Fic: Entwine 2/? A/B PG
Jun. 14th, 2006 12:02 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleFic: Entwine (2/?)
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, OMCs
Summary: The ‘wildcat’ tells his tale, but Arin still has questions.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 2,823
Feedback: Received with thanks.
Author:
alex_quinePairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this part PG)
Warning: AU, OMCs
Summary: The ‘wildcat’ tells his tale, but Arin still has questions.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 2,823
Feedback: Received with thanks.
In the little room, Boromir watched keenly from a chair by the door, as Mariam and her maid fussed around the youth. The stone-faced guard stood ready, but the boy had seemed dazed when he opened his eyes and for the moment willing to be pushed and pulled into some warmer clothing and then given the bowl of soup. He had tried at first to knaw at a chunk of stale bread, until Mariam had caught his hand and placed the crust into the steaming broth, where it quickly softened, taking up the savoury liquid.
The maid was now supervising the boy’s consumption of the sops, making sure he didn’t choke in his haste to feed. Mariam was shaking out the remnants of clothing he had worn, to ensure that nothing was hidden in them and then she was casting each piece onto the fire, muttering darkly about vermin. His head had jerked around when the first garment caught alight and for a moment stark loss was plain in his eyes. Then the visible emotion seemed to be wiped from his face, he took in a deep breath and returned to his meal.
Boromir leant on his elbow and considered the scene before him. It was plain that the youth had some Elven blood, but how much he could not begin to guess at. His dark, almost copper, colouring and dark eyes were Southern, but the ears were unmistakable and his hair, once clean, might come close to the blue-black gleam of Rivendell. Did this mean that he could actually be much older than Boromir had first imagined? But then he thought back to the orchard. Half starved and chilled to the bone, whilst his spirit had been willing, the youth’s body had betrayed him. His attack had been no more than a desperate gesture. One in whom elven blood flowed strongly would have put up more of a fight, would not have been affected by the cold.
Behind him Boromir heard the door-curtain moved back and Arin ghosted to his side. Rullo must still be busy with his bone, or more like, some strong-willed maid had banned him from bringing it in from the yard where such things properly belonged. The boy perched on the arm of his father’s chair, swinging his legs.
The youth paused, the wooden bowl half-way to his lips to take the last of the broth, and looked at Arin. A faint smile crossed his lips, small, even teeth showing frost white against his skin. The pinched, gaunt look was receding a little from his face and the smile, which brought a stillness and then a shy smile in response from Arin and then a wider smile from the Harad, awakened a peculiar beauty in him that was all angles, catching the torchlight and throwing it back around the room in bright sherds.
As the Harad drained his soup and handed the bowl back to the maidservant with a graceful bow of the head, Rullo padded in through the door and lay down at Boromir’s feet. The youth knew that Boromir and the guard were both watching him. He took the carved bone ring from his ear, laid it on an outstretched palm and beckoned Arin forward. His voice was low and his accent thick, but the words were clear.
“You…held the dog back.”
“I thought you were a wildcat.”
“Thank you.’
Arin looked to Boromir, who nodded slightly and the boy slid off the arm of the chair and went forward to accept the gift.
“Thank you,” Arin repeated, gazing at the white curl in his hand. “It’s very smooth. Like a seashell.”
“You must keep it safe. Put it in your box of treasures at home. It will be a good few years before your ears will take it,” Boromir said firmly, thinking back to his own schooldays, a group of his friends and the heated needle that had cost him a beating from Denethor and a lecture on what was proper for a scion of the Steward’s house – which did not include pierced ears. Well he would not be so prohibitive, but the lad was still too young. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder what Aragorn might say on the matter?
Mariam and her maid had returned with some wool-felt slippers and a mug of hot, spiced ale. The young man would drink and then, said Mistress Mariam, he would sleep a while in his cot by the fire and Lord Boromir could be sure he would be well cared for. Boromir collected Arin with an arm around his shoulders and they left. Rullo followed after them and Boromir gestured for the guard to keep a watch on the door from the outside for the time being. Although where the youth might go without proper shoes in the freezing weather was unclear.
Boromir spent the rest of the day visiting outlying farmsteads, inspecting the repair work to date. His people had been busy and he would take care to give praise where it was due, but there was still much to do. The iron-hard tracks made riding slow, and it was almost sunset by the time his party turned back into the courtyard of the manor and dismounted.
He could hear Arin’s voice sounding within, busy with instruction and encouragement. When Boromir entered into the place, he found Arin was setting for the evening meal along the long tables, placing horn cups and knives at each place from a loaded tray being carried behind him by the young Harad. Since Boromir had last seen him, his matted hair had been washed and combed straight. Now it covered those tell-tale ears, falling, glossy, halfway down his back…and it was blue-black. Arin chattered on oblivious and his assistant followed obediently behind, but Boromir could see bone-deep weariness in the youth’s movements. There was also a stiffness that perhaps spoke of a little pain and Boromir suddenly remembered his own trials. He had a small flask of the healer’s soothing oil still in his gear.
