Fic: The Well of Gold: Seedtime A/B (2/2) PG-13

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Fic: The Well of Gold: Seedtime (2/2)
Author: alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: NC-13
Warning: ‘Cold Pressing’ AU
Summary: What awaits Boromir on the Well of Gold challenges his resolve.

Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 4,919
Feedback: Received with thanks.

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

 

They had left in the early-morning, trotting out through the city gate in weak sunshine, Arin riding behind one of the guards, sitting very straight in his new cloak, embroidered with the three stars of the Steward’s House in silver on the white collar and new leather gauntlets. Boromir glanced sideways at the boy, but he was secure enough and their passage proved easy, so that the sky was barely beginning to take a rosy tinge when the buildings of the estate’s principal manor came into view.

 

Nevertheless, it had been a long journey for the lad and Arin had been mostly asleep, dozing against his father’s chest, for some while. He barely stirred when Boromir handed him down into the arms of the closest groom in the stable yard, then dismounted and took up his precious burden again. The estate steward, worthy man, would have welcomed the Lord Boromir formally, but his good wife took one look at Master and son and ushered them up to the solar, where a fire, supper and a warmed bed awaited them.

 

In the early morning light, Boromir knelt before Arin in the solar and re-tied the tapes at the neck of his shirt, before fixing the clasps of the leather vest, lined with shearling lamb like the new boots. In order to plough the whole field in a day they must needs start early and Boromir was not minded to have the child take a chill. Finally he tucked the leather gauntlets into Arin’s belt. Arin had stood patiently through all, but when Boromir went to take a comb to his hair, he rebelled and insisted that he was not Eldarion and he could quite readily comb his own hair!   The Lord Steward dryly begged pardon of the young master for having presumed to dictate how his son and heir should appear before his estate workers on his first visit and Arin threw himself at his Adar’s chest to say sorry and for a cuddle before going down.

“I want to do it right, Adar,” he whispered into Boromir’s ear, who simply hugged him and whispered back, “You’ll do fine, lad. Just remember, some day you will serve them as much as they’ll serve you.”

 

Arin had eaten once or twice at King Elessar’s table in the palace, although the King frequently dispensed with ceremony and ate alongside his household, but Boromir knew that the proper, some might say old-fashioned, order of things held sway under Steward Hirrald and so he was not surprised that a high table had been set for him and the boy on the dais at the end of the hall. They had broken their fast with a hearty meal, and Boromir had made sure that in spite of his excitement Arin ate enough, but he was conscious too that Arin’s eyes often strayed to the handful of other children in the hall. 

 

There was a press of folk around the ox-team and the new plough stood at the top end of the field, when Boromir walked forward with Arin. Rafe Ploughman bowed his head to the boy, who hardly noticed for the pleasure of seeing the great team, but when Boromir touched his shoulder, Arin blushed and smiled shyly at the ploughman. Amidst a buzz of excitement, they lifted the child to sit astride the beam of the plough and Rafe showed him where to hold on. The crowd were waved back until only the men at the heads of the lead oxen, the ploughman and Boromir stood on the field. Rafe wrapped the reins around his wrists and grasped the handles of the plough, then looked to the Master, who said firmly, “Walk on,” and as Rafe called to his team, the plough surged forward, the iron shoe biting into the earth. Arin clung tightly to the slippery wood and laughed delightedly as a cheer went up. Behind them men with short spades finished turning the cut divots, or collected field stones in rush baskets on their backs, and so the team began its slow passage along the way marked by the stone cairns.

 

The oxen were shouldering their way down the field, bowed into the harness, steam issuing from nostrils as they worked this first ploughing in an age. Rafe called them by name, hurried up the slow ox, offered a word of praise to the new beast, taking its place in the yoke for the first time. A gaggle of children ran alongside the team, harried the ox-men and every-so-often one would dart forward to pat one of the huge beasts in passing, until Rafe roared at them to keep clear of the horns and they scattered. 

