Fic: Entwine (4/?) NC-17

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

 

Fic: Entwine (4/?)
Author: alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this part NC-17)
Warning: AU, OMCs, mention of MPREG
Summary: Arin and Illuin seek the truth 
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 4,701
Feedback: Received with thanks.

 

Like eager, young lovers, they crept through the silent house. Boromir was leading Aragorn by the hand and both were trying to suppress laughter and to resist the temptation to give in to their need to feel, to taste, all of the other’s skin. 

 

They were barely through the heavy doors to Boromir’s chamber and he had thrown the bolt behind them when an arm slammed him back against the wall and a whirlwind of clutching hands and bared teeth had them tearing at one another’s clothing, reeling away from the wall, to their knees on the rugs and then rolling on the floor, kicking away boots, hauling off leggings, clutching at shoulders and hips, gasping in sharpest pleasure as swollen cocks met and slid against eachother. Aragorn spat in his hand and swirled long, clever fingers around their lengths, wrenching a growl from Boromir, who bit down on a nipple through the silk that covered Aragorn’s chest. He heard the hissed intake of breath as his teeth worried at the nub and then the soft wail as he spread the silk, wet with saliva, taut and flicked his tongue back and forth, keeping it hard and finally peeling the shirt back to suck the whole aureole into his mouth before beginning on the other side.   

 

When he could bear no more, Aragorn, wrapped both arms tight around Boromir and rolled over until he lay atop his Steward, relaxing so that his full weight pinned Boromir down. With a wide, lazy smile, he began a slow grind with his hips that all too soon had Boromir writhing and begging to be touched…coated in honey and devoured…if he would only finish it! At this Aragorn slithered down his body and began cat-lapping along his cock with delicate precision, until Boromir, roaring in frustration, would have reversed their positions but that Aragorn stopped him with an arm clamped around his shoulders, a sucking kiss and a commanding grip between his thighs, to take the edge off his golden boy. Boromir clutched at him, letting his heart slow in its race, at once aching hard to claim his love and yet relishing suddenly being held so close, so still, that Aragorn gifted him his very breath. 

 

As he relaxed into Aragorn’s hands Boromir, unbidden, let his head fall back to expose his throat and his King mouthed either side of the heavy pulse, setting his teeth to the skin and running his tongue along the swollen vein. Then in answer to the soft moan rumbling through Boromir’s chest, Aragorn had rolled them over again and wrapped his long legs about his man, pressing upwards to continue the slippery frottage against Boromir, who balanced on the balls of his feet and braced arms, to grind down against him, both of them panting and half-laughing at their young men’s eagerness, knowing that it was the days they had spent apart that fired this eager rutting.

 

Finally, in deference to his love’s aging bones, Boromir had said, they hauled themselves onto the wide bed and carried on their coupling with no less intensity, but some of the ferocity abated, lovers who found their better selves in eachother’s touch, where passion met with honesty and need with tenderness. They had loved and slept, spent, unconscious in one another’s arms almost before the sweat had dried on them and then had wakened in the night to a sweet, slow, smouldering slide, as Boromir claimed the tight heat of Aragorn’s body, stretched out atop him, rolling and pitching his hips with the glide, leaning in to sink his teeth into Aragorn’s shoulder as he came.

 

As they lay quiet, tangled together in the first glimmers of dawn, they talked of their son. “Did you nurse him? I have often wondered, but never asked.” Aragorn ran his fingers lightly along Boromir’s collarbone and down one arm. Boromir sighed and sank further into his embrace, laying his head against Aragorn’s breast. 

“For a few days. In the end I had barely enough milk for one feed and our son had a healthy appetite.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“And he bit.”

Aragorn gasped and looked amazed at him.

“He drew blood.” Boromir continued serenely, “It’s not something women talk about much, but Arwen told me…”

“You and the Queen have discussed suckling my children!”

Boromir reached up and petted his man’s cheek gently, but his face became filled with grave wonder as he remembered those first few days with Arin. 

“Aragorn, I cannot explain what it feels like. It is like love is being drawn from your body and the more the baby feeds…I have not the words…” and he broke off, turning to rub his face absently against Aragorn’s bare arm to wipe away tears. 

