?"

Unable to deny it, she nodded, knowing that she was at the point of no return. "I have loved you since I was a child, Boromir. Being apart from you so long couldn't destroy that love. Instead, it only made it stronger."

He searched her eyes, looking for some sign that she was unsure of her words. He found none. "Oh, Valar, Jessalyn," he said, pulling her to him. "I never thought you could love me. All these years I have dreamed of you, wished and prayed as fervently as I know that you would someday speak those words to me."

"Then you love me?" she whispered against his chest, her hot tears slipping onto his chest, the material soaking them up as quickly as they came.

"I have loved you so long, and so hard, that until I saw you just now, a part of me was missing. You are my missing part, Jessalyn. I love you, now and always."

Unable to believe her ears, Jessalyn burrowed her head into his shoulder, and he embraced her tighter.

And for the first time in eight years, both of them felt true peace.