Chapter Text
Drabble: Apprentice
Summary: An old song weaves a new magic
Theirs was a solemn journey. Aragorn had never heard Boromir sing, but for most of the day the warrior had been humming a tune; now he was singing as he collected firewood.
“…To gather up the river lilies -
Shining white like gems in moonlight,
Stars about the water’s margin...”
“What song is that?” Aragorn asked.
Boromir turned, a stain to his cheeks, but he answered boldly.
“The River-woman’s Lullaby.”
“It twines about the heart. Where did…?”
“Old Tom taught Pippin and Pippin taught me.”
Aragorn saw Boromir weigh his words carefully, before adding, softly,
“I could teach you well.”
Drabble: Softly
Summary: The magic lives on
The Golden Wood was fallen into the blue of night.
All was still, yet Aragorn could hear a murmur from where the hobbits lay. Pippin had begged through tears and Boromir was trying to hum the lullaby, but his voice was thick with grief and the tune, half breathed aloud, creaked.
Aragorn came to Boromir, as he sat beside them. His voice joined with this Steward’s Son’s and the melody grew, no louder, but sweet and true. Merry slept. Pippin’s eyes grew heavy and so he did not see Aragorn’s hand first set down over Boromir’s and the fingers entwine.
Ficlet: The Bear
Summary: In the mists of Rauros the hunter is hunted.
The thunder of the water filled his ears, rolling without let about his head. He was come at last to the fishing place, the shallows with the gravelled bed where he could see the silver light glittering off slippery scales. The mist was thick here with spray, wetting his fur and clogging his nostrils so that the bear shook his head to clear the water and that was when he caught the scent on the air…a man.
A man could mean a bow and danger, but this was a faint, cold, scent, no tang of sweat and straining muscle about it…and there was some other thing, something that nagged at the edge of his memory, making the fur stand on his spine and making him pace the bank, shouldering his way through undergrowth towards the smell and all the while the water thundered in his hearing, drumming louder than his blood, up and on the hunt.
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The beorning rolled his head from side to side to ease the muscles stiffened by his changing. The river place no longer gifted him its hundred smells, but he had found the grey boat rocking on the eddies before the bear retreated and it had not left his amber gaze.
The little craft did not move, it lay becalmed in the stream and was a wonder to the beorning. Barely visible within, the man lay motionless. Halbeorn could see the sword placed beneath clasped hands. This was a funeral barge, taking a warrior on his last journey down the mighty Anduin.
He knew it for an elven boat, the graceful lines and silvered timbers, but never had he seen one hold station against the current. It spoke of enchantment, of danger perhaps and yet…he’d not abandon the man.
Halbeorn shook out his limbs and then strode into the shallows. The water was cold and dragged at him. He was hip-deep by the time that he reached out to grasp the prow and work his way alongside. The figure slept pale and silent. There was a deal of water sloshing around, but the man’s clothes seemed dry, with no more than three dark stains to the breast of the jerkin, where Halbeorn judged he had taken arrows.
The beorning found himself uncertain now, more torn than he could remember since his first changing. As a soldier he would not desecrate the rites accorded a fellow. He could see the orc helms and blades piled about his feet – this had been a mighty warrior, one honoured by his companions and sent to his rest with due reverence. But the bear would not let him be; there was some itch that crawled across his hide; he must not leave the man here...and then he saw the great horn, banded in silver, cloven through.
He had heard it on the wind, not two nights since and Halbeorn threw back his head and howled his grief for the Steward’s Son, for the race of men bereft of a champion, as Rauros swallowed up the sound. This was Boromir the Fair, this silent figure and now there was all the more reason for him to leave the dead in peace…
Halbeorn turned away and all at once the bear struck out, sending him staggering in the water, pain lancing across his chest. He reached out to the boat to steady himself and almost expected to see bloody tears in his flesh when he glanced down. His sight was bleeding colour and smells were crowding in on him, the itch on his skin had become a brand and Halbeorn was suddenly afraid. He could not cede to the animal in daylight, it would rend him apart!
Once more he would have tried to turn away but the beast’s grip was about his throat so that he gasped for breath and in desperation reached into the boat and snatched at the corner of the great cloak to swathe his head and hide him from the light.
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When his heart beat steady in his chest again the bear snuffled against the stuff of the cloak, the fur long dead and again his nose picked up the scent of…a cub…perhaps…not a cub…its tiny hands reaching out blindly, but some thing that danced behind his amber eye…a prick of light as though the sun that glittered across the water had reached in to his heart to flicker there.
