Fic: The Foal A/B (6/6) PG-13

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Fic: The Foal (6/6)

Author:alex_quine

Pairing: A/B

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

Warning: AU, OFCs

Summary: Aragorn and Boromir spring their trap and Arin receives news of a ghost

Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ

Words: 5,575

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.’ Some themes here are carried forward into that tale.

 

Up on the hillside, Aragorn and Boromir watched the nephew’s dash across the yard and some minutes later his rapid departure, on a good horse, in the opposite direction from that taken by Arin and his captors. Boromir turned to the young captain. 

“Send a couple of your men to retrieve our hasty friend and mind that they bring him back in one piece…I would have words with him.” They watched for some minutes more. The holding looked deserted. Aragorn sought Boromir’s gaze and silently jerked his head towards the farmstead. Boromir nodded and the men began to move out, reconnoitring to see how many of the conspirators might be left there.

 

Whilst the officer and some of his men circled off to the east, to approach the farmhouse from the hamlet, Aragorn and Boromir slid quietly through the tree cover further west, coming upon the back of a range of outbuildings fringed by thick woodland. Several times Boromir lost sight of Aragorn as he drifted, soft-footed and shadowy in the long Ranger cloak, amongst the tree trunks. Boromir felt stiff and clumsy and more than once he silent cursed the life that led him to spend so much time indoors, where he felt he was letting his old skills slip from his body; however, as they moved along the back of the stable block, closer to the house, it was Boromir whose sharp ears heard a woman’s voice coming from behind a shuttered window.

 

They had come across no sentries posted, no dog had barked at their approach. The farm buildings provided ample opportunity for a well-placed bowman to keep intruders at bay, but none had been encountered and so the men soon found themselves pressed against the farmhouse wall by an open doorway. Both had drawn swords and Aragorn carried a throwing knife at the ready, but as they slid quietly into what appeared to be the farm kitchen there was no-one to be seen. 

 

They were moving further into the room, when hurried footsteps behind them and then a gasp and a crash of crockery brought them spinning around to see a white-faced maid, a broken basin spilling water across the floor at her feet, clutching at the edge of a curtain to hold herself upright. Swiftly Boromir held a finger up to his lips and the girl nodded. From the room behind her, there was a faint moaning, but as the moments passed in silence and none other came to investigate the sound, the men looked at eachother and nodded and breathed a little easier.

 

Behind them, the girl cleared her throat, “They’ve all gone, my lords. There is only me and an old man, a dying man, in that room. The men are gone. They took the boy with them.” A whistle from the front of the house brought an answering one from Boromir and the sound of splintering wood and voices announced the arrival of the officer and his men, who confirmed that they’d met with no-one in the house. To be sure of their position, Boromir sent the officer off with his men to do a complete sweep, from cellar to attics of the farmhouse and every outbuilding, shed and stableblock on the property. 

 

As Boromir talked through the posting of sentries, Aragorn walked past the girl and into the room where the old man lay. He was not gone for long and as he returned he clasped the girl by the arm, drew her with him back into the kitchen and sat her down on a stool before the hearth. The fire had died down. Aragorn took logs from a basket and added them to the brazier. He picked up a poker, lying on the floor, to rake away some of the ash and saw a shiver run through the girl’s frame, but her voice came to him quiet but firm. “Are you the boy’s father, my lord?” The dark man hesitated momentarily, but indicated the fair-haired lord with the scarred face, just now sending the young soldier on his way. “There is the King’s Steward, girl,” and as she rose from her seat, the fair man, peeling off his gauntlets to toss them on the table, responded with the dry rejoinder, “And there is the King.”  

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

After so long cooped up in the little room Arin would have relished being outside and on a horse, except that perched in front of Doran’s saddle he felt as though he would fall at any moment. The men were not pushing the beasts so hard as to tire them before they had even loaded the gold, which would be heavy, but they were moving briskly and the child’s hands were beginning to bleed, so tightly had he wound them in the coarse mane to help him stay on.

 

He wondered what it would be like to fall. He had taken plenty of tumbles from his pony, but this was a lot further to the ground and they were moving faster. Behind them, the thin man started to sing a tavern song. Doran shut him up with a coarse oath, telling him that they need not invite trouble. The party were moving through a valley of short grasses, dotted with clumps of trees. Arin tried to snatch the odd glance to see if he might spot pursuers. If he fell, deliberately threw himself from the horse, would he be able to reach a clump of trees and hide before Doran rode him down?