 

Aragorn held him close and marvelled at the gentleness in this stubborn, battle-hardened man and waited patiently for Boromir to tell him what it was that had kept a small part of him distracted, even as they loved.

“He wants to know about his mother.” Aragorn could feel Boromir trembling and laid a cool hand on his breast, where Boromir grasped it. “He asked me when we were at the manor and I said I would tell him once we had come home. I needed us all to be together. Aragorn, suppose he turns from me!” And whispered low into his Ranger’s neck, “It would break the heart of me.”

 

“He might break your heart, but so long as he is your son, he will not break you, because he might need you and you will be strong for him…and he is too young to understand the wonder of that.” Aragorn cradled Boromir, but did not try to soothe his pain with a gentling hand as one would a child. They both of them knew the measure of the hurt that could overwhelm them all too soon and though neither spoke of it, knew that if the occasion warranted, they would part for the boy’s sake, nor seek to stay the other.

 

“We will talk to him tomorrow and together,” said Boromir hoarsely.

“He already has something of his Adar’s strength of character,” Aragorn said softly, nuzzling Boromir’s neck.

“You mean he’s stubborn,” growled Boromir, “and he is. I know it. But he’s got a kind heart too. He feels for others.” And Boromir told him of the Harad ‘wildcat’ Arin and Rullo had found, who now slept on their bed in the garden room, whose future was so uncertain and whose past presented such a strange tale of love and betrayal.

“You will see him tomorrow, love. I have never met a soul quite like Illuin – and a beauty, but like a colt is beautiful, with more to come and skittish to the hand.”

“Does he still wear his cords?”

Boromir thought back to the pavilion, tucking the youth under the blankets. “No,” he said, “He has cut them off…sometime after we spoke.” Boromir could see the slim figure before him, sat tall on the rough packhorse, fumbling to put old gloves on frozen fingers.

“He is proud,” murmured Aragorn.

“He wants to remain honourable to the ways of his people, to a code that has done little enough for him.”

“As you tell the tale, it was the people and not the way that failed him.” Aragorn laid his cheek against Boromir’s hair and sighed. “I must leave before long, my love.” Boromir tugged at Aragorn’s arms to wrap them tighter around himself and they fell to kissing, neither willing to believe that Arin could part them. When some time later Boromir let him out of a side door, Aragorn’s parting embrace was hard and possessive, staking his claim afresh on his man.

 

True to his word, after the household had finished the morning meal, Boromir took Illuin to the Houses of Healing, where he was declared healthy, albeit in need of sound feeding for a while to build up his strength. Clean clothes had been found for him, leggings and a tunic of wine-coloured velvet that Boromir thought favoured his dark colouring, and Illuin had combed his long hair free of tangles. Arin had offered to tie it back from his brow, but Boromir saw the youth shake his head, preferring to have his face half covered and his ears hidden from view.

 

Boromir was leading the way through one of the halls of the citadel, crowded with the day’s gathering of counsellors, petitioners, visiting diplomats and members of the household. Arin had Illuin by the hand, and was giving him a running commentary on people and places and gentle re-assurance in equal measure, when the throng parted and up ahead Boromir caught sight of Elessar with Beregond, poring over some document and Legolas beside them, who turned at the sound of Arin’s voice and behind him Boromir heard Illuin give a strangled gasp. When Boromir looked back, the youth had baulked, stood frozen with Arin tugging at his hand, staring almost in fright at the figure before him. Boromir remembered the first time he had seen one of the First Born, the pale glow that arose off flawless skin. What he should have felt knowing that he was part-elf, Boromir could not imagine and as Legolas moved to greet them, he stepped back to place a steadying arm at Illuin’s elbow. The youth was trembling and when Arin surged forward into Legolas’ joyful embrace, Boromir leant in to say quietly in his ear, “Breathe lad, just remember to breathe.”