The bear placed his great shoulders against the boat and heaved it towards the shore. With a sigh the current gave up its captive and the wake before the prow rolled up the shallow beach. The little craft followed, its keel crunching on the gravel.
With clumsy paws the bear thrust aside the weapons piled about the man’s feet and rearing up on his hind legs, he reached in to gather the body to him, heaving it out of the boat…a dead weight…and yet.
The bear stood upright, water dripping from his fur and the man clasped in his arms. In his mind, the prick of fire lit up the face of his skin-brother, the man Halbeorn, who could not carry the warrior alone.
A small movement against his breast made the bear look down. The man’s face was pale, his lips drained of colour, yet they were laid against his sopping fur and perhaps the man took in the precious drops?
The bear would have turned to go then, but his skin-brother checked him, so that the bear growled and threw his head about. Finally, and with an impatient swipe of one mighty paw, he sent the elven craft back to the river.
The bear did not wait to see the little boat join the stream and begin its journey anew. Before it was out of sight he was pushing through the myrtle scrub along the bank, the spark of light glittering in his eye.
He must take the man who carried the cub home.
Ficlet: Dream
Summary: Boromir is haunted.
Where he had fallen the tree roots had been digging into his back, but now he could barely feel them. There was a cold tide seeping through his veins, no holding it back.
He heard the whispered footfall of the elf, far off. Then his captain’s face began to swim in his gaze and he would hold that sight to the end. His king must know he gave his allegiance gladly and he was reaching for the sword, to swear on its blade.
It seemed that rain fell on his cheeks. The weight on his breast was so cold, so heavy, too heavy for breath. He could not find the blade, fingers groping blindly and suddenly he could bear no more and cried out, reared up, gasping, to a darkened and an empty hall…and knew they were his own tears. Beyond the open doorway the old women stood like statues, huddled, and heard the man’s distress. Night after night, he lived again some agony.
The Beorning knew what dwelt, huddled within the darkest corner of their hall, a warrior surely beloved of the Valar to carry a bairn. It was not for them to say the word, but the man was haunted, flesh healing but unable to rest, and they knew that his returning strength would be needed ere long. They had tried wakening him at the first whimper, had tried holding him tenderly as he arched and stiffened beneath their touch, before that last terrible cry. They had placed his bloodied clothing within reach of that groping hand, but nothing seemed to quiet his distress.
As nights saw him shivering, drenched in sweat, by day he lay amidst the meadow flowers, where they carried him, wrapped in warm furs, and dozed until the dusk fell once more and sharp grief would have split his heart in two, if’n he did not wake.
Once he asked what had become of his gear. The Beorning that had carried him home had wrapped him in the long cloak, but all else had been left within the elven boat to journey down the Anduin. He had bowed his head and thanked them once more, albeit in grave and sorrowful tones and that night he had not wakened, but seemed to weep without let, until the healers feared for the babe and roused him from sleep. Now as they tended to the wounds, curious eyes saw the first swell of his belly and the women would feed him as carefully as any of their own.
As for Boromir he lived in a maze of memories that invaded every moment of his sleeping and sometimes in his waking hours they would flash before his gaze and surely they were his due, his punishment for his betrayal of the Fellowship. He would take the only path of honour left to him and live to suffer this if it meant his whole life, for he deserved no less, so he forced the food down although his stomach would rebel and he lifted his face to the sunlight in the meadow, although he would rather have been buried deep where none could see his shame.
As his flesh healed it seemed to him that the women did not stint in their care of him, rather treated him with great tenderness and he was doubly ashamed, for surely his nightmares disturbed the hall. He was healing, his body softening without the weight of weapons, but he would leave the Beorning as soon as he might, take the cursed thing from their sight and give them peace.
Where he had fallen the tree roots had been digging into his back, but now he could barely feel them. There was a cold tide seeping through his veins, no holding it back.
He heard the whispered footfall of the elf, far off. Then his captain’s face began to swim in his gaze and he would hold that sight to the end. His king must know he gave his allegiance gladly and he was reaching for the sword, to swear on its blade.
It seemed that now his king’s face was surrounded by a golden cloud. The weight on his breast was so heavy, too heavy for breath. He could not find the blade, fingers groping blindly and suddenly a hand clasped his own. His glove was gone and his king had fast hold of his hand, warm and strong so that a man could cling to it, though he were drowning in sorrow…he spoke his love’s name and this time he woke with cheeks wet but humbly grateful for a single moment of forgiveness.