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

The white-faced girl had begun to curtsey before Aragorn, but looked so shaken that he and Boromir had caught her as she sank down and placed her back onto the stool. Boromir glanced around, took up a horn beaker from the table, sluiced it out and refilled it from a jug of ale. Then he handed it to her, clasping both of her hands around the vessel, saying, “Here, drink it slowly.” 

 

As she sipped at the ale, the men filled mugs for themselves. Boromir asked Aragorn how he had found the old man. “He’s sinking,” replied Aragorn. “He has a few hours perhaps, clinging to this world by will alone. Another and a younger man might already be dead.”

“Can he speak?”

“He tries even now.”

Aragorn hesitated, seeing the determination in Boromir’s face. “He may be able to answer you, Boromir, or he may not know who questions him.” 

Boromir turned to the maid who was listening to their conversation, her composure returned.

“What is your name, girl?”

“I am called Rowan, my lord.”

Boromir drew up a stool and sat facing her. She could see clearly the tension in the tired face, the determination in the lines around what should have been kind eyes. 

“Well, Rowan,” said the Steward, “and what can you tell us of this business?”

 

She had told them all that she knew, which was little enough. The nephew had been considered a hindrance at best and his servant merely a source of food, a good fire and a clean shirt. Rowan tried to remember any snatches of conversation she might have overheard, whether she understood them or not, and she described what she had seen. 

 

When she came to relate their dealings with Arin, her hands twisted in her apron, seeing the pain and the anger in Boromir’s eyes. King Elessar sat as though carved from stone and his face was grave. As Rowan gave her account of the attack on Parsolon, gesturing with her hands, trying to describe the sudden appearance of the hidden blade, the lines around the Steward’s mouth thinned and the King leant forward to place a hand on the fair man’s shoulder, saying, “He needs Arin whole, remember that.”

The fair lord nodded but there was a catch in his voice when he answered, “He is only a child…”

“The boy has a knife too, sir,” put in Rowan, and when they stared at her, she began to explain their plan for escape but stumbled in the telling, her voice trailing away as she realised that if it were found now, or worse, if Arin tried to use it as a weapon, the results could be dire. 

“Arin is a cautious soul, Boromir. He will not risk angering Doran after what happened to the old man.” Aragorn’s grip on Boromir’s shoulder was insistent and eventually, the man turned to him, to meet his gaze and take comfort from it.

The girl’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “He did not see it…see the dagger. I do not think he knows what Doran did.”

Boromir groaned and his head bowed.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Arin had tired, clinging to the moving horse, very quickly and Doran was finally forced to tuck his rein arm around him, else the child would have fallen. The boy was painfully aware that Doran’s arm now all but rested on the knife in his waistband, but his legs and his sides ached too much for him to care greatly. At last the string had slowed to a walk as they’d started down a narrow track between tall trees and once they came out onto rock-strewn slopes Doran had let go of him again to better guide his mount and the pack-animals following on. 

 

Up ahead, Arin could see a small ruined bridge and as they came up on it, Doran swung his riding horse aside and some twenty yards or so up the hillside he dismounted, hitched the horse to a boulder and lifted Arin down. Then he took the lead-rein end of the twine around his wrists and anchored it around another heavy rock, giving it an experimental tug to make sure that it would not come loose. He grinned at Arin.

“Now you stay there quiet, little master, whilst we do all the heavy work. Have you got any more of those sweets?” Doran leant in to search around in Arin’s pockets and the child held his breath, sure that at any moment he would find the knife, but Doran simply fished out the remaining dusty peppermints, popped one into Arin’s mouth, saying, “They’ve got a sweet smell,” and one into his own mouth, pocketing the rest. Then he strode off down the slope towards where the thin man was tethering the packhorses in a line.

 

It was none too warm on the slope, sitting on damp ground in his shirtsleeves, so Arin found himself a sheltered place in the lee of a large rock, from where he could see below him the men at work. They were bringing out boxes from a pile under the bridge, opening each to check on the contents and then closing them up again and hoisting them up onto the pack animals. The boxes were clearly very heavy and it would be slow work.

