The Foal A/B (2/?) PG-13

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Fic: The Foal (2/?)

Author:alex_quine

Pairing: A/B

Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, PG-13)

Warning: AU, OFCs, mention of MPreg

Summary: A murder and a disappearance challenge Aragorn and Boromir who battle an unknown enemy.

Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ

Words: 4,903

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.’

 

 

It was a stable lad, tasked to relieve Doran an hour later, who had found the cooling body of the lady and heard the whimpering coming from the loosebox. The mare would not let him by, so he’d run for his master who had taken one look at the horror and sent him careering up the steps towards the palace.

 

Back in the stable the Head Groom had called for more light and spoken soft to the horse, whose eyes rolled at him, her front feet stamping impatiently in the straw. He did not dare speak to the child, for fear that the boy would try to move towards him and perhaps get between the mare and foal. The rain had slackened off to a relentless drizzle. Men arrived, splashing through the mud, with lanterns which they hung on every available hook, lighting up the little corridor, so that all could see the limp, white, figure slumped awkwardly on the floor.  

 

Running steps in the yard brought the Lord Boromir skidding to a halt by the door and behind him the King, who took a swift look at the body before him and then stepped past it to the half door of the loosebox. He began to talk to the mare, low and soft, almost singsong, in Elvish the Head Groom thought, and the horse gradually began to slow her head tossing, and the shivering across her skin died away. Watching from the corridor, Boromir pointed wordlessly at the fallen lady, gesturing that she should be covered up, before he drifted forward and into the mare’s line of sight. When her head came up, Boromir murmured “Whoa, lass. You know me. Easy, lass.” Behind him, a groom was hastily laying down horse blankets to hide the corpse. 

 

“Will you get the boy?” Aragorn asked Boromir, his gentle tone never varying as he unlatched the halfdoor and walked into the loosebox to stand beside the horse and run his hands in tiny circles up and around the mare’s ears. With a gusty sigh, her head sank to his hands and Boromir stepped softly across the straw and scooped Eldarion from his nest in the far corner, letting the child cling, arms and legs wound around him and his face pressed into Boromir’s neck, as much to smother any sound that might startle the mare, as to comfort him.  

 

As he stepped out into the passageway, a flutter of silks announced Arwen’s arrival and they faced one another across the body of her erstwhile lady. Boromir passed the whimpering child to his mother who cradled him in her arms and turned away taking Eldarion out into the yard, standing in the drizzle, swaying from side-to-side and whispering in his ear.

 

In the box, Aragorn was still crooning to the horse, tracing little figures on the mare’s neck. At last he laid one hand flat and quiet on her face and backed away from her to the door, which Boromir opened quietly and then closed and bolted behind him. Silent, they went to the shrouded form. Boromir bent down and lifted the corner of the blanket that covered the woman’s face. Her mouth gaped as though still struggling for the last breath that would never come and her eyelids were half open. Boromir bent and closed her eyes with a gentle hand. Aragorn beckoned to the Head Groom, who was grim-faced, now the shock had settled in, but still resolute and in command of his charge. The lady would be carried to the Houses of Healing and the blood sluiced away thoroughly, strong soap dissolved in the water used to scrub the cobbled floor, the walls, everywhere befouled by the gore. If the smell could not be got out, the floor must be lifted, the earth thrown away and the stones washed before it was re-laid, otherwise horses would baulk at the spot.

 

Boromir was half-listening to them, looking closely at the wound and as he rose to speak further to Aragorn his gaze caught that of Arwen, who still stood in the midst of the yard. She had put Eldarion down, even as he tugged at her skirts, and pressed him back into the arms of his hovering nursemaid. Then she came to them, the hem of her skirts dark with rainwater, and looked up at the men with pale cheeks on which a tear ran. “The men who did this,” she said faintly, “they took Arin.”

 

No sound came from either man. It seemed as though they were turned to stone, staring at her, but Arwen wrapped an arm around each, shielding from the gaze of the curious, hands that clutched convulsively at one another. Boromir spoke first and Arwen thought her heart would break at the rough care in his voice, as he asked if Eldarion were unharmed. Aragorn’s forehead had dropped to lie against her hair as she assured them that the child was frightened, but he would do very well. He was sure that the ‘fat groom’ had taken Arin and she hoped to get more from him once the anxiety had faded. She must take him in now, give him a bath and something to eat and she thought they had all best be out of the rain. She would come to them in the Steward’s rooms when she had news and someone must needs tell Beregond. The murdered girl had been his niece, not long in Arwen’s service, but valued for her kind heart and willing ways.

