Fic: The Well of Gold: Seedtime A/B (1/2) R

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

 

Fic: The Well of Gold: Seedtime (1/2)
Author: alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: R
Warning: ‘Cold Pressing’ AU
Summary: Boromir’s duty to others comes into conflict with his sense of himself. Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 3,468
Feedback: Received with thanks.

A.N.: This story comes before ‘Entwine’.

 

 

They had arrived on a grey morning at the turn of the year, when there was still frost in the ground even though a steady drizzle fell over Minas Tirith and all those who could stay inside were ensconced around lit stoves; the stableboy creeping indoors to warm his hands at the side of the bread oven, the maidservant darning worn hose, tucking her feet under her skirts away from the drafts, rubbing her fingers together to keep the needle flying.

 

The little party of men with their muddy ponies had been stopped some time at the sixth-level gate whilst the guards, none too pleased to be called from their brazier, sent a messenger to the Steward’s House. Eventually a servant, heavily-cloaked, had come to escort them up to the mansion, where their mounts were taken to the stables and the men brought into the kitchens. 

 

The Lord Boromir had ordered them fed and warmed before he would hear from them and hot soup and thick bannocks, spiced ale and honey-cakes, consumed whilst their damp boots steamed in a row before the kitchen ranges, led Gil to admit that city food was tasty and not as finicky as he’d been led to believe. The House Steward accepted the compliment at face value and the Cook bided her time.

 

When at last they were ushered into his Lordship’s library, wreathed in rain-shadows despite the crackling fire in the grate and lit lamps on every surface, Lord Boromir was sat with young Arin over a chessboard beside the fire. The large dog stretched at their feet lifted its head and looked carefully at the little group, decided that they appeared harmless and sank down again.

 

As they came forward into the room, Arin rose to stand beside his father’s chair and when they bowed, he carefully gave the courtesy back. Boromir laid his hand over the child’s resting on the arm of his chair.

“My lord,” said Gil, who had been elected unofficial spokesman, “we thank you for the hospitality of the Steward’s house and come with greetings from Mistress Mariam…”

“…and a small barrel of the good herb liquor with her compliments,” put in another at his elbow.

“Now that is welcome news indeed, Master Chub,” returned Boromir smiling widely and beckoning them towards the fire. “But I’m certain sure that has not brought you so far in this weather, has it?”

He raised an eyebrow at Gil the cooper, who shook his head and glanced briefly at Arin, before facing Boromir, saying stoutly, “We’d consult with your lordship on a matter to do with the estate.”

Boromir simply nodded and squeezed Arin’s hand gently. “This is work for us, lad, and you have your own books to go to…take Rullo with you.” As the boy and the dog made their exit Boromir arose from his chair and, beckoning Master Chub to take an end, he drew a long bench forward to the heat so that all might sit.

 

They’d shed their travelling cloaks at the kitchen door and were glad enough for the warmth as Boromir placed more logs in the grate and took his ease again, waiting calmly for them to speak. He was intrigued but not overly concerned. Any great matter would have come to his ears ere now and the five men before him did not seem alarmed, so much as slightly uneasy.

 

Boromir let the silence settle on the room as the fire spat and crackled. Finally, Master Chub dug a bony elbow into the cooper’s ribs and after glaring at his neighbour, Gil Stave cleared his throat and launched into his tale.

 

There would be more mouths to feed come Spring and they were minded to bring an abandoned field back into cultivation. It was one of the great old places, but left to go to rack and ruin for a generation now. Indeed the only proof that this was the ‘Well of Gold’ of legend, the field that would not fail, would not let its people go without bread, were the ancient boundary marker stones, half buried in tangled weed. They’d dug them out in the autumn, set upright the ones that had fallen over and Mistress Mariam had walked the bounds, pouring a little ale over each one in greeting. There had been beasts tethered there to graze and muck carted from the farmyard heaps, spread to rot down over winter. Come the warm winds they would break open the earth with a new plough and sow the seed corn, and it was of this that they’d speak with the Lord Steward.

 

The cooper’s voice trailed away and he glanced down with an embarrassed cough. As Boromir waited with interest, Master Chub’s elbow was busy again, but before the cooper could draw breath to go on, the older man had fixed a beady eye on Boromir and said crisply, “It’s for the Master to cast the first seed on the ploughed field – his own seed – and we’re here to ask that it be done as in the old times, to bring luck to the land.”