 

Once he was sure that Doran was busy below, Arin looked more carefully at the bindings on his wrists. In leaving him enough slack to help him ride, Doran had also left him enough to manoeuvre the knife if he was careful, but Arin was still undecided about what to do. The girl’s old plan had been simple: get free, run, hide and later he could go to someone in the hamlet for help. Now he had no idea where he was and help could be a long way away. If he left on foot they would ride him down easily. As the men worked on, Arin swithered, between trying to escape there and going back with them to the farmstead and to his only ally. 

 

It was as he settled on freeing himself there, but trying to hide it from Doran and returning to the farm, that he glanced down the hillside and realised with a stab of panic that more than half of the packhorses had boxes affixed to their pack-harness. The boy scrabbled for his little knife and then forced himself to still his trembling hands before he worked the blade around in his fingers until he could wedge it, blade up, between his knees. Glancing now-and-then to check on the men below, Arin inserted the tip of the blade through a single loop and began to saw his hands back and forth. It was not a very sharp knife, but the twine parted easily and Arin worked his hands free, trying to keep as much of the old binding intact as he could, until he had two connected loops of twine laid in his lap. 

 

Arin put the little knife back into its hiding-place at his waist. Adar had taught him a quick-release knot. If he could tie the cut ends like that, get his hands back into the bindings and hide the knot, he could release his hands whenever he wanted. Down in the valley the men were working on the last couple of boxes. They were laughing, planning how to spend their new wealth, fragments of conversation floated up to the anxious child. The knot came easily enough, but he had to pull the loops tighter to tie it and when he tried to put his hands back into the bindings they were too small. The men were starting to gather up the packhorses in readiness for moving off again. Arin pursed his fingers together and pushed one hand through, but now the other was much harder to do and Doran had started up the hillside towards him. Frantic, he laid his hand in its twine bindings against a rock and pushed with all his weight. The pain shot through his fingers as the skin scraped off on twine and rock alike and then he was in! With a few strides to spare he gripped the knot to hide it and when Doran appeared he was scrubbing the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. 

“I’m cold,” he whined and hunched up against the rock, as Doran unhitched his leash from the boulder. The man looked at the child, shrugged and then picked him up and set him on the back of the horse.

 

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Boromir would have had few qualms about pressing the captured Solon hard for his information, but in the event no additional persuasion was needed. The man had been dragged in weeping and protesting his, comparative, innocence in the matter, and had thrown himself at Aragorn’s feet, begging for mercy. A couple of minutes listening to his whining had sickened Boromir, who rose and left Elessar to make what he could of the man’s babbling, whilst he went to stand at the old man’s bedside.

 

Rowan was seated on a stool beside the still figure, ready with a cool cloth for his brow or a sip of water if he should stir, but the man barely moved beyond the grating sound of shallow breaths as Parsolon fought, stubbornly, for each moment of life. Boromir remembered the vigorous figure of his childhood. The energy, the iron will he had harnessed to his rule of the household had drawn every finer feeling, every gentle emotion, from his being. Even his attachment to the family was bound up with his own craving for position and power over others. Now he was a husk, dry as withered leaves, as though a breeze could carry him away. 

 

Boromir wished, for a moment, that his brother, the gentle soul who’d suffered most at Parsolon’s hands, was able to see his persecutor now, laid low – and as rapidly he rejected the idea. Faramir was the pattern of true nobility, more like Aragorn than his flawed older brother, and he would reject such a mean victory over a dying man.

 

Just then Parsolon’s breathing changed a little, juddered, and the girl rose from her stool, to squeeze a few drops of moisture onto withered lips. The hooded lids opened slowly. Boromir was motionless at the bedside as the rheumy eyes lighted on him. Where once they had glittered, now they were clouding, but after a few moments the man knew him. The crabbed fingers laid on his chest twitched and as though drawn, Boromir leant over the bed, smelling the sweet and sick odour of decay already upon the man. Parsolon’s lips moved and Boromir leant closer.

“A rough boy, my lord – unschooled.”

Boromir jerked upright as though struck. At that moment, Rowan went quietly from the room, passing Aragorn in the doorway, who came to stand beside him, looking at the old man, whose head had fallen a little to the side. 

