Fic: Entwine (6/7) A/B (R)

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Fic: Entwine (6/7)
Author: alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this part R for violence)
Warning: AU, OMCs, violence
Summary: Illuin’s heritage comes at a price. 
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 6,405
Feedback: Received with thanks.

 

 

Finally, when Arwen and Legolas had consulted together for several days, the group had gathered in the library, Arin too, at Illuin’s insistence. Legolas had dressed Illuin’s hair in elven braids and the youth stood, lithe and still, his eager gaze betraying the hope bubbling up within him. Arwen began the story, explaining to Boromir and Aragorn how she and Legolas had come to their final conclusion. “The shape of his ears is clearly Noldorin. But it was Illuin’s name and all the words he could remember having heard that gave the strongest clue and then,” Legolas lifted a lantern up high next to Illuin’s head, opened the shutter and Arwen held up a silver mirror to strengthen the light. It fell upon Illuin’s face in a blaze that momentarily silvered his skin to their eyes and there stood a Noldorin elf, his hair knotted away from his graceful curved ears, one of the fairest of the First Born. Even as Illuin turned his face from the light, Legolas shuttered the lantern again and laid it down. Then Arwen took Illuin by the hand and seated him next to her as Legolas continued the tale.

 

Two millennia since, a family of Noldor, journeying far from home, had strayed too close to the edge of Mirkwood. Their encampment had been overrun by yrch in the night and although none were badly injured they had suffered a great hurt. A precious elf-child, barely one summer old, had been lost or stolen in the confusion. For a whole year the family had hunted, tracking down their attackers one-by-one, but whether the elleth was lost, sold or killed for food, none, even in their death-throws, would say. 

 

Allowing for bleeding out of the elf-blood in the mix with Harad slaves, up to eighty generations could separate Illuin from this elven family, but Arwen had met the grieving parents of the elf-child at least twice and Illuin had a look of the ellon still. 

 

Arwen held the youth’s hand gently, saying, “It was a grievous blow to Orlin and his family but they remember the elleth each Midsummer on her begetting day.”

“They still live!” Illuin’s soft cry caught at Boromir’s heart.

“Certainly, Illuin,” and Boromir thought he read true regret in Legolas’ eyes, when he added, “they are gone into the West. They have sailed,” and when the question would have sprung to Illuin’s lips, “You cannot follow them…and they cannot return.”

 

In the silence that followed, he had seemed turned to stone and it was Arin, who came to stand before him and let Illuin clutch at him, his arms wrapped around the boy’s waist, his head bent into his body. Illuin’s hair fell forward to hide those tell-tale ears and he wept. Arwen and Boromir would both have reached to comfort him, but Arin’s defiant stare held them and Aragorn took them each by a hand, motioned Legolas to go before them with a nod of the head and they left the pair alone.

 

The adults had gone from the library to Boromir’s study and Aragorn poured them wine, which they drank, saying little, as the last of the afternoon sun faded from the room. Boromir was poised to light the lamps when Arin appeared in the doorway alone.

 

“I have taken Illuin home,” said Arin, looking hard at Legolas. “Could there be others? Could Illuin have half brothers or sisters that he does not know about?”

Aragorn laid down his cup and faced his son, replying, “Yes, there could be some, but they would not necessarily look like Illuin. They might know nothing of their ancestry.”

“But there might be someone.”

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to be able to tell him.”

Arwen went towards him, saying, “Arin, if Illuin searched a lifetime, he might never find another of his kind, or never be sure.”

“I think,” said Arin slowly, “that is for Illuin to decide. I just wanted him to know that he might not be alone. It would be hard to think that his only family were the half-brothers that would have sold him.” And with that he turned on his heel and went, leaving Aragorn to lay a comforting hand on Arwen’s shoulder.

 

After that day, Illuin had seemed to draw back a little within himself, but remained the gentle, obedient youth they had come to love. Arwen had decided that in her father’s absence, with Legolas’ help, she would oversee Illuin’s elven education, or as much of it as he cared to take on and the lad had tried hard to please them. 

 

Legolas had determined that he could read enough Westron to follow simple stories, so he had borrowed some books of the Legends of the Eldar from Arin’s school and set Illuin to read them for himself. Yet the more Illuin discovered, poring at night over the well-worn books, hunched close to a lamp set on the table of the garden room, the more it seemed to him a terrible mistake that he should be thought kin to the First Born. Although he knew that Arwen and Legolas had his best interests at heart, it somehow felt as though they were, unknowing, on a quest to map the limits of his abilities and those limits seemed narrow indeed. 