 

Aragorn raised his head and beckoned across the Head Groom, to send a sensible man to locate the Captain, wherever he might be, whilst Boromir waved over a stablelad and tasked him with speaking to the guards at each city level, in the vain hope that they might have seen the boy or the groom, quickly identified as the missing Doran. Aragorn ordered that riders be sent to Ithilien and to alert garrison posts on the major routes out of the city. 

 

The nursemaid had taken Eldarion by the hand and led him away. Aragorn walked from the yard hand-in-hand with Arwen, and Boromir followed along behind them, although his feet felt so heavy, he could barely place one step after another on ground that seemed to shift beneath him. Once or twice he had to remind himself to breathe, so great was the effort to force air into his chest that felt as though crushed like an eggshell trodden underfoot.

 

Before the Steward’s study door, Aragorn kissed Arwen lightly on the cheek and as they watched her pass along the colonnade, ordered that no-one be admitted. Once inside he turned to Boromir and would have taken the man into his arms, but that Boromir jerked away from him to pace the room for a few angry strides, then pulling-up short, looked at him with eyes in which Aragorn could see furious calculation.

“Why?” Boromir’s voice was hoarse.

“And who?” added Aragorn dryly.

He went to a side table and poured them both a cup of wine, but Boromir shook his head at the proffered beaker and resumed his pacing, as though he must be moving. 

 

Aragorn watched his lover gravely. Was he readying himself for action, warming muscles made stiff by too many hours behind a desk? Was he propelled forward into aimless motion by the self-same pain that gripped at Aragorn’s chest, or driving an unwilling body onward for fear that if he stood still he would sink? Aragorn knew that at this moment it was only the table he leant against that held him upright. He took a deep breath and spoke.

“They could have taken Arin in error, or to silence him, or for money, or for revenge, or for some purpose we do not understand.”

Boromir paused in his march and seemed to consider each proposition, eyes lowered to a booted foot that tapped rapidly on the flagged floor. He shook his head.

“In error? And what will they do when they discover their error? To silence him? We’ve seen how they silence unwanted witnesses, no need to take him away and anyway, what could the boy have seen? For money?” He looked up with a snarl on his lips, “If gold is their lure, they must needs contact us and keep the child safe betimes.”

“For revenge?” Aragorn spoke quietly, not wanting to stoke Boromir’s cold rage. “Are there any who hate you enough to do this?”

Boromir stilled for a moment. “I cannot think…there are orcs who do not love me and perhaps some Harad or Corsair tribes who’d wish me ill.” His voice grew bitter and more distant, as though he looked back reluctantly to a time of trial, “and there may be some who have cause to remember my family’s stewardship with little joy. My father’s madness touched all towards the end… Why wait so long? I cannot believe…”

 

A gentle knocking broke through their reverie, but before they could think to reply, the door had cracked open and Arwen slipped in carrying a small roll of canvas, from which she produced soft leather shoes for both men and gestured to them to take off their boots.

“My dear?” Aragorn’s voice was puzzled.

“Beregond is stood, waiting in the corridor to see you and you’re covered with poor Meriel’s blood.”

Having seen them tidy and hidden the evidence behind a trunk, Arwen would have left, but Aragorn caught her by the hand and drew her back to where Boromir was setting a high-backed chair for her. As she sat and smoothed out her skirts, Aragorn took up station by her side and Boromir went to usher in Beregond, who looked dazed.

 

The wars were just far enough in the past that men had begun to breathe easier, to expect life to go as smoothly as in the tales their forefathers had told; sudden death, if it came, to be as the result of a fever, childbirth, an unlucky fall from a horse. Casual brutality caught even old soldiers unawares and he had accounted his niece lucky to be chosen to serve the Queen. Now he could not think what he would tell his sister.

 

He would not sit, nor take wine, but listened gravely as the King promised that Gondor would put forth its best endeavours to find the maiden’s killers. Arwen spoke to him warmly of the girl who had so charmed all who met her, that Prince Eldarion found in her a lively playmate and the Queen’s women welcomed her as a friend. He must tell his sister that she would be mourned and remembered fondly. Boromir would have added his condolences to theirs, but Beregond looked sorrowfully at his old friend and said, bleakly, “Is it true? Have they taken the boy?” Boromir met his gaze but could not speak, only nodding briefly. “Then there are two accounts to settle,” said Beregond and eventually consented to be escorted down to the Houses of Healing by the Queen herself, to see all was done well for the girl and to arrange her last journey homeward.

