Fic: The Foal A/B (4/?) (R)

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Fic: The Foal (4/?)

Author:alex_quine

Pairing: A/B

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

Warning: AU, OFCs

Summary: Aragorn and Boromir plot a rescue and Arin needs a friend.

Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ

Words: 4,019

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.’

 

 

Boromir had banked up the fire before retiring to bed and even at this late hour it glowed red across the width of the hearth, and the night chill had not penetrated the room. He was lying, propped up with pillows, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders. A sheaf of documents lay discarded, scattered across the coverlet, and he had a small leather-bound book to hand. 

 

Aragorn had given it to him on Arin’s last birthday. It was a collection of old poems and tales about fathers and sons from Gondor’s past, copied and bound in good leather. Although Boromir thought his voice too rough and plain for the minstrel’s role, Arin loved to hear him read and Boromir was re-reading to himself one of his bedtime favourites, the knockabout tale of a soldier, his son and an exploding suet pudding. As yet again the sergeant’s goodwife returned from market to find jam on the walls, Boromir chuckled quietly, but his knuckles showed white around the little book. At last he laid it aside, dimmed the oil lamp and settled to sleep. It was slow to come.

 

An angry morning sky had started to throw spears of blood-red light through the edges of the shutters, when creaking and a faint stirring from Rullo, below the foot of the bed, made Boromir awake with a start and cry out.

“Hush, love,” Aragorn’s voice was soothing, his touch as he leaned in to stroke Boromir’s cheek, soft. “I did not mean to wake you. All is well.” As the dog settled again, the long shadow shrugged off its clothes and cleared the forgotten papers from the bed.

 

Boromir had fallen back onto the pillows, letting his breath come in gusty sighs, eyelids closing once again. He felt the coverlet move as Aragorn slipped into the bed beside him. A lean body fitted against his, turned in, filling his angles with warmth and an arm draped possessively across his torso. The head laid on his shoulder breathed soft against his throat, but after a while it seemed that the whispered breath had turned to little puffs blown along the line of his jaw, whilst at his side fingers were walking down the linen nightshirt to grasp the hem and start to burrow underneath.

“And is this how you mean not to wake me?” growled Boromir, trying to sound gruff and sounding on the edge of laughter. Aragorn trailed the fingertips of the wandering hand, up the smooth inside of his thigh, at the same time he leant across to nuzzle into the open neck of the shirt and ground his aching cock against Boromir’s hip. Boromir could feel him, long, hot and hard, through the linen.

 

Boromir groaned as the questing tongue found and laved at the small nub, which tightened and pulled him upward. He wrested one arm free and pressed Aragorn’s head to his breast, even as sharp little teeth nipped, drawing from him a gasp and a hoarse exclamation, “Oh sweet!” Beneath the rucked shirt Aragorn took him full in hand and Boromir arched into his touch, crying out as a calloused thumb circled the head and teased at the slit, smearing his juices around and over the tender flesh.   Then as Boromir thought himself close to lost, with a surge and a gasp, he rolled over on top of Aragorn. Aragorn released his hold and Boromir somehow had both his hands above his head, caught at the wrist. For a long moment the men gazed into one another’s eyes, throbbing cocks pressed between them, and then Aragorn growled deep in his chest.

 

Later, as Boromir poured pitchers of water over his King, naked, kneeling in the tub, Aragorn gasped as the shock of cool water hit him, shaking his head, spraying drops across the bathing room. Boromir bent to fill another pitcher from a stone basin. 

 

They had shaped their plan with the boy’s safety at its heart. Aragorn would take a small patrol out and meet up with the guards left watching the farm. Boromir with no more than two men would follow the route given him to deliver the gold. They must assume that he was being watched from within the city. They would not approach the farm until they were sure they knew where Arin was and could reach him, before any of his captors sought to silence him. The young officer had told of woods, circling the farm buildings that both gave cover for an approach and blocked a clear view. He had left his men on a ridge some distance away.