 

By every measure that he was set, he found himself wholly lacking against Legolas’ pure elven blood. His hearing seemed no sharper than any human, his sight no keener. He had neither Legolas’ strength, nor his agility, and despite his weakened and youthful condition knew that he would not grow into the gifts. But all around the palace, as people became used to seeing him, he was aware that they saw the ears first and assumed that he could do things he had no hope of achieving, so that he felt he was always disappointing them.

 

The one area where he had surprised himself was in song. The first time he had heard Arwen and Legolas sing, their voices swooping and entwining in a hymn to the morning, Illuin thought that every nerve in his body burned and unbidden he had opening his throat and let his voice soar. It was as though he could see the melodies curling in the air, like ribbon trails of cloud and rather than try to hear the tune, he sent his own voice to chase theirs through the air, wrapping itself around the wisps of sound, sometimes hanging still in the sky, sometimes dipping down to the earth. They had ended their song together and Arwen had clapped her hands in delight, but even in this, when he had tried again, he could not see the music and had refused any more attempts after three or four failures. 

 

Arwen had then determined to teach him to dance and this was more successful. He did not have their innate grace, but he picked up the steps to the most complicated formal dances readily enough and as weeks passed and care and good feeding brought him some renewed strength, Illuin began to show an affinity with the subtle rhythms and fluid shapes of the movement that had Arwen declare that he would make a rather better partner than her husband. Legolas had let him feel what it was like to be lifted and spun around by a partner and once or twice he had ventured to lift the Queen in the dance, who seemed to weigh no more than Arin in his arms.

 

At the same time that he was spending most afternoons with the Queen, his mornings were spent with the rawest recruits to the Tower Guard, trying to learn the basics of sword-play. This he could not seem to master, feeling clumsy and off-balance with the straight, heavy blade, whilst the combination of blade and shield more often than not saw him sprawled on his back in the practice ground, some recruit grinning down at him and casually scuffing dirt over him as he turned to go. He was better with a bow, but nothing that would hint at elven skills…and so Illuin struggled on, feeling himself lost between worlds.

 

Boromir had told Legolas about the warrior cords that Illuin had taken off and more, how he had earned them, all of which made Legolas’ eyebrows raise and for a few days he had seemed to encourage the Sword Master to push Illuin ever harder, whilst standing, watching him closely. In the eventuality Illuin had tried harder and sweated more and after a few days Legolas had let him be and all returned to normal.

 

With the Spring, a party of visiting nobles from Rohan brought an unexpected and almost riotous burst of energy to the formal grounds of the citadel. Their guards and servants were the first to buy the ale and to fight over the maid who served it. Several Roharrim came daily to watch the work in the practice arena, offering ribald laughter and shouted advice to any unfortunate recruit who slipped or missed his blow. Illuin’s form was now solid enough, if a mite cautious, that he should have avoided their notice, but that one tall young man, blond curled hair to his shoulders, seemed to come only to watch him.  The rider took some affectionate ribbing from his fellows, but was not swayed by their teasing and continued to lean on the wooden barrier, his hand resting on his cheek, observing Illuin with a faint smile on his lips.

 

Illuin’s admirer could not escape the notice of the other recruits. The favour shown to him by the Royal Household had rubbed raw at some less fortunate, mostly younger sons of minor nobility, facing a long haul up through the ranks of the guard. These were sure they knew how he had come by his place. The Lord Boromir had shown no inclination to take another wife since returning to the city and Illuin’s looks were there for all to see. Then of late, Arin’s subdued mood had been noted by many, and the rumour was that he felt supplanted in the affections of his father by the elf-breed who danced with the Queen and doubtless warmed the Steward’s bed. They felt themselves entitled, as true sons of Gondor, to be righteously indignant on the boy’s behalf.

 

So it was that one morning as the recruits assembled and their audience wandered in, a couple of them, soured as old milk, decided to warn the Rohan rider off his obsession with the tainted flesh. Illuin was late, but his Roharrim had come with a few friends to see the sport and at first was unsure why the soldiers were beckoning him urgently down to the entrance of the practice ring. When he arrived at the barrier, their grasping hands on his clothes and crude accusations reeked of jealousy. The rider had seen a little more of the world than these raw youths. He was loathe to swallow their words unquestioning and showed it, shrugging them off impatiently and turning to go. His companions, alert to something afoot were coming down the seating towards him. The recruits were indignant. Had he not understood them? They raised their voices in loud complaint as Illuin entered from the other side of the arena. Why would the rider not listen to them? Or was that the way of Rohan? Did he relish the Steward’s leavings, the elf-whore ready prepared for him?