 

All the while Arin rode his slippery perch, trying hard not on any account to fall off if the ploughshare met a stone that jerked the beam, and after a while he began to look ahead, past the rumps of the beasts in front of him. Adar was walking alongside, talking with the estate steward and sometimes their eyes met and Boromir would nod quietly at him.

 

At the end of the furrow, Rafe lifted him down, whilst the men unhitched and lifted up the heavy plough and turned the team, leading them into the neighbouring pasture to make the swing. Boromir ruffled Arin’s curls, stood beside him and as he and the steward conversed, Arin found himself being stared at by a group of children gathered around the field marker. The men were bringing up the team again. It would take the full day to plough the land, but this was his last ride on the beam, returning the young master to the top of the field. As the oxen were lined up to cut the next furrow, the off beast with its feet in the first furrow and the near beast walking on new ground, Arin pulled at his Adar’s sleeve and when Boromir bent to him, the child spoke urgently in his ear. Boromir nodded to him and shyly Arin beckoned to the children by the cairn. Their whispered conversation immediately ceased and they stared him down, until Arin’s cheeks reddened and he glanced away. Boromir saw his boy take a breath and turn back to them. Arin beckoned again and this time a girl child took her younger brother by the hand and strode forward to stand before him.

“Would you like to ride on the plough with me?” Arin voice was quiet but firm. “You have to hang on tight, but it’s fun.”

The girl considered this unexpected offer from the young master. Then she looked down at her charge.

“I have to take care of him, maybe he’s too small.”

Arin bit his lip.

“We can put him between us. Will that be alright, Adar?” Arin asked anxiously.

“A good plan, lad,” replied Boromir, who was conscious of the steward’s startled gaze and the slow grin on the face of the ploughman and as Rafe hitched up the plough again and gathered his reins, Boromir set the children on the beam, with Arin in the front. The toddler, who seemed a biddable child, he planted behind Arin and showed him how to grasp Arin’s jerkin. Finally, he lifted the girl up behind her brother, whereupon she settled herself with a businesslike air and took a firm grasp on her sibling.

“Now, if you are on the Steward’s business, then the Steward must provision you,” said Boromir briskly, reaching into the pouch at his belt and producing three peppermints. Arin grinned and opened his mouth readily for the treat. The toddler’s jawed gaped so eagerly he reminded Boromir of a nestling, but his wide eyes and squeal of delight when he tasted the sweetmeat, were all human child; his sister eyed Boromir suspiciously. Without comment, Boromir offered her the lozenge on his palm and after a moment’s pause, she picked it up and popped it into her mouth, where she held it motionless for a heartbeat before starting to roll it around her tongue, smiling her thanks at him with a quiet dignity that Boromir thought would not have been out of place in the citadel.

 

Boromir could see that Rafe was ready to start the team, so he turned to the steward, emptied his pouch of peppermints into the man’s hands and indicated the rest of the children, by now also open mouthed, by the cairn. Then he nodded to the ploughman and with a surge that brought a giggle from Arin and another squeal from the toddler, they were off. As they came back up the field towards the crowd, there was clapping and cheering and it was the toddler who waved, with both hands, prompting his sister to clutch him tighter and bringing a burst of laughter from the spectators.

 

Arin led the procession back to the manor. Boromir had watched him disappear into the distance, still hand-in-hand with the small boy and his redoubtable sister. Mistress Mariam had promised to see him safe to the noonday meal, but it was with something like the stone that lay on his chest throughout Arin’s first schoolday in Minas Tirith, pressing the breath from his body, that Boromir watched him go.  

