FIC: Trusting to Hope
Nov. 6th, 2008 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splix[Reposted because the original version was awry. Apologies.]
Title: Trusting to Hope
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
splix
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Strong dubious consent.
Feedback: Most welcome.
Disclaimers: All recognizable characters belong to the Tolkien estate.
Summary: At times one must rely on the kindness of strangers.
Thanks: Tokimberlite for friendship and excellent beta.
Notes: Written forcaras_galadhon for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sons_of_gondor Trick-Or-Treat fic exchange.
*
Eleven days have passed since Boromir was taken captive by the Haradrim. As the guardsmen propel him through the city gates, he staggers, weak from hunger, discomfort, and exhaustion. The company of men laugh and jeer; one shoves him forward with a curse. Boromir rights himself, fixing his nearest tormenter with a glare so full of searing rage that the man hesitates before backhanding Boromir across the temple. He falls awkwardly, his natural grace hampered by the ropes binding his wrists and upper arms, and lands on his knees. The pain is intense, but he refuses to cry out.
A hand grasps his elbow and hauls him upward. "On your feet, Gondorian dog." The voice is guttural, scarcely understandable. "Not far to go now."
Dust and sweat sting Boromir's eyes. The bare soles of his feet are burning from the sun-baked earthen road. His wrists and shoulders are pinpoints of agony. The corners of his mouth are raw and bleeding from the impromptu bridle fashioned from a stick and some cleverly wrapped rope, forced into his mouth to prevent him from biting. He has endured eleven days of fast and brutal travel, compelled to quick-march alongside the captain's horse, and ten near-sleepless nights bound hand and foot to stakes pounded into the ground, his naked body tormented by insects and the harsh earth. He has survived on crusts of dry bread, the only food his kidnappers have allowed him, and scarcely enough water to slake his thirst.
But a son of Gondor does not break so easily. Whatever they have planned for him, the Haradrim will find that out quickly enough.
*
The city is unlike any Boromir has seen in his travels, enough that he gapes in undisguised curiosity, nearly forgetting he is a prisoner. On all sides are open tents and booths in endless rows, teeming with people and animals. There are tables heaped with wares -- vividly hued fruits and vegetables, hand tools, bales of fabric, sweetmeats, jeweled ornaments, casks of wine and ale, gleaming swords, daggers, and scythes. Vendors call to passersby, extolling the superiority of their goods, beckoning and shouting at the tops of their lungs. Potential buyers examine the offerings, sneer, haggle, and outshout the sellers. Peculiar, long-necked pack animals screech in peevish dislike of their noisy surroundings. Tethered cattle bawl at the stray dogs that nip at their ankles. Mingled odors of roasting meat, animal ordure, dust, and a hot spiced wind rise to Boromir's nostrils, simultaneously alluring and offensive. Stunned by the din, he blinks sweat from his eyes. It seems an illusion, this profusion of commerce shimmering in the sweltering heat.
Further along, they approach what can only be a slave market. Several forlorn figures, naked, collared and chained, stand in mute resignation atop a waist-high platform. Most are dark, with eyes like black jewels. Haradrim they must be, hapless victims of tribal warfare. A few, though, are fair-skinned, with pale eyes. They have the look of his countrymen. Fury sends a shudder through Boromir's frame to see his people treated thus. As they pass, a young man raises his eyes to meet Boromir's, his gaze full of unhappiness and unexpected sympathy. His hair is soft, full, tinged with red, like Faramir's.
Thus far Boromir has kept his wits about him. Time and again he attempted escape, confident that the Haradrim would grow careless. He has ignored the beatings received in punishment for his attempts. He has counseled himself into a state of alertness liberally seasoned with anger and outrage, and has managed to ignore the tiny coiled serpent of fear in his belly. Now it leaps up and strikes as he realizes the truth of his predicament. He is as helpless as the boy on the platform. Despite his valiant efforts, escape has proved impossible. Rescue seems unlikely, for he was riding alone and far from home when he was taken, and the Haradrim likely had several days' start on any rescue party. He speaks only a few words of the language of Harad, and even were he to escape, he would surely find little aid in this strange land. He is alone, and for the first time since his capture, he is frightened.
One of his guards shoves him forward, and he stumbles again. Enough, he decides, his hands curling in equal defiance and humiliation. If they persist in treating him like an animal, he will behave like an animal. He hurls his body against the guard who has shoved him, knocking the startled man to the ground. He kicks out, ignoring the pain as his bare foot slams against an armored chest. His aim is somewhat truer on the next strike; his heel strikes squarely between the man's legs, and there is a satisfying wail of agony from the supine figure on the ground.
There is little time to savor his victory, for the other guards have recovered their wits. They attack him from all sides, bringing him down with repeated blows from their heavy spears. Boromir crumples, huddling to protect himself from the worst of their assault. But he swears to himself that he will die before he screams; he bites hard on the stick and tears stream from his eyes as cuffs and kicks rain down on him, but he does not make a sound. At last the blows cease; once more he is yanked to his feet. The captain of the guard rides close and seizes the rope lead of the makeshift bridle, forcing Boromir's head up. Boromir snarls viciously, but the captain only laughs.
"Brave boy," the captain remarks, then ruffles Boromir's hair as if he were an unruly puppy. He prods Boromir into movement with his foot. "Walk."
Boromir has little strength and courage to spare; he needs it for whatever awaits him next. He takes a last look at the boy on the platform. A man is touching him with ruthless intimacy, examining him with no pretense to gentleness. The boy bears it with closed eyes and a straight back, but there is no hope in his steadfast stillness. That will not be my fate, Boromir vows, but fear has begun to constrict his heart, slow and relentless and impervious to reason.
*
The city is set on a plain below barren blue mountains that are too far to offer any respite from the suffocating heat. As the sun ascends to its zenith, Boromir's steps become slow, his feet dragging in the dust. Only the sharp prodding from his captors' spears keeps him upright. At last they stop before a massive structure with high white walls and a domed roof, surrounded by four narrow turrets, soaring white stone needles gleaming in the sunlight. The gates open, and Boromir is pushed inside.
Masses of color and twisting shapes pass in a blur as he is pushed ever onward: tall, broad-leafed green plants with huge blossoms of vehement scarlet and pink, strange, fern-like trees with thick trunks, expanses of tile as blue as a twilight sky, elaborately scrolled bronze grills covering arched windows, huge urns covered with curling, strangely voluptuous designs, and painted in the shades of a winter sunset. In the center of a courtyard, a small ornamental fountain of intricately worked bronze and gold bubbles with clear water. Parched, Boromir moves toward it instinctively, but the guards force him away, mocking his obvious discomfort. A group of women, painted, bejeweled, gowned in brilliant gauzy fabrics scatter as he draws near, chattering in high, soft voices. Two or three watch him with frank interest, their dark eyes, rimmed in a sooty black cosmetic, flicking up and down his naked body. For the first time Boromir feels the shame his captors had obviously intended when they stripped him. It is indecent to be paraded thus, particularly before women, even if they are Haradrim women.
Finally they stop before a heavy wooden door. It opens with a groan, and Boromir is led down a long, dim corridor faced with identical doors. He is forced to stop before one of the doors, and a guard opens it with a taunting bow. Boromir's hands are unbound. He is pushed into a tiny round room and sent sprawling onto the stone floor. Before he can turn to fight, the door is slammed shut and barred, leaving him alone in almost total darkness and unsettling silence.
It is, at the very least, blessedly cool. Boromir flexes and rubs his numbed hands, then struggles to tear the bridle from his mouth. A groan escapes him as it is freed, and he throws it against the wall with an oath. Anger swells inside him once more, and he staggers toward the door and pounds until his hands are raw and bleeding and his voice is ragged from his curses and screams.
No reply meets his pounding and imprecations; at last he slides to the floor, exhausted. The Haradrim will pay for visiting these indignities upon him. When he returns to Gondor, he will urge his father to show no mercy to those who have abused him.
When he returns...say rather if he returns. For how is he ever to escape this place?
It is too unnerving a thought to contemplate for long. He curls on his side and collapses into a fitful sleep.
*
Boromir awakens to the touch of gentle hands, the soft caress of silken blankets. Comfortable for the first time in almost a fortnight, he sighs and stretches his limbs, then is jolted to awareness by the unyielding bite of metal. Blinking, he stares at his hands, manacled to a chain fastened around his waist. He surges up and is pressed down by two women on either side of his low pallet. Scowling, he strives to free himself from their grasp, and is stilled by a spear point placed directly over his heart. A guard the height and width of a tree smiles down at him, his expression tinged with menace. Boromir is calculating the possibility of disarming the guard when another moves into view, brandishing a short curved sword. Sighing, Boromir relaxes, not in the least placated by the smiling women who pat him soothingly and urge him to sit up. He observes that the sweat and grime have been cleansed from his body, and when he moves, he can discern a faint fragrance like nard. It is no unpleasant thing to be clean, he admits silently, but he would trade it in the blink of an eye for a chance at freedom.