 

The rider whirled about and struck one recruit across the face, sending him spinning, and then a blade was drawn and the Roharrim fell back into the arms of his companions and suddenly there was a heaving mass of shouting, fighting men. Some of the Gondor company, cursing, squared up to their fellows in bloody confusion.

 

The Sword Master, come late on the scene with two sergeants, was bellowing orders, hauling combatants apart bodily, shaking them like rats. From across the ring Illuin ran and plunged into the melee, struggling to reach the fallen man. The Roharrim were heavily outnumbered and being backed into a corner, dragging their wounded friend with them. Illuin went to lift him and blood spattered across his face. Then a blade thrust at them and Illuin struck like a snake, palming the sword away and as he pulled the sweating recruit to him and screamed in his face, he twisted, pulled and broke the man’s arm at the wrist. To the next he brought a fist down on his shoulder and the soldier crumpled, dropping his weapon. Another was lifted bodily and thrown against the wooden barrier. Men now were scrambling away from him, stood over the bleeding rider, fists clenched, almost scarlet with rage, his long hair whipping from side to side as, wordless, he dared them come and take his charge.

 

The Sword Master caught one breathless youth by the scruff of the neck and hissed, “Fetch the Steward! Run!” as the recruit scrambled away. 

 

The recruit was fortunate to find the Lord Steward with the King and the Elven Prince talking together in a corridor outside Boromir’s study. As the frightened youth stumbled towards them, his garbled shouts only served to confuse, so that Boromir bodily caught him and held him fast by the shoulders, until they could make sense of his words. As his message unfolded they turned and began to run down the steps towards the armoury and practice ground. Boromir was hauling the unfortunate recruit along with them, gasping and retching. They had, at least, managed to understand that there had been a fight and blood had been spilled and Illuin had gone mad and…

“Does he have a blade?” snapped Aragorn.

“Small need,” replied Legolas crisply before the recruit could speak, “he could kill them with his hands.”

Boromir cursed and with a final shake, dropped the youth at the next gateway. Up ahead, they could see a crowd blocking the passage and Boromir bellowed for them to stand aside as they fought their way through to the edge of the arena.

 

The recruits were clustered along the entrance way, leaning on weapons, sullenly avoiding eachother’s eyes and in the ring, Illuin was encircled. The Sword Master and sergeants were edging towards him, empty hands outstretched, one of the Healers was similarly creeping forward, anxious to reach the fallen man behind him, and finally two or three of the Rohan rider’s companions were moving cautiously closer, begging him to let their friend be tended.

 

“Hold hard!”

 

Aragorn’s voice did not sound loud in the place, but all heard and responded instinctively to the command. The King gestured for them to move back slowly and to stand still, whilst he and Boromir and Legolas went forward. One of the sergeants was shaking as Boromir passed him and murmured, “Have a care, my lord. He’s cruel quick.”

 

The man’s voice drew Illuin’s gaze and Boromir saw again the dark, pain-filled eyes of memory. Boromir came to him, stopped a few feet away. He could see behind the youth half-a-dozen bowmen stood in the gallery, shafts trained on Illuin’s back and he prayed that Arin had not been drawn by the commotion. 

 

Boromir swallowed and although his voice was a little hoarse, it was firm. “Illuin, lad. That’s enough. You’ve done well, lad. You’ve kept him safe. Now he needs a healer.” A flicker passed over Illuin’s rigid face. Boromir pressed on. “He lives still, lad. He needs a healer. You can help him. Will you help him?” And at that Illuin’s mouth opened once, twice, and with a gasp, he crumpled forward. Boromir caught him before he hit the ground and clutched the unconscious youth to his breast as others ran to tend to the rider.

 

Legolas knelt before them and drew a lock of hair back off Illuin’s brow. “Blood-rage,” he whispered to the still form, “that is your elven kin calling, little brother.”

Aragorn strode up to them, having issued swift orders covering every group in the arena and the spectators clustered around the entrances.

“Does he live?” asked Boromir grimly.

“He lives, but barely.”

