Fic: The Foal A/B (3/?) PG
Aug. 31st, 2006 09:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleFic: The Foal (3/?)
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, PG)
Warning: AU, OFCs
Summary: Boromir recognises an old evil and Arin comes to a decision.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Words: 2,604
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.’
He was cold by morning, despite the blanket that Doran had tossed to him as he’d locked Arin in the night before. His arms were wrapped tight around him, dragging the rough wool as close to his body as he could manage. He had lain down on the cot with its straw-filled mattress with all his clothes on, even his shoes, but still he felt cold. It got better if he ducked his newly shorn head under the edge of the cover, but he didn’t like putting the material over his face. It was hard to breath and a little frightening.
Arin rubbed his fingers together and brought his hands out from beneath the blanket for a moment to cup his hands over his ears. The short uneven tufts of hair around the tips felt odd. When Doran had fetched him from his room for a moment Arin thought that they might try to take a finger off and he’d clenched his hands behind his back, but they had only cut his hair. He had stood as still as he could whilst Doran took a knife to his head. The thin man had stood behind Doran and made faces, trying to make him wince into the blade, until Doran sent him away, grumbling, to see to the horses.
The old man in the chair had looked at him unblinking and whilst Doran gathered the hair and stuffed it into a small bag, he took an apple from a dish at his elbow and beckoned Arin forward. The boy didn’t want to go closer to the old man, but he was hungry. As Arin reached for the apple, the old man grasped his wrist.
“Who was your mother?”
He could not have been asked a more unexpected question and gaped at his interrogator.
“Her name, boy.”
Arin winced as the grip tightened around the cuts made by the twine that had bound him.
“I do not know. Adar does not speak of my mother.”
“Adar! Call him by his title. You show no respect child.”
There was spittle flecked around the old man’s mouth and his wrinkled neck and cheeks were flushing darkly. Arin set his jaw.
“My father, Lord Boromir, the King’s Steward, is content to be my Adar and I obey him.”
Behind him, Doran gave a short bark of laughter.
The old man released his wrist and pointed to a small stool. When Arin sat down, Doran laid a plate with a slice of buttered bread and a hunk of cheese beside him on the floor and reached down the horn beaker, which he filled with ale again.
Arin took a mouthful of the bread and chewed hurriedly. Beside him the seated figure was slumped on the arm of the chair, whilst his hand trembled as he held out a mug for Doran to fill. Once the vessel was brimming, he shook so that the liquid spilt down the sides and splashed on the floor. Doran leant forward to guide the old man’s knarled hand down, who finally clasped the mug in both hands and drank deeply.
Arin gulped at his ale and took alternate bites of the apple and the hard cheese.
“Eat slowly, child,” the old man was muttering into his mug, “he hasn’t called for you yet.” Then he looked again at Arin.
“Your grandfather will have you taught some manners.”
Arin’s jaws stilled. Then he swallowed and said quietly.
“Did you know my grandfather?” But it was as though the old man had not heard the small voice.
“You are not fit for the Steward’s House, a rough, unkempt thing,” his gaze fell on the boy, “and dark. Where is the red-gold of the Stewards? Where is our shining one? The mother must have been dark, but not a lady, we would have known of her – a serving wench or one of his whores – and he dare not name her - not worthy, my lord.”
The old man had not looked to him again and Arin had sat as still as possible. When he was done eating, Doran had taken him out into the darkened yard, a firm hand gripped on his collar, so that the boy might not run, and to a small and stinking latrine and thence to the trough to wash his hands and face. Then he had marched Arin back to his little room, thrown the blanket at him and closed the door.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
Although the hour was late, the King had drawn his councillors around him, and summoned scribes to prepare copies of his words to go to all parts of Gondor, as far as the borders of Rohan, to be cried in every marketplace, posted at every crossroads, stamped with the King’s seal. With a grave countenance and a tone that brooked no argument, Elessar made plain his decree.
Threats had been made to the safety of the Prince Eldarion and to other children of the household. If any harm should come to a child the lives of the perpetrators were forfeit. If any could guide the King’s men to those responsible they would be well rewarded. If any were found to have harboured them, they would be banished to the third generation, their livestock confiscated, their dwellings cast down, no one stone to remain upon another and their fields sown with salt.
A shocked silence greeted their King’s words. This was Elessar more ruthless than any had seen him in time of peace, but the scribes scurried away, notes in hand, to begin their work and the Captain of the guard, tasked with despatching riders across Gondor followed, calculating where he might obtain additional mounts to enable the writ to be carried as widely and as swiftly as possible.
Aragorn left the chamber, his Steward at his shoulder, with a certain grim satisfaction. The case of the murdered lady was in hand, but he was framing what had happened to Arin within the wider potential threat to the royal family and their dependents. Arin was not named, but those holding him and those who knew them, would not mistake the message. The wrath of the King was upon them.
In the corridor before the Steward’s study, they found the soldier sent in search of the horse dealer who had employed Doran, stood, beating his gloves against his leg and waiting impatiently to deliver his report. In a few succinct words, he told how he had tracked down the horse dealer through the bill of sale to a hamlet some half-day’s ride to the east, and of his suspicions of the man, who seemed ill-at-ease. Boromir ushered them into his study and they went over the officer’s tale at more length.
