Linger

VII. Up in Flames

Even though only a day had passed since Théodred's funeral, the mood within Meduseld was only subdued, not somber like before. Talk became easy-going again. Life had sprouted again with the reawakening of Rohan's king.

Going outside, she walked to the edge and surveyed Edoras. Having a break for once since her inclusion into the whirlwind of The Lord of the Rings story was nice. Now could Rowan sit back and appreciate the wonder of being in Middle-earth. She had missed ogling the beauty of Arda, on account of running and fighting for her life.

Even as glorious as Rivendell and Lothlórien were, and Dwarrowdelf had just been awe-inspiring, Rowan had always liked Rohan better, in the books and in the movies. The home of the Horse-lords was expansive with its seemingly endless plains and rolling hills. The vastness reminded her of growing up in Kansas.

She sat on the edge with her legs dangling off. It wasn't just the land, though, but the people, too. Life wasn't easy out here on the windy plains, unfertile soil, and ever-burning sun. Wheat was the only crop that flourished; smaller vegetables like potatoes or greens grew inside the walls. They also had to deal with the wild men pillaging and burning their villages. The people were inspiring for their will to survive.

Footsteps headed her way, and she recognized the pattern belonging to the Gondorian captain.

"May I join you?" Boromir asked.

"You don't have to ask."

When he didn't sit, she looked up at him—he looked conflicted about what to do. Rowan remembered where she was. His upbringing probably had asking a woman permission for anything engrained into him. And her responding with neither a yes nor a no confused him.

"Oh, umm, you can sit, Boromir; it's alright."

After receiving a positive answer, the Gondorian sat beside her. His legs dangled further than hers. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded. "No problem."

Silence fell over them for a while. Rowan didn't notice the awkwardness, for she had her eyes on a stallion running around his fence.

"With your first answer, I assume the men from" —he leaned in to whisper— "your worlddo not ask a lady if they wish for a man's presence?"

Her lips pulled up into a smile. The way he words things—how everyone did—and his cautious approach whenever he asked her about the modern world was endearing. "No, they don't really ask much other than when they're trying to..." She floundered for the right word. "Woo, a woman, and to ask for her hand in marriage."

"A lady should be treated with deference whether or not you marry her."

"Way before my time, men did that, but not now."

She saw his head turn to her from the corner of her eye. "Since you sound like you're not used to being treated with respect daily, I can only assume receiving it here came as quite the surprise..."

Rowan laughed. "That's a good way to put it. But it wasn't hard getting used to again."

"Again?" he repeated.

She winced. She hadn't wanted to get on to this topic, but she had thrown that door wide open. No sensible lie came to her, so Rowan had to settle with the truth. "I... used to have a fiancé; his name was Wyatt. We treated each other with respect, and he practically worshipped the ground I walked on." She looked down at her ring finger, still feeling the engagement ring she loved showing off.

"He didn't die—he just fell out of love with me. It took me a while to accept that I had too. I guess we just weren't meant to be together..."

Boromir didn't say anything for a while, probably stunned at her confession.