Ficlet: Cold Pressing. Path 2 (2/3)
Apr. 22nd, 2006 10:10 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
alex-quine.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleFiclet: Cold Pressing. Path 2 (2/3)
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, PG)
Warning: AU, Mpreg, Angst
Summary: Boromir follows his son and reflects on his fate.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Feedback: Received with thanks.
AN: This story was begun as a single chapter with two different endings, which can be read below or at http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1694.html. What follows carries on from the second ending.
Author:
alex_quinePairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, PG)
Warning: AU, Mpreg, Angst
Summary: Boromir follows his son and reflects on his fate.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Feedback: Received with thanks.
AN: This story was begun as a single chapter with two different endings, which can be read below or at http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1694.html. What follows carries on from the second ending.
Path 2 , part 2
Boromir had wept and raged until he was sick with exhaustion and Nan could bear his pain no longer and had lowered herself to the ground to cradle him like a child. They were still there as the first grey light crept in through the open gates of the yard, grown stiff and cold. She had persuaded him to take some rest then and had fed him oatcake and broth as he woke, but he looked so bleak that her heart chilled and faltered.
When, the next day, she found him packing a bedroll, she did no more than lay a hand on his shoulder and went away to unearth Rollin’s heavy travelling cloak, old-fashioned now but still good and with a deep hood to hide his face, from the depths of the chest where it was laid in cedar shavings against the moth. He would have pressed the three gold coins into her hand before leaving, but she’d have none of it and stood watching him, until the striding figure disappeared from view.
Through the three days it took to walk to Minas Tirith, tramping from dawn to dusk, Boromir alternated between hope and desolation, turning over in his mind so many possible ways that this might end, that at the last he was exhausted by the effort and lapsed into reverie, his memory drifting back to a time before, when he had stumbled away changed from the magic of Lothlorien and when he had known what it was to love and to despair.
In his mind, he travelled again the path to Amon Hen, feeling the cold, agonising pull of the Ring and the sweet hope of his awakening love for his Ranger. There were the twin horrors of losing his battle with the Ring, momentarily betraying all that he had sworn to the Fellowship, promises made on the honour of Gondor, whilst his passionate body had twisted what remained of him as a man and cursed his love with something growing within him.
He had fought with the strength of desperation in defence of the hobbits, but the foes’ barbs were almost welcome, almost…and then his Captain had appeared, ferocious, a she-wolf in defence of her cub, and Boromir looked up into tear-filled eyes and clung grimly to that vision.
Through long hours, the Ranger had kept him alive by will alone, pouring his love and faith into his ear in an endless stream of whispered caresses, promises, remembrances and hopes – making him fight the orc poisons, commanding him not to give in. And Boromir had known in those fevered watches, how great a King this man could be, what depths of compassion flowed in him so that, when the danger had passed and Boromir began to heal, the awful realisation of what he had done, how he had risked Aragorn’s fate, alongside the curse nestled within the depths of him and the shame to which such an abomination could lead, had made the decision to wipe Boromir of Gondor from the sight of Middle Earth, the only possible course.
With his own hands he had cloven the great horn and cast it into the Anduin with whispered pleas for forgiveness to his father. Then he had taken one of the boats, holed the other on the bank, and fled. He heard Aragorn’s anguished entreaties from the shore, and he would not turn, determined to hide his shame, his sickness, in the darkest parts of some forsaken land - but the child he carried would not let him rest.
It was his precious bane and the instrument of his punishment. He welcomed the nausea that would not leave him, even as he searched daily for the food to be forced down, albeit briefly, sustaining the torment. Once he had raised his knife to plunge it into his stomach, but the babe had fluttered bravely in its dark nest and he sank to the ground, huge, calloused hands cradling his swollen belly, for in his mind he still held Aragorn in those straining arms.
How he had come, at last, within the bourne of the most reclusive of Mirkwood’s inhabitants, led stumbling, gasping with pain, into a welcome cave that echoed to his cries, was no more strange than that, as the pale Healer laid the squalling, crimson and bloody creature onto his heaving chest, he and Arin had locked eyes and his heart, once his King’s alone, had split in twain.