 

Seeing Boromir wracked by guilt and anger, Aragorn wrapped his arms around him, turning him away from the silent figure. Gently, he enfolded Boromir in his arms, holding him close and still for a moment, letting Boromir’s breathing slow, before he leant back to look in his face. Aragorn tightened his hold and Boromir looked into his King’s eyes as though he would find the balm to every hurt there. He reached out and smoothed Aragorn’s hair, cradled his cheek, with a loving hand. Aragorn leant in and kissed his lips, then his forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and finished by returning to his mouth, more insistent now, and the dying man lay forgotten in the bed.

 

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The road homeward seemed longer. The horses did not move so fast and Doran, who fretted now, short-tempered, was so busy chivvying along the pack-animals or scanning the horizon for possible pursuers, that Arin found it easy to slump forward a little and sink his bound hands into the horse’s mane, hiding the precious knot from sight. He had not decided exactly how he meant to escape but surely there would come a time?

 

The light was beginning to fade, making the shadows along the track close in on them. Then, up ahead, Arin could see the clump of willows that marked the turning into the holding and his chest tightened, so that it became hard to breathe. As the string trailed into the yard, Doran shouted for Solon to come out. Behind them, the thin man laughed derisively and told Doran they should have hidden the coin from him, that the worm would be half way to Khand by now. In a cluster of horses, Doran had dismounted and was reaching to lift Arin down when the maid came out from the house. She walked towards them, wiping her hands on her apron. “He’s drunk,” she said, meeting Doran’s eye. “His uncle’s death frightened him.” Arin stood, gaping at her and Doran, cursing, hustled him forward, his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

 

“You’ll pack us food, girl,” Doran said shortly, ducking under the packhorses’ necks to tether each along the fence-rail. He had Arin on a short leash, stumbling alongside him, stiff from his hours of riding. 

 

Doran was securing the last of the beasts when Arin saw the girl’s face clearly. Her eyes were speaking to him, wide, urging him on to action in some way, but he did not dare…Arin’s eyes never left hers, but his fingers pulled urgently at the knot, which came undone with a jerk. 

 

Doran had turned back towards where the thin man was still busy with harness. He dragged Arin away from the farmhouse and the boy trotted alongside him, but all the while Arin was holding his hands close to his body, working the bindings loose.

 

The maid had followed a few steps behind them, as they squeezed between a couple of tethered horses, her arms folded tightly across her body. Doran turned on her angrily.

“Are you still here?”

“I think she’d like to go with you, Doran,” smirked the thin man.

The girl set her jaw and would not be ignored.

“Will you go tonight? It will be dark in an hour.”

“I want to be long gone from here before first light. Now get to your task, girl.”

The girl came on, her chin high.

“But what should I pack for you? Will you cook? Do you want meal? Oil? Solon did not believe in keeping much in store. I can find you some bacon, a small cheese perhaps, but there is no bread baked. If you would wait until the morning I could do bannocks…”

Behind him, the thin man was sniggering.

Suddenly Doran turned on her with a roar of frustration, his fist shot out to strike her and she leapt back, shrieking “Run, Arin!”

 

Arin had one hand free and plunged away in the only direction open to him, under the horse’s belly. He pulled on the twine leash with all his strength and it caught on the animal’s legs, sending the horse swinging towards Doran, who snarled and made a lunge for him. Then someone grabbed him from behind and a blade flashed before his eyes, making him cry out in fright, but the twine was cut and strong arms clasped him close as he was rolled on the dirt, smothered in black cloth, amidst shouts and cursing and the flaring of many torches.

 

Arin was shaking and fighting the dark material enveloping him, crying “Adar! Adar!” but a gentle hand drew the cloak from over his head and he looked into the King’s eyes, who said, “Hush, Arin. It’s all over…all is well,” and stroked his shorn head. Then his Adar came running from somewhere and reached for him, held him so close and Arin wrapped his arms around Boromir’s neck and sobbed into his hair, because it was too much for one small boy. Aragorn picked himself up from the ground, sheathed the little knife in his belt and looked at the child in his father’s arms, at the unconditional devotion to another in his lover’s eyes. He would have walked away, but Boromir called him to them and in the gathering gloom, wrapped the arm that did not hold Arin on his hip, under Aragorn’s cloak and around his waist, clasping him to them, whilst Aragorn murmured soothing words to the boy, healing his bruised soul with tenderness.