 

Arin was pulling Legolas to them, saying eagerly “Legolas, this is Illuin.” Boromir caught Arin’s eye with a warning look and saw the boy rapidly re-assess the crowded hall as a suitable place to disclose Illuin’s parentage. Instead, he returned to Illuin’s side, saying simply, “Illuin, this is Prince Legolas of the Greenwood realm.” Boromir’s heart swelled with pride at his boy’s kind, good sense, but in truth, their careful reticence was hardly needed. As their eyes met Legolas stilled, then tilted his head slightly to one side and searched Illuin’s face, as though he sought some thing just out of reach. The youth paled beneath his gaze, but stood firm and when Legolas reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder in greeting, he hardly flinched, but tentatively responded with an outstretched hand of his own. The hall might have been deserted, for all the notice they took of the throng. As Legolas gently lifted his hand to brush Illuin’s hair back behind one ear, the youth leaned in to the touch, bowing his head.

 

Legolas’ sharp intake of breath barely sounded in the renewed bustle as the crowd parted at the King’s approach. Legolas stepped aside, and Illuin raised his eyes as far as the King’s feet, uncertain of whether he should kneel to one who would offer him safe haven, but to whom he owed no formal allegiance. As he hesitated, in the awkward pause Boromir cleared his throat, “Sire, I present to you Illuin, newly arrived in Minas Tirith, come from my southern estates to the city for the first time. He is of the Steward’s House and I pledge my assurance of his good conduct in your realm.” At this, Illuin knelt, but to Boromir and placed his forehead on the toe of his boot, his long hair pooling around Boromir’s feet. A murmur ran around the watching crowd.

 

“Your word is weighed as my own in this, Boromir of Gondor,” responded Elessar calmly, “Illuin of the Steward’s House, you are welcome to Minas Tirith and to my court.” Illuin glanced up briefly at Boromir, gratitude glittering in his dark eyes and threatening to spill down, but before the youth could be overwhelmed, Legolas grasped him by the shoulder, saying lightly to Arin, “Shall we show Illuin some more of the palace? Majesty, your leave?” Aragorn nodded, they raised him to his feet and almost marched him away out of the crowded hall, clasped safe between the tall elf and the small boy, Rullo bringing up the rear.

 

Aragorn and Boromir looked at eachother and Boromir shook his head ruefully. He had known that Illuin wanted to seem unremarkable, but had thoughtlessly placed him in the position of making a show of himself. Boromir gazed after the youth. The tale would have left the hall already by another door and be making the rounds of the court, doubtless gaining exotic detail in the telling. “I should have prepared him better, told him exactly what to expect. This is my doing.” But Aragorn, as he turned to deal with the knot of petitioners hovering close by, murmured gently, “This may be a puzzle beyond our unravelling, love.”

 

At first the trio wandered idly through the corridors and chambers of the palace level. Arin and Legolas pointing out curious carvings or explaining what the various rooms were for. Working as one, they let Illuin calm and begin to truly look around him, asking nothing from him, but both boy and elf knew that his attention never strayed far from Legolas. As the noon meal approached, Arin suggested that they avoid the busy dining rooms and take their food somewhere cosy instead. He knew just who in the kitchens to approach to get an unscheduled picnic and if they would look after Rullo, who had been barred from those same kitchens, he would arrange everything and meet them in the small library. So saying, Arin turned and trotted off down a staircase leaving Illuin, clutching Rullo’s collar, alone with Legolas.

 

The elf ushered them into the library and shut the door behind them. “You can let Rullo go now. He will go and lie by the fire, “said Legolas, talking directly to the big dog, who yawned at him and then went to stretch out before the hearth.

 

As Legolas moved to approach Illuin again the youth burst out, “I am not an elf. I am not true Harad either.”

“You have elf-blood. So do others around you, to a greater or a lesser degree. The Lord Boromir and his brother, the Prince of Ithilien, King Elessar, all have a measure of elf-blood in their ancestry, but yours is much closer. Do you know where it is come from?”

“My mother was a bound woman, valued because she was fair and gentle and looked strange to Harad eyes. Her ears were like mine – I think – I do not remember her well.”

Legolas smiled encouragingly at him. “You and I will talk with the Queen, who was born elf-kind, Arwen Evenstar. She and I have lived many an age of the years of man and we may be able to find the line that has brought you here, Illuin.” Legolas bent his head enquiringly, “Do you know where your name comes from?”