 

Boromir thought for a moment that his jaw had dropped open, but recovered his wits sufficiently to be able to say, with every appearance of calm, “An old custom that, Master Chub.”

“And a good one, my lord,” replied the man stoutly, “for all that Lord Denethor did not honour it.”

“Those were sad days,” put in the cooper hastily, seeing the muscle at Boromir’s jaw twitch. “There were other and heavier matters on the Steward’s mind and no blame to him if battlefields had all his care then.”

“But peace has its own needs, my lord,” continued Chub, immovable, “and if the land is to succour men, then men must give it tribute and it is in the Master’s name that the earth is disturbed.”

“Quite,” said Boromir dryly. 

 

He was endeavouring to remember what he had heard of a practice so rooted in the soil that the boy raised in the city, who had ridden out from its walls at the head of troops to spatter the earth with the blood of Gondor’s enemies, rather than with seed of any kind, had only the haziest recollection of moments from his youth, sniggering over crude country customs.   With a sudden flush to his cheek, Boromir recalled a day when he and Faramir had left their youthful tributes in a couple of palace flowerbeds, vying to see whose seed would make the most flowers grow and of course, they’d forgotten their wager before the week was out.

 

He was jerked from his reverie now by Arin’s name spoken and looked keenly at Master Chub, who paused and then said mildly, “We thought the young lord might ride the beam of the new plough.” The old man unexpectedly twinkled at him, saying, “It is not so bold a ride as a pony, my lord, but the day should be merry.”

“I am sure that folk will celebrate with a will, Master Chub and as to the other matter,” he added turning to the anxious cooper, “I will think on it and send word.”

 

They had spoken at length about estate matters, for the chance to hear at first hand how recent repairs had withstood the hard weather was not to be missed and it was some hours later, when Boromir had seen the party ushered out with instructions given as to their housing and entertainment, before he had the chance to mull over the reason for their visit. 

 

As Boromir sat before the dying embers of the fire, a mug of ale to hand, he thought long about the lands his father had bequeathed him, about how he had ridden that first time through the shattered landscape and a voice on the wind whispered at his ear that he was welcome. He had striven to do the best for the estates and their people, listening to wise heads when he could, following his instincts when he must and he trusted to the land to train him in its service.

 

All his childhood had been spent in the shadow of buildings, tall marble, grave, austere. Oft-times it had been too dangerous for the Steward’s children to go adventuring in the countryside. Later, the landscapes around him had been more or less crumbling and he realised now that he had seen each vista only as the soldier sees it, for vantage or for ambush. Too many places had been stained with the blood of companions at arms, or of the innocent. The land had endured, but it had wept at the slaughter. Master Chub was right, he thought. If now men would ask the earth to give up her bounty again, men should acknowledge the service with something precious of their own. It was only the manner of that tribute that gave him pause.

 

And so Aragorn found him, almost lost in shadows, and seeing him troubled did not question him then, but drew Boromir from his solitary state on softly passing feet, through the silent house to his chamber. There he stripped him with a master’s hands and washed him in cold water, making Boromir shiver, so that Aragorn had to towel him with a will and then drove him to their bed, to thaw his mood with busy fingers and a mouth that licked and nipped, fierce kisses to his inner thighs, his nipples pinched and twisted hard. 

 

Boromir groaned and went to shift under Aragorn, to bring their swollen cocks flush against one another. He was his King’s now, his gaze filled with the beloved form moving above him, breathing in his musk, aching to rub against him, to feel Aragorn’s furred stomach stroke his flesh. The room, the world of trial outside the chamber, had fallen away and all Boromir felt was the press of heat against his skin, the thrum of blood driving them onward.

 

Later, as he wiped the sweat from their skin, before slipping under the coverlet and turning to let Aragorn fit his body around him, wrap an arm across his chest and hold him close, Boromir began to recount the day’s events. As he laid out Master Chub’s proposal, he was surprised to feel Aragorn’s body shaking slightly against his back and half turned to look into his face reproachfully.

“Oh my love,” gasped Aragorn, by now giggling weakly, “I was only remembering when Denethor was asked to take part in the same ritual. His blushing counsellors dithered for weeks before passing on the request…which troubled your sire not a whit, but somehow,” Aragorn sighed, “somehow the time was never right for the Steward to leave the city.”

“He did not spurn the request?”