 

As the plough team worked on, Boromir stood and surveyed the landscape. The Well of Gold must have been fair once, set on the gentle slope of a hillside running down to flat meadowland, with a river running close by. As he walked along the line of the marker stones, it occurred to Boromir to wonder why it had taken so long to bring it back under the plough? This field, once the most productive earth in all his lands, should have been one of the first to be cleared and replanted. He stopped by a cairn, larger than the plain markers. Counting along the field edge he could see that every fourth marker was one of these larger cairns, topped by a worked stone. These were ancient things, showing the faint outlines of patterns cut into them. On some markers there were rings, whilst on the cairns the same circles might have been surrounded once by halos of small indentations. 

 

At one cairn, fallen stones had been replaced so that the carved block lay flat, like the top of an altar and the ring, with its attendant ‘dents’ showed more clearly. Casually, Boromir began to run the tips of his fingers over the surface of the stone, moving from one depression to another. The surface was cold, but smoother than he had expected and as his fingers circled the ring, he imagined that the stone grew warmer beneath his touch. Boromir counted the dents; seven in total and even though he lifted his gaze to follow the progress of the plough team, going through the laborious process of turning at the bottom of the field, his fingers did not leave the stone and he knew where the dents were – he knew – they drew his flesh unseen. It was almost come into his mind to wonder how he knew, when a shout from the field and urgent gestures from the stone pickers, jerked his attention back to the sunlit slope before him.

 

When he reached the party, the ox-men had taken the team well away from the edge of the field into the adjoining meadow, and Rafe and the estate steward were standing by the plough, looking down at the freshly turned earth. The ploughshare had scattered the bones a little, but cradled in the red soil lay the remains of an infant. Whilst the men gathered around him in silence, Boromir knelt down and gently smoothed the earth from the tiny skull. As he went to take it up, Rafe leant forward and stayed his hand.

“It may not be disturbed, Master.”

There was a murmur of assent around him and Boromir looked enquiringly from the newly wary faces of the workers, to the estate steward, who was unhappily twisting the edge of his cloak in his fingers. Slowly Boromir stood, brushed the soil from his breeches, and beckoning the steward to him, turned to walk through the meadow along the riverbank. Once well out of earshot of the men, Boromir stopped and turned to the steward, saying baldly,

“Well, Hirrald, what is it that does not travel from the Master’s lands to the Master’s ear? Why has this field not seen service before?”

Hirrald shrugged and looked at the ground and then, when Boromir did not respond but stood, his arms folded, implacable, the man gazed out across the river as though trying to catch sight of something just beyond his reach. His voice, when he spoke, was sombre, almost bewildered.

“Men say the Well of Gold is haunted, my lord. It was already fallow when I was a lad, let go to seed because none would work it and any that tried came to grief, their harvest no more than stone and sorrow…and yet, my grandsire said that once it shone at harvest time. It ripened first and fullest. It never failed.”

He turned to Boromir, who could see the awe in the man’s eyes.

“It is the first of fields; those cairns so old that none have known what the markings meant for an age. Grandsire said they were placed there by one of the old peoples, perhaps not men at all, but the First Born who spilt their blood to make it fertile.” His voice lowered to a rougher tone. “There was a girl, in my grandsire’s time, so fair that men called her ‘elleth’ and fought to wed with her. She loved a ploughman but her family favoured another, a richer man. When she bore the ploughman’s child, her father took it from her arms one night and buried it in the field. Her lover could hear the babe crying as he searched for it in the dark and then the crying ceased. The girl sat by the edge of the field for days hoping to hear it cry again, until her wits were gone and she lay down and died and her lover cursed the field…said no seed would be good seed.”

The man was trembling and Boromir felt suddenly chilled.

“But surely,” he asked, “the poor scrap whose bones we have uncovered, that cannot be this child?”

The steward looked down and shook his head.

“Nay, my lord, but since that time the stillborn, and in time of war the unwanted, have been left there at the edges just within the markers. Folk think that so much innocent blood has seeped into the ground by now that no more harm can come to them – and they must be left undisturbed.”

Boromir could feel cold sweat crawling at the base of his spine.

“How many?” he asked quietly.

