She was not completely unattractive; dull eyes, unnaturally red lips over yellowish teeth, but breasts trussed high and opulent in the scoop of her neckline. A head shorter, she stood too close and Boromir, of necessity, stared down her cleavage while they spoke.

Faramir smothered a grin, and laid a hand on Denethor’s arm. “Take pity on him. Call him away with an urgent message.”

“Boromir works to win concessions from her family.” Denethor looked Faramir over thoughtfully and smiled at his younger son. “A man, indeed. Ask her to dance.”

“Me, sir?”

“Did you not want to rescue Boromir?”