His wariness and frustration dissolve at the sight of another woman bearing a tray laden with food and -- Eru be praised -- a goblet brimming with water. He seizes the goblet with trembling hands and drinks greedily, protesting when one of the women takes it away. Before one of his guards can threaten him, the woman frowns, shakes her head, and mimes stomach cramps. Boromir understands, and allows her to scoop a spoonful of grains and shredded meat into his mouth. It is spiced with something that stings his tongue, but he would swear he has never tasted anything so delectable in his life. He forces himself to eat and drink slowly as the women nod approval. When he is finished, the women blot his mouth with a clean cloth and pat his sunburned shoulders with marked gentleness. They are firm but kindly, much like the nurses who helped raise him and Faramir after his own mother's death. It is the first merciful treatment he has received since his capture, and Boromir cannot prevent a shy smile and a nod of gratitude. "My thanks to you," he murmurs.
His words prompt broad smiles and more caresses intermingled with soft words in their own language. The older of the two pats his stomach as if he were a child. The food fills the empty space inside him with authority and makes him feel stronger, less a prisoner. It is a small but significant reprieve from his misery.
The kindness, perhaps predictably, does not last long. Before he has a chance to truly relax, or perhaps gather his wits to fight again, the guards seize his arms and haul him from the pallet and into a long, tiled hallway. Boromir allows them to drag him, fixing his gaze on the long row of blue and white pointed arches that seem to float into infinity. The floor beneath his feet is blue and white, and glass-like in texture. The walls are white stone; at intervals they are carved with swirling patterns of incredible delicacy, like rigid lace. There is no question but that this is the city's most splendid structure, even if it lacks the chill grandeur of the House of Stewards.
At length the journey ends before a pair of gilt doors. Attendants open them, and Boromir is dragged inside and thrown to the floor. He receives a confused impression of a room hung with rich tapestries in crimson, black and shining gold before he realizes that he is lying at someone's feet. He rises, clinging to his dignity, and meets the haughty gaze of a thin, dark man, magnificently arrayed in Haradrim fashion: dark robes, though the fabric is far more sumptuous than any he has seen, and a headdress caught by a narrow band of flexible gold scales in the shape of a serpent. Gold snakes likewise encircle his wrists and his narrow throat, and behind his chair is a large red standard bearing the image of a black serpent. A half score of men sit in a semi-circle around him, their garb not as rich, nor their postures as arrogant. It is clear now that this man is, if not a king, then a most powerful chieftain.
"Welcome." His accent is that of Harad, but the language is the Common Speech, perfectly understandable.
Boromir draws himself up to his full height. He is no grovelling slave, nor ever will be. He is a son of Stewards, even if he has not said so to his captors, and he will behave accordingly. "If this is a welcome, I should hate to see a display of hostility."
The man laughs softly; his councillors, if that is their function, follow suit. "A barb aimed true, son of Gondor. But tell me, would you have come quietly?"
A disdainful snort is Boromir's only reply.
"You are a great prize," the chieftain continues.
"And how is that?"
"Let us not waste time dissembling," the chieftain says. "I am Dhâran-sar, ruling governor of this region. And you are Boromir, son of Denethor."
"You are mistaken," Boromir retorts. "My name is Hador. My father's name is Tarondor." His heart sinks, though he maintains his external poise. It is a gamble. He was far from home when he was captured; his vambraces and saddle bore the herald of the White Tree, but his captors threw his garments in the river Harnen without examining them. Perhaps there is yet a means of bluffing his way out of this predicament. "If you hoped to gain ransom, you will be sorely disappointed. My father is a tanner. He is far from wealthy."
Dhâran-sar frowns. "A tanner, you say."
"Yes." Let them not ask him about the trade. All he knows is that it involves animal dung and takes some time.
"Strange, then, that this was taken from one of the party that tracked you." Dhâran-sar holds up a saddlebag emblazoned with the White Tree. Moreover, it bears the distinctive mark of the house of Stewards.
Boromir tries to hold himself still as he recognizes Faramir's saddlebag. He manages a shrug and attempts to sound indifferent. "It's nothing to me."
"No? Does it not belong to your younger brother, Faramir?"
Longing to weep, or better still, to fling himself at the chieftain and strangle him, Boromir frowns. "I have no brother."
"Not any longer, eh?" Dhâran-sar turns to the guard standing sentry at the door. "Bring the prisoner's head."
Unbidden tears spring to Boromir's eyes, and he clenches his fists. "No!" He surges toward the chieftain, but the two guards on either side haul him back effortlessly and force him to his knees. Boromir fights them. "If you've harmed him --"
"Peace, Steward's son," Dhâran-sar replies, lifting a hand. "Your brother is not our captive. We tried to take him -- he led a search party for you -- but he proved more wily than his older brother, and escaped with his life and freedom. A pity. Taking both brothers would have been most desirable. As it is, we have the heir. That is well."
"If you kill me, my father's rage will exceed the limits of your imagining." Boromir lifts his chin, unmindful that he is still on his knees. His voice drips scorn to disguise its tremor. Though burning with shame at having succumbed to trickery, he is relieved that Faramir is safe. "Know that when the news of my death reaches him, he will not rest until you are dead also."
"Such pride. So like your father's." Dhâran-sar smiles gently. "It is not your death I seek, boy. No. A message for Denethor has been sent to Minas Tirith. I want the river Harnen, and twenty leagues on either side. I want the sea-havens in our control once more. If we are granted that, then you may return to your home -- relatively unscathed."
Boromir flushes in anger. He, the son of the Steward, a mere bargaining chip in a land dispute! Such dire affronts are not to be borne. He is still on his knees, but he directs a ferocious stare at Dhâran-sar, then spits on the floor. "That is what I think of your message, barbarian. You may be assured that my father will not bargain with the likes of you."
Dhâran-sar is still, though the flesh around his mouth and nose grow white. "Then it is fortunate that he has two sons, for if he fails to cooperate, you shall die." Dhâran-sar rises to his feet. "To insult me is a grave matter. To insult me before my guests...unpardonable. I would kill you now if I could." He gestures to the guards. "Take him back to his cell and administer the whip twoscore times. Then perhaps he may reflect more soberly upon his plight, and reconsider his conduct."
*
Dhâran-sar is as good as his word. Back in the small room, Boromir's manacled hands are dragged up and bound to a rafter. Then a guard, tall and burly, with arms as thick as Boromir's thigh, draws out a lash. Boromir closes his eyes at a sharp snap, then gasps as fire claws deeply into his back. The lashes fall like burning rain, and by the twentieth strike, Boromir cannot contain his cries. By the thirtieth strike, the pain has driven him to merciful oblivion.
*
He awakens to find himself lying on a thin pallet on the floor. He is on his belly, and when he shifts, the movement tears a shuddering groan of pain from his chest.
"Hush now. Lie still."
A fine idea, Boromir decides. He moans again, writhing as gentle fingers probe a lash mark.
"Be still," the voice commands softly. "I will try to hurt you as little as possible."
Boromir turns his head to see who addresses him. There is only dim light -- a single stub of candle in a clay dish on the floor. Nonetheless, he can distinguish a man garbed in the robes and headdress of a Haradrim guard. "Leave me," he rasps.
"Silence."
"I'll not accept treacherous kindnesses from a Haradrim dog." He would strike at the man, but he hurts too much to move.
The guard chuckles. "Are all your words so ill-chosen, my lord?"
"Go and rot." Boromir gasps as something wonderfully cool and soothing touches his back, a salve or unguent. A fragrance of herbs drifts upward.
"You will need to school yourself in diplomacy if you are ever to become Steward," the guard says equably.
"Thanks to your master, I'll likely never see that day."
"I would not despair just yet, young Boromir."
Boromir feels his strength returning, and his anger. "No? Have you ever been torn from your home to find yourself in the midst of strangers? Has your life ever been threatened by a hostile enemy before?"
The guard is silent a moment, though he continues to apply the salve to Boromir's wounds. His touch is deft and light. At last he speaks slowly, and his voice is soft and as soothing as the cooling herbs. "I know what it is to be alone and frightened."
"I'm not frightened." The denial is perhaps a little too vehement. Boromir rests his forehead on his arms, unable to prevent an overwhelming sensation of helplessness and abandonment. What if his father will not bargain? What if all rescue attempts fail? "Why are you healing me? Do you want me at full strength to torture again?" The question hangs in the dark air as the guard begins to gather up the tools of his craft. Boromir squeezes his eyes shut against the threat of tears. He has not wept since he was a child; he will not weep now. He attempts to swallow past a choking tightness in his throat. A peculiar, gulping hiccup escapes him. Unexpectedly, he feels a hand on his head, smoothing his hair as if he were a child. Wet-eyed, he looks up and briefly meets the guard's steady gaze. "Why...why are you being kind to me?"
The guard extinguishes the candle and stands abruptly, indiscernible in the darkness. "You must not succumb to fear, my lord. Save your strength. All is not yet lost." He moves to the door, surefooted and swift, and exits the tiny cell.
Boromir is alone once more, but strangely, he is comforted by the guard's words.
*
Days pass; a fortnight, perhaps more. The cuts and welts on Boromir's back begin to heal, thanks to the unguents the Haradrim guard applied. The same man brings his meager food and silently assesses his physical condition, though they do not speak again. A second guard accompanies the first at all times, and Boromir, sensing that the first guard exceeded his duties healing him, does not attempt conversation.
He is not summoned to the throne room again, nor is news brought to him of Denethor's acceptance or refusal of the bargain. He attempts to remain alert for any opportunity to escape, but none presents itself. Faced with days of enforced idleness, his anxiety and fear alchemize into boredom, then lethargy. The guard's words of caution cease to have meaning. His life becomes dreary, exitless vigil.