Boromir could see cold anger in Aragorn’s eyes, but his expression softened as it fell on Illuin and he patted Boromir on the shoulder. “He’ll do, love. Let the Healers get to work on him and you and I will begin to unravel this tangle.” Boromir looked up at the figure standing behind Aragorn. The Healer Celond smiled briefly at him and bent to take Illuin from his grasp. Legolas laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“Boromir, I will go with Illuin. When he wakes, he and I must talk together. He will be safe with me.”

“Aye, you take him. Take him home to the garden house. Is that permissible?” Celond nodded.

Boromir got up from slowly from his knees and followed his King from the practice ground, feeling that they had been more fortunate than any of those involved knew.

 

By the time that Aragorn and Boromir had interviewed every man left standing who was involved in the fight, and had heard the truth of it, because the Sword Master had threatened such retribution on any who did not speak the truth that all became known, Boromir was close to regretting his earlier optimism.

 

Boromir had heard the speculation about his bedding Illuin without a change of expression, but Aragorn saw spots of colour appear high on his cheekbones and knew that his lover burned. When two of the luckless instigators of the trouble had, blustering, tried to justify their deeds with mention of Arin, Aragorn had cut them off in mid breath, in a tone so cold it chilled the heart.

 

“He must not know, Aragorn,” said Boromir bleakly, when they had been ushered out.

“The boys of the school always find out, you know that.” Aragorn came to him and wrapped him in strong arms, laying his lips gentle on Boromir’s temples and then on his cheek, tracing in soft kisses the line of his beard until he reached his lips, where he pressed lightly against Boromir’s mouth, sighing as the man opened to him. For long minutes they answered each to the other the question unasked in curling tongues and softly bitten lips. Aragorn had eventually broken away to nuzzle into Boromir’s neck, murmuring, “Sadly, they often know only half the story and then make the rest up. Do you not think it might be better for him to hear the full story from us?”

Boromir wrapped his arms tighter about his King, feeling the heft of him, clasping him fiercely to his breast as he replied, “Aye, love. We owe him honesty now if ever.”

 

The knock at the door that broke them apart was the Sword Master and his sergeants, come as a body, laying their commissions before the Steward, almost demanding to be broken to the ranks for their failure to instil discipline in the men. Seeing that Boromir was distracted, Aragorn had told them their fate would be decided on the morrow and dismissed them. 

 

A welcome visitor was an apprentice from the Houses of Healing who came to bring the final accounting of Illuin’s actions at one broken wrist, one shattered collarbone and several broken ribs, and nothing irredeemable. There were others with slash wounds, broken noses sustained in the fight, whilst the Rohan rider was accounted lucky that the blade missed any vital part, but he had lost much blood.

 

And then, rather later than might have been expected, came a delegation from the Rohan party, aggrieved but dignified. Aragorn had assured them that a full accounting would be made and the guilty parties punished. He was pained that such a thing should have happened to mar their visit and trusted that it would not reflect on the cordial relations existing between Gondor and Rohan. In truth, he knew that Eomer would snort impatiently and, since none were more seriously hurt, would have knocked a few heads together and sent the offending recruits out to ride herd in the bleakest part of Rohan. He must be more politic within the setting of the court of Gondor and Arnor, although the furthest sentry posts of Arnor were bleak enough and perhaps rather undermanned.

 

In order to quell some of the rumour that would be rife in the palace, they ate the evening meal in the great dining hall with the Queen smiling graciously and with a sweet calm only those who had lived long amongst elves would recognise as containing white-hot fury. During a fraught meeting in her bower, Aragorn had forbidden her from going immediately down to see Illuin or from exacting unspecified revenge on the guilty parties. Arwen had merely smiled at them, snipped her embroidery silk with tiny mithril scissors, and said mildly that she could afford to wait a few generations before visiting their heirs and successors. Both Aragorn and Boromir knew that she would not carry out her threat, but still Boromir’s respect for his lover’s tact grew that he could mate with such a creature and love her too. But for now they presented a united front that rather squashed the pretensions of those who had predicted high and undignified drama.

 

After the meal, there was no pretence at separate routes homeward. Aragorn accompanied Boromir openly to his home, a guard bearing a gift of a soft blanket from the Queen for Illuin’s bed, since she had heard he did not care to live in the main house. At the main door, Aragorn took the blanket, set his man to stand watch for any idle watchers in the street and went inside.