“Oh no,” replied Aragorn, “but the estates were so far away and duties enough crowded the view from his windows each morning.” He lifted a hand, smiling, and gently smoothed the hair back from Boromir’s brow. “This thing troubles you?”

Unconciously, beneath the coverlet Boromir’s hand crept to cover his scarred groin and he looked into Aragorn’s eyes, saying simply, “I want to honour the land that feeds my people, not to have my body be more talked of than the act.”

 

For a long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he leant to brush his lips over Boromir’s own, saying quietly,

“There are many walking in Gondor now who carry scars from battle, but yours were got in defence of our son and I have never told you how they honour you.” Boromir was amazed to see his eyes were starred with tears and reached for him, clasping Aragorn’s face and kissing him fiercely, growling, “Don’t heed my foolishness, love, this Steward’s feeble pride will stand the test,” and then, grinning at Aragorn, “I know just what will cheer…” So saying, Boromir kissed him again, a sound smack, and slid from the bed.    

 

Boromir wrapped himself in a furred gown and slipped from the room, down through silent corridors to the darkened pantry, to lift a flagstone by a ring set in the top and draw up the treasure hidden below. He had returned to the chamber bearing a jug, two goblets, a knife and a small bundle wrapped in sacking, on feet mottled blue with the cold. Aragorn exclaimed aloud and seated him before the fire, kneeling to clasp Boromir’s chilled toes between his hands, kneading and rubbing the flesh to set the blood flowing, whilst Boromir prepared his elixir.

 

“This is a rare pleasure,” said Aragorn, gazing, entranced, into the silver goblet at the pale green liquor. As he watched, Boromir had shaved slivers of ice from a block into the cups and when they lay together, propped on pillows, Boromir had poured over it liquid the colour of sea foam. The first mouthful had been a glorious evocation of woodlands in snow. It was as though he held an iceberg that tasted like sweet almonds.

“It’s an old family recipe,” said Boromir, raising his own cup in salute and closing his eyes as he drank, savouring the cool liquor that became like molten fire in his throat. “The steward’s wife concocts it from raw genever, honey, the youngest beech leaves, and several other things she will not divulge.”

The liquor almost gone, Aragorn took a bite of sweet ice and kissed his man, prizing open Boromir’s lips to slide the cold, heady snow into his mouth. Boromir groaned and sucked at the long tongue, unwilling to set him free and for moments together, they kissed. When finally they drew apart for breath, Boromir dipped a finger into the dregs in his cup and anointed Aragorn’s chest with the cold syrup. As he hissed at the sting, Boromir’s hot mouth lapped at the puckering nubs to lave the chills away with little licks and bites. Aragorn’s arm closed around Boromir again, and he sighed.

 

Boromir rubbed his cheek gently across Aragorn’s breast, the soft hair soothing on his face, until he stilled, listening to the steady beat of his love’s heart and said, 

“I will go to the field, and Arin with me to play his part too.” Aragorn opened his eyes and met Boromir’s steady gaze, who continued, “’Casting the Seed’ is a time for the ploughmen and the Master only. Arin will be tucked up safe in his bed.”

Aragorn nodded once, smiled, and they drifted into sleep.

 

Boromir had sent the little party homeward with his answer in the affirmative and had spoken to Arin about the journey that they would take together. The boy had never seen the lands that would be his and this brief visit Boromir intended to be the first of many. The child was excited at the thought of riding the plough behind a team of a dozen oxen and he knew that his Adar had another grown-up ceremony to perform in Casting the Seed, when as Master he would give of himself to the land, but Aragorn and Boromir had talked together and decided that the child need know no more than that. Doubtless, he and his classmates would speculate and if Arin asked him Boromir would endeavour to explain all, but for now they were not minded to force the issue.

 

With the last of the frost and the first buds on the fruit trees in the Steward’s garden, word came from the estate of a day appointed, if the Lord Steward were willing. Boromir consulted with his King, who gave his assent to a leave of absence, and their modest preparations, for Boromir would travel with no more than the boy and a couple of men-at-arms, were put in train.

 

Aragorn, poring over old texts, had determined that a Master need not appear in his field unclothed, although some had made their offering in this way. He had told Boromir this without further comment, allowing the younger man to make his own decision, but Boromir had said nothing and later had simply thanked him for the word given. Once or twice he had jested to Aragorn that it was as well that Master Chub had not waited longer, for his aging body might not stay the course for many more seasons, but Aragorn had not risen to the bait. Easy reassurance was not what was wanted then. It was in naked hunger, passion shared, that Aragorn sought to reassure Boromir that his flesh was beloved, for itself in all its imperfections, but more for the man within. 