*
At length Boromir is roused from his torpor by soldiers who manacle his hands and escort him back to the throne room. Dhâran-sar sits in silence, once more surrounded by courtiers. There are many more people present, including several bejeweled and gowned ladies, all of whom stare with curiosity at the bound prisoner brought into their midst. At a nod, Boromir is forced to his knees. It takes all his strength to refrain from spewing the vilest curses. He settles for leveling a glare of smoldering contempt at Dhâran-sar, whose face is strangely pale, like the carved stone walls of his palace.
Dhâran-sar brandishes a scroll. "I have received word from your father." A muscle works in his cheek. "You were correct, boy. He will not bargain."
Boromir feels his heart drop into his stomach, but he speaks with studied disdain. "Did I not warn you? Now you will face the wrath of Gondor's armies."
"Armies!" Dhâran-sar laughs. "He will not send armies. No, he has sent rescue parties -- three separate expeditions. All were easily identified, and easily apprehended. Oh, they were not in Gondorian garb -- not even you northlanders are so stupid -- but it was a poor job of masquerade nonetheless. Shall I show you their heads?"
It is becoming increasingly difficult to feign nonchalance. "He will send armies," Boromir insists. "You have made a grave error."
"No. Denethor has. Now he will pay. You shall die, son of the Steward, as I promised. But before you do, you shall be violated before this very court. This will take place every day for twenty days, to mark the twenty days I have waited for a reply. When he receives your body, he will know without a doubt that your honor has been thoroughly defiled." Dhâran-sar claps his hands twice. Another door opens; in steps a man who seems twice Boromir's height. His bronzed flesh is bulging with muscle and heavily oiled, gleaming in the light of the many torches that line the walls. Strange designs of black, red, and ochre decorate his face and bald head. He is naked save for a pleated loincloth. Stopping beside Dhâran-sar's throne, he bows, then folds his arms and gazes at Boromir with amusement.
"I will not soil myself by touching you," Dhâran-sar continues. "Dalamyr will do this in my stead." He nods to the guards. "Bind him between the columns."
Boromir has been silent, frozen. The pervasive sensations of isolation and helplessness have returned. There is no way to save himself, and no one to save him. Even if his father should send all the armies of Gondor after him, they could not prevent what is about to happen to him. Now as the guards take hold of his arms and pull him toward the columns, he begins to fight, twisting and squirming to free himself, kicking at his jailers, screaming oaths and insults. They belabor him with gloved fists; blood spurts from his nose and trickles into his mouth. Another blow splits the skin on his forehead. More blood stings his eyes. His feet and shins are bruised from hammering against armor, but he does not feel it. He knows only blind, abandoned panic.
One soldier places a booted foot on Boromir's throat, pinning him to the floor. The others grasp his ankles and pull his legs apart. With stout silken cord they lash his ankles to smooth stone columns. He is widely spread, the floor cold against his naked back, his nether regions on display for the amusement and mockery of the court. He blinks at the blood and tears in his eyes and bites his lip. He will not cry out for these savages.
The guard pinning his neck steps away; there is little Boromir can do to help himself with his hands manacled behind him and his legs bound. He rises painfully on his elbows and watches as the giant, Dalamyr, strips off his loincloth. Boromir turns his face away. It is all too clear why this man has been chosen for the deed.
Let it be quick, Boromir prays as the man approaches, though he knows in his heart that it will be anything but.
"My lord." A voice rings out in the silent throne room. There is a shocked murmur, and rustling as the courtiers turn this way and that to see who has dared to disrupt the proceedings.
"Who speaks?" Dhâran-sar demands.
A man steps out of the crowd. He is richly if soberly clad. His robes are a dark, bosky green; corded silver adorns his waist and black headdress. He trades a glance with Boromir. His eyes, ringed with the now-familiar black cosmetic, are startling grey against his dark skin. He bows to Dhâran-sar and addresses him with respect. "My lord, it is not seemly that you should do this."
"Not seemly? You forget yourself, Hidâr."
"My most abject apologies, my lord. I think only of your honor. If you do this, there may be retaliation. If the soldiers of Gondor should lay hands on one of your wives...or children..." He gestures toward Boromir without looking at him. "If you have him violated, my lord, you will arouse their most bitter enmity. Denethor is not a man to cross unwisely."
"You think me foolish?" Dhâran-sar's reply is so soft as to be scarcely audible.
"I have not said thus, my lord. I only say that this boy is not worth the trouble he may cause you. Kill him if you must, but do not taint yourself by ordering him defiled." The crowd murmurs again, stunned by the man's effrontery.
Mottled red stains Dhâran-sar's gaunt cheeks. "Hidâr," he murmurs, "you are a guest in my house. I advise you to tread with caution."
Hidâr places his fingertips together and bows again. "It is not my intention to anger you. As my lord well knows, I have dealings with Gondor. It is no soft-hearted enemy."
Dhâran-sar rises to his feet and glides toward the columns where Boromir is bound. He observes his captive's trembling body and turns to the man who has addressed him. "Your concern for my honor is noted, Hidâr. I will not have Dalamyr violate him."
Hidâr nods. "A most wise decision, my lord."
"You shall do it instead."
The man freezes. He darts a swift look at Boromir, then looks away, clearly uncertain. "My lord?"
"Did you not hear me?"
"But my lord...he is...whether Dalamyr violates him or I do, the effect is the same. Your family --"
"I have sense enough to guard my family well. Unlike Denethor." A thin smile creeps over Dhâran-sar's face. "I am not interested in initiating peace with Gondor. And you will learn the value of silence. Do it. Now." He gestures to the guards, who point their spears at Hidâr. One tears the man's outer robe off and throws it to the floor.
Boromir raises his head slightly as Hidâr approaches, prodded forward at spearpoint. He is too frightened to struggle or scream. Nothing has changed, except perhaps that he might not be -- at first -- as brutally torn. He watches the man kneel between his legs. The weight of his body presses against Boromir's chest; he feels the tickle of a bearded chin against his ear, and hears a whisper.
"Remember what I told you, young Boromir. Do not succumb to fear." Before Boromir can draw a breath, Hidâr presses hard fingers against his mouth, silencing him.
It is the guard -- the one who healed him! How can this be? Shocked, he can only stare as the man draws a warning finger over Boromir's lips. Is it a spy, someone his father has sent to rescue him? He scrutinizes Hidâr's sharp features, forgetting to be afraid. He does not know him, nor has he ever seen him before. Dhâran-sar knows him well -- thus, he must not be Gondorian. A thousand questions spring forth; he chokes them back with difficulty, then gasps. Hidâr has curled a hand round Boromir's sex and is stroking the tip with his thumb. Despite his fear, he finds himself instantly aroused, then horrified and shamed. He struggles beneath the man, but Hidâr holds him fast and bends to whisper in his ear once more.
"Trust me."
Trust him? An hysterical laugh rises in Boromir's throat. Merciful Eru, has he any choice in the matter? "Who are you?" he asks as quietly as he can.
"Hush. Close your eyes. I won't hurt you."
Almost against his will, Boromir obeys. This mysterious stranger has showed him kindness, the only guard in Harad to do so -- though it is clear now he is no guardsman. A gentle caress touches his hair, soothing him, even though he is still naked and about to be raped before a roomful of strange enemies. The thought makes him shiver afresh, and the sharp, unwilling desire that coursed through him before diminishes a-sudden. "Please -- please don't do this."
Hidâr plants a gentle kiss against Boromir's neck. "It is not my choice. But better me than that giant brute. I, at least, can make this somewhat pleasurable for you. I promise you that --"
"Enough murmuring!" Dhâran-sar snaps impatiently. "You are not deflowering a virgin girl. Take him!"
Boromir opens his eyes. He stares at the strong column of Hidâr's throat. Though he cannot see them, he knows the court is watching with greedy amusement. And this, he knows, is only the beginning. Resigned, he closes his eyes once more. "Do it."
"Forgive me."
Boromir hears Hidâr fumbling with his clothing, then feels callused hands slide beneath his backside. A shudder courses through him as Hidâr pushes himself inside and begins to thrust against him.
The man is not fully aroused; it makes things more difficult, but there is a strange comfort in the knowledge nonetheless. Boromir is no virgin, and that too is a comfort; otherwise there might be more pain, as well as the humiliation of knowing his first penetration took place on the floor of a Haradrim palace in sight of a hundred people. Boromir grits his teeth, concentrating on the feel of the cold floor beneath him as he is shoved to and fro. The sensation makes him slightly seasick.
All at once Hidâr sags atop him, then rises slowly. Boromir opens his eyes to see the man fastening his clothes, then bowing to Dhâran-sar. "I trust that has sufficed to entertain, my lord."
"Are young men not to your taste, Hidâr? Or are you simply unable to perform altogether?" The court laughs.
"Rape is not to my taste."
Dhâran-sar's kohled eyes narrow. "You have leave to go -- permanently. Count yourself fortunate that I do not have your head severed." He gestures to the guards at the door. "See that he collects his belongings and departs with all speed."