 

Aragorn arose from the tub and Boromir wrapped him in a large towel. As he tended to his body, Boromir took another cloth and roughly dried his hair, wiping stray drops from his lover’s shoulders, finishing with a gentle kiss to his collarbone. He had asked Aragorn about Eldarion, who reported him quiet and rather clinging to his mother, but Arwen was sure that his usual even temper would soon return and Arwen herself was calmer too. 

 

Boromir had been surprised to receive a visit, the day before, from the Queen. Arwen, usually so serene, had been full of sorrow and doubt, begging Boromir’s forgiveness for not having known of Doran’s ill-intent. She had been faintly troubled when they met, but had not been able to warn of the evil to come. Momentarily lost for words, Boromir had hastened to assure her that Arin’s plight was no doing of hers, but still she grieved and Aragorn had revealed that her distress was in part because she had not sensed, had not heard, Eldarion, so long alone and weeping in the stable. Arwen was sure, he said, that if she had still walked in the light of the Valar, she would have heard him crying and they might have saved Arin, perhaps even Meriel. Both men knew that the girl’s life had been forfeit in a single breath, but Arwen’s grief was real and despite her protests, Aragorn had remained to soothe and reassure her through the watches of the night.

 

Now the men prepared themselves to go out from the city in search of their son. One went publicly, but quietly, riding out through the main gate, with two guards and a string of packhorses, the other like a ghost, on foot, left by a small postern, cloaked and hooded, running for a mile or so until he reached a rocky defile, where a detachment of soldiers who’d quit the city earlier waited for him. A guard dismounted from the King’s horse and held his stirrup. They left the man keeping watch to see if they were followed. The white smoke of a signal fire would let them know he had seen pursuers.  

 

On the road east Boromir and his guards made good time. They would follow this route for an hour before leaving the main road to strike out for the spot where they were to leave the gold. As they went, the King’s Steward saw, displayed at crossroads and at boundary markers, King Elessar’s writ, the red wax seals catching the morning light, and he smiled to himself. The scribes and messengers had been busy through the night and many a village headman had found himself called from his bed by a King’s messenger on a sweating horse, handing him the parchment and a mallet; announcing that he’d see it posted then and there, by the flare of carried torches.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

 

As long as the light held, Arin had examined every brick in the walls of his little room, but it had been well chosen as a place of confinement, sturdy, the walls too smooth to climb and his finger still throbbed where he’d reached for the window sill, only to by caught by the glass shards embedded in the mortar. The door was old but also strong, with big iron hinges; this might have been a storeroom for precious foodstuffs. He’d scuffed his feet across the dirt floor, but no hidden trapdoor revealed itself and digging under the wall was not an option in the time he thought he had. The cot frame was so heavy he struggled to lift it, but might come apart if he worked at it. It was as he was planning how to take it to pieces and then what he might do with several short pieces of wood, that the scraping of the bar lifting sent him back to sitting on the mattress. Doran appeared at the door and held it wide as the maid servant entered carrying his supper on a tray, which she set down on the floor, just raising her eyes to meet his.

 

It seemed to Arin that the girl’s gaze held his for a moment longer than was polite and he lifted his chin and stared back. Then her eyes dipped to the tray again and she backed out, followed by Doran. Arin scrambled across to the food. There was a wooden bowl of porridge, running with honey, a thick oat bannock, cheese and a beaker of ale. There was also a horn spoon for the porridge and as Arin picked it up he realised that the handle had been broken off at the end, leaving a hard, narrow point, sharp as any awl. For a moment Arin stared at it, then he began to eat. He would think what to do with it later, if he were able to keep it hidden, and in the meantime the food was cooling. 

 

He was finishing the last of the bannock and cheese, the precious spoon tucked in the front of his shirt, when the door was unbarred and the maid returned, watched by Doran. It seemed that she was in a hurry, for she bundled up the bowl and beaker on the tray and was half out of the door, when Doran caught her roughly by the shoulder. “Where’s the spoon?” he growled.

The girl looked back at him blankly. “The spoon?”

“Go and get it from him,” and he spun her around and sent her back into the cell with a smart slap on her rump.

