Fic: Entwine (5/?) A/B (PG)
Jul. 1st, 2006 09:47 pm![[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}
rugbytackleFic: Entwine (5/?)
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: Arin comes to a decision.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 2,545
Feedback: Received with thanks.
Author:
alex_quinePairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this part PG)
Warning: AU, OMCs
Summary: Arin comes to a decision.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 2,545
Feedback: Received with thanks.
A.N. This chapter became so long that I’ve divided it in two. I will post the next part tomorrow.
As the child wandered the corridors of the palace, the great dog pacing by his side, those who spoke to him in passing received no more than a shy smile or a vacant look from one whose eager good humour was a commonplace, and several concerned souls had offered to take him home. Arin had quietly and politely refused all such overtures for the word ‘home’ seemed strange to him now.
Eventually he realised that he had come, unbidden, to the same little garden Adar had brought him to that first day, quiet and dark in its Winter form. The fountain pool had been drained and all stems were bare, but for a few berried trees Arwen had planted to feed the songbirds through the lean months. Arin remembered the King, he hesitated, the King his father, telling him the story about the fish in the pool, which it had later emerged was a story about Uncle Faramir putting a half-grown pike into the pond to scare the gardeners. Adar had taken the blame and Grandfather had eaten the fish. Arin remembered Elessar picking him up to show him the view beyond the balcony, over the city. Arin had felt safe, held close in strong arms.
And then the King had put him down to talk to Eldarion and Arin thought he could see the toddler turning head over heels on the grass in the sunshine. I have a brother, thought Arin and then, I am a big brother – like Adar. But I don’t have a mother. He considered his schoolfriends. Of his little group, Brand’s mother had died of a fever and Brand had cried and Culon’s had died when he was born, but at least they’d got someone to talk about, to think about.
Suddenly the child remembered that he had told them what he intended to do, had said that he’d come back from his trip South with news to tell. But this could not be told…a shiver dripped down his spine and the boy sensed that this knowledge was sharp-edged and poison-tipped, that it could somehow be used to hurt. Arin thought back to Aragorn’s secret smile, given just for Adar. He was not surprised that someone as noble as the King should love his Adar, who was handsome and brave. Arin remembered more of the Warg attack than he had ever let be known. The King was a great fighter too. Arin had seen Anduril carried on state occasions and it was said only the King could wield the sword. In school they studied the histories of men and elves, grave counsel and mighty battles from long ago and there were warrior lovers scattered through the tales, too often coming to sad ends, but celebrated in song and legend. It was just that that was legend and this was his life and he didn’t want to be part of a sad song. Why had he asked? He wished with all his heart he could take back the time and he would never ask about grown-up things again.
It was Rullo whining, his tail thumping against Arin’s legs, that alerted the boy to the presence of someone else in the garden. When he looked around Arwen was standing at the edge of the grass plot, wrapped in a snowy velvet coat that swept the ground. She came to the boy, hand outstretched, and said, “I am going to have some hot chocolate, with cinnamon on the top. I would like it very much if you would join me.”
“Did they send you to find me?” asked Arin gruffly.
“No,” answered the Queen, “they did not. But I believe that there are things we should talk about. I have met Illuin, who is I think a friend of yours and who will need friends around him, and we should also speak about your father, about Lord Boromir. He talked to me of you that very first day and I think you are old enough now to hear part of his story, which is your story, for it is full of marvels.”
Arin came to her. As he put his hand in her soft, warm hand, for a moment Arin wished that she was his mother too – but then that would make him the elder brother and a King in waiting and Arin had seen and understood enough of palace life to instinctively shy away from that destiny. Perhaps he was meant to be his brother’s Steward? Did Adar like being the Steward or did he do it because of grandfather and because he loved his King? What if he didn’t want to be the Steward?
As they entered the Queen’s apartments, Eldarion’s voice could be heard giggling above the sounds of splashing and outraged snorts from a damp nursemaid in the next room. Drawn towards the half-open doorway, Arin could see the back of his brother’s head, hair stuck at all angles with soapy bubbles, poking above the top of the big tub.