Boromir watches in despair as the man bows and leaves without so much as a glance at him. If that man was his last hope --
"Take this pup back to his cell." Dhâran-sar's voice interrupts his thoughts. His face is as dark as a thundercloud; he seems vexed, or disappointed. "Tomorrow matters will not go as well for you, Steward's son."
*
The scrape of metal against metal arouses Boromir from an uneasy slumber. He sits upright as the door swings open and a figure steals into his cell. Puzzled, he strains to see in the dimness. Only one person -- no additional guards bearing arms and torches. It is the first time such has occurred. All exhaustion leaves his body as he prepares to spring at the intruder. A hard hand grasps his arm, startling him.
"Boromir -- it's Hidâr. Come -- put these on."
Clothes are pressed into Boromir's hands. Finally, he understands -- Hidâr has come to free him. "Who are you? Has my father sent you?"
"No time for questions now. Hurry!"
Galvanized by elation and hope, Boromir hastens into the clothes, assisted by Hidâr -- far less gentle than he was while in the throne room. A long tunic, breeches, woven sandals, and a headdress, and he is ready. They exit, and Hidâr closes the cell door. Swiftly and noiselessly, they hurry through darkened corridor after darkened corridor until they reach cool night air. Boromir breathes deeply, not troubling to wonder why their escape was so easily accomplished, or why no guards seem to be patrolling the palace's perimeter.
A horse awaits them, tethered to a window grill. "Up -- get up," Hidâr urges, and Boromir obeys, still too stunned to question the man's orders. Hidâr frees the animal, climbs up, and reaches around Boromir to seize the reins. Soon they are galloping through the city gates, guided by starlight, the cold desert wind whipping past their faces.
Boromir is free.
*
Nine days have passed, and Boromir knows little more about Hidâr than when he first set eyes upon him. He knows, at least, that the man's name is not Hidâr, though what his true name might be is a mystery. Call me Estel, the man said in answer to his persistent questions, on the first morning they stopped to rest the horse and themselves. He handed Boromir a blanket. Sleep, Boromir.
What about you? Boromir asked, watching the man as he removed a necklace, several bracelets, and silver loops from his ears and stuffed them absently into a pocket. A piece of jewelry remained, however -- a silver ring, studded with blazing green. You must be exhausted.
I am. Estel smiled at him. But someone must keep first watch. Do not worry.
But you must tell me -- how did you know I was imprisoned? Did you follow me from Gondor? Did my father --
Is it not enough that you are safe? Trust me, Boromir. Sleep.
Estel is kind to him, if so quiet that he unnerves Boromir slightly. He tends the not fully healed whip marks on Boromir's back, and feeds his charge well, skillfully cooking his catches, the small deer that graze in the northernmost plains. Boromir eats heartily after weeks of bread and water. Estel seems not to sleep at all; he keeps vigilant watch against Haradrim soldiers. Twice they have eluded recapture thanks to his quick thinking. He knows the byways of Harad well; they keep to little-used trails and move steadily north. Their progress is swift, even with frequent stops to rest the horse; the journey into Harad was slower, for all but the guard-captain were on foot. Soon, in another night or two, perhaps, they will reach the borders of Gondor.
*
"I got him!" Boromir exults as the small deer thuds to the ground.
Estel laughs quietly. "A clean hit. Very good. Your aim is improving."
"I have never bothered to perfect it," Boromir admits. "Faramir is the archer in the family. You should see him -- he's a master with the bow." He feels a glow at seeing his brother again. He is eager to introduce Estel to Faramir; there is a serenity in the man's demeanor that he senses will appeal to his younger brother. Boromir wonders at that; Estel cannot be more than ten years Boromir's senior, but he has the composure of a much older man. And the maddening habit of deftly eluding probing questions. "I will have him demonstrate his skill for you. He'll show me for the poor shot I am."
"It is an admirable thing to see a brother so devoted."
Boromir grins. "I've given him his fair share of thrashings, too. Have you a brother?"
"Two foster brothers. I have not seen them in many years."
Boromir's eyes cloud over at the thought of being parted from Faramir. "You must miss them."
"I do." Estel pulls a skinning knife from its sheath and strides toward the dead animal. "Come and help me clean the beast, please."
*
"The nights are becoming colder," Boromir observes, watching Estel rummage through his pack. "We must be nearly home by now."
"By tomorrow afternoon we shall reach the river." Estel gazes up at the stars, then tosses some tightly rolled cloth to Boromir. "Here -- change your clothing. It's time to stop dressing as Haradrim."
Boromir unrolls the clothing. It does his heart good to see familiar garb. "What shall I do with the old clothing?"
"Burn it."
"With pleasure." He strips swiftly and slides into the new clothing, then tosses the Haradrim garments onto the fire. A movement catches his eye; Estel has come close to the fire and removed his own clothing. He slides into breeches and stockings, then a pair of sturdy boots. He sits for a moment, examining the green Haradrim tunic.
Boromir squints. It is a trick of the firelight, or -- no. Estel's dark skin has decidedly faded. Streaks of brown mar his chest, making him look somewhat badly cooked. "You...your skin."
Estel meets his eyes and chuckles. "It helps me pass in Harad. The dye comes from acorns."
"Are you Gondorian?" Boromir demands. "Tell me! Why do you shroud yourself in secrecy?"
"I am no enemy," Estel replies. "Surely you know that by now." He pulls a tunic over his head and rises, walking away.
Boromir will not have it. He runs after the man and grabs his arm, forcing him around. "Do not walk away from me! I would know who you are, and why you rescued me."
"I owed you a debt."
"What debt?"
"I violated you, young Boromir."
"But earlier -- in my cell. You know me. But I do not know you." He hesitates. "And you must know I do not hold that...that incident against you. You tried to help me."
Rough fingers graze Boromir's cheek. "I would have freed you sooner, had it been in my power."
Boromir feels dizzy. In a fever of impulse, he wraps his arms around Estel's body and kisses him. Surprised, Estel struggles slightly, but Boromir will not let go. He presses harder into the kiss. Gratitude? Starry-eyed adulation? Simple lust? It matters not; this has been building for days, and to deny it would be foolish and false.
Estel finally breaks the kiss. "Stop. Stop, Boromir. You haven't a notion of what you're doing."
"Tell me you do not desire this, and I'll leave you be. You saved my life. Ten days I've traveled with you, watched you, felt you against me. You know me -- I know you do -- and I do not know you at all. And I feel that if I let you go, you'll disappear." Boromir is close to tears and cannot fathom why. To his surprise, Estel gathers him into a gentle embrace, rocking him to and fro. A choked sob leaps from Boromir's throat, and he can no longer contain himself. He weeps in mingled anger, longing, and bewilderment.
Tenderly, Estel guides Boromir to the ground and holds him, stroking his hair and crooning softly into his ear. "Hush now. Hush. You're safe, Boromir. Safe." He kisses Boromir's cheek, then his ear, still rocking him, rubbing circles onto his back.
Boromir turns slightly, and all at once firm lips meet his. Boromir opens his mouth, and in his yielding there is a sweet aggression he has never experienced before. He tastes his own tears and the warmth of Estel's mouth -- glorious -- and slowly, he moves his hands down, pressing Estel to the grass, soft green grass he thought he would never see again.
They are far from the fire, but there is no need of it. Their bodies are heated, their weight and clothing creating delicious friction. At last it is too much to endure. Piece by piece they tear off each other's garments, the clothes they had donned only a short while ago. Wordless, naked, they fondle one another, licking, sucking, now and then pausing to kiss once more.
Boromir kneels behind Estel and places his hands between his thighs, urging them apart, then stops, remembering. Estel strokes Boromir's hair and leans backward into his touch. "All is well," he murmurs. "Come inside me." He turns to kiss Boromir as Boromir enters him, and then thrusts back with surprising force. Boromir moans into his mouth as they move more quickly, then settle into a rhythmic rising and falling.
He cannot get close enough. He wraps his arms about his rescuer and curls his hand round Estel's rigid sex. Estel moans and climaxes with a shudder. The exquisite tightening sensation urges Boromir into frenzy; he thrusts deeper and releases with a cry. They collapse to the cool grass, sticky and sweating. It is some time before either can muster the strength to gather their clothes and crawl toward the warmth of the fire. Once there, they collapse again and sleep.
*
Boromir feels the rim of a cup against his lips and opens his mouth gratefully. The water is slightly bitter, but he drinks nonetheless; he is parched. Still groggy, he grasps Estel's hand and pulls him close. Estel obligingly curls against Boromir's body and kisses his ear.
"Still don't know why you saved me," Boromir mumbles.
There is silence. Then Estel drapes an arm round Boromir's body, drawing him nearer. "I saw you born. I could not see you die."
It makes no sense, but Boromir is too exhausted to question him. He falls into a deep, restful slumber.
*
"My lord?"
There is firelight in his eyes. He blinks, then covers his eyes with his arm.
"Lord Boromir?"
Slowly, Boromir lifts his arm, blinking past the glare of a torch. The face of a soldier -- Gondorian, not Haradrim -- swims into focus. He frowns.
"By all the -- it is you!" The soldier whoops and shouts. "It's Lord Boromir!" He turns and calls to his compatriots on the far side of a river. "He lives!" There is an answering cheer.
Boromir allows himself to be pulled up, then looks around. He is on the Harad bank of the river Harnen. The smell of water rises to his nostrils -- a delicious smell. He saw no rivers in deepest Harad. He stares blankly at the soldier -- the face is familiar, but the name eludes him. "What's happening?"