The maid tottered towards Arin, balancing the tray in one hand, the other hand on her hip.

“Well, boy, you are giving me trouble,” she said, holding out her hand – and then she winked.

Arin blinked, but he reached slowly into his shirt and brought out the spoon.

“And I should think so too,” she huffed, reaching to take it and momentarily shielding Arin with her body, so that the man stood in the doorway did not see the little knife that slid out of her sleeve into his lap as she snatched the spoon. When she flounced away, Arin was looking crestfallen, gripping his hands on his knees, the precious blade clasped, hidden, between his legs, as Doran chuckled and slammed the door.

 

Arin slumped back against the wall, giddy. He could feel the hard outline of the knife but he sat there, not daring to move, in case Doran returned unexpectedly. Once all had gone quiet from behind the door and his heart had stopped jumping around as though it would leave his chest, Arin retrieved the knife. It had a worn wooden handle and a short blade, perhaps a knife for cutting vegetables. It would not dig him out of his cell but Arin knew it for a precious thing so, using the blade and his fingers, he dug a shallow place for it in the floor close to the wall and smoothed the beaten earth back when he was done. 

 

There was no sign of the maid, in the kitchen or the yard, when Doran took him later to the latrine and then to the trough. As they came back through the kitchen Arin thought he could hear the old man’s croak and the maid’s lighter tones, from another room, but neither were to be seen. Arin waited under the window of his cell, hoping to hear a whispered voice call to him. None came near before nightfall, but still he went to his bed knowing that someone in that place wished him well and moreover, might help him.

 

In the morning, he had not yet ventured out from under his blanket into the grey light, when there was a commotion in the yard, shouts and curses, that moved to the kitchen. There were raised voices, the unsettling sound of a man wailing and then a crash of crockery. Through the hubbub the old man’s voice could be heard calling on someone to “Fetch him!” and before Arin could think to rise from his bed to retrieve the knife, the bar was lifted away and the door flung open. It was the thin man who swooped on him, hauling him up by his collar, choking, and marched him out into the kitchen where the old man was hunched in his chair, his red-faced ‘nephew’ was stood before the fire clenching his fists and at the far wall, the maid was knelt, putting the shards of a bowl into her gathered apron and scraping some mess that had been spilt, from the floor onto a wooden platter.

 

As Arin stood there, the old man raised his eyes to his face and the boy thought they glittered as though with fever. He beckoned to Arin and the thin man thrust him forward to fall on his knees before the old man’s chair.

“I thought you boasted, child,” he said slowly, watching the boy’s face for every flicker of emotion, but Arin was bewildered and gazed at him uncomprehending. “You told me that King Elessar and the Lord Boromir were close, that the Steward trusted him as no other and I did not see the truth of it.”

It was at this moment that Doran burst into the room, breathing hard and thrust a parchment into the old man’s hands. 

“I took it from the market cross,” he said grimly and spat into the fire, narrowly missing the nephew’s hovering figure. The old man looked at it and stilled, then his eyes flicked to Arin’s face and he read aloud the King’s decree. 

The child’s mouth fell open as the words cut into the morning air and as the doom allotted to accomplices unfolded, without thinking he turned to look at the red-faced man who started towards him with a raised fist. Doran stopped him with a blow that sent him reeling back.

The old man looked around and beckoned to the maid. He pressed the parchment into her hands. “Return this to the market cross, girl. If any should ask, say that I had heard the distressing news and wanted to read the King’s decree for myself.” The girl ducked her head and was gone.

The old man leant towards Arin again and one knarled hand stretched out to pet his hair. “He sets your value with that of princes, child. We must see that you are worthy of the honour…schooled well.” As he continued to stroke the hair of the silent child kneeling before him, watching his face with eager eyes, Doran elbowed the nephew to the side, fetched down a mug and poured himself ale. The thin-faced man, was shifting from foot-to-foot.

“Maybe,” he said, “ we should have asked for more?”