 

They had lain together the three nights before Boromir’s departure and Aragorn had played a subtle hand, both bending to Boromir’s will with a beautiful grace and commanding in his turn, demanding Boromir’s surrender and rewarding him with mastery surrounded by such tenderness that Boromir was brought to tears, lying in his lover’s arms.

Now with a pale dawn approaching, the men were talking quietly before Aragorn would leave. Aragorn lifted his hand to stroke Boromir’s hair, curling around his ear.

“I have an oil for you, almond with a little cinnamon leaf for warmth. It will be cold on that field.”

“The lad’s talked of nothing else but the plough for days.”

“It’s in a vial small enough to tuck into your belt.”

“He wanted to ride his pony, but it’s too far. Not this time. Do you think..?”

Aragorn’s hand stilled and he leant in to plant a soft kiss on Boromir’s shoulder.

“Your son will make all love him.”

At that Boromir met his gaze with anxious eyes.

“Arin is your son too. Have I kept him from you, love, of late?”

“No, but in this, he is his Adar’s child… all will love him as I do, for he is...” 

“True silver.”

“You are true silver, and when you kneel on that ploughed earth to give of yourself for the land and for your people, all will see you as I do.”

Aragorn caught Boromir to him then and kissed him fiercely and Boromir matched his fervour, hard bodies entwined, straining against one another, until with a growl Aragorn clasped both arms around Boromir and rolled them over to lie on their backs, Boromir caught to his breast, breathing hard. Aragorn had his face buried in the softness of Boromir’s hair and murmured to him,

“I do not begrudge the field your seed, spilled for others, but I will feel the loss of its getting. Will you pleasure yourself for me now?”

 

Aragorn’s arms unfolded from around his chest and long, supple fingers trailed down Boromir’s thighs as his King leant forward to mouth at the base of his neck and then plant gentle kisses up and to just below Boromir’s ear, where he caught the lobe between his teeth. Boromir moaned and stirred, leant back into his embrace and with one hand cradled his sack, whilst the other captured the fat head of his cock and was circling around the rim. Every-so-often a thumb skidded across the slit, slippery wet, paused to burrow in, and the little gasps pressed him back into Aragorn’s arms, rocking him, matching the rhythm of their breathing with gentle movement.

With a slow hand Boromir stroked the length, his head tipped back, rested on Aragorn’s shoulder, who whispered his desires into his ear; to see Boromir panting in his arms, the sweat trickling down Boromir’s back to sting, salt, on Aragorn’s cock, trapped between them, to hear the hitch and gasp in Boromir’s voice as he crested, to wrap his legs around his man and feel the shuddering running through him, and finally to slide into his lax body, still trembling, to begin his own slow ascent.

 

The words were as whips of fire and Boromir’s fingers became firmer, moved faster. At one moment, he paused to catch his breath, to let the ache subside, and lifted his hand to Aragorn’s mouth, who greedily sucked at the fingers, his tongue busy between, making all slippery and laying little bites at the pads as Boromir withdrew them and grasped his cock again. Aragorn almost imagined he could hear the hiss of spit against hot metal and the little gasps had become a low moaning litany of words in which his name was repeated again and again. There was tension now in the body in his arms, Boromir’s hand moved as a blur and his breath came ragged. Aragorn stretched long fingers past the hand gently rolling the twisted sack, to press at the swollen flesh beneath it. When his man cried out in sweet agony, Aragorn soothed and held Boromir close as his body trembled. Then, as he had promised, while Boromir lay dazed in his arms, Aragorn took up the slippery seed spattered across his stomach and smeared himself with it to ease the way.

Comments

[mooms.livejournal.com]

This is another truly beautiful story in your wonderfully written and realized universe. I love the way that your descriptions lift us completely into this world, which I believe in completely.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading and feeding back. I'm glad that you're enjoying it and that it works for you as a rounded environment. I'll try not to be too long about the next bit.

[ladymarshy.livejournal.com]

"Just because it's a story, it doesn't mean it isn't true"

This is so beautiful, and very moving. Not a word out of place.

Thank you.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

You're very kind. Thankyou. I'm glad you're enjoying this.