“Arin?” the Queen called him back and motioned to a seat beside her, handing him a small cup of chocolate. She picked up the caster of cinnamon and looked enquiringly at him. Arin nodded and as Arwen dusted the top of the drink with spice, she said quietly, “I am glad that my son has you as his older brother and someday he will be glad too, but for now I think it is perhaps something he might not understand.” Arin nodded again and Arwen inclined her head once in acknowledgement of their agreement. Then she settled down with her own cup of chocolate and began to tell Arin some of what she had learned that first day from Boromir, of how Aragorn had thought him dead and cast him adrift in an elven boat, but that the wise Anduin had known that Arin lived inside him and had refused to carry them down to the sea. She told him of how Boromir had been rescued by a Beorning, Arin’s eyes widened at that, and had been cared-for by them until after the baby was born. And she told Arin of how she had known, as soon as she’d seen him with the King, that Aragorn was his father, how she had touched Boromir’s face and known that great magic had once reached deep inside him. Did she mind Aragorn being his father, asked Arin shyly?
“I love the King and he loves me as his Queen and his friend and the mother of his heirs. I gave up my immortal life to be with him and gladly. But the King and your Adar share a love forged in war, that yearned for peace, running so deep and so true that they were given a gift of the Valar, the chance to have a child together. They did not even know that they had asked for you. It seemed so impossible that the thought was buried in their hearts where only old magic could hear it.”
Arwen laid down her cup and smiled at Arin. “Aragorn and Boromir – if it were known, sagas would be written about them, love songs that the ages would remember. But there is a better reason, more golden than fame, to keep their love private. That is the life that you and they share now. For all the magic that went into your making Arin, you are you, a boy about ‘so’ tall, with dark eyes. You are no uncanny thing, but an ordinary boy, with a kind heart – and a handsome dog,” she added as Rullo came to lay his head in her lap.
Despite her comforting words, Arin felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes and as Arwen took the cup from his shaky grasp, he said sadly, “I always wanted a mother – did I do wrong?”
“No, child! Never wrong. Mothers are wonderful things, one half of the whole that forges a new soul. Your making may have been different, but your family still has two people in it that love you very much. I admit that neither of them is soft as a woman can sometimes be soft – or as curved…” Arin smiled weakly at that, “but they can be as brave and as determined as a woman can be and as gentle.”
Arin sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Arwen, silent, watched him struggle with the thing set before him that he knew was still half hidden in adult shadows, but that demanded his trust with no promise that he would understand any more of it soon. Finally, the child said quietly, “I’ve got two parents and Brand and Culon have only one and Illuin is alone. It’s just, it must be a secret.”
Before her eyes, Arwen watched the small boy take up the burden created for him by grown men and thought how much like his fathers he was at that moment.
They talked for a while longer, mostly about Illuin, and Eldarion came in to say goodnight to her. He lifted a bath-rosy cheek to his Mother for a kiss and then did the same to Arin, who leaned in tentatively and pressed his lips gently on his brother’s curls. The nursemaid scooped the child up before he could explore what Rullo might do in the way of kisses and as he was carried out protesting through yawns, Arin watched him go. He wanted to say, “Sleep well, brother,” but bit his lip to stop the words coming out.
“I think I will go now, majesty,” said Arin, giving Arwen a tight little bow.
“You know Arin,” said Arwen, “as the King’s wife, I am really your stepmother...” Arin looked at her gravely as she continued, “might I give you a goodnight kiss too?” The child hesitated and then leaned in for one of the perfumed kisses he’d received so many of, unthinking. Then he backed away a few steps, called up Rullo and whisked out of the room before Arwen could say any more to him.
The Steward’s house was quiet as Arin slipped in by a side door and up to his room. When the bell had rung for the evening meal, he had gone dutifully down the stairs, the dog at his heels, and to the pantry to collect the basin and the towel. A manservant, carrying the steaming ewer, followed him into the small dining hall, where the household waited. Somehow, he managed the whole ritual without ever meeting his father’s gaze, but as Boromir laid the towel again over his arm, his thumb grazed Arin’s wrist and the basin tilted, spilling a few drops of water on the flagged floor.
