Entwine 8/9 A/B (PG-13)

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

 

Fic: Entwine (8/9)
Author: alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (PG-13)
Warning: AU, OMCs
Summary: The brothers’ fears are confirmed. 
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 4,293
Feedback: Received with thanks.

A.N. The ‘final’ part became so long that I’ve split it.

 

As Boromir had suspected the tented theatre was not hard to track down. It had moved some twenty leagues and was now located outside a large border town that appeared to be in the grip of an annual horse fair. The streets and the inns were packed with buyers and those who came to provide them with harness or fine leather boots and gloves and their ladies with spices and gold ribbons. Around the town, were encamped dozens of horse traders with their strings and the road into the centre appeared to be being used as a proving ground, judging by the number of half-trained beasts that fled past, small boys a-top them and cries of encouragement coming from the proud owners, or indeed the general populace gathered by the roadside to see the fun. This entertainment would stop with the sunset and then the townsfolk, numbers swollen by strangers with money in their purses, would be seeking alternative entertainment, when the theatre would come into its own.

 

As they approached the town-gate, Faramir noted the solid, unremarkable figure of Allane, who had gone ahead of them, slouched by the guardpost. Once they had shown their papers to sentries more interested in the antics of an unruly roan than in two more strangers, he slipped after them and as they halted by a stall selling spiced ale, he darted forward to catch the small coin Faramir threw and take their reins with the authentic, sullen air of the street loafer. “Have you found us a room?” asked Faramir quietly as he dismounted, shaking the dust of the road from his cloak. Boromir was already loudly ordering up cups of the ale and tossed off one almost immediately, before handing another to Faramir and beginning his second. “I’d not refuse a sale, Sir, but if you’re not used to the ale then I’d counsel caution,” said the stall-owner, as the second cup was returned to his trestle table empty and a third taken up. “This is made once a year for the fair and the spicing is a speciality of our town. It’s a powerful brew.” Boromir scowled and wandered off to watch the horses, whilst Faramir drew out a purse, paid for the drink, sighed over his friend’s intemperate ways and engaged the stall-owner in casual conversation.

 

By the time he went to find Boromir, who was inspecting the teeth of a raw-boned grey and arguing the finer points of grass-management with its sweating owner, Faramir knew a good deal about how the land lay. He gently extricated Boromir from the exchange before he actually bought the horse and they strolled amongst the groups of buyers and sellers, every-so-often stopping to look over some beast, safe in the knowledge that they’d come with good horses. They were not showy animals that would draw the attention of the curious, but even their ‘pack-horse’ was rather better bred, below his disguise of breechings and pack-harness, than the usual, and would make a speedy mount for Illuin when required.

 

Boromir asked, “And has Allane got us a room…Aah!” And then he darted away to the right, weaving through the crowd, before Faramir could answer. He was headed for a dealer with a string of small, wiry beasts that looked like Harad mountain horses and Faramir trailed after him. As he came upon the group, the dealer had cut out a handsome black, its long mane and tail plaited with ribbons, Harad fashion, and Boromir was running his hands down its front legs. He looked up as Faramir approached. “I know we’re after remounts, but I thought I might get something for the lad too. You know he’s growing fast.”

“Would the young master enjoy a spirited beast?” enquired the dealer, keen to keep the stranger’s interest.

“Oh, he’d manage it fine,” said Boromir, his fingers in the horse’s mouth, as Faramir ran his hand casually down its hocks and nodded silently.

“Has it a name, friend?” Faramir asked, keeping a careful distance from the beast’s heels as the dealer’s boy ran the little horse up in hand and Boromir scrutinised its action. 

The dealer squirmed. The name had been a fancy of his wife’s and he’d curse her roundly if it sounded ill and he lost the sale. “He’s called ‘Beornaye’ – for his colour, Sir.”

At this Boromir straightened up, stared at the dealer, then burst into loud laughter, buffeted the man across the back and said, “You and I will talk a price, friend. We stay...?” he looked at Faramir, who answered mildly, “At the Golden Lion, in the Woolmarket.” 

 

As they wandered away, having arranged for Boromir to meet with the dealer later, the jovial expression on Boromir’s face never changed, but he murmured, for his brother’s ears alone, “Some fine brands I’ve seen so far.”

“And some of them even look true,” added Faramir dryly.