"I was patrolling, my lord, and there was a man leading a horse --" The soldier's words tumble out excitedly, and gradually Boromir makes sense of them. The man -- Estel -- was headed north to the riverbank, carrying an unconscious Boromir slung over the horse's saddle. Upon seeing the soldier, he gave Boromir into his care, saying he'd found him lying insensible on the roadside.
"Where is he now?" Boromir cries, leaping up and staggering forward.
"Why, he's gone, my lord. Steady on there!" He grasps Boromir's arm to keep him from falling. "Said he had pressing business elsewhere."
Boromir staggers another step, realizing that his unsteadiness is not from exhaustion. Estel has drugged him, the more easily to abandon him. "Wretch," he mutters. Unbidden tears sting his eyes.
"I don't know, my lord. Seems to me he saved your life -- you must have been wandering for days before he found you. How you escaped from the Haradrim -- well, I'll wager it's quite a tale, eh?"
"Yes," Boromir replies. "Quite a tale."
"Lord Denethor will be overjoyed. And young Lord Faramir as well -- they were beside themselves, they were. The army was ready to -- you'll hear about all that soon enough, I expect. Ah, here we are. Come on, my lord."
Boromir allows himself to be helped onto the small skiff that will take him to Gondor. He looks back at the Harad shore, seeking a last trace of his mysterious rescuer. Estel. Was that truly his name, any more than Hidâr? He doubts it. And Boromir knew in his heart, somehow, that he would disappear -- and he has. It is as if he never existed at all.
But he does, for Boromir is alive and well, and headed back into the embrace of his family. And looking up at the familiar stars, the son of Stewards hopes they will meet again some day.
End.
Title: Trusting to Hope
Author:
splixFandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Strong dubious consent.
Feedback: Most welcome.
Disclaimers: All recognizable characters belong to the Tolkien estate.
Summary: At times one must rely on the kindness of strangers.
Thanks: To
kimberlite for friendship and excellent beta.Notes: Written for
caras_galadhon for the sons_of_gondor Trick-Or-Treat fic exchange.*
Eleven days have passed since Boromir was taken captive by the Haradrim. As the guardsmen propel him through the city gates, he staggers, weak from hunger, discomfort, and exhaustion. The company of men laugh and jeer; one shoves him forward with a curse. Boromir rights himself, fixing his nearest tormenter with a glare so full of searing rage that the man hesitates before backhanding Boromir across the temple. He falls awkwardly, his natural grace hampered by the ropes binding his wrists and upper arms, and lands on his knees. The pain is intense, but he refuses to cry out.
A hand grasps his elbow and hauls him upward. "On your feet, Gondorian dog." The voice is guttural, scarcely understandable. "Not far to go now."
Dust and sweat sting Boromir's eyes. The bare soles of his feet are burning from the sun-baked earthen road. His wrists and shoulders are pinpoints of agony. The corners of his mouth are raw and bleeding from the impromptu bridle fashioned from a stick and some cleverly wrapped rope, forced into his mouth to prevent him from biting. He has endured eleven days of fast and brutal travel, compelled to quick-march alongside the captain's horse, and ten near-sleepless nights bound hand and foot to stakes pounded into the ground, his naked body tormented by insects and the harsh earth. He has survived on crusts of dry bread, the only food his kidnappers have allowed him, and scarcely enough water to slake his thirst.
But a son of Gondor does not break so easily. Whatever they have planned for him, the Haradrim will find that out quickly enough.
*
The city is unlike any Boromir has seen in his travels, enough that he gapes in undisguised curiosity, nearly forgetting he is a prisoner. On all sides are open tents and booths in endless rows, teeming with people and animals. There are tables heaped with wares -- vividly hued fruits and vegetables, hand tools, bales of fabric, sweetmeats, jeweled ornaments, casks of wine and ale, gleaming swords, daggers, and scythes. Vendors call to passersby, extolling the superiority of their goods, beckoning and shouting at the tops of their lungs. Potential buyers examine the offerings, sneer, haggle, and outshout the sellers. Peculiar, long-necked pack animals screech in peevish dislike of their noisy surroundings. Tethered cattle bawl at the stray dogs that nip at their ankles. Mingled odors of roasting meat, animal ordure, dust, and a hot spiced wind rise to Boromir's nostrils, simultaneously alluring and offensive. Stunned by the din, he blinks sweat from his eyes. It seems an illusion, this profusion of commerce shimmering in the sweltering heat.
Further along, they approach what can only be a slave market. Several forlorn figures, naked, collared and chained, stand in mute resignation atop a waist-high platform. Most are dark, with eyes like black jewels. Haradrim they must be, hapless victims of tribal warfare. A few, though, are fair-skinned, with pale eyes. They have the look of his countrymen. Fury sends a shudder through Boromir's frame to see his people treated thus. As they pass, a young man raises his eyes to meet Boromir's, his gaze full of unhappiness and unexpected sympathy. His hair is soft, full, tinged with red, like Faramir's.
Thus far Boromir has kept his wits about him. Time and again he attempted escape, confident that the Haradrim would grow careless. He has ignored the beatings received in punishment for his attempts. He has counseled himself into a state of alertness liberally seasoned with anger and outrage, and has managed to ignore the tiny coiled serpent of fear in his belly. Now it leaps up and strikes as he realizes the truth of his predicament. He is as helpless as the boy on the platform. Despite his valiant efforts, escape has proved impossible. Rescue seems unlikely, for he was riding alone and far from home when he was taken, and the Haradrim likely had several days' start on any rescue party. He speaks only a few words of the language of Harad, and even were he to escape, he would surely find little aid in this strange land. He is alone, and for the first time since his capture, he is frightened.
One of his guards shoves him forward, and he stumbles again. Enough, he decides, his hands curling in equal defiance and humiliation. If they persist in treating him like an animal, he will behave like an animal. He hurls his body against the guard who has shoved him, knocking the startled man to the ground. He kicks out, ignoring the pain as his bare foot slams against an armored chest. His aim is somewhat truer on the next strike; his heel strikes squarely between the man's legs, and there is a satisfying wail of agony from the supine figure on the ground.
There is little time to savor his victory, for the other guards have recovered their wits. They attack him from all sides, bringing him down with repeated blows from their heavy spears. Boromir crumples, huddling to protect himself from the worst of their assault. But he swears to himself that he will die before he screams; he bites hard on the stick and tears stream from his eyes as cuffs and kicks rain down on him, but he does not make a sound. At last the blows cease; once more he is yanked to his feet. The captain of the guard rides close and seizes the rope lead of the makeshift bridle, forcing Boromir's head up. Boromir snarls viciously, but the captain only laughs.
"Brave boy," the captain remarks, then ruffles Boromir's hair as if he were an unruly puppy. He prods Boromir into movement with his foot. "Walk."
Boromir has little strength and courage to spare; he needs it for whatever awaits him next. He takes a last look at the boy on the platform. A man is touching him with ruthless intimacy, examining him with no pretense to gentleness. The boy bears it with closed eyes and a straight back, but there is no hope in his steadfast stillness. That will not be my fate, Boromir vows, but fear has begun to constrict his heart, slow and relentless and impervious to reason.
*
The city is set on a plain below barren blue mountains that are too far to offer any respite from the suffocating heat. As the sun ascends to its zenith, Boromir's steps become slow, his feet dragging in the dust. Only the sharp prodding from his captors' spears keeps him upright. At last they stop before a massive structure with high white walls and a domed roof, surrounded by four narrow turrets, soaring white stone needles gleaming in the sunlight. The gates open, and Boromir is pushed inside.
Masses of color and twisting shapes pass in a blur as he is pushed ever onward: tall, broad-leafed green plants with huge blossoms of vehement scarlet and pink, strange, fern-like trees with thick trunks, expanses of tile as blue as a twilight sky, elaborately scrolled bronze grills covering arched windows, huge urns covered with curling, strangely voluptuous designs, and painted in the shades of a winter sunset. In the center of a courtyard, a small ornamental fountain of intricately worked bronze and gold bubbles with clear water. Parched, Boromir moves toward it instinctively, but the guards force him away, mocking his obvious discomfort. A group of women, painted, bejeweled, gowned in brilliant gauzy fabrics scatter as he draws near, chattering in high, soft voices. Two or three watch him with frank interest, their dark eyes, rimmed in a sooty black cosmetic, flicking up and down his naked body. For the first time Boromir feels the shame his captors had obviously intended when they stripped him. It is indecent to be paraded thus, particularly before women, even if they are Haradrim women.
Finally they stop before a heavy wooden door. It opens with a groan, and Boromir is led down a long, dim corridor faced with identical doors. He is forced to stop before one of the doors, and a guard opens it with a taunting bow. Boromir's hands are unbound. He is pushed into a tiny round room and sent sprawling onto the stone floor. Before he can turn to fight, the door is slammed shut and barred, leaving him alone in almost total darkness and unsettling silence.
It is, at the very least, blessedly cool. Boromir flexes and rubs his numbed hands, then struggles to tear the bridle from his mouth. A groan escapes him as it is freed, and he throws it against the wall with an oath. Anger swells inside him once more, and he staggers toward the door and pounds until his hands are raw and bleeding and his voice is ragged from his curses and screams.