“No, no,” replied the old man softly, as Arin shivered beneath his touch, “it was a fit price. You and Doran may take my share. Lord Boromir will reward me in due course.” By the fire, Doran paused in raising his mug, whilst the thin man hissed through his teeth and would have clapped the old man on the shoulder but saw Doran’s face and thought better of it. The nephew, excluded from this largesse and seeing only looming disaster, wailed despairingly.

“Uncle…uncle! There may be soldiers searching for the boy already. They know my connection with Doran. They will come here first. Even if he goes back, he will tell all. What about the lady? He saw it done and who pays for her?”

Arin’s eyes widened and he shook a little, the darkness in the stable was coming out of the shadows and he did not want to see it clearly. 

Beside him, the thin man bared his teeth at the nephew, who remembered that it was still his house and set his jaw at him. 

“Oh, we’ll be long gone, never you fear,” sneered the thin man, “and you can tell the King’s soldiers with a good conscience that you have no idea where.”

“But did you not hear the writ?” protested the nephew. “I will have nothing left, nothing…”

“Hush, hush,” crooned the old man, cupping Arin’s cheek in his hand, “I will take care of you, Solon. I always have.”

His nephew drew breath to spit the words back at him, but a clatter from the doorway announced the return of the maid and the words remained unsaid. The old man told the girl to prepare a good breakfast for the young master and he would eat it in his own chamber, and he motioned to Doran, who held out his hand to Arin.  Arin looked at it warily, then scrambled, unaided, to his feet and walked alone back to his prison, followed by Doran who shut the door and dropped the bar before the child was halfway across the floor to the cot.

 

Sat with his back to the wall, Arin could not stop shivering, even with the blanket draped around his shoulders. When the maid had re-appeared in the doorway, for a moment he’d seen Meriel’s dark curls and merry eyes. There were tears gathering in his throat and he rocked himself back-and-forth on the bed, his distress growing with every moment.

 

By the time the girl entered the cell, carrying a loaded tray, the child had stopped crying, but the tracks of tears were clearly visible on his face and she was made uneasy by the vacant look in his eyes. Doran had gone out and the thin man was on guard, but he had wandered from the doorway back into the kitchen to snatch a slice of bacon from the sizzling pan. Glancing back, she crossed swiftly to the child, laid the tray on the bed and sat beside him. There was too little time to be gentle, so she clasped his cold hands firmly between her own warm ones and whispered, “Boy…boy, you must eat now. You need to be strong to escape. I will try to help you, but you must help me too.”

The child looked at her and she nodded encouragingly. Quickly, she broke off a morsel of honeycomb in her fingers and pressed it into his mouth. The child chewed a couple of times and then swallowed slowly. She smiled a little at him, fed him another piece, then before their jailer might come back, she put the little pot of honey into his hand and sucked at her sticky fingers. The child smiled wanly at her and she patted his knee. Then she glanced back to the door and whispered “Is it safe?” The child’s eyes darted briefly to the other side of the room and he nodded once. “Good. I’ll go out some time to fetch water and I’ll stop outside there,” and she pointed to the little window. “Now eat,” and she was gone, whisking out of the room, calling the thin man back to close and bar the door. 

 

Alone again on the bed, Arin looked at the food and for a moment he wavered, but he put his hand, palm down, on the bed where the girl had been sitting. The blanket was still warm and holding her warmth to him, with his other hand he tipped the honey into the steaming bowl of porridge, picked up the horn spoon, a different one this time, and began to eat slowly and deliberately. After the porridge, there was bacon and a potato cake, thick with onion and herbs and cooked in the bacon fat. He needed both hands to cut the bacon, but shifted over on the bed to her place. A small mug of ale and a sweet roll, studded with raisins, completed his feast. As he drained the mug, Arin wondered whether he should dig up the knife, to have it with him, but he knew that soon someone would return to fetch the tray and he must not be found with it.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

Boromir reined in his horse and surveyed the gully and the dried-out streambed over which the small ruined bridge, its broken span sticking out like a jagged tooth, grinning into the air, hovered uncertainly. Behind him, the guards leading the packhorses, were urging their beasts in and out of the boulders. This place was well chosen. The ground was too rough for rapid movement and there was no proper cover below a belt of scrubby bushes, half way up the sloping sides of the little valley. 