Arin saw his father striding towards him and gestured to the Harad to put his tray down, before launching himself into Boromir’s embrace, who swung him off the ground, hugging him tightly. “Adar,” the boy was over-flowing with news, “I’ve been telling him about Minas Tirith!” “And I’m sure you’ve done Gondor proud, lad,” said Boromir, burying his nose into his son’s hair to take in his warm scent, “but your assistant looks about ready to drop and I would rest these old bones somewhere warm for more than a few minutes.” Arin looked anxiously at the Harad youth, at his drooping eyelids. “Oh,” he breathed, “I did not see. Come on,” he grasped the young man by the elbow and led him very gently back towards the little room off the hall, saying, “I will ask Mariam if you can eat in here,” as they disappeared through the curtained doorway.
Boromir pulled off his gauntlets as he climbed to the solar and searched through their packs until he found the horn flask of medicinal oil with its familiar scent. When he returned to the hall and ventured into the side chamber, Arin was putting some more wood onto the fire whilst the young man lay slumped on the cot, almost asleep already. “You have made a good job with those logs, but now your supper awaits Arin.” Boromir gestured to the boy to leave. Arin smiled shyly at the Harad before whisking out of the room, Rullo at his heels and his father considered the slight figure sprawled on the bed.
Boromir stood before the young man, who struggled to his feet, his face suddenly showing tension around the temples and mouth. Boromir laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back to his couch again and then set the flask on the cot beside him. For a moment the youth’s eyes widened in fear and Boromir stepped back, raising both hands, palm outwards in gentleness, saying, “Nay, lad, you have nothing to fear from me. You and I share the need for this balm.” Boromir ran his fingers down the deep scars on his face, which, although the runnels had silvered, would always define that side of him. The youth watched him closely.
“Some years ago, I met with warg and came off the worse for the hurts you see here and others that are hidden by my clothes.” Boromir’s hand swept down his body to slide across his groin. “Like you, I was cut and in great pain, but Gondor has fine healers. They made me see the worth of caring for my body as it healed and they made this oil to soothe that flesh. Use it sparingly, but each night and morning without fail.” The youth’s cheeks darkened with blood as he realised that Boromir had seen him naked, but he did not drop his gaze and nodded his understanding.
As Boromir turned to go, the young man caught at the edge of his tunic to detain him. His gaze was clear and Boromir thought he had not seen such gravity in the eyes of nobles swearing fealty as in this youth’s serious face.
“My Lord Boromir, I am in your debt.”
There was an intensity to the young man’s voice that unsettled Boromir, who replied in bluff tones “Aye, lad, you owe me some score of almond trees.”
“I know it, lord, and will repay the debt.”
Boromir judged it prudent not to press the point, but left the Harad, thinking ‘This one takes life hard and will make his road the harder by it.’
In the hall, the company was assembled for the meal and Arin was waiting by his father’s chair with the basin of water and napkin for him to wash his hands before the meal. His lad was beginning to learn the manners of the adult world and for a moment Boromir wished with all his heart that they were back at the mill and Arin a little child again.
After the meal and sequestered in the solar, seated around its brazier, Boromir heard from his son all that the boy had learned of the Harad youth. Arin clearly had the gift of drawing out the closest heart, or perhaps too much time alone on the road had left the youth open to his innocent questions, for he had found out a deal and told it with solemn care.
Arin had settled himself sideways on a bench, his thin arms wrapped around his knees. As he told the tale, sometimes he stared into the fire and sometimes he turned to Boromir with troubled eyes and the man felt his stomach roil, knowing that his boy was beginning to understand something of the bitterness of lives pulled apart by men’s greed. For all the roving life they had led up until Minas Tirith, the child had seemed to accept all, untroubled, safe within a circle of those who loved him. ‘True silver’ Nan had called him, but his world was opening out now to take in those whose hearts were not simple mirrors of the kindness they had met along the way.
“His name is Illuin,” began Arin, “and he thinks he has sixteen summers, but he is not sure. He comes from somewhere to the South, he would not tell me where and he has run from his home.”
“Why was he running, lad?”
“Because they would have sold him…sold him, Adar.”
“Who would have done this?”
“His brothers, Adar.” Arin’s eyes were grave at the thought of it and even to Boromir this was unexpected. Harad tribal ties were very strong, but as Illuin’s story unfolded, Boromir could see how his fate had been decided.