He slept the remainder of that night in peace and all through the following day he dozed in the meadow nest of furs. The great black and gold bees that hummed about the clover seemed to come nearer to him that day and when first one and then another landed on his upturned face, he closed his eyes and let them wander as they would.
As Boromir lay down to sleep in the darkened hall he hardly dared hope for another vision of hope, but he asked simply that he not disturb his hosts again.
Once more he fell, stricken, pierced through with regret, shame and such a sense of loss that it would take the breath from him, but once more his love’s eyes met his amidst golden light and his hand clasped Boromir’s strongly. Then Aragorn’s image began to fade and as fear gripped him Boromir would have called out, but that the hand still clasped his own…except that it was more like a hobbit hand, or smaller… This time he awoke with a start, bewildered, his stomach rumbling, and saw with amazement that he had slept through to morning. The hall was awake with murmuring and low laughter and an old, old, woman, who was his chief nurse and tormentor when he baulked at doing what the healers wished, was stood at the foot of his cot, with a steaming platter in hand.
He was still a little dazed as two women propped him up on his pillows, whilst a third opened his robe to make a cursory inspection of the healing wounds. Eventually, the old woman shooed them away and set the platter and a horn spoon on the low stool beside his cot. Boromir saw that it was no longer his usual fare of oat porridge swimming in honey, but there were eggs and strips of bacon too and what looked like wheat bread, spread with yellow butter. He took in a deep breath and looked up at the face, criss-crossed with wrinkles, in which the brightest dark eyes sparked with knowledge.
“You will eat all of that, my Lord,” she said and when he would have protested, she pulled back the coverlet, took his wrist and gently laid his hand upon his belly.
“You eat for the bairn too, my Lord,” she said firmly and turned away, ignoring the sudden stillness from the cot.
The women stood just beyond the partition listening for many minutes, but no sound came – neither laughter, nor weeping nor groans of despair. There was silence and at last they went about their business, but when the old nurse ventured to peer around the partition later that morning the plate was empty and the man lay sleeping. One hand was by his side, fist clenched tight and the other? The other lay across his belly, protecting the life within and it occurred to her now, that the warrior missed his sword.
Ficlet: The Mallorn
Summary: Boromir wanders and Arin waits.
After ten hours his mind began to wander. They would have added valerian to the mead they fed him one spoonful at a time but he had sworn against dulling the pain…no telling, the women said, what it might do to the child.
The healers would cut the babe free, but not before they judged it time and were content to let him roam, so he wandered the darkened hall, reeling from pillar to hearth, trying to stifle the groans, lest he disturb others in their sleep. And now he was slumped down beside a half-open shutter, panting and dazed. The pain had subsided and he closed his eyes, for a moment only.
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“Hush, don’t stir,” whispered the voice, “would you have them see you?”
Hot breath on his neck and suddenly, he was caught by a strong arm about his waist, pinioning his arms, pulled back into an embrace that would brook no struggle on his part, and a hand was snaking into the breast of his tunic, fingers spidering across his flesh until they reached the aureole and traced its circle lightly. The barest of touches made his skin to burn and Boromir opened his eyes to a blaze of gold so close about his face that he gasped, dazzled by the mallorn’s canopy. From the other side of the glade he could hear the dwarf’s low rumbling tones, hear the hobbit’s quiet murmur.
The fingers teased at the tiny nipple, wakening a throb in his groin but when he would have moaned, the fingers pinched suddenly, blunt nails stinging so that he gasped at the jag of pain instead, swaying, giddy and all the while his cock was hardening, thickening in his breeches.
A tongue laid a wet stripe along his neck and Boromir strained back towards it. He would have more of the blood drumming in his veins and made to stir, but the hand stilled and now he was bereft.
“Take hold of the tree, Boromir,” the voice commanded and he reached out to steady himself, one hand to a stout branch, the other on the trunk of the tree, bark warm, hard, living beneath his fingers.
His captain’s feet…his captain…kicked his further apart and now the hand at his waist was delving to clasp him through the cloth of his breeches and squeeze. He would move in Aragorn’s grasp but his stance left too little play. At best he could rock back and forth, whining softly, fighting for breath and all the while below Sam was chivvying Frodo to eat, something, a little.