The steward shrugged, thought, and then glanced at him and replied, “Perhaps a score, maybe more. Even orcs would not camp on the ground,” he added gruffly.

“So why, knowing this, did you choose to break open the ground now?”

Hirrald rubbed at his nose with a grubby finger.

“It is a new age, my lord. So much evil in the world defeated and we thought it might be time. It was good land…the best,” and his voice trailed away regretfully.

 

Boromir clasped Hirrald’s shoulder as he went and walked back onto the field, passing the men clustered silently around the tiny grave. As he climbed the hill Boromir was struck by the hope that the estate workers had put in his King’s new world as a place where old sorrows could at last be put aside. Close to the top of the field he stopped and turned to gaze across the land, the wind whipping his hair across his face. The Well of Gold fell away beneath his feet, down towards the meadowland and the river. Beyond the meadows a copse of low trees had begun to show the briefest of buds, so that a mist of green flowed about its swaying fringes.

 

As he stood there, Boromir felt his heart ache for the lovers whose forbidden coupling had begun the sorrow and salt tears stung his cheeks for the babe whose cries had gone unanswered, except by cold earth. For a moment he closed his eyes to let the tears fall, and as he wept he thought he heard on the breeze a soft chuckle, a child’s gurgle of laughter. His breath caught in his throat and the wind whirled about his head, filling his ears with a rushing sound. It seemed now as though his eyes were open and he looked on the plough team silently passing him. Arin, no older but somehow taller, handled the plough and on the beam sat the toddler and by him walked the girl child. A bird, wheeling overhead and calling, brought him back to himself and he turned, half expecting to see the children walking hand-in-hand away from the field, but there was nothing.

 

As he strode towards them the men, who had been sprawled on the ground, got to their feet and Hirrald came forward for his master’s orders, to receive another and a firmer buffet to his shoulder. Boromir pointed to the distant copse.

“What lies there?”

“It is a new willow coppice, my lord. We will cut the first wands next season.”

“It will not be cut, steward,” Boromir said firmly, “I have another and a better use for it.” He turned to the men and raised his voice, so that the ox-men, who had brought the team up closer could hear.

“We have a hard task ahead of us this day, but one that will repay our care in doing it.” He stepped carefully around the scattered bones. “This little child was laid here because no place else was set aside for one lost to this world and the sad history of the field meant that it would welcome the outcast. It is a new day in a new age, and we will gather them in, the forlorn.” He pointed to the willow copse. “There will be their place; shaded by trees, soothed by the river’s sound, this will be a willow cradle for all time and I will set up a stone to gift it to them, so that my heirs down the years will know it for a place apart, and not to be disturbed for any reason. So ploughman,” he turned to Rafe, who watched him closely beneath furrowed brows, “take the plough right up to the markers, I want us to find as many of the lost as we may today – and if others rise up in subsequent ploughings, they can join their fellows in peace.” 

As Boromir beckoned Hirrald over, the men spoke together briefly and Boromir caught a few words in which ‘unhappy souls’ came through most clearly. 

“They are gone,” said Boromir, quietly but with such finality that all turned to look at him. “The ploughman, the maiden and their babe are gone from this place. They are free.”

 

Boromir set the stone-pickers to prepare a resting place in the willow grove, whilst the steward and Rafe discussed how best to manage the ploughing, so close to the markers. They were carefully gathering and lifting the bones of the child when a shadow across the earth announced the arrival of Mistress Mariam with a kitchenmaid and covered baskets, meat and drink for the workers. She stood with solemn gaze as her good man explained the task, but had the maid take off her apron of bleached linen and they gently wrapped the bones in the white stuff.

 

All day they worked, at first tentative, but as more bones appeared, each body cared for tenderly, gradually men’s hands and voices grew more bold. There was even some laughter with their meal, when Rafe described as a child daring his cousins to spend the night on the field and one cousin, a burly fellow now, replied in kind. 