No reply meets his pounding and imprecations; at last he slides to the floor, exhausted. The Haradrim will pay for visiting these indignities upon him. When he returns to Gondor, he will urge his father to show no mercy to those who have abused him.
When he returns...say rather if he returns. For how is he ever to escape this place?
It is too unnerving a thought to contemplate for long. He curls on his side and collapses into a fitful sleep.
*
Boromir awakens to the touch of gentle hands, the soft caress of silken blankets. Comfortable for the first time in almost a fortnight, he sighs and stretches his limbs, then is jolted to awareness by the unyielding bite of metal. Blinking, he stares at his hands, manacled to a chain fastened around his waist. He surges up and is pressed down by two women on either side of his low pallet. Scowling, he strives to free himself from their grasp, and is stilled by a spear point placed directly over his heart. A guard the height and width of a tree smiles down at him, his expression tinged with menace. Boromir is calculating the possibility of disarming the guard when another moves into view, brandishing a short curved sword. Sighing, Boromir relaxes, not in the least placated by the smiling women who pat him soothingly and urge him to sit up. He observes that the sweat and grime have been cleansed from his body, and when he moves, he can discern a faint fragrance like nard. It is no unpleasant thing to be clean, he admits silently, but he would trade it in the blink of an eye for a chance at freedom.
His wariness and frustration dissolve at the sight of another woman bearing a tray laden with food and -- Eru be praised -- a goblet brimming with water. He seizes the goblet with trembling hands and drinks greedily, protesting when one of the women takes it away. Before one of his guards can threaten him, the woman frowns, shakes her head, and mimes stomach cramps. Boromir understands, and allows her to scoop a spoonful of grains and shredded meat into his mouth. It is spiced with something that stings his tongue, but he would swear he has never tasted anything so delectable in his life. He forces himself to eat and drink slowly as the women nod approval. When he is finished, the women blot his mouth with a clean cloth and pat his sunburned shoulders with marked gentleness. They are firm but kindly, much like the nurses who helped raise him and Faramir after his own mother's death. It is the first merciful treatment he has received since his capture, and Boromir cannot prevent a shy smile and a nod of gratitude. "My thanks to you," he murmurs.
His words prompt broad smiles and more caresses intermingled with soft words in their own language. The older of the two pats his stomach as if he were a child. The food fills the empty space inside him with authority and makes him feel stronger, less a prisoner. It is a small but significant reprieve from his misery.
The kindness, perhaps predictably, does not last long. Before he has a chance to truly relax, or perhaps gather his wits to fight again, the guards seize his arms and haul him from the pallet and into a long, tiled hallway. Boromir allows them to drag him, fixing his gaze on the long row of blue and white pointed arches that seem to float into infinity. The floor beneath his feet is blue and white, and glass-like in texture. The walls are white stone; at intervals they are carved with swirling patterns of incredible delicacy, like rigid lace. There is no question but that this is the city's most splendid structure, even if it lacks the chill grandeur of the House of Stewards.
At length the journey ends before a pair of gilt doors. Attendants open them, and Boromir is dragged inside and thrown to the floor. He receives a confused impression of a room hung with rich tapestries in crimson, black and shining gold before he realizes that he is lying at someone's feet. He rises, clinging to his dignity, and meets the haughty gaze of a thin, dark man, magnificently arrayed in Haradrim fashion: dark robes, though the fabric is far more sumptuous than any he has seen, and a headdress caught by a narrow band of flexible gold scales in the shape of a serpent. Gold snakes likewise encircle his wrists and his narrow throat, and behind his chair is a large red standard bearing the image of a black serpent. A half score of men sit in a semi-circle around him, their garb not as rich, nor their postures as arrogant. It is clear now that this man is, if not a king, then a most powerful chieftain.
"Welcome." His accent is that of Harad, but the language is the Common Speech, perfectly understandable.
Boromir draws himself up to his full height. He is no grovelling slave, nor ever will be. He is a son of Stewards, even if he has not said so to his captors, and he will behave accordingly. "If this is a welcome, I should hate to see a display of hostility."
The man laughs softly; his councillors, if that is their function, follow suit. "A barb aimed true, son of Gondor. But tell me, would you have come quietly?"
A disdainful snort is Boromir's only reply.
"You are a great prize," the chieftain continues.
"And how is that?"
"Let us not waste time dissembling," the chieftain says. "I am Dhâran-sar, ruling governor of this region. And you are Boromir, son of Denethor."
"You are mistaken," Boromir retorts. "My name is Hador. My father's name is Tarondor." His heart sinks, though he maintains his external poise. It is a gamble. He was far from home when he was captured; his vambraces and saddle bore the herald of the White Tree, but his captors threw his garments in the river Harnen without examining them. Perhaps there is yet a means of bluffing his way out of this predicament. "If you hoped to gain ransom, you will be sorely disappointed. My father is a tanner. He is far from wealthy."
Dhâran-sar frowns. "A tanner, you say."
"Yes." Let them not ask him about the trade. All he knows is that it involves animal dung and takes some time.
"Strange, then, that this was taken from one of the party that tracked you." Dhâran-sar holds up a saddlebag emblazoned with the White Tree. Moreover, it bears the distinctive mark of the house of Stewards.
Boromir tries to hold himself still as he recognizes Faramir's saddlebag. He manages a shrug and attempts to sound indifferent. "It's nothing to me."
"No? Does it not belong to your younger brother, Faramir?"
Longing to weep, or better still, to fling himself at the chieftain and strangle him, Boromir frowns. "I have no brother."
"Not any longer, eh?" Dhâran-sar turns to the guard standing sentry at the door. "Bring the prisoner's head."
Unbidden tears spring to Boromir's eyes, and he clenches his fists. "No!" He surges toward the chieftain, but the two guards on either side haul him back effortlessly and force him to his knees. Boromir fights them. "If you've harmed him --"
"Peace, Steward's son," Dhâran-sar replies, lifting a hand. "Your brother is not our captive. We tried to take him -- he led a search party for you -- but he proved more wily than his older brother, and escaped with his life and freedom. A pity. Taking both brothers would have been most desirable. As it is, we have the heir. That is well."
"If you kill me, my father's rage will exceed the limits of your imagining." Boromir lifts his chin, unmindful that he is still on his knees. His voice drips scorn to disguise its tremor. Though burning with shame at having succumbed to trickery, he is relieved that Faramir is safe. "Know that when the news of my death reaches him, he will not rest until you are dead also."
"Such pride. So like your father's." Dhâran-sar smiles gently. "It is not your death I seek, boy. No. A message for Denethor has been sent to Minas Tirith. I want the river Harnen, and twenty leagues on either side. I want the sea-havens in our control once more. If we are granted that, then you may return to your home -- relatively unscathed."
Boromir flushes in anger. He, the son of the Steward, a mere bargaining chip in a land dispute! Such dire affronts are not to be borne. He is still on his knees, but he directs a ferocious stare at Dhâran-sar, then spits on the floor. "That is what I think of your message, barbarian. You may be assured that my father will not bargain with the likes of you."
Dhâran-sar is still, though the flesh around his mouth and nose grow white. "Then it is fortunate that he has two sons, for if he fails to cooperate, you shall die." Dhâran-sar rises to his feet. "To insult me is a grave matter. To insult me before my guests...unpardonable. I would kill you now if I could." He gestures to the guards. "Take him back to his cell and administer the whip twoscore times. Then perhaps he may reflect more soberly upon his plight, and reconsider his conduct."
*
Dhâran-sar is as good as his word. Back in the small room, Boromir's manacled hands are dragged up and bound to a rafter. Then a guard, tall and burly, with arms as thick as Boromir's thigh, draws out a lash. Boromir closes his eyes at a sharp snap, then gasps as fire claws deeply into his back. The lashes fall like burning rain, and by the twentieth strike, Boromir cannot contain his cries. By the thirtieth strike, the pain has driven him to merciful oblivion.
*
He awakens to find himself lying on a thin pallet on the floor. He is on his belly, and when he shifts, the movement tears a shuddering groan of pain from his chest.
"Hush now. Lie still."
A fine idea, Boromir decides. He moans again, writhing as gentle fingers probe a lash mark.
"Be still," the voice commands softly. "I will try to hurt you as little as possible."
Boromir turns his head to see who addresses him. There is only dim light -- a single stub of candle in a clay dish on the floor. Nonetheless, he can distinguish a man garbed in the robes and headdress of a Haradrim guard. "Leave me," he rasps.
"Silence."
"I'll not accept treacherous kindnesses from a Haradrim dog." He would strike at the man, but he hurts too much to move.
The guard chuckles. "Are all your words so ill-chosen, my lord?"
"Go and rot." Boromir gasps as something wonderfully cool and soothing touches his back, a salve or unguent. A fragrance of herbs drifts upward.
"You will need to school yourself in diplomacy if you are ever to become Steward," the guard says equably.
"Thanks to your master, I'll likely never see that day."
"I would not despair just yet, young Boromir."
Boromir feels his strength returning, and his anger. "No? Have you ever been torn from your home to find yourself in the midst of strangers? Has your life ever been threatened by a hostile enemy before?"
The guard is silent a moment, though he continues to apply the salve to Boromir's wounds. His touch is deft and light. At last he speaks slowly, and his voice is soft and as soothing as the cooling herbs. "I know what it is to be alone and frightened."