The sudden prick of a knife in the small of his back made him still and he all but whimpered as the hand about his cock set up a dance, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, in time to the little blade sawing through the waistband.
A last slice upward, a thumb flicked at the head of his cock and a whispered, “Come for me, soldier,” he was gasping, jerking in Aragorn’s arms, sticky warmth spreading on his stomach.
For a moment, he slumped forward, boneless and in that moment Aragorn breached him, taking him up on to his toes, clinging to the branch, giddy, whilst his captain drilled him hard.
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The Healers did not want him lying down, where the weight of the child would press on his straining heart, so they had him kneel up on a sturdy chest, blankets folded beneath his knees to soften the hard wood and strung his arms between the beams over his head. Sometimes, silhouetted in the doorway in the grey dawn, he seemed a captive waiting for the knife, fighting against his bonds and sometimes, between the waves of red, raw, pain, he hung limp, sweat running down his belly.
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His lover was pouring warm oil in a thin stream from breastbone to balls. He could feel it soaking the hair about his sack, trickling down and back, making him itch to feel Aragorn’s fingers, his cock, open him wide and fill him up. Aragorn spread the oil across his skin, slicked it along the line of each corded muscle and then his hands settled to play with Boromir’s balls, cupping them in a warm hand, rolling them gently as his thumbs stroked and pressed at the tender spot behind and drifted back to circle his hole.
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Whilst he hung quiet in the ropes, Grimbeorn clasped him tight about the chest from behind and the healer began with a knife to slice through his flesh. One howl of agony, teeth bared and Boromir saw the morning light grey about his head and he slipped into a stupor.
The women who took the child from the shelter of his body said that Arin made no sound, but greeted the morning sun with dark eyes, wide open and seemed to reach towards it for a moment, before he became the bloody, squalling babe with screwed up face who could not be pacified until Boromir was cut down, his wound sewn up, layer by layer, and Arin was laid on his chest.
None could remember such a birth in the home-place before and none ever spoke the name that the Steward’s Son called on in his agony. Rather they recalled the way that the bees seemed to have been brought by the baby’s cry and how they swarmed across Boromir’s bloodied belly, over the angry scar and stung him, again and again, so that his unconscious body flinched and his flesh was a mass of red weals. Yet in the morning the pain of his wound proved endurable, so that he could hold his infant son and feel his suckle at his breast…and when many years later the babe brought his own child to the home-place to pay homage, none were surprised that the baby’s fine wool shawl was patterned with the wings of bees.
Ficlet: The Gift
Summary: Boromir comes to truly value a gift long after its giving.
Boromir stepped out into warm night air, the babe heavy in his arms, but quiet now.
All day he had grizzled and wept, cheeks hot and red, his first teeth a trial for all. Beorn’s healers had proffered potions and balms but nothing would soothe him. One small fist was thrust into his mouth to chew on, and Boromir tucked a cloth beneath his chin to catch the drool and sponged his tear-stained face with cool water.
He remembered the rattle given to Faramir, smooth sea coral to chew on and silver bells to distract the child. Beorn offered a ring he had carved from a warg tooth and Boromir took apart a horse bit, boiled the metal clean, but Arin would mouth them for a few minutes and then begin to wail again.
They needed something cool that could not splinter. Boromir left the light about the cradle to venture into the darkest recesses of the hall, where a neglected bundle of clothing lay in a corner. With shaking fingers he unwrapped it, felt the stiffened, crusted spots where his blood had fouled the stuff, but what he sought lay at the centre.
Even in the gloom Galadriel’s gift, the golden belt, glittered and there at the clasp sat the white gem, the size of a hen’s egg. With the tip of his dagger Boromir prized apart the gold and it fell into his palm, cold and smooth.
When he offered it to Arin the child reached up with both hands and took the jewel, seeming to gaze into its depths before beginning to gnaw on it. An unaccustomed hush fell over the hall.
“My thanks, lady,” Boromir murmured, settling down by the child to watch over him.
At the evening meal, they had heard how Gondor fared from Beorning who had travelled south along the Anduin, exchanging news with those they met. Under a carpet of stars, Boromir walked the meadow about the home place, with the child in his arms. Arin lay with dark eyes, his love’s eyes wide open, gazing up at him, as Boromir began to sway gently, humming and crooning to his son an old song.
“Laddie, now the King’s come,
Laddie, now our King’s come,
I will dance and you will sing
Gladly, now our King’s come.”