 

Allane had reserved a room for them at the back of the inn. Not perhaps the best room available to him, but this one had a large window that opened onto a nicely sloping low roof rolling down to an alleyway between the inn and the next building on that side, a draper’s shop, deserted after sundown. The innkeeper’s lad had brought up their baggage and the idler who had held their horses, had been bribed with another coin to see them set fair in the stables at the back of the inn. 

 

Boromir shrugged off his long cloak and unfastened the strappings holding against his hip the bag that contained half of their funds and the little wooden box. Faramir had opened the window and was leaning out, surveying the pitch of the roof and assessing which of the neighbouring windows overlooked their situation. Satisfied, he closed the leads and turned back to Boromir, who was seated on the bed pulling off his boots.

“Illuin dances twice nightly. Once in the early evening with the rest of the troupe and then later,” and his eyes on Boromir’s face, his voice became carefully neutral, “he dances alone for men, and some women too, who will pay high enough. If he does more, the stall-holder had not heard of it.” Boromir’s strong hands, busy rubbing some of the aches from his feet, stilled for a moment. His voice in reply was gruff but gentle.

“Legolas called him “a modest elf-child.” Now I am come to bring him home, Faramir.   It matters not, what he has done, nor what has been done to him, although there will be a reckoning in time for any hurts given. His safety comes first.”

 

By the time that they had eaten, a hurried meal taken in a private chamber for Boromir was becoming anxious that his face in particular might be recognised, and the horse dealer had been settled with and Beornaye added to their string in the stable, there were streams of folk headed for the ground where the theatre tent was pitched. The brothers joined the throng, Boromir keeping his hood up and once they were into the tented arena they paid to stand at the rear of one of the side-boxes.

 

There was a holiday air to the crowded tent. Folk were excited not only by the promised entertainment, but also by the presence of so many new faces. Hundreds of pairs of eager eyes studied the crowd about them and Boromir drew Faramir back into the shadows, where they stood heads down apparently absorbed in shelling and sharing a bag of nuts, bought from one of the vendors who worked the tent.

 

When not another soul could be crammed into the space, a tattered peal of trumpets announced a group of tumblers who ran out onto the sand of the central arena to ply their trade to the sound of a cheery wind-band. After the tumblers came an elderly minstrel that Faramir guessed had seen better times, perhaps been part of a noble household. His voice was creaking now, but he told a stirring tale and still knew how to work an audience, bringing them to rapt attention at key points in his story. There was a loud burst of clapping as the minstrel left and then flutes and drums brought forth the dancers, some dozen figures, male and female, dressed in Harad costume, snaking onto the sand in a line and at the end of the procession, to scattered applause, drifted Illuin. 

 

As the dance began, his feet hardly seemed to dent the sanded floor, so lightly did he step, but in part that could have been because, as Allane had warned them, he was very thin. In the shadow and flare of the lamps his features seemed sharper, the curves of his cheekbones slanting in parallel with the upper edges of his ears. His hair was knotted in elven braids and as he circled in the dance, his arms tracing graceful patterns in the air, murmuring followed within the crowd. Swiftly scanning the faces opposite Faramir could see half a dozen of the wealthier patrons whose interest had been piqued by the boy’s appearance and several whose eyes never left his face, even as they whispered urgently to companions or to servants. Beside him, he could feel Boromir stiffen and reached out to clasp his brother’s hand.

 

During the interval, Faramir left the box to weave his way through the crowd in search of the Master of Ceremonies who was said to control admission to the later performance. As trumpets sounded for the beginning of the second half, he slipped back to Boromir’s side and nodded briefly to him. Into the ring returned the tumblers. This time several pairs filled grotesque horse costumes, accompanied by shady ‘dealers’ with huge fake moustaches and ‘buyers’ who blundered around drunkenly trying to mount the horses backwards, getting kicked or bitten for their pains. As the audience roared with laughter at the mocking of the fair, Faramir put his mouth to Boromir’s ear and said quietly, “Later – we have entry to the private show.”

 

The wait for the performance to end had seemed long indeed. Now that they were so close to him, Boromir could hardly bear to watch a brief appearance that Illuin made with another dancer, a slight girl, clearly wigged and wearing false ears, to make her look as much like him as possible. They had performed a part of the elven dance that Illuin had learned from Arwen and he had lifted the girl in her elven costume over his head and spun her around to enthusiastic applause. To those who knew the original it was a pale, soul-less echo of a dance that should have been filled with joy, but it clearly had the desired effect on several patrons, whose servants were sent scurrying from their boxes presumably in search of tickets for the other show.

