Collection of One-Shots

》a good arrangement

A young Edain maid brushed a pearl comb through her ladyship's dark hair. Aredhel of Dorwinion looked out the from the balcony of her chambers over the lush green vale of her father's land.

These were to be her last days within the country that had raised her. In a week's time, her household would make their way to Gondor. "They say he is very handsome," the maid noted.

Boromir of Gondor was who the maid spoke of.

Aredhel had been raised with the stories of Annatar the Giver. His fair form and gifts had deceived the rulers of Eregion until it was revealed that Annatar was a guise. Sauron, servant of Morgoth, had brought the peoples of Eregion to ruin. A handsome face meant nothing if a vile heart lie beneath.

The young Edain maid set the pearl comb down and began to braid Aredhel's hair. "What do they say of his person, though?" There was a deep sadness in her voice that began to shine through onto her expression.

Of that, the maid could not speak.

𖠰 𖠰 𖠰

A newly named captain looked out over Pelennor Fields. Summer was turning to autumn, and the tall grass had turned to gold. Faramir approached his brother, hands clasped behind his back. "I've heard tales of her beauty."

Boromir had only just learned of his impending betrothal and that his future wife would be arriving in Minas Tirith within the next three days.

There were many harsh words that he wished to share with his father, but the Steward-Prince had bit his tongue and remained a dutiful son. Denethor had told him her name was Aredhel, a noble lady from Dorwinion. A great beauty who had been sought out by many men, yet Lord Brandir had not thought them worthy of his daughter's hand.

"As have I, brother." Bitterness tinged his voice. "That was one of the first things father thought to mention when he informed me of my impending betrothal."

Faramir clasped onto his brother's shoulder. "There are worse things in this world than marrying." He could think of several in a pinch. Most were related to battle. "She may not be well-versed with a sword nor is it likely that she will share your taste for battle..."

Boromir shook his head and stifled the chuckle rising in his throat. "If your intent is to make light of this situation, then you are failing miserably."

The Ranger stood straighter and withdrew his hand from Boromir's shoulder; the fleeting smile had disappeared. "What I meant is that Aredhel may provide a balance."

Faramir knew well that his brother was stubborn and proud, just like their father. But Finduilas of Dol Amroth had been a gentlewoman of great beauty and people had said that she softened the hard edges of Denethor. "Think of mother and father."

The green banners adorned with golden and pink roses had been spotted on the horizon, crossing the river Anduin early in the morn. Keeping pace, Lord Brandir and his household would arrive at the Great Gates by the early afternoon. And so with the announcement came preparations within the Citadel.

Trumpets had sounded at the gate as the sun was growing dim. Denethor and his two sons had gathered in the Fountain Court. Faramir leaned toward his brother, who had been shifting on his feet and pacing the entire morning. "I've never known you to be nervous."

Boromir gave his brother a soured look and straightened the brown leather waist belt on his deep grey surcoat. "Anxious to be done with it is more like."

It was with those words that the traveling party entered into the Citadel. Horses rising from the entrance two-by-two. Lord Brandir was a stout man of Faramir's height with curly ash-grey hair and a trimmed beard of the same color. The deep greens and vibrant reds in his attire spoke the riches of Dorwinion.