Strip

She is used to the heat of the furnaces in her smithy, but her husband is not. Boromir comes to escape his duties sometimes—and reluctantly, too, she can see how it eats at him in his eyes—in the full regalia of the Steward. After twenty minutes he will subtly shrug out of the over-robe required of his office, as well as the symbolic mithril chain denoting his duties and loyalties to Gondor and King Ellassar. Aragorn had told him nearly a year ago that he didn’t feel such demonstration was necessary—he knew Boromir’s quality had been tested during the last war of the ring. Boromir, however, had prepared for his entire life to bear the weight of such things and wanted to continue some of the ancient traditions of his house.

Usually an hour after he disposes of his robe and jewels, he takes off the constricting vest and loosens his tunic from his leggings. Gimli continues to pound out creations—sometimes a delicate bit of metalwork to repair the Hall of the King, or a new sword for Pippen or Merry. Boromir wanders around, hands gently trailing over her creations in wonder. His light beard does nothing to hide the childlike smile on his face as he picks up the tiny weapons she makes for their adopted sons.

And, depending on the day and how long he is in her smithy, Boromir will shimmy out of his tunic and wander around in just his leggings and boots—he never wears the soft shoes other courtiers wear, refusing to grow weak now that there is peace sweeping over the land. The House of the Stewards, he tells her at night, holding her so close their hearts are one, has always been there to remind the King of Gondor that strength is to be measured by the grace of peace. And also to remind the kings of Gondor that peace without remembrance of the pain which brought it is a short-lived peace indeed.

Boromir’s eyes are far-looking, and Gimli at one hundred and thirty appreciates her husband’s far-off gaze. The reasons that Elves and Men so rarely collaborated was that by the time an Elf had actually become friends with a Man, the Man was approaching their twilight of life. Fortunately for Gimli, her husband is one of the few lucky Men to have inherited the long-lasting life of Numenor. She will still likely outlive him, but she may get a hundred years with him rather than fifty.

Her husband’s incredible forethought, however, always seems to miss the tears which spring to her eyes when he shucks off his tunic.

Her dear Illi’s torso is littered in scars, the old ones she does not mourn—but the still bright red scars of where arrows had nearly festered before being yanked out roughly and bandaged poorly, those make Gimli’s breath stutter for a moment every time she sees them. One of the arrows that day so long ago had gone straight through him, so even when Boromir’s back is turned she sees those dreadful injuries. He was so strong, and she was so glad right now. She hasn’t the heart to tell him to cover up his old wounds, not when he is here despite them.

Stupid jitters. Her heart aches so much more in the last few months—and although she hasn’t even allowed herself to believe it let alone tell her husband, she knows that soon enough they will be parents. That this brave, daft man who comes with pleasure-tinged guilt to sit with her as she smashes away with her hammers, will soon be driving himself mad in the belief that he has to defend a child from the entire world. She doesn’t know this, for certain, but she wouldn’t be married to him if he didn’t try to lift the world by himself.