Fic: The Foal A/B (R) 1/?
Aug. 21st, 2006 04:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleFic: The Foal (1/?)
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alex_quine
alex_quinePairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, R)
Warning: AU, OFCs
Summary: A simple request brings danger to their sons.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Words: 3,127
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow some of them for entertainment, not profit.
Feedback: Received with thanks.
AN: This story sits within the ‘Cold Pressing’ AU, after ‘Cold Pressing’ and before ‘Entwine.’
The morning light was beginning to seep grey across the courtyard as Boromir ushered the boy into the open door of the stableblock. The groom standing in the archway nodded to him as they passed, stepping softly on straw laid on the cobbled floor to deaden the sound of shod hooves. Boromir tightened his grip slightly on Arin’s shoulder as they came up to the edge of the far loosebox, reminding him of the need for slow, quiet movements. From behind the wooden wall came a low whicker and Aragorn’s answering murmur. He turned from the mare standing in the corner and smiled at Boromir, a night of missed sleep showing in the drawn quality around his dark eyes. Then he beckoned Arin forward and the boy came to him edging around the wall of the box, so that the mare could see him approaching and not fear for the new foal, asleep in the straw beside her.
Arin craned his neck to see it, half hidden in the deep bedding, as Aragorn laid an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer. “It’s a filly foal,” he said quietly, “and a good strong one. She’s been on her feet and taken her first milk.” He looked again soft at Boromir, the men sharing their love for this miracle of new life, as the boy let the mare lip at his fingers.
Arin had brought her a carrot and when he held his hand flat, her warm muzzle tickled his skin and the carrot disappeared with a satisfying crunch. In the straw, the foal heard the noise and lifted its head. Arin saw a dark bay head with a small white star at its centre. Boy and foal looked at eachother and then the foal slumped back onto the straw and slept. “We’ll leave them be,” Aragorn said, guiding Arin out of the box. Boromir closed and bolted the door behind them. The groom came forward to take up post, sat on a small stool in the passage-way outside the box, and Aragorn clasped the man on the shoulder and smiled as he passed.
In the stable-yard, the first weak gleams of sunlight were chasing along the neatly swept paths, where grooms and lads were hurrying with buckets of water, armfuls of sweet hay. “Does she have a name, Sire?” Arin asked. “No, Arin, she does not.”
Boromir reached out to ruffle his son’s hair, saying, “We thought you might like to give her a name.” The boy looked at them with serious eyes. “I would need to think about it…but I would like that.” “Good,” said Aragorn firmly, hugging Arin to his side, “that’s settled – and now we all need some breakfast before you have to go to school and your Adar and I tackle an especially tedious trade meeting. I think perhaps sausages and mushrooms and potatoes and bacon and eggs and…” he paused for dramatic effect, “anything else I fancy!” Boromir snorted and looked down to hide a wide grin and as the party walked under the archway toward the kitchen block, neither men saw the figure stood in the shadow cast by the well, who paused in drawing up his bucket to watch them go.
At the end of the day Arin had hurried back to the stables to look at the foal again. His friends wanted to see it too, but it was too soon. He would ask the King if they might visit in a few days. This time a different groom was sat on the little stool, a burly man with kind eyes. He had been told not to allow anyone into the loosebox, but he lifted Arin up in strong arms so that he could look through the bars. The mare stood in the corner, pulling steadily at a rack of hay, whilst the foal was on its feet this time, nosing around under its mother. The mare shifted her hindquarters restlessly until the foal settled, finding its place, sucking eagerly at a swollen teat. The groom lowered Arin to the ground. “I suppose I’ll be finding you in here at all hours,” he said good-naturedly. “Is she yours?”
“Oh no. The mare belongs to Adar, to the Lord Steward,” Arin explained hastily. “She went to the King’s horse, Brego, and Adar gave the foal to him. But I get to give it a name.”
“Well that’s an important consideration,” agreed the groom, sitting back down on his stool and picking up a length of twine that he’d been knotting into the beginnings of a net for hay. Arin watched the man work, deftly looping the rough twine and using a small bone hook to pull the long end through the net.
“A man’s name says a good deal about him,” he continued, “and it’s the same for beasts. Give a dog a bad name and he’ll learn to bite, if he didn’t before.” Arin thought about it. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but didn’t want to say so.