As he regained his strength, Boromir had repaid the kindness of Greenwood the Great, fighting alongside elves against bands of marauding orcs that became increasingly destructive as Mordor’s fortunes declined. That was when he had almost fallen again, overwhelmed in a sneak attack and cruelly scarred along face and trunk. The healers had put forth their best efforts, but one side of his body was a ruin, although the sight had never dimmed Arin’s brilliant smiles nor stilled his grasping fingers to his father’s twisted face. He had heard with heartfelt gratitude of the final victory, of Elessar’s coronation and marriage, and they had left Mirkwood, Arin slung against Boromir’s chest, before Legolas’ return there, lest someone should connect the freakish man with the missing ‘hero’.
The world that Boromir ventured out into again, cast a welcome fog around the fugitives, for the roads were clogged with the displaced, communities scattered and too many had lost family members to question the solitary man and babe…and then the legend of the Nine Walkers had begun to swirl around them, until Boromir came to hate the sound of his name, spoken in tavern and marketplace, the glass raised in tribute to one of the heroes of Men.
So they had moved from place-to-place, Boromir taking what work was offered. He dared not go for his old profession of soldier, but for those who could stomach his healing scars, he was strong and willing and horses did not flinch at the sight of him. And always they moved on when casual enquiries of a man, comely and good with a sword, perhaps caring for a child, came too close.
Gradually, Arin grew and their reliance, one-upon-the-other for companionship, became a habit. Boromir no longer expected to eventually find some place to settle and Arin’s rapidly formed attachment to the mill and to Nan had come as a jolt to him, as had the realisation that the boy’s mind needed nourishment and shaping as much as his growing body. Only now all his half-formed plans were swamped with bleak despair and it was with a sense of dread that neither past foe nor bodily hurts could match, that Boromir came once again within sight of the city whose every alleyway he had once known and loved, whose banners and men he had ridden before.
He stopped at the side of the road, which had become busy with travellers, moving aside from the bustle of carts and peddlers, a man driving half a dozen geese that hissed and cackled at him as they passed and a quartet of mounted soldiers, coming back off exercise he judged, who wove through the crowd, each rider leading a spare horse.
There was an air of purpose and excitement in the throng and few spared more than a glance for the cloaked figure, stood looking at the white tower glittering in the morning sunshine, but one elderly man stopped beside him, hefted his pack onto his other shoulder and nudged Boromir in the ribs saying “A grand sight is it not? Have you ever seen so fine?” Boromir shook his head slightly, but the man had had a glimpse under his hood and swallowed. “If you seek out the Inn of the Silver Bow on the second level at curfew and ask for Packman Rowell, there will be an ale for you friend,” and he slapped Boromir on the back as he stepped out into the stream of travellers and was lost in the flood.
The hooded figure mingled unnoticed with the market-day crowds at the Great Gate of the first level of the city and for a few moments Boromir marvelled at the sweet familiarity of the smell of the place, the bustle and colour. At the next few gates upward, as the attentions of the guards to strangers increased, he told the same story. It was enough to draw his hood half away and claim a visit to a healer living above and the soldiers stood aside – too readily in Boromir’s opinion.
It was at the sixth level that the questioning became too pointed to be evaded. The guards stood alert on either side of him, a seasoned veteran and a youngster, probably in his first posting, wanting a name for the person in the Houses of Healing he was going to visit. Boromir pushed the hood fully back and whilst the young guard stood his ground at the sight of his wounds, it was his older companion, a man Boromir had known well who, faced with the fair and familiar features of his erstwhile Captain, paled, clutching for support to a long spear that shook in his grasp.
“Well met Orack,” Boromir said softly to the trembling man, “I would see the King.”
The old soldier knelt before Boromir could stop him, crying out “My lord Boromir! In the name of Gondor - pass friend!”
The recruit gaped and went to kneel, but Boromir grasped his elbow, saying, “Nay lad, bear up. Orack will take me onwards to the Citadel. Someone needs stand with the gate and you do well.”