 

They had finished almost half of the ploughing when Mariam returned, gentle arm supporting a frail figure, an old woman who went straight to a field marker they had not reached and sank down before it, her apron cast over her face. No words were said, but Boromir took a spade from one of the men and accompanied Mariam to where the figure knelt, rocking back and forth.

 

The light was just beginning to fail as Rafe called his team to rest for the last time. By then the field was lined with onlookers, stood in silence, no children this time and Boromir sent the tired oxen back to their stalls with a couple of grooms, for the drivers asked leave to stay. Mariam had brought more linen, cut in strips, from the hall and each little bundle of bones was carefully wrapped, before a procession wound its way, in the glow of a red sky, through the meadowland to where a place had been prepared for the babes to lie together. The cut turf replaced on the long, low mound, Boromir led his people homeward. Behind him, voices rose as they left the fields to the nighthawk and the owl.   Folk talked of what the coming season might bring, plans for planting, hopes for the future. As he walked into the stable yard Arin came running and Boromir scooped him up into his arms, burying his nose in the boy’s soft curls.

 

The evening meal, enlivened by much singing and merriment in the body of the hall, had almost ended before Boromir realised that he had not thought of his engagement on the morrow for an age. It was the approach of a small party, Gil the cooper, Rafe and the ubiquitous Master Chub, to the high table that brought the ceremony to mind. The men stopped at the edge of the dais and made their bow. This time Arin, despite the noisy hall, was dozing in Boromir’s lap, so Boromir, rather than disturb the child, simply nodded and motioned them to a seat. They would speak with him about the morrow, a few points were gone over and then they arose, leaving Boromir suddenly more tired than he could remember in many a year.

 

Having laid Arin, washed and in a fresh nightshirt, in the wide bed, Boromir began his own preparations and realised why Aragorn had helped him pack. In place of the clean linen he had laid out for sleep, at the bottom of the pack Boromir recognised the blue silk shirt Aragorn had been wearing before they left. He lifted the soft stuff and laid his face against its slippery coolness. The shirt was creased as he slipped it on, but the precious smell of Aragorn, warm and spicy, lingered on. Boromir extinguished the lamps and settled back onto the soft pillows. Arin was already asleep, so Boromir rolled onto his stomach and tucked one hand under the edge of his pillow. Now he could rest his forehead on Aragorn’s silk, close his eyes, breathe in Aragorn’s musk and imagine his love’s caress as only a breath away.

 

The soft tap at his door was not nearly loud enough to disturb Arin, but Boromir had been half awake, staring into the darkness for some time, waiting for the call. He slid from the bed, wrapping a gown around him, cursing under his breath at the chill of the floor and went to unbar the door. In the corridor, Steward Hirrald stood carrying a shaded lamp and a pitcher that steamed. Boromir took them from him, nodded briefly and gently set his back to the door to close it.

 

Arin retained a child’s ability to sleep through small thunderstorms, but still Boromir took his lamp and jug quietly to the far side of the room and set the lamp on a low shelf, where it cast a dim glow around the basin into which Boromir poured the hot water. His body must be clean for the ceremony so regretfully he put off Aragorn’s shirt, but before he went further Boromir reached into his pack and brought out the small vial of scented oil. Carefully uncorking it, he springled a few drops on the surface of the water and immediately the steam from the basin took on a cinnamon-spiced, earthy, smell that brought his king to mind.

 

Boromir picked up a rag, dipped it into the hot water and swept it across his skin, lifting away the sweat of the previous day’s toil, replacing it with a film of soft spice. He was half hard, with a dull ache around his groin that begged for a firm, slow, hand, but although he carefully cleaned himself and then stroked one of the healer Celond’s balms into his skin around the scars, Boromir set his jaw and ignored the insistent call; his flesh must await its time.

 

He dressed in loose breeches and stout boots, a thick felted jerkin over a linen shirt and shrugged his old velvet cloak, worn and rubbed now, over the whole. Aragorn’s precious vial he tucked into the cuff of one leather gauntlet. Before he left, Boromir bent to kiss the sleeping child.