He had taken his place beside Boromir as the servers began to set the dishes before them and flicked his eyes around to see Illuin, picking absently at a piece of bread, his head bowed. But when Boromir had asked the youth what he had seen of the palace on his tour, Arin had looked up with a bright smile for the Harad and filled the awkward silence with chatter about their library picnic, so none of the household would see that the family were in pain.
Aragorn, sitting relaxed on the top of the sixth garden wall, scanned the darkened house before him. Down the path to his left, the faintest gleam issued from under the door of the pavilion and his sharp ears thought he could hear sobbing, but it might have been the wind. The tall house to his right was mostly shuttered against the night chills. A candle lantern, high up, in the window of the boy’s room flickered bravely against the surrounding gloom and below it, the long shutters on Boromir’s balcony were cracked open to let lamp-glow spill out and a cat creep in. Aragorn became aware that he was not alone on the wall. A rangy striped shadow stepped purposefully between his legs in passing and dragged the tip of its tail across his bearded chin. “Good hunting, little brother,” murmured Aragorn, as he slid down quietly to the ground and went to comfort his child’s anxious father.
Arin went back to school the next day and passed off his lack of exciting news to his friends with a wordless shrug, feeling more than guilty when Brand wrapped an arm around his shoulder and said comfortingly, “It’s man stuff – my aunt says they can’t talk about it when a woman dies. Maybe your father will grow into the idea, now he knows that you’re interested?” And then the talk had turned to some other matter of keen interest to eight-year-old boys and the lie had been too easy to salve his conscience.
Boromir had taken Illuin with him up to the citadel and Legolas came noiselessly to the door of his chamber to collect the youth. He and Arwen were on a mission to try to place the youth in the elven family and were sure that Illuin had, somewhere in his past, the clue that would enable them to name his family line.
Over the next few days, they had him recite every name, every elvish word, he could remember his mother saying; had him re-tell every story, every scrap of information he could bring to mind, even what his father or anyone else might have said about the woman’s origins or purchase, until his head ached and Arwen had put a warm herbal drink in his hand and cooling fingers on his temples. Then they had him lie on a daybed with eyes closed. Legolas held his wrists and Arwen read to him, long involved family trees. All Illuin was aware of were Legolas’ fingertips pressing gently on his pulse points, but the elves were awake to the slightest movements as words or sounds set off memories buried too deep for conscious thought.
As the interrogation continued and Legolas began to rifle the shelves of Aragorn’s library for histories of the Haradrim, Arin and Boromir were reaching an understanding that, if it still lacked something of their former easy warmth, was gentle and respectful on both sides. Arin had come early upon his father in the bathing rooms, emerging dripping from a tub, and at first he had turned and fled, but had only gone a few steps before he turned again and walked back to face him. Boromir had unconsciously held a towel to shield his body from his son’s gaze, but Arin had looked gravely at him and said, “How did you carry me?” whereupon Boromir lay down on a bench so he could see clearly. He smoothed a hand down his belly and traced for Arin the scar, grown thin and silvered.
“I bore you here and this is where the Beorning set you free. I have been carried safe in the arms of the black bear that is also a man and so have you.”
“It is so small against the Warg scars that it is easy to miss it,” said Arin, running his fingertips along the line and his touch felt like a precious gift, but just then Boromir would have traded his soul to have his laughing, innocent, boy back.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 10:33 pm (UTC)"But the King and your Adar share a love forged in war, that yearned for peace, running so deep and so true that they were given a gift of the Valar, the chance to have a child together. They did not even know that they had asked for you. It seemed so impossible that the thought was buried in their hearts where only old magic could hear it.”
I always thought that if some day I decided to write a mpreg story in this fandom I would explain how it could be this way, the child being given to them by the magic of Lotlorien because they wished for it in their hearts.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:43 am (UTC)I'm so glad you like this story and thankyou for feeding back.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 10:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:54 am (UTC)