“It means ‘light’.”

“Almost – it was a great lamp, one of two that lit up the world.” And Legolas began to tell the youth the story of the lamps of the Valar, Illuin and Ormal, but after the initial interest, when Legolas started on the longer history, he knew that Illuin was listening, entranced, to the sound of his voice, but no longer really hearing what he said.

 

Illuin drifted closer to stand directly before the elf, his wide eyes drinking in the shape of his ears, the colour of his hair and his scent. “Are all elves so fair?” he asked abruptly.

 

“Your question has two answers, Illuin. The First Born are accounted pleasant to look at, but not all have this colour of hair or eyes. Many have hair your colour and dark eyes.”

“And skin?” 

Legolas watched the expression in the youth’s eyes, light with hope, fade, as he answered, “We appear in many hues, but I have not seen an elf with exactly your colouring. The copper shade is very beautiful Illuin.” 

 

Illuin moved still closer. “May I touch your ears?” Legolas stood his ground, but placed a gentle hand on Illuin’s chest to stop him.

“I must tell you that to an elf that is an intimate gesture, a most pleasurable one, but between lovers. The tips of our ears are very sensitive.” 

As Illuin’s eyes widened and a red stain rose on his cheeks, he backed away, stammering out “Pardon prince, I meant no disrespect…”

Legolas simply followed him and asked gently. “Illuin, are your ears sensitive to touch?” 

“I don’t know. My hair was dressed Harad-fashion twisted with grease and trinkets, shells. It was matted…and of late, I did not want to think of my ears. They were…different.” His voice trailed away.

“Of late?” Legolas had heard an echo in Illuin’s voice. He looked deep into the dark eyes and silently asked the youth to reach back. Illuin’s eyes closed, his brow creased. He seemed to be wrestling to voice something buried deep. Suddenly, he looked into Legolas’ face. “My mother…my stomach was hurting…she rubbed my ears…”

“Ah.”

Just then a noise at the door, signalled the entrance of Arin carrying a basket, followed by a kitchenmaid with a heavily laden tray. As Illuin went to take the tray, Legolas stopped him with a hand on his arm and said, “Tonight, when you have time to yourself, try what gentle fingers can do. But do not be surprised if you take little pleasure in it. For some, it is only a true love’s touch that will awaken the feeling.”

 

Arin’s charm at work in the kitchens had brought a handsome picnic for them and as they ate, sitting on the floor before the fire, they told Illuin tales of Gondor, of the Elven lands, of the Nine Walkers and the great War, until his head buzzed with a whirl of stories and Legolas suspected that many of the threads would become tangled before he had them straight. He wondered if the youth could read and in what tongue?

 

They were finishing the last mouthfuls of a sweet pie filled with apple and spices, when the kitchenmaid, come to collect the dirty plates, delivered a message for Arin to join Lord Boromir in the Steward’s Study. Arin scrambled to his feet and brushed crumbs off his clothes.

 

“I expect it’s something about school. I’ll take Rullo. Would you like me to find someone to guide you back home?” he asked Illuin. Before the youth could answer, Legolas said lightly, “I would like to present him to the Queen and then I’ll see him home safe.”

 

Arin smiled brightly at them and followed the kitchenmaid out, Rullo at his heels. As he travelled the corridors and staircases across the palace to the Steward’s official rooms, Arin thought back to the manor and to the promise that Adar had made. Everything important about Illuin seemed to be bound up with who his mother was. This unknown woman with the elven looks, who had passed on her mark to her son. Perhaps he looked like his mother too? He knew that he did not look like Adar, although sometimes he thought they liked the same things.

 

Arin was steeling himself for the telling of secrets as he knocked on the door of his father’s study, but it was not wholly a surprise when on entering he saw the Senior Scholar seated before his father’s desk. What was a surprise was that the King sat in a high-backed chair before the fire. Arin began to feel more nervous than excited. He didn’t think that missing some schooling should merit King Elessar coming to check on him. 

 

The scholar was explaining in patient tones, why it was not a good idea for Lord Boromir to take Arin out of school during the term time and his father was setting his jaw in a determined manner, ready to fight his corner.