 

As the audience, noisy with chatter, filed out of the tent at the end of the entertainment and into the gathering gloom, the brothers stepped out too, to take a little air. The tent was being readied for Illuin’s display and those patrons set to stay, milled about the encampment. Servants hurried back and forth with wine and sweetmeats and warm cloaks against the evening chill.

 

Boromir and Faramir wandered aimlessly between a couple of tents, but muffled groans and the shuffling of feet on bruised grass told them that their way was barred by lovers taking advantage of the gloaming and they turned aside, finding themselves at the rear of the large tent, where the performers made ready. Then suddenly, through an open tent flap they saw him, surrounded by three or four burly keepers, attended by an elderly woman who was brushing his long hair. The youth was totally naked, save for chains of tiny silver bells around his ankles. Boromir gasped and Faramir caught at his arm before he could plunge forward. “Surely they will not make him dance like that!” Boromir’s whisper was agonised. “Look there!” hissed Faramir as the old woman came to Illuin with silks over her arm and helped him into tight-fitting leggings and then over it, a flowing robe with an elven cut to it. The youth seemed almost entirely passive in her hands and Faramir was mightily relieved when his brother turned away and so missed her, at the last, tipping the contents of a small glass vial down his throat, whereupon Illuin swayed on his feet but was kept upright, held close, between two of the men.

 

Ushered back into the tent, they saw that there were some dozen or so men, many richly dressed, who made up this gathering. They were shown to comfortable seats around the edge of a smaller circle. Boromir managed to manoeuvre himself, so that he was mostly hidden behind Faramir and sat, half-turned, his scarred side away from the light and from Illuin’s gaze, should he look at his audience at all. There was soft music from harp and flute as wine was offered to them. When Boromir tasted it, it was sweet and cloying and he had to breath deep for a few moments to stop himself gagging at the smell.

 

All were seated and the music ceased. The curtain was swept aside and the Master of Ceremonies entered to begin with a few minutes of talk praising the foresight of the troupe’s owner in purchasing such a treasure, at huge expense, for their ‘discerning’ delectation. He praised their refined tastes, so above the common herd, in coming to partake of this special show and he would have gone on to a brief history of the dances that Illuin would show, but a hint of restlessness in his audience told the man that this audience was not quite so sophisticated as to want scholarship with their thrills and without further ceremony, he clapped his hands and the harp began a stately measure which brought Illuin gliding through the curtain to begin his performance. 

 

The first piece was pure elven dance, formal and controlled and yet, so precise and delicate was his movement, that all found themselves drawn in unbidden and almost held their breath as the smallest gestures hung in the air against the shape of the melody. At the end of the dance, there was almost complete silence, but no-one on the performance side appeared surprised. Other pieces followed, in one of which he danced with a sword, the blade glinting in the torchlight as it sliced through the air. Then two of the minders came forward and stripped the outer robe from him, with more of a show of force than Faramir thought strictly necessary. At his shoulder he could hear his brother breathing shortly.

 

This time there was no melody. A low drumbeat, started to fill the arena and Illuin was in motion again, spinning, jumping high into the air, whirling about his hair flying straight out behind him and his eyes wide. He ran towards the edge of the ring and at the last moment, darted aside to plunge forward again in a new direction and all the while the drumbeat throbbed in the air. Now the drums and Illuin’s movements slowed, became sensual, his hips rolled and curled with the drumming, beating fingers fluttering against his chest, stroking along his sides and Faramir’s heart burned at the sight. The boy was too young, too innocent to appear in this spectacle. He should be seeking what his body could do for his own pleasure and perhaps for a first tentative love, not for this sweating, smirking rabble. Had he not needed to watch the other patrons, Faramir would have closed his eyes to this. As it was, he felt besmirched by the display.

 

Behind him Boromir almost vibrated with suppressed rage and then Illuin slowly swayed towards them and Faramir thought he must have seen his brother, but the lad’s eyes seemed glazed and once he had passed, iron fingers gripped Faramir’s shoulder and Boromir hissed in his ear, “Have they drugged him?” Faramir nodded briefly and was very aware that Boromir stilled completely into waiting, waiting.

 

The drumbeat picked up speed again and Illuin’s movements became faster and gradually less controlled, more frantic. Sweat gleamed on his skin and when at the climax of the performance he threw himself high into the air and fell to the floor on landing, all around them the audience surged to its feet with enthusiastic applause. Privately, Faramir was more concerned by those patrons who did not rise, but surveyed the lad, laid panting on the ground, with calculating, greedy eyes.

