Baisemain—a kiss on the hand.
After the third frustrated cry and crumpled sheaf of parchment that ends up at her lord husband’s feet, Zinat puts aside her book. Enough, she says, crossing to his side and plucking the stylus from his fingers. You will crack your cheeks with sighing.
I must write this missive tonight, Zinat, Boromir says, pinching the bridge of his nose—a sure sign that the ache behind his eyes has returned. He will not sleep well tonight, she knows, and tomorrow he must be up at dawn for council.
So Zinat places herself in his lap. (His sound of soft surprise makes her smile as she reaches for some clean parchments.)
Tell me what you wish to say, she instructs, dipping the pen in ink. She is not as well practiced in Westron as Sindarin or Haradi, but her hand cannot be worse than Boromir’s scratching. Come. Just speak to me as though I were—who is the letter to?
The Prince of Lossarnach, Boromir murmurs, twining his arms around her waist and laying his cheek against her shoulder. He is very warm, and Zinat can feel her cheeks heat as his thumb strokes the curve of her hip through her jagulfi. But I cannot find the words with which to address him.
He is stumbling at first, but her husband is not so clumsy with words as he thinks. (A little formal, sometimes, and overwrought when he becomes emotional, but Zinat’s imperial father cannot write more than his name. There are worse fates than bombast.) She fills three parchments with words before she shakes sandrac across the valediction: Ever in your fellowship, Boromir Ithilien.
She can feel Boromir breathing, deep and even at her back. She thinks he shut his eyes some time ago, after he stopped playing with her hair. But his arms are still warm around her waist. There, she says softly, setting down the last page. She massages her writing hand, flexing her stiff fingers. That was not so difficult. But it has grown late, my lord, and I must retire.
She slips from his arms, but as she steps away, Boromir suddenly reaches up and catches her wrist. My lord…?
He brings it to his lips, kissing the palm, and then her ink-stained fingers. My lady wife, he says in a sigh. What did I do before your coming?
She smiles. Wait, I suppose