“Arin will someday have the care of those estates. It is right that he should know them from boyhood…and he has had a practical education in the planting of orchard trees.”

“Very true, my lord,” said the master evenly, “but this could have happened at another time…”

“…not the planting…”

“…and Arin had no tutor with him, to teach him about all the other aspects of care for a great venture.” He gestured with a sweeping hand to the piles of documents that littered Boromir’s desk. “He has come to us sadly lacking in book-learning and although he is bright and works hard,” the master smiled thinly at him, “it will be many months before he has reached the level of his peers. And now he has lost more time in the task.” Boromir grimaced and nodded slightly, acknowledging the man’s point.

“I learnt to do accounts,” said Arin. All in the room turned to look at him. “I can calculate how much grain a manor will need against a mild winter, allowing two large loaves each day for a working man or woman, half of that for a child under twelve and taking some losses to vermin or spoiling. You add half as much again for a hard season.” There was silence. “Mariam taught me. She thought I needed to know.”

Arin imagined he heard a choking sound much like a chuckle coming from behind him, where Elessar sat. The scholar was open mouthed. Boromir recovered first, clearing his throat and saying firmly,

“Yes…well…I take your point Master Ormund. No slight to the school was intended. Should I have occasion to take Arin from his studies again, he will certainly be provided with a capable tutor that you will instruct as to the lessons to be covered during his absence.”

 

As his father ushered the scholar from the room, the King rose from his chair and wandered across to the window. When the door closed behind Master Ormund, Elessar turning to his Adar with a wide smile, saying, “Did you actually like school?”

“Hated it,” replied Boromir. “I took any excuse to slip away and father was only too keen to have me training with a sword as soon as I could lift one.” Arin was doubly surprised. Adar almost never spoke of Grandfather and the King’s smile was somehow warm and young and only for Adar. It made his stern face look so different, that Arin wanted to see that smile again.

 

Then his father came to kneel before him and stroke his hair.

“But he was right lad. You should not lose time in your studies. I think you may have a liking for them, that your Adar sadly lacked.”

Arin shrugged. “I like numbers. They’re like puzzles.”

 

His father got up and with a hand on Arin’s shoulder brought him with him as he sat in one of the fireside chairs. The King would have stayed by the window, but Adar looked at him, smiling gently and said, “Aragorn, come to us,” gesturing to the other seat.

 

Arin, suddenly fearful of what was to come, did not want to sit in his Adar’s lap, but stood between his outstretched legs, his hands behind his back, gripping the arm of the chair. He could see the worry that Adar tried to hide, etched in the lines around his eyes, and was half determined to tell him that he had changed his mind, that he did not care about his mother – but it was not true. The King was watching him and Arin realised that the other man was troubled too.

 

“Arin,” said Boromir quietly, “I made you a promise that we would talk about your mother when we returned to Minas Tirith. We will talk today and any time that you want in the future, but I wanted Aragorn to be here, because it is a story that concerns him too. All three of us share a part of this.” His Adar paused and it seemed to Arin as though for a moment he did not know how to go on, but Adar took in a deep breath and began to talk. He reminded Arin of all their travels, confirming what Arin remembered of each place they had lived, adding some details that the boy half-knew or wondered at.

 

There came a time when Adar paused again, looking to his King with pleading eyes and for the first time since they had begun, the King spoke to him, saying,

“Arin, how many kinds of magic do you know about?”

“I don’t know,” Arin was unsure what the King meant.

“You have seen Gandalf create illusions that some would call magic…”

“Like the firefinches?”

“Like the firefinches, yes,” said Aragorn, “but as a wizard, Gandalf can do greater magic than that. And you have heard of creatures, like the Ents and the Beornings that can become uncanny things – the Ents are both trees and the shepherds of the trees, able to move through the forests. What was special about Beorn?”

“Beorn was a shape-shifter…he was sometimes a man and sometimes a great bear!” Arin looked eagerly at Boromir, who nodded encouragingly at him and then took up the tale.

“And alongside good magic, lad, you know that some used magic for evil ends and some things that were meant for good became evil.”