 

Two of his minders came to raise him to his feet and the old woman hurried forward with a towel and the silk robe. As the buzz from the audience continued, a chair was set at the far side of the arena and the dancer almost stumbled towards it. Some patrons were leaving, but others hung back and to these the Master of Ceremonies went, murmuring quietly. Any who wished might speak briefly with the dancer, ask him about his performance, ask him what they willed – but none could touch him, that must be understood.

 

Illuin was seated in the chair; the old woman rubbed his shoulders and held a cup to his lips. The keepers stood close by as one by one, some handful of men approached him. The brothers watched him carefully, hanging back. To some he answered readily, clearly simple queries, perhaps about his dances, to one or two he ducked his head, a flush rising on his cheeks, but the most threatening in Faramir’s eyes said nothing, but simply looked him up and down before turning wordlessly on their heels.

 

The tent was empty of other patrons now and the Master of Ceremonies looked at them enquiringly. Faramir drifted forward and close to the man, pressing gold privately into his hand for a few words alone with the boy. His companion, and Faramir’s head indicated Boromir stood in the shadows, wanted to ask some ‘probing’ questions. The man hesitated. To leave them alone with Illuin was going too far, but as another gold piece met his itching palm and Faramir assured him that they would not touch the dancer, could, perhaps, remain seated out of reach, the Master’s face twisted into a sickly grin. He would have chairs placed for them and withdraw his guards out of earshot. 

 

Illuin’s eyes were lowered, as the chairs were set. Then the guards drew back, the Master of Ceremonies taking one last look before he ushered the old woman and those others left out of the tent. Illuin glanced up at the men approaching him. The one leading had a kindly face, but his companion was hidden and this scenario already breached the boundaries of his usual encounters. Clearly, Thurm had been bribed again. 

 

Illuin took in a ragged breath, steeling himself for whatever insult or threat should come, but the shock when the men went to sit and he saw Boromir’s face, no anger or pity in his eyes, but only affection, sent him reeling back, gripping at the arms of the chair, blood draining from his face. By the exits the guards exchanged glances. The patron’s scars had clearly shaken the dancer. They watched him gather himself and reach for the cup set beside him, take a few sips and then the parties began to talk. The guards could not hear and did not care what was said. The patrons did not try to touch the dancer and he did not appear to need their help. The youth was crying certainly, but the Master had ordered them to leave well alone. They relaxed again.

 

Boromir was trying as best he could, from a distance, to soothe Illuin’s choking sobs, saying, “Hush, lad. All will be well. We’ve come to bring you home.”

Faramir added his voice. “Illuin, we’ve come at Arin’s request.”

“This is my brother, the Prince Faramir. Looks like me, doesn’t he?” said Boromir encouragingly, “It’s the nose.” Reluctantly, Illuin raised his gaze to Faramir’s gently smiling face. He could hardly believe that they were sat teasing him about noses when his shame threatened to overwhelm him. Boromir continued to speak of small things, Rullo’s latest exploits, Arin’s schoolwork, until the youth had calmed and then they sat, all three, in a moment of silence before Boromir began again.

 

“Illuin, Faramir and I have come to bring you home to Minas Tirith. Arin has sent us and he has given us a great treasure that he was given in love, to exchange for your freedom.” He paused for a moment. “Your gift to him was a wondrous thing, bought with sacrifice. Now he wishes earnestly to give you the greatest gift he can imagine, your freedom, exchanged for the gift that captured his heart because of the love that went with it.” Illuin’s eyes seemed too deep to read and Faramir wondered if he understood what they said. Boromir spoke again.

“We mean to do this, Illuin and you will be free to choose your own path, but Arin begs that you come back with us to Minas Tirith, if only for a short while, so he can see and speak with you. Is this acceptable to you?” For the first time Faramir heard the youth speak, as he softly breathed, “I will come,” and his voice was low and choked with sorrow.

 

They spoke together for a few minutes more, the brothers gathering what information they could from Illuin about his present owner. He had passed through several sets of hands. They pressed him no further, but Faramir turned, signalling to the keepers that they meant to leave and both men rose and went without ceremony. Outside the tent, Thurm waited with a fawning smile and as Boromir stalked past him, his face set, Faramir stopped to drop a coin into the man’s hand and to talk.