 

As Boromir began to walk slowly towards the house with Arin still wrapped around him, Aragorn turned to survey the scene. At the girl’s signal, soldiers had swarmed from the stables, easily overpowering the men, who did not go quietly, screaming defiance, aware of their fate, so that their foul curses hung in the air as they were taken away, until the young captain threatened to gag them. Rowan was sat on the lower rail of the paddock fence, watching a patrol set out with its prisoners, her former employer amongst them, a sagging figure, set to travel through the night to the nearest tower keep with cells, since the King wanted the men away from the farm and from the boy as soon as possible. Some were lifting the boxes of gold coin from the pack animals in preparation for storing them under guard for the night, whilst others would tend to the beasts.

 

Aragorn walked over to the girl, who scrambled to her feet at his approach. The King laid his hand to his breast and bowed his head to her in salute and Rowan dipped a curtsey and smiled, a little uncertainly. 

“There will be a house full to feed this evening,” said Aragorn, smiling. “Do you think there is food enough, or shall I send someone foraging in the village?”

“Oh, we’ll do well enough, Sire,” she answered, straightening her apron with capable hands. “Although it may not be what you are used to.”

 

As they entered into the kitchen, Boromir was sitting before the fire, with Arin in his lap, the pair murmuring together. Arin did not lift his head from Boromir’s shoulder, but he turned his face and smiled when he saw Rowan. Then the child wriggled in Boromir’s arms, so that his father set him down and Arin unrolled the waistband of his breeches and brought out the little knife. He held it out to the girl, saying quietly, “Thank you very much.”

Rowan hesitated, then said, “Thank you for offering it back, but you could be of help to me if you would use it on some carrots. We must feed the army tonight.”

 

It was as they stood together preparing the vegetables for a stout soup, full of beans and bacon and kale, that Arin, who had been quiet for the most part, asked her, “Is he really dead, the old man?”

Rowan paused a moment in her work and look Arin full in the face.

“That was a small lie Arin, but he is not long for this world. Doran hurt him and he lies in that room,” and her head jerked towards the bedchamber. “He is cared for, but there is little that can be done.” 

The boy glanced towards the curtained doorway and said “Oh” and then he returned to his work.

 

They left the farmstead the next morning. Parsolon had died during the night and Aragorn left instructions for him to be buried beside his kin. They travelled slowly, not simply because the train of pack animals carrying the gold moved slowly, but also because Boromir and Aragorn wanted their son to have some time in comparative quiet with them, before returning to the undoubted excitement and hubbub of the court. 

 

As they rode, Arin perched before Boromir with his Adar’s arm wrapped close about him, they began to ask him of his trials, at first small things. Had they travelled this way? How had he hidden the knife in the cell? The men had said little at the farm on being shown the small, cold, room with its cot bed, but Boromir had ground his teeth when he saw the faint rust of dried blood on the broken glass at the window and then had kissed Arin’s finger better, before Aragorn looked at it and produced athelas from a little pouch to draw any remaining heat from the cut.

 

Gradually the child’s heart returned and he told them about some things readily enough. He was enthusiastic about Rowan’s cooking, but there were things he would not speak of yet. In particular, he was not about to tell how, the night before, as the company in the kitchen was occupied with consuming a good, hot meal washed down with quantities of strong ale, he had slipped unseen behind the curtain and up to the bed in which Parsolon lay. 

 

The man’s breath was laboured, his eyes stared unseeing and at his side, one knarled hand clenched and unclenched as though he struggled with pain. Arin saw the cup of water for him, set on a stool, and picking it up, he reached over and let a few drops fall onto the dry lips. The child almost dropped the cup in fright when the old man turned his head and fixed cloudy eyes on his face. For a moment, Arin thought he might be blind, but the eyes did not leave his face and the faint whisper came, “Boy, I have seen her – the dark woman – she walks with him still.” Arin had backed away from the bed then, laid the cup back on the stool, turned and fled, and in the still of the night Parsolon’s struggle had ended.