[govi20.livejournal.com]

Indeed another wonderful look in this world you created. It's just grand and I love every word of it. The way you describe the love between the two men is breathtaking. Thank you for posting.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou for reading and feeding back so kindly. Glad that it's working for you. Sometimes it's fairly easy to write them and sometimes it's like wading through cold porridge - this was a mixture, but the next part is almost done, so I'll try not to be too long about it.

[fawsley.livejournal.com]

I'm just grateful that a writer as wonderfully gifted as you chooses to exercise their talents writing Raggy/Brom slash. Instantly we're plunged back in the incredible world their inhabit in your writing, all full-colour, three-dimensional, totally believable. And having just been reading about fertility customs and fertility rites, this is a double joy. Thank you so much. Please don't ever stop writing.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I don't mean to stop writing; the chance to do something creative for the first time in a long time has been too welcome and precious a discovery, but your encouragement is most kind, very welcome...and now Raggy and Brom have me hooked I think I'll be with them for a while. Ah yes, fertility rites - sometimes I think now we can get 'The Golden Bough' online, the gates are opened...

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

Yay, a new Cold Pressing story! I so love this world you've created - me, who otherwise don't like Mpreg at all! tch!

You always describe Aragorn and Boromir's loving so beautifully, it's a joy to read - and such good side-characters, who help to make the world real!

With a sudden flush to his cheek, Boromir recalled a day when he and Faramir had left their youthful tributes in a couple of palace flowerbeds, vying to see whose seed would make the most flowers grow and of course, they’d forgotten their wager before the week was out. Heh heh...

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for the feedback - much appreciated. I'm so pleased that despite its origins in MPreg, the AU speaks to you. The slightly strange thing is that I'm starting to take Arin's presence so much for granted that I don't really think of the AU as MPreg-centred in quite the way that I did earlier. If eventually I backtrack to before Arin's birth then it will hit me again forcefully and if his parentage becomes an issue in the future then it comes to the fore, but stories like 'Strawberries' are within the AU but barely touch on it.

I grinned when Boromir remembered the flower beds. Instinct tells me that Faramir would be expected by his brother and Aragorn to be potentially embarrassed by the memory, whereas he's actually long since accepted himself and his past and is pretty relaxed about it - indeed taken with the 'pike in the pond' incident I begin to suspect that young Faramir was a bit of a lad.

[shalom]

were the ancient boundary marker stones, half buried in tangled weed. They’d dug them out in the autumn, set upright the ones that had fallen over and Mistress Mariam had walked the bounds, pouring a little ale over each one in greeting

Upon reading this, all I could do was cheer! You've taken new, beautiful steps to expand upon your world by adding the rites. Really, every new addition to the Cold Pressing arc fits so perfectly.

Lovely work.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou for your kind encouragement. I'm so glad you're still enjoying this. I'm finding the AU is a bit like a stone dropped in a pool, with ripples spreading out in all directions. It's a lot of fun to write, o.k. sometimes tortuous fun, but immensely satisfying when bits fit together and readers like how they fit. I'll try to get the next part out in the next few days.

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

Alex - I'm not reading this one yet because I'm about to start your "Cold Pressing" stories from the beginning . . . so then I'll know where this fits in.

So . . . feedback later!

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Whatever suits you - have fun.

[foxrafer.livejournal.com]

This is absolutely beautiful. I really enjoyed reading it. From some of the comments it sounds like this is part of a series of stories. Are all of them posted in your journal or in rugbytackle only?

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad that you liked it. Many thanks for feeding back to me. Yes, this is part of a series of stories in a particular AU I started working on a few months back - but being a newbie I wasn't really thinking too far ahead and not working in any kind of chronological order.

All the fics are in my journal and if you go there and go back to the beginning, you want "Cold Pressing: Pathway 1" (Pathway 2 was an alternative to the first story that was never really taken forward.) The AU story arc then, sort of, runs "Strawberries", "The Foal", "Yule Dragon" "The Well of Gold" and then "Entwine" which is the longest to date.

They might be easier to track down on the Rugbytackling archive under my name, in that I haven't worked out how to do indexes yet, but I don't use my LJ for much other than stories, so there's not a lot to wade through. There are also a few drabbles and a couple of stand-alones.

I'm writing in the 'Cold Pressing' AU as the fancy takes me, filling in timeslots, going off on tangents, but having a lot of fun. And when readers are kind enough to be encouraging that's a real boost, so thankyou.

[foxrafer.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I'm definitely going to read these. This one is so lovely I'm looking forward to more.