Then Boromir raised the veteran, lifted his head to gaze once more on the streets of his home and began the climb up the steep, paved avenue to the last gate.
tbc………………………………………………………………………………
Boromir had wept and raged until he was sick with exhaustion and Nan could bear his pain no longer and had lowered herself to the ground to cradle him like a child. They were still there as the first grey light crept in through the open gates of the yard, grown stiff and cold. She had persuaded him to take some rest then and had fed him oatcake and broth as he woke, but he looked so bleak that her heart chilled and faltered.
When, the next day, she found him packing a bedroll, she did no more than lay a hand on his shoulder and went away to unearth Rollin’s heavy travelling cloak, old-fashioned now but still good and with a deep hood to hide his face, from the depths of the chest where it was laid in cedar shavings against the moth. He would have pressed the three gold coins into her hand before leaving, but she’d have none of it and stood watching him, until the striding figure disappeared from view.
Through the three days it took to walk to Minas Tirith, tramping from dawn to dusk, Boromir alternated between hope and desolation, turning over in his mind so many possible ways that this might end, that at the last he was exhausted by the effort and lapsed into reverie, his memory drifting back to a time before, when he had stumbled away changed from the magic of Lothlorien and when he had known what it was to love and to despair.
In his mind, he travelled again the path to Amon Hen, feeling the cold, agonising pull of the Ring and the sweet hope of his awakening love for his Ranger. There were the twin horrors of losing his battle with the Ring, momentarily betraying all that he had sworn to the Fellowship, promises made on the honour of Gondor, whilst his passionate body had twisted what remained of him as a man and cursed his love with something growing within him.
He had fought with the strength of desperation in defence of the hobbits, but the foes’ barbs were almost welcome, almost…and then his Captain had appeared, ferocious, a she-wolf in defence of her cub, and Boromir looked up into tear-filled eyes and clung grimly to that vision.
Through long hours, the Ranger had kept him alive by will alone, pouring his love and faith into his ear in an endless stream of whispered caresses, promises, remembrances and hopes – making him fight the orc poisons, commanding him not to give in. And Boromir had known in those fevered watches, how great a King this man could be, what depths of compassion flowed in him so that, when the danger had passed and Boromir began to heal, the awful realisation of what he had done, how he had risked Aragorn’s fate, alongside the curse nestled within the depths of him and the shame to which such an abomination could lead, had made the decision to wipe Boromir of Gondor from the sight of Middle Earth, the only possible course.
With his own hands he had cloven the great horn and cast it into the Anduin with whispered pleas for forgiveness to his father. Then he had taken one of the boats, holed the other on the bank, and fled. He heard Aragorn’s anguished entreaties from the shore, and he would not turn, determined to hide his shame, his sickness, in the darkest parts of some forsaken land - but the child he carried would not let him rest.
It was his precious bane and the instrument of his punishment. He welcomed the nausea that would not leave him, even as he searched daily for the food to be forced down, albeit briefly, sustaining the torment. Once he had raised his knife to plunge it into his stomach, but the babe had fluttered bravely in its dark nest and he sank to the ground, huge, calloused hands cradling his swollen belly, for in his mind he still held Aragorn in those straining arms.
How he had come, at last, within the bourne of the most reclusive of Mirkwood’s inhabitants, led stumbling, gasping with pain, into a welcome cave that echoed to his cries, was no more strange than that, as the pale Healer laid the squalling, crimson and bloody creature onto his heaving chest, he and Arin had locked eyes and his heart, once his King’s alone, had split in twain.
As he regained his strength, Boromir had repaid the kindness of Greenwood the Great, fighting alongside elves against bands of marauding orcs that became increasingly destructive as Mordor’s fortunes declined. That was when he had almost fallen again, overwhelmed in a sneak attack and cruelly scarred along face and trunk. The healers had put forth their best efforts, but one side of his body was a ruin, although the sight had never dimmed Arin’s brilliant smiles nor stilled his grasping fingers to his father’s twisted face. He had heard with heartfelt gratitude of the final victory, of Elessar’s coronation and marriage, and they had left Mirkwood, Arin slung against Boromir’s chest, before Legolas’ return there, lest someone should connect the freakish man with the missing ‘hero’.