“Many are made uneasy by a visit from soldiers,” cautioned Aragorn, keen to ensure that they did conjure up the answers they sought out of fear for Arin’s safety.
“True, Sire,” replied the young man, “but our horsemaster was content with his tale, that Doran had come to him with papers from Ithilien but found the place too quiet after a city to stay, until I let him know of the lady’s murder. An honest man would have been curious, perhaps shaken his head at the waste of a life, but this man’s hand shook on my bridle rein and he could not wait to see me off the place.” The officer snorted in disgust. “I left a couple of good men watching from a distance.”
Boromir had been listening to the exchange, all the while turning the ransom note over in his hands. The men turned to the map spread out on the desk before them. “We’ll see that a copy of the King’s writ is posted along this road first,” he said, indicating the path the young man had travelled, gesturing with the scrap of parchment. As he brought it back to rest it against his chin, he stilled, then bent to sniff at the skin, turning it over, sniffed again and then lifted it to Aragorn’s nose, who ran his top lip along the parchment delicately.
“Hoof oil,” Aragorn said.
“It’s a common enough thing,” Boromir added, “but this business keeps returning to horses. Who is your dealer?” he asked, turning to the young officer.
“His name is Solon. He’s been trading in beasts from this hamlet since after the war. The family were thought to have come down in the world. The old man, his grand-uncle, Parsolon, was once a powerful man they say, but country folk account a miller a man of property.” Suddenly, the guard realised how his words might sting and glanced nervously at Boromir, but he was intent with the map and Aragorn gestured to him to go on. “Solon is considered honest as horse dealers go. Building himself a fair way of business.”
“Let us hope he wishes to keep it,” said Aragorn dryly. He was conscious that now Boromir had fallen silent.
With warm praise for his work, which Boromir echoed with a terse nod, Aragorn sent the young man away to check on the progress of the scribes and to find himself a meal and a bed.
Patiently, Aragorn waited for Boromir’s fingers to stop tracing roads and estate boundaries on the map. At last, he straightened up and faced Aragorn with both anger and a measure of fear on his face.
“I know the old man, the head of the family,” he said, bleakly, “and his fortunes have indeed fallen of late. He was a man of too much power in my father’s day. He was the Steward’s steward and I refused him his place on my return.” Aragorn reached for Boromir’s hand and felt the fingers chill.
“Did he protest your decision?”
“Oh, he was all for the dignity of the family, would not gainsay me to my face. He said he could teach me much. I said I would have a new man, a younger man, for a time of peace. Aragorn, I paid well to be rid of him, pensioned him off like an old nag and heard no more, but I remember his reign in the household and such a man might think naught of the gold but crave the power like a drug. Once, he took a whip to Faramir as a child and our father did not say him nay…and now he has Arin under his hand.”
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
Arin heard the raised voices from behind the barred door as he was finishing the bowl of stew Doran had handed in to him. He thought that noon had passed some hours since, but could not be sure. He had considered refusing to eat but decided that to go hungry would achieve nothing except making escape more difficult if a chance came and the stew was a good one, little meat but thick with carrots and barley. It reminded him of Nan’s cooking and for a moment the child’s throat tightened painfully at the memory, but the sound of angry words within the kitchen distracted him. He went to the door and pressed his ear to the jamb.
He could hear snatches of an argument, two or three different voices. The old man’s croak had risen to a screech, railing at someone for their stupidity, something about ‘the woman’ and ‘raising the stakes’, and a voice he did not recognise, a man, was begging, pleading with them to go, to ‘take the boy to the old house or let him go.’
The old man had turned on him then as ‘a common trader whose father would have shuddered to see…’ and at this, the loud scraping of the bar by his ear saw Arin scurry back to the cot. He had just picked up the bowl again and was running a finger around the bottom for the last of the gravy, when the door opened and a maidservant, wiping her hands nervously on her apron, sidled in to take the bowl from the child’s outstretched hands.
She had left the door ajar and Arin could see framed in the doorway, the old man on his feet, thrusting a bony finger into the chest of a red-faced man, who protested with “Uncle! I beg you!” whilst the thin man was glowering from a corner, pressing a clout to a bleeding nose and Doran leant, silent, against the mantle, a mug in hand. It was Doran who saw him watching, said something to the room and the red-faced man threw an arm up to shield his face from the boy’s view and scurried away.
The old man’s unblinking gaze fell on Arin and he beckoned to the boy. Arin moved slowly forward. It felt as though his legs no longer obeyed him, for he would have rather run or hid, but the gesturing hand seemed like it reeled in a fish, caught on a line. Finally, he stood before the old man, who had seated himself again in his chair and looked at him with pursed lips. The thin mouth twitched and he spoke.
“I expect to hear from Lord Boromir soon. He will know what is due to his worthy father’s prop and shield. Suitable arrangements will doubtless be made and if I consider you fit for the Steward’s House, you will be permitted to return…”
Arin could not hold his tongue and broke in, crying, “You had me write that the gold would see me home.”