 

In their room Boromir paced back and forth, half searching for something to tear apart with his bare hands. When Faramir entered and barred the door behind him before sinking down onto the bed, one hand laid over his eyes, Boromir paused for a moment and then poured them both a cup of wine. He pressed one into Faramir’s hand and waited for his brother to speak.

“He is untouched. At least the Master of Ceremonies thinks so. He also thinks the owner will sell. The boy is looking as though he will be too difficult to keep. He is obedient but rarely eats and vomits anything forced on him. In time his looks will be marred by his condition. The preferred option is a public auction to be held soon, but he might welcome a private sale if the price were right, fewer expenses.”

“When can we meet him?”

“We will be sent word tomorrow if an interview can be arranged. Boromir, if he will not meet us, this auction sounds too close for Aragorn to intervene.”

“Then I suggest, brother,” said Boromir crisply, “the Prince of Ithilien should visit the town council and advise them that there are certainly stolen horses being traded here and Ithilien will petition the provincial governor that their fair be transferred to another locality with more diligent authorities, if they do not halt the auction and impound the ‘merchandise’.” And he spat out the final words.

 

In the morning, they idled away the time, looking at more doubtful brands and Faramir bought a gift for Arin, a new bridle for Beornaye. Boromir was particularly terse and finally forced to admit that the local spiced ale did indeed have a powerful kick that he thought had left dents on the inside of his skull.

 

They were sat over the noon meal when they saw the Master of Ceremonies, weaving towards them through the crowded inn. They had secured a table in an alcove away from the general bustle and Faramir waved to him to sit, with a slight smile and an enquiring eyebrow.

“My master will meet with you today.” The man fidgeted and then leant forward, saying quietly, “Sirs, you have been most liberal in your appreciation of my efforts on your behalf. I would warn you. The dancer is in a strange humour.” He fidgeted some more. “Your buyer should know that elf-breeds are notorious for up and dying for no reason. One day they are well and the next – gone! There’s few in Harad will keep them now…I should not wish your buyer to lose by this purchase.”

Faramir thanked him for his consideration, passed across another gold coin for his trouble and got out of him the time and place of the meeting. When he left, Boromir picked up the flagon of ale. His face was troubled and as he re-filled their beakers, he spoke plainly to his brother.

“Please don’t take too much notice of our friend there, Faramir. Doubtless those with elven blood do poorly when enslaved, but I saw at work the stamina that Illuin used in escaping Harad the first time. He recovered from near starvation very quickly.  I’m sure he’ll be strong enough for the Rangers. Just give him time to fill out, grow into his strength. Let me put a bit of meat on him.”

“Boromir,” Faramir’s voice was soothing. “He’ll do very well for us, if that’s what he wants, but he’s too young to start training by a couple of years anyway. There will be time.”

Boromir swirled the ale around in his beaker. “It seems to go more quickly now. Arin is growing so fast.” Faramir put an arm around his brother’s shoulders, squeezed and they returned to their meal.

 

Comments

[govi20.livejournal.com]

Another womderful chapter.. thanks so much for posting!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for sticking with it. Glad it works for you.

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Such a treat to have another chapter so soon ! I love this story.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I said I'd finish at '7' but it ran to nearly 14,000 words, so I sub-divided it. I'll post the final part (and a Bonus Feature) tomorrow.

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

At his shoulder he could hear his brother breathing shortly. Translation: I really want to hurt someone.

I just knew Iluin couldn't resist Arin wanting him home. Whoop! At least I hope so...

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Not long to wait and you'll see. So glad that you're enjoying this and many thanks for the feedback.

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

Thanks for posting another wonderful chapter...I can hardly wait for the next one.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

On its way - and thank you for reading it and the kind feedback.

[shalom]

So I checked LJ this morning, 5 minutes before running off to work, and what a fool I was to do it, because I had to leave this marvelous chapter unread until 9:30 pm! You have a strong ability to share your characters' emotions with your readers.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and for your generous feedback. I'm glad that you're able to read the emotion beneath the action. Sometimes I tend to bury emotion within subtext, using surface actions as a prompt - but it then leaves it open to readers to interpret the actions as they wish...actually that sounds far more organised and calculating than I think I am...just happy that you like it.

[shalom]

Yup. Giving up control of your reader and doing more showing rather than telling is difficult, but one that shows more maturity in writing (i.e., confidence) and trusts the readers to interpret things more on their own.

You touch on a point that makes me nuts sometimes: writers that spend too much time telling every last bit of detail.