 

As they left, Aragorn pressed Boromir, who looked drained, into Arwen’s empty chair, gently but firmly and placed a cup of water in his hands, before drawing up a stool and sitting beside him, his head laid on Boromir’s shoulder, where Boromir wrapped an arm around him, and twined one dark curl of his hair around his fingers. 

 

When Arwen returned they listened as she told what she had been able to glean from Eldarion. He thought there were two men, the fat one, and a thin one who picked up Meriel and she wriggled. Eldarion was adamant that they had stolen Arin because he was ‘the Lord Steward’s brat’ and they didn’t want him. Arin told him to hide, so he hid with the foal, but he dropped his carrot in the straw and the mare wouldn’t let him by and the thin man might come back and… At that point Arwen had exerted her best efforts and put him to sleep. It was hoped that in a few days he would remember very little of the matter.

 

As they were examining the child’s account, the stable lad sent down through the lower levels returned with news, although not of a comforting sort. The heavy rain had made some of the guards’ less vigilant perhaps than usual, but one who knew Doran slightly had seen him go down through the fifth level gate in company with another figure, both of them booted and cloaked for travelling and Doran had a large sack over his shoulder. The guards on the main city gate did not remember any such pair a-foot, but grooms on horseback, leading a couple of pack animals, had left two hours since, claiming to be bound for Harlond. 

“They could take ship from there,” said Boromir faintly.

“If they are truly headed that way,” said Aragorn grimly and despatched a sergeant and a couple of men to the port with all haste.

 

The Head Groom, when questioned, had little to tell about Doran. He had been in place for a few weeks; a good man with horses, who had done his work quickly and well and had stood his round with the others in the inns but, when it came to it, had given away little about himself, even in his cups. He had been introduced into the household by a minor palace official, who trembled as he recounted how the man had come to him, delivering a horse purchased from a reputable dealer. He seemed good at his job and carried a letter of recommendation from a noble family in Ithilien, but the official’s salary did not stretch to employing stable staff, so Doran had asked whether there were places to be had in the royal stables and the Head Groom had welcomed him, with seeming proofs of his good character from trusted sources. Below his breath, Boromir cursed and resolved to overhaul the means by which the palace got its servants. Aragorn ordered the official to make a full disclosure of all he knew to a captain of the guard, who would then set out to track down the horse dealer.

 

The stable lad, who was sharp-eyed, gave it as his opinion that the man calling himself Doran had known Minas Tirith well at one time. He had once been sent with an urgent message, thought himself unobserved and had used a short-cut through back-alleys. The other ‘thin’ man, Meriel’s assailant, was unknown to him, none was gone from his post and it seemed likely that he had got into the stables unobserved, during the rainstorm. Approving his shrewd judgement, honed on the streets, they sent the stable-lad off on another quest, to find out, without making too much noise about it, where their horses had been stabled and what was known of them there. 

 

When all had been despatched to their tasks, at last the men stood alone again. Arwen had risen, saying that she must needs check on Eldarion and that, a soft hand touched Aragorn’s cheek and was caught up to his lips, she would expect regular reports. As Boromir bent over her hands in tribute, Arwen squeezed his fingers gently.

“He has a stout heart, my lord,” she said firmly, then, smiling at both men. “He is his fathers’ son.”

 

At her going, Boromir looked to his King and saw in that man’s eyes, love and resolve. Many had spoken with Boromir these last few hours of their fond hopes for Arin’s safe return, their sympathies reaching out to this man who raised his child alone and carried such responsibilities to the state on his shoulders as well. None had spared more than a respectful glance for the King, grave and courteous to all, but Boromir could see how it pained Aragorn that he had to hide his heart in this. What he did not understand was Aragorn’s deep sorrow that he could not comfort his lover, who had laboured in pain to give them both a gift beyond price and now had been wrenched from the child of his body…and what of Arin, thought Aragorn? His fathers’ son, the Evenstar had said - his fathers’ son.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Arin stood on the rickety stool and stretched as tall as he could to hook his hands over the sill. He could get half of his fingers onto the cold stone and had taken off his shoes to try to get a purchase with his toes on the rough cast of the wall. His arms ached from the stretch. The sill was too wide for him to get an easy grip on the bars of the window, but if he could hoist himself up a little with his feet… The boy’s toes scrabbled for a foothold on the wall. He pushed himself up, made a grab and then sharp pain lanced through a finger and he fell back, the stool went over and he was on the floor, landing heavily, gasping and crying out, sucking at the fingertip which bled freely. 