“So have you thought of a name yet?” asked the man, “Have to do it soon, give it a name.”
“Not yet,” said Arin. “I thought I might find a star – because of the star on her face.” “Well that could be a lucky omen, young master.” The man set his net aside and rested his palms on his knees, looking into the boy’s face. Then he smiled broadly and got up, saying “I’d best be off for the evening meal and you too. Little horse there is getting hers,” and he clapped the boy on the shoulder and ushered him out.
Over the next few days Arin alternated between visiting the stables and poring over the few books of star maps in Boromir’s library. Adar, when consulted, had thought it a fine idea. Brego had come from Rohan, he said, so perhaps Arin might find a star beloved of the Rohirrim? Arin looked up to where Boromir was sat by the fire, legs stretched out, propped on a low stool, one hand turning a book in his lap whilst the other absently drew Rullo’s ears through his fingers. The big dog sighed and leant in to him.
Rullo could not reconcile himself to the stables’ need for cats to keep down the vermin in the grain stores and Arin had left him at home on his frequent trips to the loosebox. He felt suddenly guilty that he had not hugged the dog enough over the last few days and got up, went to his father, planted himself on the rug at Boromir’s feet and wrapped both arms around Rullo, who responded with a tossed head and a good deal of slobber. Boromir glanced down at him. The boy looked unsettled and even shamefaced. “Lad?” Boromir asked. Arin looked determinedly at the mastiff, who tried to lick his face.
“I’ve been neglecting Rullo, because I can’t take him to the stables.”
“Ah.”
“I forgot to brush him this morning.”
“Hmm.”
Hesitantly. “Did you brush him?”
“Mmm.”
“And walk him?”
“Mmm.”
“When I find a name for the foal then I won’t need to go so much.”
“Oh.”
Arin looked up, frowning at Boromir. “Adar, you’ve gone all ent again.”
“Ent?”
“You know – one word answers – very slow.”
“Oh.”
“Adar!” Between them, Rullo pricked up his ears. Arin was almost giggling now. “King Elessar hates it,” he said firmly, as though that clinched the matter.
“Oh?”
“Adar!”
“Yes, sometimes the King hates it,” murmured Aragorn stepping out of the shadow of the doorway. Rullo whined and thumped his tail on the floor, but he did not stir from the boy’s embrace as Aragorn came towards them.
Boromir surged up out of his chair and hoisted Arin off the floor to make his bow. “Your pardon, Lord Steward,” Aragorn laid his hand gently on Arin’s head, who smiled shyly up at him. “A late visit I know and unannounced.”
“This house welcomes you at whatever hour, Sire.” Boromir’s smile was warm.
Aragorn gazed into the child’s eyes. “So have you a name for her yet?”
“I’m still thinking – but I’ve got an idea.”
“It’s a good one,” said Boromir, wrapping one of Arin’s dark curls around his finger as he stood beside him, “but it’s time you were a-bed, lad.”
As the library door closed behind the boy and his dog, the men turned back to one another and Boromir opened his arms for his King to walk into them. Aragorn breathed deeply, resting his head on Boromir’s shoulder, taking in his scent, letting Boromir’s hands gentle down his back, smoothing away the cares of the day.
At last he tightened his own hold around the blonde man’s waist and leaned back to look at him with laughter in his eyes. “Greetings Ent,” he said happily. “Hmph,” muttered Boromir, leaning in for a gently nipping kiss and then his eyelids fluttered and he groaned long and low as Aragorn stroked the length hardening under his breeches with strong, mobile fingers.
“And your one word…said slowly,” murmured Aragorn, dragging his own swollen cock along Boromir’s hip and gasping at the sensation. “What will it be? Please? Or, Yes? Or, More?”
“Now,” growled Boromir and he clasped Aragorn’s face between his hands to take his mouth in a kiss that left both men breathless, clinging to one-another. Then Boromir wrapped his arms around his love, hugged him fiercely and lowered him to lie on the rug before the fire. By the time he turned back from barring the door Aragorn had shed his outer tunic and was loosening the ties of his shirt. As Boromir knelt beside him, catching Aragorn’s hands in his own to still them, kissing the fingertips one by one, pressing his lips into the palms, his King watched him entranced, until he drew Boromir once more to him in the golden firelight, whispering, “Please…yes…more.”