 

In the days and weeks that followed Elessar oversaw the drawing out of the threads that had become so tangled. Arwen had swept Arin into her arms on seeing him again; her eyes bright with unshed tears, she fussed over him and knitted him colourful caps to wear against the cold. Eldarion too was glad to have his playmate back. It was clear to Arin that the child had only the faintest remembrance of what had occurred and for that he was glad. However, the King and Queen considered that Arin deserved some reward for having been so quick-thinking and brave in seeking to protect the little prince and Elessar proposed to give him the foal, Astred. 

 

The mare had welcomed the boy back to her side with a gentle nudge to his chest, but Arin had only stroked the foal absently and told Elessar that he was most grateful, but he did not want the foal. When they asked why, he simply shrugged. Boromir, who had been sure he would have welcomed the gift, worried about his son’s subdued mood, but Aragorn soothed him and said that Arin undoubtedly still felt uncertain about much that had happened. They must give him time to find his feet again. The foal would not be a made horse for another five years, and Aragorn would keep it in trust for the boy until he was older and the hurts were not so raw. 

 

Rullo had greeted Arin back with ecstatic barking, running around him in circles and covering his newly clean shirt with slobber. Aragorn and Boromir had then spent a lively afternoon introducing Rullo to the stable cats, enforcing manners on both sides, so that Arin would never have to leave his pet behind again.

 

One day, Boromir had welcomed a justice and a scribe to the house and had sat, quiet, with Arin beside him, listening as the judge questioned Arin about what had happened to him. The man was patient and his questions were worded clearly. He also made sure that Arin understood what he was being asked, that he must tell the truth as he remembered it, but that if he did not remember clearly or did not know, he should say so and that was good too, since it helped them to understand the limits of the thing. At times the boy’s voice had been so soft that they had to strain to hear him, but Arin did try to answer every question fully, even when sometimes it was hard and once or twice he was close to tears remembering Meriel and some of the things that he had seen or heard.

 

Arin had returned to school, where his masters reported him abnormally compliant and diligent, but Boromir was sure that mood would not last for too long. His friends had wondered whether he would have to go to speak at the trial, a thought that privately alarmed the boy, but the King had come himself to explain to Arin what would happen in his absence and he had returned later the same day to report the outcome. There had been little doubt of the verdict. Both Doran and the thin man, Yorl, were condemned for their killings of Meriel and Parsolon, whilst the wretched Solon was banished. Elessar told Arin that his testimony, how he had heard Solon plead with his uncle to let him go, and that of the maid, Rowan, had told in the man’s favour and on reflection, Arin was glad of it. 

 

It was the King’s Steward himself who went to oversee the destruction of the farmhouse and its holding. The dressed stone had been offered free to any who wanted it and the remaining timber and contents had been burnt. At Elessar’s express command they had then cleared the ground and salt sand from the shore had been carted up and spread across the place where the house, the stables, the paddocks and outbuildings had once stood. Finally, a pillar had been raised directing those who would know what had happened in this place to look to the wrath of the King.

 

On a sunny morning, some weeks later Rowan arrived in the city, carrying her small bundle of possessions. All the livestock on the farm had been sold and the coin, a handsome sum, had been lodged with the palace treasury for her use in the future. Boromir had asked her what she wished for. The girl had thought for some minutes and then replied that she would like to have a small inn some day, somewhere with a good kitchen garden. And for now, asked Aragorn? For now, she wondered whether there might be an opening in the palace kitchens? Her cooking would do for such as Solon, she said, but she knew she had much to learn. At the palace she could learn to cook for many and also master the finer dishes, that might tempt the nobility one day to visit a small, quiet inn. They had thoroughly approved her plan. Boromir had privately added to the sum laid away for her and despite her connection with the past, Arin was only too pleased welcome her to Minas Tirith. 

 

He had been waiting for her to arrive, travelling in with a party of soldiers returning from a routine patrol, and was standing in the stable yard as a sergeant led his horse in under the arch, Rowan perched straight-backed on the crupper. The stable lad who’d so impressed Aragorn and Boromir with his intelligence and sharp eyes was standing by the well. He stepped forward to lift the girl down and in years to come, Arin would remember with pleasure seeing the first time Sarn had set eyes on Rowan, seeing her claim his heart with a simple look and in return give back her own, laid in her open hand. 

 

This he remembered with joy, but for longer than he would admit, even to himself, Arin’s most abiding memories of those days were of the old man, who came from his grandfather’s time, who would teach him through lies and pain and who spoke as though he hovered between worlds…and who saw the dead walk.