The world that Boromir ventured out into again, cast a welcome fog around the fugitives, for the roads were clogged with the displaced, communities scattered and too many had lost family members to question the solitary man and babe…and then the legend of the Nine Walkers had begun to swirl around them, until Boromir came to hate the sound of his name, spoken in tavern and marketplace, the glass raised in tribute to one of the heroes of Men.
So they had moved from place-to-place, Boromir taking what work was offered. He dared not go for his old profession of soldier, but for those who could stomach his healing scars, he was strong and willing and horses did not flinch at the sight of him. And always they moved on when casual enquiries of a man, comely and good with a sword, perhaps caring for a child, came too close.
Gradually, Arin grew and their reliance, one-upon-the-other for companionship, became a habit. Boromir no longer expected to eventually find some place to settle and Arin’s rapidly formed attachment to the mill and to Nan had come as a jolt to him, as had the realisation that the boy’s mind needed nourishment and shaping as much as his growing body. Only now all his half-formed plans were swamped with bleak despair and it was with a sense of dread that neither past foe nor bodily hurts could match, that Boromir came once again within sight of the city whose every alleyway he had once known and loved, whose banners and men he had ridden before.
He stopped at the side of the road, which had become busy with travellers, moving aside from the bustle of carts and peddlers, a man driving half a dozen geese that hissed and cackled at him as they passed and a quartet of mounted soldiers, coming back off exercise he judged, who wove through the crowd, each rider leading a spare horse.
There was an air of purpose and excitement in the throng and few spared more than a glance for the cloaked figure, stood looking at the white tower glittering in the morning sunshine, but one elderly man stopped beside him, hefted his pack onto his other shoulder and nudged Boromir in the ribs saying “A grand sight is it not? Have you ever seen so fine?” Boromir shook his head slightly, but the man had had a glimpse under his hood and swallowed. “If you seek out the Inn of the Silver Bow on the second level at curfew and ask for Packman Rowell, there will be an ale for you friend,” and he slapped Boromir on the back as he stepped out into the stream of travellers and was lost in the flood.
The hooded figure mingled unnoticed with the market-day crowds at the Great Gate of the first level of the city and for a few moments Boromir marvelled at the sweet familiarity of the smell of the place, the bustle and colour. At the next few gates upward, as the attentions of the guards to strangers increased, he told the same story. It was enough to draw his hood half away and claim a visit to a healer living above and the soldiers stood aside – too readily in Boromir’s opinion.
It was at the sixth level that the questioning became too pointed to be evaded. The guards stood alert on either side of him, a seasoned veteran and a youngster, probably in his first posting, wanting a name for the person in the Houses of Healing he was going to visit. Boromir pushed the hood fully back and whilst the young guard stood his ground at the sight of his wounds, it was his older companion, a man Boromir had known well who, faced with the fair and familiar features of his erstwhile Captain, paled, clutching for support to a long spear that shook in his grasp.
“Well met Orack,” Boromir said softly to the trembling man, “I would see the King.”
The old soldier knelt before Boromir could stop him, crying out “My lord Boromir! In the name of Gondor - pass friend!”
The recruit gaped and went to kneel, but Boromir grasped his elbow, saying, “Nay lad, bear up. Orack will take me onwards to the Citadel. Someone needs stand with the gate and you do well.”
Then Boromir raised the veteran, lifted his head to gaze once more on the streets of his home and began the climb up the steep, paved avenue to the last gate.
tbc………………………………………………………………………………
no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 11:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 05:43 pm (UTC)Poor, poor Boromir, opening scene was heartbreaking. I would really love to read more about his live.
Thank you for that wonderful story.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-22 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-22 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-22 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-22 11:22 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying the experience so far and thanks for feeding back. I'm new to fanfiction and found the whole idea of Mpreg (and Wingfic) startling/curious, but was intrigued by the challenge of working with these characters in this situation.