 

Moving as briskly as they could, the men unpacked the wooden boxes from the packsaddles and stacked them in the shadow cast by the broken span. Then they remounted and rode away, not looking back. As they left the narrow defile that marked the end of the valley and came out onto smoother ground, they let their horses canter on until they reached a thick belt of trees, when they wheeled to a stop. Boromir dismounted, looped his reins over a branch, and walked swiftly to the edge of the thicket, keeping out of sight behind a sturdy trunk. Behind him he heard the brush of branches as the guards joined him in scanning the direction from which they’d come and the hills around.

 

The two men he had selected for the detail were well chosen. They had ridden and hunted over this part of the country since childhood. Now he would leave them to watch over the gold. If it took six animals to carry in the ransom, it would take at least as many to retrieve it. The guards would watch. One would trail any who came to take up the gold, whilst the other carried word back. He would be taking a wide loop around the valley, towards the direction of the farmstead in which they believed Arin to be held and he would watch the other path in to the broken bridge.

 

Some hour later Boromir was pushing on, driving his horse along narrow paths, leaning back in the saddle, braced on his stirrups, as they slid down sandy banks, the big bay’s hooves starting small avalanches of earth as he plunged forward, snorting with impatience. Boromir had skirted tracks that came out onto the ridges of hills. He could not be seen on the skyline, but by the same token he could not get a clear view of the country around. They were in a strip of woodland now, copses like islands in a sea of grass, and the bay was starting to labour a little, but they were close to the other end of the valley with the broken bridge and Boromir was startled to suddenly see, ahead of him, weaving through a belt of trees, a lone rider. He brought the bay to a slithering stop and walked him for a few strides, until they could get into deep shade and then he halted. 

 

The rider halted likewise and for a moment Boromir held his breath as the figure turned in his saddle to scan the landscape around him. After a few moments, the rider moved off down the path towards the little valley and Boromir followed long enough to be sure that was where he was headed, before he retreated to a large copse, dismounted and loosened the bay’s girth. This lone rider could only be a scout, gone to check if the ransom had been delivered. He must needs either return this way again, or pass the posted guards…and when he did, Boromir would be waiting.  

 

tbc

 

 

 

 

Comments

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

Poor brave little Arin...but at least he appears to be getting well fed. Wonderful story...can't wait to read more

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I was determined he would be fed properly at least. Glad that you're enjoying it and I'll try not to be too long about the next bit.

[rotpunkt.livejournal.com]

Nice to see that Arin has found a girl-friend... I enjoy to see Aragorn and Boromir in action again, as warriors and lovers.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

It's good to be able to get Aragorn out of the audience chamber into the fresh air and I'd decided that with so many strong male figures around him Arin was in danger of dismissing the abilities of women too readily...Meriel would have done the same if she could.

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Another lovely chapter. So poignant that Arwen feels that had she still been a full elf, she would have been able to avert the tragedy.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

So glad that you're enjoying it. Thankyou for feeding back. I felt that there would be some times when Arwen might, if not exactly regret her changed status, at least have to come to terms with her new form.

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

Boromir has so many roles to play - not only as the carrier of Arin's ransome, but in the role of carer, lover and being loved - he allows Aragorn to 'waken' him, then gently bathes Aragorn in return and offers the soothing comfort that Arwen needs.

Fortune smiles a little on Arin - at least in the food department! He's showing a great maturity in his thinking and, hopefully, has an accomplice now, too.

The descriptions of the countryside, people and surroundings were as excellent as ever.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I like to keep Boromir busy. Not only is he capable but it stops him brooding too much about things. Arin's doing his best - and I drew the line at starving him, although he is not so well fed before they realise the extent to which the King values him. Makes you wonder how well fed Boromir and Faramir were as children under the steward's care. (The Victorians had a thing about keeping naughty children on a low protein diet to discourage bad behaviour - basically too exhausted to cause trouble.)

Glad that this is working for you and many thanks for feeding back.