 

Below in the hall, the group was gathered around a lit brazier with small cups of hot wine. They would see in the dawn on the field and then return to the manor to break their fast. Boromir drained his beaker and handed it back to Mistress Mariam, who met his gaze calmly, saying, “The young lord will be waiting for you.”

 

Then, led by Rafe, carrying a sack of seed corn over his shoulder, the party set out to walk through the dark to the field. By the time they came over the hill towards the Well of Gold, their lanterns had been snuffed. There was no single gleam of fire in the east, but a grey light suffused all about them. 

 

Boromir had made his decision in the watches of the night and in the end, it had been an easy one, for all had been revealed about this place the day before. The field had offered up its secrets, begun in love, and he would do no less. As they clustered, hushed, around him, Boromir laid Aragorn’s vial on the flat-topped cairn and steadily stripped every stitch of clothing from his body, handing the garments to Hirrald, who stood to his left.

 

Not a word was spoken, but Boromir could feel the collective, silent, intake of breath when his scars were revealed. For a moment he shivered in the sudden chill. Rafe took hold of his wrist and when Boromir looked at him, he pressed the vial into Boromir’s hand. Then the men moved aside and Boromir walked forward a few paces along a furrow, into the field. A light mist still hung about the place, but ahead on the horizon, there was a swelling of the light.

 

The earth was damp beneath his feet and as he knelt he could feel the soil clinging to his skin. Boromir fixed his eyes on the horizon, uncorked the little vial and let oil flow over his fingers and drip below onto the hot skin. The cold hilltop had receded. There was only the earth beneath him, his burning, aching flesh, Aragorn’s scent and ahead the burgeoning light beckoning him onward…and his hands, strong fingers, blunt nails, teasing, stroking, stripping him of all pretence, that would make of him a naked creature, driven on by hunger, by the throbbing of his blood.

 

The watching men were not so close that they would have heard the Master breathe his love’s name as he swayed, hunched forward, shuddering through his release, the first beam of morning light gilding the red-gold hair on the bowed head. But as they saw him struggle for breath, the steward and the cooper came forward to raise him and wrap him in his cloak, whilst the ploughman cast a handful of seed over the earth where his cum could be seen spattered along the furrow, and Master Chub wielded the rake to cover over all.

“Here’s luck to the land,” said Boromir hoarsely.

“Here’s luck to the Master and the land,” came back their reply and they led him from the field with tenderness.

 

The Lord Steward’s garden in Minas Tirith, dark and wet with softly falling rain, was sleeping. Boromir knew that, come the warmer weather, the herb knot he had sown from seed would begin to peep through the earth. He had twined their initials in golden thyme and camomile across a wide bed in the rose garden. If any should ask in times to come, the ‘A’ was for their son, but he and Aragorn could both pick out the second, hidden ‘A’, clasped between their ciphers. It had been right to create a living thing, springing from the ground they served, to signify their commitment, one to the other.

 

Boromir turned back to the room, padded to the side of the bed, and slid under the coverlet to lie on his back staring up at the familiar pattern of stars, rock crystals set into the deep blue of the vaulted ceiling, that glinted dully in the light of a solitary lamp. Aragorn might come to him before morning; like-as-not he would wake alone. As sleep claimed him, King Elessar’s Steward, the Lord Boromir, was listing his tasks for the morrow.

 

 

Comments

[mooms.livejournal.com]

What a pleasure to get up this morning and read the second part of this story.I love your Boromir and the way that his concern and love for his own son,

In the early morning light, Boromir knelt before Arin in the solar and re-tied the tapes at the neck of his shirt, before fixing the clasps of the leather vest, lined with shearling lamb like the new boots. In order to plough the whole field in a day they must needs start early and Boromir was not minded to have the child take a chill.

is reflected in his compassion for the lost children and his need to lay them to rest. Your description are, as always rich and evocative and the little details, like Aragorn packing his shirt, so that Boromir can feel close to him are beautiful touches.