Comments

[mooms.livejournal.com]

A great concluding chapter and I am so glad that Arin is safe. I will miss this story, though, so hope you will have lots more inspiration.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad that you liked how this ended, and thankyou for reading it and feeding back. I liked working on it (even if this chapter didn't turn out quite how I'd carefully plotted it - men - never do as they're told).

[govi20.livejournal.com]

Wonderful again! I am with Mooms: so sad to see this story end, but so happy Arin is back with his fathers safely. Can't wait to see a new story of you!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for staying with this story and for your encouragement. It's greatly appreciated.

[rotpunkt.livejournal.com]

That was a lot to catch up...:) - And I was only away for three days. The whole story is full of interesting turns, but I especially like the two so very different memories Aragorn keeps - one light and nice, and one dark and mysterious...

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thank you for taking the time to catch up and then to feed back. I'm so glad it kept your interest. Slotting this story in between 'Cold Pressing' and 'Entwine' I thought I would try to foreshadow one or two things that happen in 'Entwine', so I've chosen to provide Arin with a first real prompt to asking about his mother, in the old man's delusions.

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

Yay for Rowan! I was hoping she'd get out of it all okay. Cracks me up to think of Queen Arwen knitting away at a jolly warm cap for Arin to wear while his hair grows back. Nice image!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for feeding back - glad you liked it. I think maybe I ought to start a 'Rowan's Receipts' recipe book, and then a matching publication of knitting and crochet patterns, nice knitted caps with patterns of stars and white trees,...I'm rambling again.

[halszka.livejournal.com]

Wonderful story, and one with very good ending. I almost regret when I read that is last chapter, I do love you writing.
Great that Arin is back with Boromir, and you create yet another great character- Rowan. I'm impressed.
I have one question, as my knowledge of English is limited, what kind of "dark women" speak Parsolon to Arin? Is this a Ghost, Phantom or well,not very clear vision of Aragorn?
Anyway I love the world you create, and I hope you will still write about it. Thank you

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad that you liked it. Thankyou for staying with it and feeding back so clearly...and I'm glad you liked Rowan too. I thought Arin needed to meet some more strong female characters when he's surrounded by so many strong men.

As to the 'dark woman' - if you go back to Parsolon's first comments about Arin, when he wonders why he is not blonde like the Stewards and says that his mother must have been dark, he's already drifting between worlds, still talking to Denethor at some points. He half sees Aragorn and Boromir embrace and perhaps believes that he's seen the spirit of Arin's mother who 'walks' with Boromir still - in other words, he's still in love with 'her', but to Arin who, of course at this point in his life does not know the full tale of his birth, Parsolon can only be speaking about a ghost...and perhaps this is the spur to make him begin to think further about his mother, which then culminates in the events of 'Entwine'.

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

A marvellous end to a marvellous story . . . I've so enjoyed following you on this one.

Rowan is really a true herione here - I'm glad she will be well cared for. I see any inn she comes to run being a spectacular success!

Your descriptions of Arin were wonderful - suffering what we would now label something like "post traumatic stress syndrome" being so wonderfullly avoided by the care and sympathy of those around him - not just Boromir, Aragorn and Arwen, but the schoolteachers and the justice. But he obviously has horrors of the time that he's not going to speak about - diffidently not wanting the foal being one manifestation - but hopefully being so young, he will be able to leave these behind. (I am more determined than ever to read Entwine and Cold Pressing now, to find out more about this story!)

Lovely moment between Aragorn and Boromir - such comfort . . .

So, sad though it is to come to the end of a wonderful story, I can only repeat that it was most moving, adventurous, chilling and heartwarming by turn and I'm glad to have discovered your writing.

Thank you.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thank you for travelling with me on this one and for feeding back so kindly. I'm glad it worked for you.

If you'd like something short and fun, between this and 'Entwine', try 'Yule Dragon'. If I'd realised when I started that filling in stories in an arc would entail so much cross-checking I might have tried writing a different way - but in all honesty, I'm wittering here. I just write them as the bunnies bite and try not to make any glaring errors. This didn't turn out as I'd carefully tried to plot it out, but on the other hand I like Rowan too and Arin will be o.k., although 'Entwine' is a bit of a saga for him too - oh, heck.