At the end of the week Arin took his schoolfriends to see the foal, now wearing a tiny halter of soft leather. The burly groom, Doran, held the mare whilst the boys, one-by-one, ventured into the box. They were allowed to give the mare a treat and to stroke the foal slowly if it came within reach. As the last was leaving the soft voice of the Queen was heard at the stabledoor. The boys hastily lined up in the passageway and bowed as Arwen passed hand-in-hand with Eldarion. The toddler stood at the open door of the box and waved a carrot in one chubby hand. Arwen lifted the hem of her gown against the deep straw and stepped forward to stroke the mare, who lowered her head to the Evenstar and whickered. Arwen looked around and beckoned Arin, saying “Bring Eldarion with you. She trusts your judgement.” Arin’s eyes widened slightly, but he clasped the child’s hand and led him towards the mare, who took the whole gift, carrot, hand and all, into her mouth then gently disentangled the little fingers and let them go. Eldarion was already looking up at the foal, a little taller than himself and reached out to stroke it, but it backed away. The child’s face fell. Arwen took his fist and rubbed it against Arin’s shirt. She smiled encouragingly at her son who reached out again and the foal nosed at him and then stepped close enough for both Arin and Eldarion to stroke the warm hide. Arin placed his hand loosely over Eldarion’s to teach him how to stroke slowly and in the direction the hair lay.
As they petted the foal Arwen thanked the groom, but hesitated a little, as though thinking of something else. Just then Eldarion piped up with a flow of words, many of which were quite intelligible and Arwen nodded wisely, collected her son and took him from the loosebox, smiling to the boys as she passed.
For a few days after that Arin often met Eldarion hand-in-hand with one of the Queen’s ladies, waiting in the stableyard for Arin to take him to see the foal. Arin could see the child becoming bolder, but he was somehow glad that Eldarion would not go into the box without him. Arin wondered if King Elessar would give his son the foal. He did not mind really. The foal would have the best of care all its days. It was the King’s to do with as he pleased. Adar had given it to him. Anyway, Eldarion might someday have the foal, but it would carry Arin’s name. It was unlucky to change a horse’s name. Now if he could just find the right one!
Heavy rain had been falling for hours, drowning the whole city in a thick grey blanket of sodden clothing, leaking footwear. There was water sheeting down the roofs and tumbling into the gutters that overflowed across paved courts and pathways, so that any souls bold enough to venture out hefted the hoods of their cloaks over their heads and ran, anonymous shapeless figures, from one doorway to another.
Arin scuttled into the entrance of the stableblock and shook drops of water from his hair. He had come to a decision, but before he told Adar and the King, he had to see if the mare and foal liked the name. You had to face the horse and ask its permission. The foaling box was at the end of the line, in the quietest spot, and although a couple of lamps had been lit in the corridor against the gloom of the day, the box was wreathed in shadows.
Arin jumped slightly when Doran appeared, rising from the little stool to tower above him. “Didn’t think I’d see you today, young master.” His voice was somehow different, rougher, and Arin realised that the man had been drinking. The boy shifted from foot-to-foot, half decided to retreat. There was something about the man’s eyes, glittering down at him, that made his breath come quickly. “Come to see the little one have you?” and the groom swung wide the door of the box. The mare threw up her head at this sudden movement, but snuffled a greeting when she saw Arin. Doran bowed and waved him forward with exaggerated courtesy that unsettled the boy, but he’d come this far, so he decided to visit the horses and then not to linger. He’d go home quickly. Whether he’d tell he was unsure. The Head Groom would dismiss Doran, likely beat him too, if he knew of it. The man had seemed good with horses, but a drunkard around stables, filled with straw and hay and lit with oil lamps, was a danger to all.
Arin stepped towards the mare and foal. This time he had filled his pockets with peppermint drops and as the mare and foal nosed at his cloak, trying to find the treats beneath, Arin reached forward and stroked the foal. “There is a word in Rohirric,” he said softly, “that means ‘starry.’ It’s ‘astyrred.’ What do you think? Would you like to be called Astred?”
“Sounds like a good name,” came a voice from the corridor and Arin turned to see another groom, in the doorway. This man was thin and sharp-featured and it struck Arin that Doran simply stood, slack-mouthed, holding the door and did not look at the newcomer at all. The boy could not explain why this man made him nervous, but he knew that he wanted to go home…now. He had only to pass them and then he would run. He did not care if they thought him a baby.