 

Legolas was waiting for them in Boromir’s library, with Arin sat opposite him deep in his Adar’s chair. He scrambled up to greet the men when they entered, flung himself into Boromir’s arms and when, reluctantly, Boromir had let him go, he came to Aragorn and opened his arms to the King, who scooped him up and hugged him. He then set the boy down and handed him the Queen’s coverlet, suggesting that he take it down to Illuin. Legolas’ smile brightened. “Yes, go on. He will be glad to see you. I think Celond’s assistant was beginning to unnerve him.”

“He’s a very earnest young man,” agreed Boromir, as Arin left, promising to return soon if Illuin did not need him.

 

As his footsteps faded, Aragorn and Boromir turned to Legolas who said calmly and without preliminary,

“To call it ‘blood-rage’ is not quite accurate, but that is its common name. A fire through the body and the mind that makes the warrior fight with a fury that is normally beyond him. It is co-incidence that the fire seems to have been lit in Illuin by blood in his eyes. In both cases, he fought only in the defence of others, which is his real spark. When Boromir told me the story of the cords, this seemed a possible explanation of how he had over-powered his much stronger brother, but although we pressed him in the practice arena I could see no change in him.”

“Can he master this?” asked Aragorn.

“Certainly. At the moment, he is more frightened – and mortified, Boromir, that you should have heard of the accusations that link you to him.” Legolas’ voice was sorrowful, “He is a modest elf-child and untouched, but I can teach him to recognise when this blood-rage might arise and to channel the power to his own conscious ends.” He paused. “I think now we know the extent of his elven legacy. It will take him some little time before he feels quite at ease and confident that he truly commands his body, but he can prevail.”

“Perhaps he should wear the cords,” suggested Aragorn. “They might discourage the attentions of those who would meddle.”

But Boromir shook his head vehemently. “Nay, love. Once again they would be dishonoured in his mind. This time it would look as though he was required to carry a warning to all, like a red ribbon on the tail of a kicking horse.”

 

The friends talked over the events of the afternoon. Aragorn wanted the ringleaders despatched to Arnor, but not before they made a full and public apology to all those they had wronged by word or deed. The first man to use a blade, he who had stabbed the Roharrim would also be flogged. Boromir was less certain that a public apology was advisable. He would not, he said firmly, wish Arin to be part of such a spectacle and on reflection Aragorn could see the sense of this. But Illuin and Boromir and the Rohan rider must be witness to their contrition and it would be a private matter. Then they would be despatched for a winter in the North. The Sword Master and his sergeants were too good, loyal and experienced men to lose in this way. They would be fined gently, but perhaps the training regime needed reviewing? Peacetime meant that rough edges that would previously have been rubbed off young men in their rapid despatch to active service were rubbing raw at the companies garrisoned in the city and in truth, when the fighting had been at its height, any who were not destined to grow into the role, rarely survived long enough to cause trouble. As Boromir and Aragorn began to discuss how best to frame such new training, Legolas, who had accepted the offer of a chamber from Boromir got up, saying that he needed to bathe and would see them all in the morning.

 

It was at this point that Arin slipped back into the room and came to stand by Aragorn’s chair, where his father wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him close. “Illuin’s asleep now,” he said. Legolas wished them all a peaceful night’s rest and left the men and their son alone. 

 

Holding nothing back, they told him the full story of the fight, of the insults offered and the accusations made. Arin acknowledged in his heart this honesty and understood that it was a hard choice for the men to have made, but he said little and looked at them with eyes becoming too wise for his years.

 

Over the next few days, the Rohan rider made steady progress and his friends caused happy mayhem, playing dice and smuggling contraband food into the Houses of Healing which they shared readily with all the wounded, from whatever side they had been on. 

 

Illuin spent most of his time with Legolas walking in the garden close to the pavilion. With Legolas’ help he was beginning to put into place those disciplines that would enable him to control the power of the fire-blood, to use it for his own ends. As he came to know more of the warrior legacy passed down to him by his elven kin, once more Illuin was forced to re-assess his understanding of what his body could do. As to his appearances in the wider circle of the court, he had visited the Queen once, but, despite encouragement, did not venture out much.

 

The chief malcontents, who had escaped serious injury, had been held in cells on the second level and one month to the day that they had begun the trouble, were brought back to the citadel under guard. Each recruit had the right to have his parents with him. In addition the Captain of the Guard, the Sword Master and a magistrate to note down the proceedings were gathered in the vastness of the Great Hall, which echoed with the heavy tread of soldier’s boots. King Elessar was enthroned, Anduril lay across his knees and stern was his brow. 