The boy’s father had recently died. He was the youngest of five sons and the only one born to a second wife, a bound-woman, freed by the grizzled man to be his bed-warmer in old age. Perhaps he had cared for her, he had certainly mourned her passing when the boy was still a babe and had lavished the love of declining years on Illuin. In truth all his sons had been valued, but with the old man’s death their portions, divided five ways, had looked meagre to his brothers. So they had decided to turn some of the more saleable inheritance into coin and that would include Illuin.
The boy, well-loved by many, had not stood alone. Voices in the holding had been raised in protest at the idea, but at the last his brothers had only to pin him to the floor of the meeting place and sweep his hair aside to display his ears, to show that he was not true Harad. Many remembered that the exotic look of the second wife had been part of her attraction, but it was surely not right that hard-won Harad goods should go to the son of a bound-woman and whose blood was tainted? So he had run at the first chance, stumbling hungry and exhausted out of the warmth of the South, which was all he knew, into a cold, hard landscape where there was no easy game, nor wild fruits to sustain him.
Boromir remembered the first time he had seen Illuin smile and his brow darkened. He would have fetched a high price and his brothers would have been loathe to lose him. Illuin must have travelled hard and fast to outrun the inevitable search party. It then occurred to Boromir to wonder whether the Harad had outrun his brothers, who it was whose blood had so recently earned him his cords? Boromir was by no means sure that he wanted Arin too close to this youth but then, he reasoned, his first instinct about Rullo had been wrong.
“Where was he going, Arin, did he say where he was bound?”
“He says his name means ‘light’. He believes it’s an Elvish name, so he thought he might go to the elves. But they are all leaving aren’t they?” Arin’s voice was anxious now.
“Aye, lad, most of the First Born have sailed already, but still there are some who remain.”
Privately, Boromir thought it unlikely that a Harad cub would be welcomed amongst the scattered remnants of Lothlorien’s elves or in the Greenwood. Legolas would know what to do! They must take him back with them to Minas Tirith. Boromir became aware that Arin was stirring restlessly in his seat. He cocked his head in question at his son, who got down from the bench and climbed into his father’s lap to curl up, as he was wont to do when Boromir told him stories. Now Boromir guessed that it was so he could talk softly to his father without having to look into Boromir’s face.
“Adar,” Arin breathed quietly. “Illuin had to run because his mother was bound. Is that why we had to move too?” Boromir’s heart twisted painfully in his chest and he clasped the arm of the chair behind Arin’s back, caught unawares. The question had come upon him at last and he was no more prepared with an answer than at any time since he had returned to Minas Tirith. When still a miller, he had determined to use the lie of a woman of Rohan, dead in the wars, but that ignoble thought had dissolved like mist as soon as he saw Aragorn again and after their promises one to the other, he would not try to deny his share in the child’s making any more than he would refuse to draw breath…how to do the thing was another matter.
“No, Arin.” Boromir hesitated. He wanted, he needed, Aragorn to be beside him when he did this. The lad needed some answer to soothe him now, as he lay warm and heavy against the rough body that had borne him. “This is an important story Arin, your story and you are nearly old enough to hear it, but I want us to be at home when I tell you the tale. Can you wait until we go back to Minas Tirith?” His chin rested on the crown of Arin’s head and he could feel Arin’s fingers playing with the metal clasps on his vest. “It’s only a few days, lad, and we’ll take Illuin with us. Legolas should be in the city when we get back and you can introduce Illuin to a Prince of the Greenwood.”
“Yes, Adar.” Arin’s voice was so soft that Boromir knew that this was only the beginning of something that would worry at him. When an idea teased Arin, his single-minded hold on it reminded Boromir of Aragorn’s determination to conquer some seemingly impossible obstacle. And he knew that those same dark eyes could break the heart of him, so this must be done well, with honesty and care.
TBC
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Date: 2006-06-13 12:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 01:39 pm (UTC)Nor can I wait for the next bit... *grin* Thank you!
~Kris
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Date: 2006-06-13 07:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 07:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-13 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 03:33 pm (UTC)But now Arin's after the truth and Boromir's gonna tell him, and what if he freaks or even if he doesn't what if he accidentally blabs the truth to somebody and then what if other people freak out--ack!
*breathes* This sort of thing is hard on high-strung people, y'know. :P
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Date: 2006-06-14 10:01 pm (UTC)A nice cup of tea might help with the nerves - up to you whether it's a virtuous caffeine-free herbal mixture (Aragorn in healing mode) or a bracing, tar-black, highly sweetened, caffeine-laden concoction (Boromir anytime for preference).
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Date: 2006-06-14 09:38 pm (UTC)I was glad that the youth didn't turn out to be a wild, malicious thing, as I had expected him to be. But... who knows? Boromir's apprehension ("Boromir was by no means sure that he wanted Arin too close to this youth") put my ears up.
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Date: 2006-06-14 10:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 03:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 09:04 pm (UTC)