Thank you.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thanks for reading and feeding back. I'm glad the story worked for you. I was concious that this one might be slightly unusual in that it didn't end on a 'high', for good or ill, but anchored the lovers within the everyday continuum of their lives, in which their time together would be all the more precious. (However, the next part of their story arc, 'Entwine' does improve their situation.)

[lab-jazz.livejournal.com]

Wonderful story, so full of detail...so believable. I love your writing.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thankyou very much for reading it and for your kind feedback. I enjoy working on these stories immensely.

[govi20.livejournal.com]

You should be writing books. When you ever do I'll be the first one to buy it. Another great story written by you and I hope there'll be much more to come. Thank you so much for posting this.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much for reading and for your kind encouragement. I enjoy working with the characters and hope that the bunnies will carry on arriving at the door, carpet bags in hand, for good and aye.

[fawsley.livejournal.com]

This is so beautiful, an incredibly special story telling us truths about life and love and land. Like all your stories, it has a mythic quality - I think that's why I love your writing so much, because it truly touches the soul, something very few writers ever manage to do. Thank you.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thank you for reading and feeding back so kindly. I was trying for a sense of an attachment to the land that went beyond simple ownership to say something about men as temporary guardians at best...anyway I'm glad that it spoke to you.

[brigantine.livejournal.com]

As he stood there, Boromir felt his heart ache for the lovers whose forbidden coupling had begun the sorrow and salt tears stung his cheeks for the babe whose cries had gone unanswered, except by cold earth.

Love this, knowing that Boromir feels these things from both the perspective of a father and a mother.

'Course I adore the whole story, and that extra bit of folklore and magic, the way Boromir is connected so deeply to the land, and how well this new story of old magic fits within Tolkien's world. It makes sense for Boromir's character, really; he tends to go with his feelings, just let them guide him, without spending a lot of time thinking everything through, so it makes sense for the land to be able to reach him on that level. Gah, I'm babbling.

But I'll add that the part where Boromir kneels naked in the fresh earth and offres his seed, that's such a neat combination of sexy and magical and the purely practical. So, um, yeah, I liked it a lot. ;D

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

I think you're absolutely right about Boromir. He 'feels' sometimes more than he can control and more than others imagine of him. It is Aragorn who goes off and looks up the old rituals in written accounts and his life in many ways is bound more by the exact detail of what happened in the past. Boromir's engagement is both more instinctive and rooted in the popular understanding of the ritual, even if that has changed/evolved over the ages.

Glad that you liked it and thanks for feeding back.

[shalom]

The relationships you tie in pairs and to each other are complex and beautiful. Boromir to his lover, Boromir to the land, the dead children to the land, Boromir to his living child, even the leap back to the three of them to the herbs that will spring from the ground in the future. All of this painted within the bounds of another wonderful story.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Many thanks for reading it and for your kind feedback. It became a tale in which the connections between things, both seen and unseen, were important. Glad that it worked for you.

[halszka.livejournal.com]

Another absolutely wonderful part of Boromir's live. I do love specially when you write about that sweet moment when he care for his baby. I'm always deeply touched by that.
I hope that you will write more. As you write more about missing moment, I thought about time when Boromir was pregnant and lived within Beorning. They seems care for him and baby so why he abandon safe place like that and traveled with a little child? What's happen there that he decide move on? It couldn't be very harsh reason because he came back looking for help. It will be nice could read more about that AU , and of course about that "other" part too.
Thank you for that beautiful story once again.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much for reading it and feeding back. Your kind encouragement is much appreciated. I think that Boromir makes a very practical parent - none too keen to surround his boy with servants. You ask some interesting questions about the Beorning. I don't know when I might look back to that time, but I will certainly remember you queries if I do.