 

The door to the little room was wrenched open and Doran’s red, sweating face poked through. “Found the glass, have you? Put in special for you, little master.” He grinned and for a moment the boy thought he would come right into the room. Arin kept very still, and looked down. The door closed again with a bang and Arin heard the heavy bar fall on the other side. The taste and smell of his own blood was making him sick and for a moment his mouth twisted with a knotted pain in his chest that could have brought him to real tears, but he would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry. Adar would not cry. 

 

He scooted over to the wall, which was at least dry and sat with his back against it, slipped a peppermint out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth along-with his finger. That made five sweets he had left. It did not seem a lot and he needed to save them if he was to escape, but at this moment he had decided that he needed something of home. He thought of the box of sweetmeats in his father’s study that he had raided earlier that day. It seemed a very long time ago. He did not think about the stable. There was something dark there that he would not bring into the light.

 

He remembered, with a shiver, feeling as though he would suffocate; the gag in his mouth, wrapped in the cloak, the twine binding his wrists and ankles stinging as it cut into his skin and then upside down, bumping along, the smell of the packhorse’s hide strong in his nostrils. Once clear of the city, in deserted country, they had replaced the balled-up cloth gag with a bandage strip that muffled most of his cries and let him breath more easily. Arin had tried to struggle, but truth-to-tell was too giddy to do much other than give the thin man cause to laugh at his flailing. Doran had said nothing but looked grim.

 

Then they had moved on again, for what seemed like hours. When at last the horses had come to a stop and the bundle was loosed from the pack-harness, his head was uncovered. It was night, and with the sudden rush of cold air to his lungs Arin was too dazed to see clearly. He was carried in through a low door, to a room lit by smoky lamps and the red glow of a turf fire, and set down on the floor. The thin man drew his knife to cut the cords around his wrappings and Arin cried out wordlessly, his eyes wide with fear. Doran elbowed the thin man out of the way, called him a fool and cut the bindings, rubbing his ankles and wrists roughly to set the blood flowing again. Arin whimpered at his touch but crawled closer to the fire-basket, craving its warmth.

 

It was as the heat from the glowing turf seeped into his body that Arin became aware of feet in worn leather slippers, poking out from beneath a rubbed velvet gown. Looking up, his gaze was caught by a pair of red-rimmed eyes in a grey, drawn, face that stared, unblinking, at him. He drew away and turned back to the fire, but a hoarse whisper in his ear and a bony hand that clutched painfully tight on his shoulder, compelled him to turn back to the man, who leant forward in his high-backed chair to peer in his face. His voice creaked like an old door. 

“This is the child?”

“Yes,” answered Doran, shortly. He was pouring himself a mug of ale from a great flagon set by the fire, hesitated and then reached down a horn beaker from a shelf and poured in a little of the liquid and handed it to the boy. Arin gulped at it and held up the empty beaker again to Doran who poured in some more, but laid two warning fingers on Arin’s hand and said “Sip it. You’ll be sick else and there’s no change of shirt here for you.”

The old man shifted restlessly in his seat and leant forward to him again, complaining,

“He does not look like…perhaps…I do not remember…who is your father, boy?” When Arin did not answer quickly enough for his liking, a thin hand shot out and dashed the beaker from his grasp towards the brazier, where the ale hissed and frothed on the hot turves. Arin glanced at Doran, but the younger man was staring into his mug and said nothing. The boy’s voice was raw with exhaustion when he replied quietly,

“My Adar is Lord Boromir, King Elessar’s Steward.”

“Adar! Elvish pap. The old man would never have allowed it. Pah!” and he shrugged himself further into the tattered collar of the gown, settling like a carrion bird, in the half-light.

From the mirk beyond the glow of the fire, the thin man stirred impatiently.

“So when do we send word?”

“We’ll let them stew this night and you’ll take word back tomorrow.” The old man shook a bony finger at the shadowed figure. “You’re sure you have a safe way in to the city! I’ll skin you myself if you are followed back here.”

