Promise Me

Chapter One

Rivendell

Some people found peace and comfort in silence.

Boromir, however, was not one of those people. Quiet unnerved him. The only time he didn't mind it was when he tried to sleep. Although since leaving Minas Tirith, sleep only came through sheer exhaustion. And even that was a battle far more often than not.

He stood out in the dappled golden sunlight filtering down through the red and gold leaves overhead. A warm breeze rustled those leaves, sent them sifting about to settle against the pale cobblestones lining the walkway. The quiet unnerved him, but he couldn't deny the view around him was breathtaking.

Still, beautiful as it was, there was somewhere else he'd much rather be. Without thinking, he reached up to the hollow at the base of his throat. Just below it, lay the medallion Gabby had fastened around his neck, warm from resting against his skin and he managed a smile as he brushed a thumb over it. He missed her. He wanted to kick himself for taking so bloody long to finally give in to the urge to kiss her, for it had plagued him for longer than he cared to think about.

Gabby was one of the most important people in his life and he'd been terrified of jeopardizing that by being too forward with her, but in all honesty, he'd been thinking about her in ways one should never think of their dearest friend for far longer than he hadn't. He'd managed to hide it from her, but as they made their way back toward her family's tavern, knowing where he'd been summoned to and why, the time had come to take the chance. Despite what he'd told her, he wasn't at all certain he would ever see Minas Tirith, or her, again. War had come, and the likelihood that his own days were numbered as a result, were enough to give him the courage he needed where Gabby was concerned.

Promise me.

It went back to childhood. They'd met when he'd come to the stables and found one of the horses missing from its stall. He'd almost given up his search for the animal when he spied it down near the banks of the Anduin. And with it, was what he'd first thought to be a small child.

As he drew closer, he saw she was no child at all, but closer to his own age, which was sixteen, and when she looked up at him, he'd nearly toppled right out of his saddle. Although he'd noticed the girls in Minas Tirith, he was far too busy to do anything beyond look. Much had been expected of him and of his younger brother, and it was his duty to see to it that he and Faramir were not late for lessons, or for training or for anything they were supposed to be doing.

But then he saw her and for a moment, he couldn't even remember his own name.

She stood just barely meeting the horse's shoulder, her long blonde hair almost white in appearance, neatly woven in a single plait that hung almost to her hips. She nuzzled the horse, pet its nose and then turned to say, "I believe her to be one of yours. Have you lost one?"

"Lost one? No, our groom is not so incompetent as to lose a horse." He swung from his saddle, one hand on the handle of his sword as he strode toward her. The steel sang softly when he drew it. "So, do not think to lie to me."

Up close, the girl was even prettier than he'd thought. Her eyes were the most unusual he'd ever seen—the dark gray of thunderclouds—and she did not flinch as he approached. Not even as he held the blade out toward her. "So, tell me the truth," he went on, "did you steal one of the Steward's horses?"

Those eyes remained locked with his. "I am no thief. I was already down here and heard a crashing sound. I turned about to see this pretty girl running as if Sauron himself chased her. She stopped at the water over there—" she pointed over her shoulder upriver—"and I went to check on her. I think she threw a shoe."