 

In a small group at the foot of the dais sat the Lord Boromir, Illuin of the Steward’s House and Seodran of the Mark, pale and still bandaged tightly across his chest, but resolute. He and Illuin had met for the first time properly that morning and although they knew that this ugly quarrel had seen them stand up each for the other, they also knew that they were unlikely ever to meet again. They would part as friends, with some shyness on Illuin’s part and unspoken regret on Seodran’s. He knew that the youth was fearful of what this ceremony might bring and he was determined, by his steadfastness, to give his friend the lead.

 

In the end the prisoners had spoken words agreed ahead of the day, although Elessar had made them repeat their confessions again and yet again if they tried to mumble, until their voices rang out and they were truly faced with their guilt. This was the King’s justice and necessary to his rule, but to Illuin the process was agony. He knew he had been the cause of this and was well aware of the dizzying ascent in his fortunes. His proud elven ancestry was forgotten and once more he felt himself the mongrel son of a freed slave, whose father had been a peasant in comparison to the least of these youth’s families.

 

When the magistrate detailed the extent of their punishment, most had accepted it sullenly, but one couple, on hearing that their boy would be sent to Arnor for a season, cried out at the severity of the sentence, and the man had turned to point at Illuin, his hand shaking with rage and venom in his voice, denouncing the elf-breed slut.

 

Seodran would have responded in kind, but Boromir’s growled “Leave it!” as the man was hustled away by his fellows, kept him in check. When the prisoners had been removed, as Elessar came down from his throne, handing Anduril to the guard closest, Boromir snorted in disgust. “Where did they think their darling was going to serve as a soldier of Gondor? Did they think he’d be on ceremonial duties the rest of his days!” He turned to ask Illuin if he wanted to go home, but the youth had slipped out of a side door. 

 

In his return to the Steward’s House Illuin felt that all eyes followed him in the hallways and as he passed people on the stairs. Arwen had insisted he wear the wine-dark tunic today and she had plaited his hair herself. He knew that he was beautiful and he felt that he was damned.

 

When he missed the evening meal, Boromir had let Arin take a tray down to the pavilion. The boy returned disconsolate. Illuin was not there, but he’d left the food covered on the table. In his final nightly inspection of the household, Boromir hesitated and then opened the kitchen door to step out into the garden. He did not wish to intrude on Illuin’s privacy, but he just wanted to ensure that all was well.

 

It was as Boromir approached the pavilion that its deserted air told him that all was not well. On the table, the meal lay untouched. More than that, Arin might not have noticed, but Boromir’s soldier’s eye told him that some of Illuin’s possessions were gone. The wine-dark tunic lay on the bed, carefully folded, but the old heavy travelling cloak that Mariam had given him was gone from its hook and a satchel.

 

It was as Boromir sat on the bed, considering this turn of events that the faint pad of feet on grass, told him that Aragorn was there. His outline appeared in the doorway. Boromir could not see his face for he had lit only one small lamp on the table, but the tone of Aragorn’s voice told Boromir of the real sorrow in his heart. “Has he gone?”

“He is gone,” replied Boromir. “At least he’d taken some useful gear, he’s thinking ahead…”

“He’s not yet eighteen and of a house of Gondor. We will look for him.”

“If he does not wish to be found…” Boromir’s voice trailed off and Aragorn knew that he was already thinking of how they should tell Arin, who had found him before and assuredly would want to try to find him again.

 

As it was, Aragorn sat down with Arin, Boromir leaning over the high back of the chair, his hands resting on his love’s shoulders, and told him of Illuin’s departure. The boy was shocked and then angry and then tearful and through it all Aragorn talked steadily of the orders that he had sent to the ports and borders. They would send south to Mistress Mariam, in case he had returned to the orchard estate, and Aragorn emphasised the nature of the items Illuin had taken with him – the warm cloak, gear for cooking, for making a fire, sturdy boots. He meant to go on a journey and although they would search for him and hope to find him safe, if he still wished to continue on his journey, they should not try to stop him.

“He’s not as old as he thinks he is,” insisted Arin, in almost the same tone and words as Arwen had used, even as she scribbled a note to be sent urgently to Greenwood the Great for the attention of Prince Legolas.

“I would agree with you Arin,” sighed Aragorn, “but he is not so young either and perhaps, after all that has befallen him here, he needs to know that he can make his own way.” With that Arin had to be content, and as weeks stretched into some six months and no word came, they began to think of him as gone for a very long time, perhaps for ever.