Arin whispered so low that Aragorn strained to hear him, “Do you mean grandfather and the Palantir?”

“Aye, lad. There was a man whose love for Gondor was gradually turned sour, and some of that was through bad magic…but beyond all those things we can see, like Gandalf’s finches and the Beornings and the seeing stones, there is the great magic held in special places that is secret and terrible and yet can make the impossible happen.” His father’s voice faltered and he gazed at Arin as though looking through him, until the King stirred in his chair and Boromir began to speak again, saying,

“Arin, one of these magical places is Lothlorien, where the Nine Walkers stopped to rest. You know this from the old stories. But the story of Lothlorien that is not told is your story. You were made in Lothlorien, lad. The magic of the oldest elven places heard the secret wish of our hearts and gave us the chance that was impossible, to have a child.” Arin’s brow creased. He did not understand, but his Adar and the King were gazing at eachother softly and Arin suddenly saw in their eyes, love, that his child’s heart told him was simple and true.

 

Aragorn reached out a hand and Arin went to him shyly, just laying the tips of his fingers in Aragorn’s hand, who did not try to close his grip on them, but lifted them to his cheek. Arin watched as Boromir got up from his seat and from a drawer in his desk produced a mirror of polished silver. He brought it to them and knelt before Aragorn’s chair, holding up the mirror so that Arin and Aragorn could see themselves together in the mirror.   Arin’s eyes grew round as he saw his soft features echoed in his King’s lean face. 

“Are you my Adar?”

Aragorn felt Boromir still before them and answered him firmly, “No, Arin. There is your Adar who has loved and cared for you always…but I am proud to have claim on you too…you are my son.” Before the boy could ask Aragorn went on, “You have two fathers. Boromir and I shared in your making and the magic of Lothlorien let your Adar carry you until you were born.”

“My mother?”

Boromir laid the mirror down with a trembling hand and faced his lad. “No woman had a part in the making of you, Arin. I carried you under my heart and every day give thanks that the old magic cared for us enough to see you born in safety.”

 

The men watched, silent, as the child drew away from them. His face seemed wiped of all emotion and it was to the great dog that he went, to twist his hands in Rullo’s collar. Then, as the mastiff lurched to its feet, he said quietly, “I promised I would see Illuin home,” and he left the room, not looking back to where Boromir had slumped against Aragorn’s legs, shaking.

Comments

Sob...

[hbmclachlan.livejournal.com]

I can't breath right now... I was eagerly waiting for this chapter, and now I've finished reading, I'm still waiting desperately for the next installment... I sincerely pray that both Valar and Ms. Alex the Goddess will be merciful to the beloved Steward and his family... Can't stop sobbing....................

More please?

Re: Sob...

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

*hands you tissue* Many thanks for reading and feeding back. I'm glad it's catching your attention and I'll try not to be too long about the next chapter.

[shalom]

So much to digest in this chapter. Wonderful job. The multiple plotlines are both gripping.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Glad you like it. Many thanks for the kind feedback.

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

Wonderful chapter...I'm glad that Arin knows his history...I'm sure that it will all work out OK.. That you will make sure that it does..

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the kind feedback. Glad it's working for you.

[halszka.livejournal.com]

They told him the truth with such gentleness, but it is very hard truth. I can't wait to read about Arin, and Boromir How can they manage to live after, with this knowledge?I knew that you will write it beautifully so, I'm patient.
The hole chapter is great, as usual. Thank you

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou for sticking with it and for your kind encouragement.

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Goodness ! I was holding my breath waiting for Arin's reaction ! Another great chapter, but now I can't wait to read the next part !

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading it. I'm glad it's working for you and I'll try not to be too long about the next part.

[me-cuppa.livejournal.com]

Reading this chapter was an adventure, really. You ability with words made me live through everything and see every episode with my own eyes. It feels like I've just read half a thick book.

Can't wait now to learn how Arin deals with what he's been told about, and also about Illuin's ancestry, if it's possible to track his bloodline... Oh, and those cute ears! I can't imagine how they could not be sensitive! :)

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and for feeding back. I'm pleased that you like it.