Arin had taken the first steps away from the mare, when sudden merry laughter in the doorway announced the hurried, rain-soaked arrival of a lady-in-waiting with Eldarion. Arin looked sharply at Doran, but the man did not move. The lady had taken the child on her hip to keep his shoes dry and she swung him down to the floor, fussing over the little prince, taking off his cloak, then shooing him towards the open loosebox, a large carrot in his hand.
“Awin! Cawot! Got a cawot!” piped the toddler. As Eldarion stumbled through the deep straw towards him, Arin’s eyes met the lady’s in panic and she stilled a moment, then looked questioningly at the grooms. Before she could open her mouth, the thin man had grabbed her around the waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. Nevertheless she struggled and kicked. “Get the boy, fool!” hissed the thin man and Doran lurched forward into the box. Just then the lady began to struggle free and the groom cursed, a dagger flashed and blood spurted through the bars of the loosebox as he cut her throat.
Arin saw the terror in her eyes as she sank to the ground, clutching at her ruined throat and he grabbed at Eldarion, pulling him behind him, shouting “Dari, hide! Hide!” Doran grabbed him by the arms and Arin began kicking and went to scream, but a rough cloth was stuffed into his mouth and he began to gag. He was lifted off the ground and shaken until his head hurt and he could struggle no longer. Doran’s bared teeth pressed against his cheek. Arin could smell the spirits on his breath. “Let’s see how much the Lord Steward misses his brat,” he hissed.
The other man was intent on taking Eldarion, but the child was pressed into the corner of the box, along with the frightened foal and the mare was now stood between the groom and the child. The blood spreading in stinking runnels across the cobbled floor had frightened her and she was ready, ears laid back and teeth bared, to defend her foal against all comers.
“Leave him! Leave him! Would you have Elessar and the elf-witch hunt you? This is the one we want! Help me with him.” Doran seemed to have roused from his stupor and was snapping at the thin man as he went to roll Arin in a cloak, binding him tight with sharp twine that cut into the child’s flesh. Arin was gasping, trying not to be sick at the intrusive gag. “Close the box door. We don’t want the mare getting out. The longer it takes for anyone to know aught’s amiss, the better!”
In the courtyard the rain fell in sheets and anyone looking, would have seen a groom with a sack over his shoulder, pause in the doorway, pull his hood over his face and jog across the yard, out through the archway and disappear into the gloom. A few moments later, another figure left, carefully closing the stable door and followed the first man away into the mirk. But there was none to see.
tbc
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Date: 2006-08-20 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-20 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-20 08:17 pm (UTC)The dialogue that begins in the paragraph that begins "In the stable-yard" might be better separated by hard returns, so that each character line falls separately
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Date: 2006-08-20 10:25 pm (UTC)Take your point about the formatting. I'm not sure I can do it here without screwing up posted comments, but I've re-jigged it on my LJ.
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Date: 2006-08-20 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-20 08:34 pm (UTC)I was shocked by the last section, but I am keen to read more and see how this develops.
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Date: 2006-08-20 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-20 08:35 pm (UTC)~Kris
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Date: 2006-08-20 10:29 pm (UTC)So good!
Date: 2006-08-20 08:56 pm (UTC)Big hugs
Sarah
Re: So good!
Date: 2006-08-20 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 10:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 12:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 08:25 pm (UTC)Right here “Let’s see how much the Lord Steward misses his brat,” he hissed. is where I immediately thought, Dude you really don't want to find out.
Poor Arin! Ack!
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Date: 2006-08-21 08:40 pm (UTC)I think the 'grooms' are way out of their depth, but that doesn't mean they couldn't do a lot of damage before they're stopped.
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Date: 2006-08-22 07:02 am (UTC)A lovely, gentle beginning ("Boy and foal looked at each other and then the foal slumped back onto the straw and slept."); a teasing, easy-banter and sexy middle ("...his King watched him entranced, until he drew Boromir once more to him in the golden firelight, whispering, “Please…yes…more.” "); and a frantic ending ("But there was none to see." !
Poor boy - such innocence and trust meeting with such horror . . .
A terrific story; please don't be too long coming back!
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Date: 2006-08-22 10:02 am (UTC)