 

It was on a morning bright with sunshine that a Harad trader begged admittance to the palace of the King, on an errand to Lord Boromir, Steward to the King. Shown into the Steward’s study, he saw a dark, noble, man sat with the Lord, identified to him as King Elessar. The trader bowed low to both men.

 

He was quietly dressed, but in fine cloth and from out of a satchel of good leather he drew a small leather purse that clinked with coin and a package, wrapped in oilcloth. The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, his fingers clutched tightly around the small package, but presently he took a steadying breath and began on what was clearly a prepared speech,

“Lord Boromir I am come with gifts from a former guest in your house, who is only too conscious of the deep debt he owes to you and now wishes to make some recompense with tokens of his continued love for you and your family and in the hope that they will be received in the spirit of true friendship in which they were given. From Illuin of Harad, this purse comes to you as payment for almond trees.” The man laid the small purse down on the table before Boromir.

 

Once again the man hesitated and turned the package in his hands. Boromir had not moved, but every sinew was taut, his breath caught in his throat with a torrent of questions that could not be unleashed yet.

 

“I understand, Lord Boromir, that you have a son, Arin,” the trader’s face softened as though he remembered something sweet. “He is most dear to Illuin and this gift comes to you to be held in trust against his growing to be a man. It comes to you with the love of his heart.” Rather abruptly, he thrust the package into Boromir’s hands and then backed away, as though he was loathe to handle it anymore. “You should open it, Lord Steward, for I would have it seen that the gift was delivered safely.”

 

Aragorn had risen to his feet and now came to stand beside Boromir as he took up a knife and cut open the oilcloth wrapping to reveal a small, plain, dark wooden box.

 

The wooden box had a hinged lid and was lined with cream wool in which sat a set of four Harad bracelets, but these were quite unlike the ones lying wrapped in silk in Aragorn’s room. Boromir had chosen for him thin, elegant curves of white gold with simple fastenings. These were a dark rose-red gold, thick with sinuous carving in which dragons chased their tails, wrapping their wings around the body of the circlets, amidst wreaths of fire in another lighter gold. 

 

“These are very old,” said Aragorn, lifting one from its woollen nest. It was heavy, the design both brutal and magnificent and the fine craftsmanship had caught every scale and flickering flame that seemed almost to move in his hand.

“They come from a hoard of princes long dead, great King.”

“Then this is a princely gift,” said Aragorn slowly, watching the trader’s face keenly, whilst Boromir stared at the contents of the box, seemingly dumbstruck.

The trader nodded, “Princely indeed, but the elf-breed’s price was high.”

 

Boromir’s head jerked up at that and a gasp rumbled in his chest. Aragorn leaned forward to tower over the now shrinking trader, “Think carefully Harad – where and when did you sell the youth?”

“Pardon, great King. I misspoke. I did not sell the elf-breed. I deal only in such treasures as you see.” His hand trembled a little as it gestured towards the box. “The buyer sent the coin to me. I have done as I was bid in bringing the box to you to hold for the young lord.”

Boromir growled, showing his teeth, “You talk in riddles, trader. Who sold the youth?”

“He sold himself, lord.”

Aragorn turned away for a moment to hide the anger he felt that they had failed the lost soul, whilst Boromir closed the wooden box and sat down abruptly in his chair. 

 

The trader seemed almost overcome with his tale, spreading his hands wide as the words tumbled out. “Illuin came to me first.” When they looked at him, he choked out. “He told me his name, chose the gift and gave me my instructions.” His voice faltered. “I tried to dissuade him lords for it seemed ill for such a gentle soul to go willingly to the selling ring, but he would not be swayed…I gave him my bond I would faithfully deliver the gift…”

 

Boromir looked up at Aragorn, his eyes brimming and as though they were alone. “What will I tell Arin?” he asked.

 

tbc

Comments

[bee-ta-baby.livejournal.com]

staggeringly wonderful chapter! where might I find more of your work please?

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Glad you like this and many thanks for your kind words. If you click on my name you'll find everything I've written in my LJ. I'm fairly new to this, so there's not that much. I seem to swither between drabbles and longish chapters, but there are a few stand-alone pieces too.

[aragorn-reader.livejournal.com]

Pride is such a terrible thing sometimes.

I wonder if there was a place in Middle-earth where Illuin could find happiness and not feel like an outsider.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I've not given up yet on Illuin by any means, so I'll try to discover his niche. Many thanks for sticking with what was quite a long piece and for your feedback. It's much appreciated.