A cough and a gob of spit flying past Arin’s head to hiss on the fire was the only reply, but the old man took it for affirmation. He leant down to Arin again.

“Can you write, boy?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. You’ll write to the Lord Boromir for us.” He bent down and grasped Arin’s wrist, drawing him, stumbling forward on his knees, to his side. His sour breath scoured Arin’s nostrils and he would have gagged but the old man as quickly flung the boy from him, convulsed in a fit of coughing. 

 

As he wheezed and weakly thumped his chest, Doran picked Arin up under his arms and stood him beside a table on which lay a ragged scrap of parchment, pen, ink and sand. He had written what they dictated: a few words but heavy with import. It was a great sum in gold and although Arin thought Adar probably could get it, he could not imagine what it looked like.

 

When he had done, the old man waved him across and took the letter from him, doubtless to be satisfied that Arin had written it as told.    The thin man came out of the shadows to look over his shoulder. 

“Will they know that for the child’s hand? We should send something as proof that we have him – something to make them think.” The old man mumbled his assent and stared at Arin. 

“Perhaps,” added the thin man, “we should send a finger – a little finger.” When he saw Arin’s eyes grow dark, he added kindly, “oh, not your writing hand, little master. We’ll want that in case your Adar needs more persuasion.” 

With a snort Doran elbowed him aside and caught the boy up in his arms. The old man seemed sunk in a stupor and did not look at him again as Doran carried Arin into a little room, set him down on a cot bed and left him, in the dark.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

They had barely exchanged two words but, when exhaustion forced them to rest, had fed eachother, a simple meal of broth, oatcake and cheese, with gentle determination, then lain skin-to-skin, entwined in eachother’s arms, had, every-so-often clung together, taking more than heat from eachother against the chill. Somewhere in the watches of the night both had slept, but never together. One was always awake and listening to their love’s breathing, offering prayers to the Valar for their child. Boromir’s had been the eyes to see the sun rise, his body cradling Aragorn. As he lifted his head to sniff the morning air, gauge the likelihood of more rain, Rullo, laid on the rug before the burnt-out fire, stirred and looked to his master.  

 

He had not wanted to startle Aragorn in waking, so laid his lips soft against his temples, his eyelids and then his mouth, by which time Aragorn was stretching and turning to plant a kiss on Boromir’s shoulder, looked deep into his eyes and silent pledged his love anew. They rose quietly, made ready for the day with hardly a word and walked from the House of the Stewards before any were abroad on the street to see them pass.

 

Through the morning they received reports, made enquiry in sundry quarters and waited. The sergeant sent to Harlond reported that it was most unlikely the men had taken ship. The canny stablelad had found the spot where they had stabled their horses, a rough shed in an obscure corner of the first level. The nearby tavern had seen a stranger over the last couple of days, a sharp-faced man who’d not endeared himself to the hostess with a tight purse and too free hands. But there was no more to be known of him there. The Captain gone in search of the horse dealer was not yet returned, but a weary messenger who’d ridden through the night from Ithilien, brought Eowyn’s distress and Faramir’s assurance of his best men watching the borders. And they waited, attended to other business, for Gondor would not wait on their personal pleasure.

 

At the noon meal, they had eaten in the dining hall with the household. The mood was subdued and Beregond was missing, but both King and Steward had taken care to speak of other things to as many amongst the company as they might. There was a party from Arnor arrived that morning and come unawares into this palace where an air of gloom almost dripped from the tapestries, who must be welcomed, provided for. 

 

At last, the sun was beginning to set on this longest of days and they were once more in Boromir’s study when a guard brought them a small canvas bag that had been handed in to the main city gate by a child. A strip of cloth tied around the neck bore a label ‘for the Steward.’ The child had it, and a silver penny, from ‘a man.’

 

As the guard left, Aragorn turned it over in his hands. Rullo was on his feet, nosing at the bag and whining. Boromir tried to untie the cloth strip, fumbled it and turned away cursing under his breath, pushing past the dog. With patience Aragorn worked the bindings free and from the bag took a grubby rolled parchment, which he handed, wordlessly, to Boromir.

 

Boromir unfolded the note. “It’s the lad’s hand, I know it,” he said hoarsely. Then he read the note aloud: the demand for gold, the veiled threat. He turned to Aragorn who still clasped the bag.

“What else does it hold?”

“It’s hair.” Boromir snorted and paced the floor stoking his rage.