"I'm not frightened." The denial is perhaps a little too vehement. Boromir rests his forehead on his arms, unable to prevent an overwhelming sensation of helplessness and abandonment. What if his father will not bargain? What if all rescue attempts fail? "Why are you healing me? Do you want me at full strength to torture again?" The question hangs in the dark air as the guard begins to gather up the tools of his craft. Boromir squeezes his eyes shut against the threat of tears. He has not wept since he was a child; he will not weep now. He attempts to swallow past a choking tightness in his throat. A peculiar, gulping hiccup escapes him. Unexpectedly, he feels a hand on his head, smoothing his hair as if he were a child. Wet-eyed, he looks up and briefly meets the guard's steady gaze. "Why...why are you being kind to me?"
The guard extinguishes the candle and stands abruptly, indiscernible in the darkness. "You must not succumb to fear, my lord. Save your strength. All is not yet lost." He moves to the door, surefooted and swift, and exits the tiny cell.
Boromir is alone once more, but strangely, he is comforted by the guard's words.
*
Days pass; a fortnight, perhaps more. The cuts and welts on Boromir's back begin to heal, thanks to the unguents the Haradrim guard applied. The same man brings his meager food and silently assesses his physical condition, though they do not speak again. A second guard accompanies the first at all times, and Boromir, sensing that the first guard exceeded his duties healing him, does not attempt conversation.
He is not summoned to the throne room again, nor is news brought to him of Denethor's acceptance or refusal of the bargain. He attempts to remain alert for any opportunity to escape, but none presents itself. Faced with days of enforced idleness, his anxiety and fear alchemize into boredom, then lethargy. The guard's words of caution cease to have meaning. His life becomes dreary, exitless vigil.
*
At length Boromir is roused from his torpor by soldiers who manacle his hands and escort him back to the throne room. Dhâran-sar sits in silence, once more surrounded by courtiers. There are many more people present, including several bejeweled and gowned ladies, all of whom stare with curiosity at the bound prisoner brought into their midst. At a nod, Boromir is forced to his knees. It takes all his strength to refrain from spewing the vilest curses. He settles for leveling a glare of smoldering contempt at Dhâran-sar, whose face is strangely pale, like the carved stone walls of his palace.
Dhâran-sar brandishes a scroll. "I have received word from your father." A muscle works in his cheek. "You were correct, boy. He will not bargain."
Boromir feels his heart drop into his stomach, but he speaks with studied disdain. "Did I not warn you? Now you will face the wrath of Gondor's armies."
"Armies!" Dhâran-sar laughs. "He will not send armies. No, he has sent rescue parties -- three separate expeditions. All were easily identified, and easily apprehended. Oh, they were not in Gondorian garb -- not even you northlanders are so stupid -- but it was a poor job of masquerade nonetheless. Shall I show you their heads?"
It is becoming increasingly difficult to feign nonchalance. "He will send armies," Boromir insists. "You have made a grave error."
"No. Denethor has. Now he will pay. You shall die, son of the Steward, as I promised. But before you do, you shall be violated before this very court. This will take place every day for twenty days, to mark the twenty days I have waited for a reply. When he receives your body, he will know without a doubt that your honor has been thoroughly defiled." Dhâran-sar claps his hands twice. Another door opens; in steps a man who seems twice Boromir's height. His bronzed flesh is bulging with muscle and heavily oiled, gleaming in the light of the many torches that line the walls. Strange designs of black, red, and ochre decorate his face and bald head. He is naked save for a pleated loincloth. Stopping beside Dhâran-sar's throne, he bows, then folds his arms and gazes at Boromir with amusement.
"I will not soil myself by touching you," Dhâran-sar continues. "Dalamyr will do this in my stead." He nods to the guards. "Bind him between the columns."
Boromir has been silent, frozen. The pervasive sensations of isolation and helplessness have returned. There is no way to save himself, and no one to save him. Even if his father should send all the armies of Gondor after him, they could not prevent what is about to happen to him. Now as the guards take hold of his arms and pull him toward the columns, he begins to fight, twisting and squirming to free himself, kicking at his jailers, screaming oaths and insults. They belabor him with gloved fists; blood spurts from his nose and trickles into his mouth. Another blow splits the skin on his forehead. More blood stings his eyes. His feet and shins are bruised from hammering against armor, but he does not feel it. He knows only blind, abandoned panic.
One soldier places a booted foot on Boromir's throat, pinning him to the floor. The others grasp his ankles and pull his legs apart. With stout silken cord they lash his ankles to smooth stone columns. He is widely spread, the floor cold against his naked back, his nether regions on display for the amusement and mockery of the court. He blinks at the blood and tears in his eyes and bites his lip. He will not cry out for these savages.
The guard pinning his neck steps away; there is little Boromir can do to help himself with his hands manacled behind him and his legs bound. He rises painfully on his elbows and watches as the giant, Dalamyr, strips off his loincloth. Boromir turns his face away. It is all too clear why this man has been chosen for the deed.
Let it be quick, Boromir prays as the man approaches, though he knows in his heart that it will be anything but.
"My lord." A voice rings out in the silent throne room. There is a shocked murmur, and rustling as the courtiers turn this way and that to see who has dared to disrupt the proceedings.
"Who speaks?" Dhâran-sar demands.
A man steps out of the crowd. He is richly if soberly clad. His robes are a dark, bosky green; corded silver adorns his waist and black headdress. He trades a glance with Boromir. His eyes, ringed with the now-familiar black cosmetic, are startling grey against his dark skin. He bows to Dhâran-sar and addresses him with respect. "My lord, it is not seemly that you should do this."
"Not seemly? You forget yourself, Hidâr."
"My most abject apologies, my lord. I think only of your honor. If you do this, there may be retaliation. If the soldiers of Gondor should lay hands on one of your wives...or children..." He gestures toward Boromir without looking at him. "If you have him violated, my lord, you will arouse their most bitter enmity. Denethor is not a man to cross unwisely."
"You think me foolish?" Dhâran-sar's reply is so soft as to be scarcely audible.
"I have not said thus, my lord. I only say that this boy is not worth the trouble he may cause you. Kill him if you must, but do not taint yourself by ordering him defiled." The crowd murmurs again, stunned by the man's effrontery.
Mottled red stains Dhâran-sar's gaunt cheeks. "Hidâr," he murmurs, "you are a guest in my house. I advise you to tread with caution."
Hidâr places his fingertips together and bows again. "It is not my intention to anger you. As my lord well knows, I have dealings with Gondor. It is no soft-hearted enemy."
Dhâran-sar rises to his feet and glides toward the columns where Boromir is bound. He observes his captive's trembling body and turns to the man who has addressed him. "Your concern for my honor is noted, Hidâr. I will not have Dalamyr violate him."
Hidâr nods. "A most wise decision, my lord."
"You shall do it instead."
The man freezes. He darts a swift look at Boromir, then looks away, clearly uncertain. "My lord?"
"Did you not hear me?"
"But my lord...he is...whether Dalamyr violates him or I do, the effect is the same. Your family --"
"I have sense enough to guard my family well. Unlike Denethor." A thin smile creeps over Dhâran-sar's face. "I am not interested in initiating peace with Gondor. And you will learn the value of silence. Do it. Now." He gestures to the guards, who point their spears at Hidâr. One tears the man's outer robe off and throws it to the floor.
Boromir raises his head slightly as Hidâr approaches, prodded forward at spearpoint. He is too frightened to struggle or scream. Nothing has changed, except perhaps that he might not be -- at first -- as brutally torn. He watches the man kneel between his legs. The weight of his body presses against Boromir's chest; he feels the tickle of a bearded chin against his ear, and hears a whisper.
"Remember what I told you, young Boromir. Do not succumb to fear." Before Boromir can draw a breath, Hidâr presses hard fingers against his mouth, silencing him.
It is the guard -- the one who healed him! How can this be? Shocked, he can only stare as the man draws a warning finger over Boromir's lips. Is it a spy, someone his father has sent to rescue him? He scrutinizes Hidâr's sharp features, forgetting to be afraid. He does not know him, nor has he ever seen him before. Dhâran-sar knows him well -- thus, he must not be Gondorian. A thousand questions spring forth; he chokes them back with difficulty, then gasps. Hidâr has curled a hand round Boromir's sex and is stroking the tip with his thumb. Despite his fear, he finds himself instantly aroused, then horrified and shamed. He struggles beneath the man, but Hidâr holds him fast and bends to whisper in his ear once more.
"Trust me."
Trust him? An hysterical laugh rises in Boromir's throat. Merciful Eru, has he any choice in the matter? "Who are you?" he asks as quietly as he can.
"Hush. Close your eyes. I won't hurt you."
Almost against his will, Boromir obeys. This mysterious stranger has showed him kindness, the only guard in Harad to do so -- though it is clear now he is no guardsman. A gentle caress touches his hair, soothing him, even though he is still naked and about to be raped before a roomful of strange enemies. The thought makes him shiver afresh, and the sharp, unwilling desire that coursed through him before diminishes a-sudden. "Please -- please don't do this."
Hidâr plants a gentle kiss against Boromir's neck. "It is not my choice. But better me than that giant brute. I, at least, can make this somewhat pleasurable for you. I promise you that --"
"Enough murmuring!" Dhâran-sar snaps impatiently. "You are not deflowering a virgin girl. Take him!"