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

This is wonderful...so sad. I hope that Aragorn and Boromir go off and find Illuin, they must feel so much that they failed him. What a writer you are...you should be an author and rich. I can't wait to read more of this saga.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou for reading and for your very kind feedback. I'm so glad that you're enjoying it. Certainly being rich, would be nice, as would being able to sit all day working with these characters.

[halszka.livejournal.com]

The story of Illuin, is unpredictable, complicated and moving. I also very like Arwen in it, specially with Arin. I will be waiting for next part.
I read two chapter in same time, wonderful works. Thank you

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou for reading it and for your kind feedback. I'm glad it's working for you.

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

Okay first of all, I'm sitting here wondering, How the devil did I get sucked into an MPreg story???? I'm on chapter 6 of an MPreg story, and biting my nails to see how everything turned out. I, who have always thought the whole MPreg thing is just too weird, and more than slightly ooky. Yet here I am. Did you sneak something into my tea..?

Now, you know Arin's going to demand that they FIND Iluin, and drag him home. I am so with Arin on that.

You've got such a good feel for human (and Elf) behavior in your work, getting into a character's head, and then parsing it out and explaining it so clearly for us. I'm quickly becoming a major fangirl of your stuff!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

*ladles more secret herbal mixture into the tea caddy*

Thanks for sticking with it and for your kind feedback.

When I first encountered MPreg I was moderately dumbstruck (and Wingfic is another strange and wonderful path down the fanfiction maze) but willing to read along and see what happened. I can't remember exactly how I came to decide that I wanted to do an A/B MPreg, but 'Cold Pressing' was the result and it's kind of snowballed. I've side-stepped most of the pregnancy stuff (although Halszka wants me to go back to Boromir in Mirkwood from CP Path 2 at some point) and am enjoying looking at this small and very male family finding its way in their world.


When I first started reading fanfiction, the 'Prairie Fire' series was one of the first things that struck me as rooted in genuine emotion, however much the content was fantasy, so I'm doubly pleased that you should enjoy my work and take it as both compliment and encouragement. Thankyou.

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Another beautiful chapter. I am completely enthralled by your world and these characters. I do hope that we haven't seen the last of Illuin. Poor Arin ! He is having to cope with a lot of grown up issues at the moment, isn't he ?

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Arin is rather in the thick of it right now, but I'm hoping we'll be able to calm the situation down a bit in the not-too-distant future. Many thanks for reading and for your kind feedback.

[ladymarshy.livejournal.com]

I've just read the last three chapters in a huge burst. Then I went back and read the last one all over again.

There are very few stories where I've almost come out of the seat in front of the PC screen yelling "No! No! Please don't!" but this is one of them.

When I got to "The trader nodded, “Princely indeed, but the elf-breed’s price was high” ', my heart sank, but at ' “He sold himself, lord.” ' I really cried.

I think I knew that Illuin might run, but that he willingly sells himself into slavery because that is the only place he can see for himself is heart-breaking.

It's as if this chapter is a dizzying slide towards tragedy - the attack on Seodran, Illuin's rage, his feeling that there is no place for him - and you exaggerate none of it.

I love the subtle way you show that life is a heartless business, for instance "He and Illuin had met for the first time properly that morning and although they knew that this ugly quarrel had seen them stand up each for the other, they also knew that they were unlikely ever to meet again."

What is Boromir going to tell Arin indeed? - am torn between being desperate to find out what happens next, and knowing there is only one chapter left, and fearing the worst. That lovely boy a slave! Surely he's had enough misery in his life already?

This is a magnificent story. As Brigantine says, I never thought that I'd really take to an mpreg (having your own babies rids you of most illusions about the process) but you make this all seem so real.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for sticking with it and for your kind feedback.

You can take a little bow too, for your comment about the image of Aragorn wearing Boromir's bracelets after an earlier chapter (and I've still got that A/B situation tucked away for future use) which is what triggered me off wondering what Illuin would consider to be the greatest gift he could give to Arin - and then, how would he raise the money for it?

[rotpunkt.livejournal.com]

That was such an unexpected turn! The plot is very interesting and I'm excited to see how this will turn out. It's sad how they all want the best for each other, and yet Illuin has to go through this alone.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and for your feedback. I'd drafted that scene with the trader some time before the rest of the chapter and had tried to build in a shock element, so I'm glad it came as a surprise. I know what you mean about the isolation, but am heartened that there is the potential for love and support there, if only he can bring himself to accept it.