“Silence!”
The hissing voice choked any further words in the boy’s throat.
“By these outbursts you merely show yourself in need of discipline. The King’s Steward is a great man with weighty matters in his keeping. He cannot spare the time to teach manners to ill-schooled whelps. This should be for your tutors and for those in whom the Steward places his greatest confidence. And who would that be, boy?”
“King Elessar,” Arin said simply.
The old man drew his breath in sharply and was seized by a coughing fit. In the moments that followed, Arin saw Doran, from out the corner of his eye, take another leisurely drink. Then, as the old man clutched at his chair and drew breath to lash out at the boy again, Doran set the mug down with a thump, strode forward and swept Arin up under his arms, carried him bodily into his cell again, dropped him on the cot and left, barring the door.
Murmuring came from the other room for a few minutes and then Arin lay down on the cot and tugged the blanket over himself. He thought about Adar and about Rullo and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out another of the precious peppermints. It was dusty and a little squashed but he slipped it into his mouth and let the sweetness and the clean smell fill his nose and mouth.
Arin thought about the men in the next room. The thin man enjoyed hurting people and Arin thought him cunning, but just a foot-soldier. The old man should be a leader, but Arin sensed his wavering grip on the world. Sometimes, the old man seemed to imagine that his grandfather was still alive. Arin could not see where Doran’s place lay in the company. He decided that Doran was a mercenary there for the gold, and despite his occasional kindnesses Arin thought that Doran cared for him out of self-interest. The red-faced man was too frightened probably to be of help and the maid did not count. He had to escape somehow. It was too dangerous to wait and see if he would be set free.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-30 09:25 pm (UTC)The old man seems to have had no idea that the new Steward's relationship with his son is entirely different from the way Denethor treated his sons - especially young Faramir, alas. Love that moment when Arin mentions King Elessar as the Steward's best confidant. Heh. Whole new ball game, ain't it. *rubbing hands together eagerly*
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Date: 2006-08-31 09:08 am (UTC)It is a whole new ball game, but the Stewards were in charge for so long, that it's not surprising that some, who have lost under the new regime, should mourn the old ways - and Denethor doubtless drew to him and favoured those who shared elements of his way of thinking.
Just as Aragorn said he was re-shaping the Steward's role for a new age, I've found that Boromir is continually remembering how he and Faramir were brought up and frequently deciding to make changes.
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Date: 2006-08-30 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 09:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 12:50 am (UTC)Arin's a bright lad, isn't he? He'll do his fathers proud... and ruthless!Aragorn is wonderful... though a bit scary! *grin*
This is such a wonderful story--I can't wait for more!
~Kris
no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 09:13 am (UTC)I was going to have ruthless!Aragorn threaten to slaughter all confiscated livestock, but I felt it might be a step too far for readers - and then we'd have had to go through all the kerfuffle of Arin intervening, etc.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 11:36 am (UTC)If any were found to have harboured them, they would be banished to the third generation, their livestock confiscated, their dwellings cast down, no one stone to remain upon another and their fields sown with salt.
As near to a curse as makes no difference, and makes it utterly clear what will happen to the villains when the King catches up with them.
And yet again you let us know in the most subtle and natural of ways what has made the characters in the story the way they are. The part where Boromir slowly remembers the old steward he pensioned off, and for a moment you make us think that Boro feels guilty for what he did, and then you tell us
"Once, he took a whip to Faramir as a child and our father did not say him nay…and now he has Arin under his hand."
Cold shiver up the spine time - in a couple of sentences you tell us more about what it was like for Boromir and Faramir growing up than other writers manage in several thousand words. And I'm so glad that someone's at last thought about what would happened to those in power in Minas Tirith of old who could not reconcile themselves to the return of the king.
Thanks so much for this story, another one where I'm torn between wanting to find out what happens and not wanting the story to end.
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Date: 2006-08-31 02:45 pm (UTC)I wouldn't swear that there isn't something biblical about Aragorn's curse, although it may be more in the cadences rather than in anything definite. I think I heard that the Romans would sow an enemy's fields with salt as a punishment and to discourage return to the disputed lands, but whatever, it's says a lot that you'd lay waste to good soil rather than see it worked again. Even after the exiles returned they would have nothing but a barren waste to return to.
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Date: 2006-08-31 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-03 02:15 pm (UTC)He's a canny lad and obviously able to consider and reason. It seems he's been well taught!
Boromir's and Aragron's distress and sheer frustration at the lack of proper information was so well drawn. As were the details of Arin's "jail house" - you can feel the darkness and primitive nature of it all, being strange to a lad raised in Gondor.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-03 03:49 pm (UTC)At this point in his life, Arin's been in Gondor about 18 months, his life as told in 'Cold Pressing' was a curiously roving one, but he's never come into contact with these sorts of people before. I think he wants his father to be proud of him (at this point he doesn't know of Aragorn's connection) so he'll do his best and he has good instincts.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-03 04:58 pm (UTC)"good instincts" sounds promising . . .