“They know little of Boromir of Gondor if they think such bully tactics will work, but I swear, Aragorn, I will beggar my ancient house and go in rags if it will bring him back...” And at that Boromir raised drowned eyes to his love’s face and in a moment Aragorn had him clasped to his chest, shaking. Through his pain Boromir was dimly aware that the face that rested against his was wet with tears.

It was standing thus that Arwen found them some minutes later and cried out in alarm, so that they broke apart to reassure her. Boromir showed her the note, saying grimly, “And they’ve sent us a lock of his hair.”

“No,” murmured Aragorn sadly. Boromir turned to him bewildered.

“You said…”

Aragorn plunged his hands into the bag and brought out a mass of dark curls that spilled over so that one or two escaped and floated downwards.

With a choking cry Boromir fell to his knees to gather up the fallen curls and Aragorn knelt with him. As the two men bent their heads together, whispering oaths of love and revenge, the like of which the stones around them had not heard in an age, the great dog lifted his head and howled.

 

tbc

Comments

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Another gripping chapter ! This story is so compelling. I love the relationship of Arwen, Aragorn and Boromir in your AU.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and feeding back. Aragorn has a particularly tricky balancing act between Boromir and Arwen, but I'm fairly happy I've cracked it for the time being.

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

The Bad Men shaved his pretty curls?? Aw, man!

I like Arin wanting to be brave, and not let them see him cry, and doling out his peppermints so carefully.

And Arwen, being practical and, well, queenly. It's a believable friendship, the three of them.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I'm so happy you're enjoying this. The friendship between the three of them has, I hope, started to evolve. I'm glad you feel it works. I think there will always be an element of distance between Arwen and Boromir, both concious of what is due to her both as a queen and as the partner who 'allows' the relationship between Aragorn and Boromir to progress so smoothly, but they share common ground too.

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

Another great chapter of this wonderful story....you make it all seem so real. Poor little Arin.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and for your kind comments. I'm aiming for an element of realism in a fantastic AU, so it's encouraging to know that it's coming across to readers.

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

"As the two men bent their heads together, whispering oaths of love and revenge, the like of which the stones around them had not heard in an age, the great dog lifted his head and howled."

Oh my, I'm getting so involved in this story it hurts! I even had tears in my eyes in a couple of places.

It's wonderful the way everyone's rallying around Boromir, eager to help but not quite knowing how. Aragorn's wise to keep silent but offer almost his soul in support . . .

Your descriptions are wonderful - I could feel the hatred in the room where Arin meets his "captor" and the despair as he realises there's no escape from his cell; and Boromir's sorrow is just palpable.

I'm quite new to this community and still exploring, but I see you mention "Cold Pressing" and "Entwine" which I'd really love to read now I'm hooked into this universe - could you tell me where I could find these? Thanks!

Just such an excellent story!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

So glad that you're enjoying this and many thanks for your kind comments. It's always encouraging to know what strikes the readers as working well for them.

If you click on Rugbytackling - th archive link at the top of this page and then look for my name in Browse Authors you'll find everything.

This AU comes out of Cold Pressing 1 (Pathway 2 was an alternative ending/AU that hasn't been taken forward to date).

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much - I'll go a-searching next week!

Have a good weekend!

[halszka.livejournal.com]

Wonderful chapter!
The end was very heartbreaking,when Boromir gathered up the fallen curls of Arin, when reality of missing son hit him whit all force. Someone touch his son, and keep him in his power.
Oh, I thing that you will give us some more interesting events in next installment. I think that not only gold are the price for Arin freedom? Well I hope we will see. I'm all "emotional" about Boromir, he is my favorite character, and you write about him in most amazing AU I have ever read, so it' s good to read continuation.Thank you so much.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I'm glad that last moment for Boromir worked for you. If it was one curl I don't think it would have hit him so hard. He will be imagining what Arin went through when his hair was cut off and frustrated that he was not there to defend him - and it's such a personal thing. Anyway, I'm not sure quite how it will end yet, but I'll try not to be too long about it.

[rotpunkt.livejournal.com]

I had a lot of catching up to do - many interesting stories were posted while I was away - and I liked to be sucked into that other world again. I'm interested in that Doran character because he seems to be not all bad...

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Nice to have you back and reading and commenting. Really glad this is working for you. Doran's case may turn out to be a hard one for a number of reasons - I'm not sure quite how he'll fare, but I agree that the glimpses of humanity we've seen from him make his 'villainy' more interesting.