Boromir opens his eyes. He stares at the strong column of Hidâr's throat. Though he cannot see them, he knows the court is watching with greedy amusement. And this, he knows, is only the beginning. Resigned, he closes his eyes once more. "Do it."
"Forgive me."
Boromir hears Hidâr fumbling with his clothing, then feels callused hands slide beneath his backside. A shudder courses through him as Hidâr pushes himself inside and begins to thrust against him.
The man is not fully aroused; it makes things more difficult, but there is a strange comfort in the knowledge nonetheless. Boromir is no virgin, and that too is a comfort; otherwise there might be more pain, as well as the humiliation of knowing his first penetration took place on the floor of a Haradrim palace in sight of a hundred people. Boromir grits his teeth, concentrating on the feel of the cold floor beneath him as he is shoved to and fro. The sensation makes him slightly seasick.
All at once Hidâr sags atop him, then rises slowly. Boromir opens his eyes to see the man fastening his clothes, then bowing to Dhâran-sar. "I trust that has sufficed to entertain, my lord."
"Are young men not to your taste, Hidâr? Or are you simply unable to perform altogether?" The court laughs.
"Rape is not to my taste."
Dhâran-sar's kohled eyes narrow. "You have leave to go -- permanently. Count yourself fortunate that I do not have your head severed." He gestures to the guards at the door. "See that he collects his belongings and departs with all speed."
Boromir watches in despair as the man bows and leaves without so much as a glance at him. If that man was his last hope --
"Take this pup back to his cell." Dhâran-sar's voice interrupts his thoughts. His face is as dark as a thundercloud; he seems vexed, or disappointed. "Tomorrow matters will not go as well for you, Steward's son."
*
The scrape of metal against metal arouses Boromir from an uneasy slumber. He sits upright as the door swings open and a figure steals into his cell. Puzzled, he strains to see in the dimness. Only one person -- no additional guards bearing arms and torches. It is the first time such has occurred. All exhaustion leaves his body as he prepares to spring at the intruder. A hard hand grasps his arm, startling him.
"Boromir -- it's Hidâr. Come -- put these on."
Clothes are pressed into Boromir's hands. Finally, he understands -- Hidâr has come to free him. "Who are you? Has my father sent you?"
"No time for questions now. Hurry!"
Galvanized by elation and hope, Boromir hastens into the clothes, assisted by Hidâr -- far less gentle than he was while in the throne room. A long tunic, breeches, woven sandals, and a headdress, and he is ready. They exit, and Hidâr closes the cell door. Swiftly and noiselessly, they hurry through darkened corridor after darkened corridor until they reach cool night air. Boromir breathes deeply, not troubling to wonder why their escape was so easily accomplished, or why no guards seem to be patrolling the palace's perimeter.
A horse awaits them, tethered to a window grill. "Up -- get up," Hidâr urges, and Boromir obeys, still too stunned to question the man's orders. Hidâr frees the animal, climbs up, and reaches around Boromir to seize the reins. Soon they are galloping through the city gates, guided by starlight, the cold desert wind whipping past their faces.
Boromir is free.
*
Nine days have passed, and Boromir knows little more about Hidâr than when he first set eyes upon him. He knows, at least, that the man's name is not Hidâr, though what his true name might be is a mystery. Call me Estel, the man said in answer to his persistent questions, on the first morning they stopped to rest the horse and themselves. He handed Boromir a blanket. Sleep, Boromir.
What about you? Boromir asked, watching the man as he removed a necklace, several bracelets, and silver loops from his ears and stuffed them absently into a pocket. A piece of jewelry remained, however -- a silver ring, studded with blazing green. You must be exhausted.
I am. Estel smiled at him. But someone must keep first watch. Do not worry.
But you must tell me -- how did you know I was imprisoned? Did you follow me from Gondor? Did my father --
Is it not enough that you are safe? Trust me, Boromir. Sleep.
Estel is kind to him, if so quiet that he unnerves Boromir slightly. He tends the not fully healed whip marks on Boromir's back, and feeds his charge well, skillfully cooking his catches, the small deer that graze in the northernmost plains. Boromir eats heartily after weeks of bread and water. Estel seems not to sleep at all; he keeps vigilant watch against Haradrim soldiers. Twice they have eluded recapture thanks to his quick thinking. He knows the byways of Harad well; they keep to little-used trails and move steadily north. Their progress is swift, even with frequent stops to rest the horse; the journey into Harad was slower, for all but the guard-captain were on foot. Soon, in another night or two, perhaps, they will reach the borders of Gondor.
*
"I got him!" Boromir exults as the small deer thuds to the ground.
Estel laughs quietly. "A clean hit. Very good. Your aim is improving."
"I have never bothered to perfect it," Boromir admits. "Faramir is the archer in the family. You should see him -- he's a master with the bow." He feels a glow at seeing his brother again. He is eager to introduce Estel to Faramir; there is a serenity in the man's demeanor that he senses will appeal to his younger brother. Boromir wonders at that; Estel cannot be more than ten years Boromir's senior, but he has the composure of a much older man. And the maddening habit of deftly eluding probing questions. "I will have him demonstrate his skill for you. He'll show me for the poor shot I am."
"It is an admirable thing to see a brother so devoted."
Boromir grins. "I've given him his fair share of thrashings, too. Have you a brother?"
"Two foster brothers. I have not seen them in many years."
Boromir's eyes cloud over at the thought of being parted from Faramir. "You must miss them."
"I do." Estel pulls a skinning knife from its sheath and strides toward the dead animal. "Come and help me clean the beast, please."
*
"The nights are becoming colder," Boromir observes, watching Estel rummage through his pack. "We must be nearly home by now."
"By tomorrow afternoon we shall reach the river." Estel gazes up at the stars, then tosses some tightly rolled cloth to Boromir. "Here -- change your clothing. It's time to stop dressing as Haradrim."
Boromir unrolls the clothing. It does his heart good to see familiar garb. "What shall I do with the old clothing?"
"Burn it."
"With pleasure." He strips swiftly and slides into the new clothing, then tosses the Haradrim garments onto the fire. A movement catches his eye; Estel has come close to the fire and removed his own clothing. He slides into breeches and stockings, then a pair of sturdy boots. He sits for a moment, examining the green Haradrim tunic.
Boromir squints. It is a trick of the firelight, or -- no. Estel's dark skin has decidedly faded. Streaks of brown mar his chest, making him look somewhat badly cooked. "You...your skin."
Estel meets his eyes and chuckles. "It helps me pass in Harad. The dye comes from acorns."
"Are you Gondorian?" Boromir demands. "Tell me! Why do you shroud yourself in secrecy?"
"I am no enemy," Estel replies. "Surely you know that by now." He pulls a tunic over his head and rises, walking away.
Boromir will not have it. He runs after the man and grabs his arm, forcing him around. "Do not walk away from me! I would know who you are, and why you rescued me."
"I owed you a debt."
"What debt?"
"I violated you, young Boromir."
"But earlier -- in my cell. You know me. But I do not know you." He hesitates. "And you must know I do not hold that...that incident against you. You tried to help me."
Rough fingers graze Boromir's cheek. "I would have freed you sooner, had it been in my power."
Boromir feels dizzy. In a fever of impulse, he wraps his arms around Estel's body and kisses him. Surprised, Estel struggles slightly, but Boromir will not let go. He presses harder into the kiss. Gratitude? Starry-eyed adulation? Simple lust? It matters not; this has been building for days, and to deny it would be foolish and false.
Estel finally breaks the kiss. "Stop. Stop, Boromir. You haven't a notion of what you're doing."
"Tell me you do not desire this, and I'll leave you be. You saved my life. Ten days I've traveled with you, watched you, felt you against me. You know me -- I know you do -- and I do not know you at all. And I feel that if I let you go, you'll disappear." Boromir is close to tears and cannot fathom why. To his surprise, Estel gathers him into a gentle embrace, rocking him to and fro. A choked sob leaps from Boromir's throat, and he can no longer contain himself. He weeps in mingled anger, longing, and bewilderment.
Tenderly, Estel guides Boromir to the ground and holds him, stroking his hair and crooning softly into his ear. "Hush now. Hush. You're safe, Boromir. Safe." He kisses Boromir's cheek, then his ear, still rocking him, rubbing circles onto his back.
Boromir turns slightly, and all at once firm lips meet his. Boromir opens his mouth, and in his yielding there is a sweet aggression he has never experienced before. He tastes his own tears and the warmth of Estel's mouth -- glorious -- and slowly, he moves his hands down, pressing Estel to the grass, soft green grass he thought he would never see again.
They are far from the fire, but there is no need of it. Their bodies are heated, their weight and clothing creating delicious friction. At last it is too much to endure. Piece by piece they tear off each other's garments, the clothes they had donned only a short while ago. Wordless, naked, they fondle one another, licking, sucking, now and then pausing to kiss once more.
Boromir kneels behind Estel and places his hands between his thighs, urging them apart, then stops, remembering. Estel strokes Boromir's hair and leans backward into his touch. "All is well," he murmurs. "Come inside me." He turns to kiss Boromir as Boromir enters him, and then thrusts back with surprising force. Boromir moans into his mouth as they move more quickly, then settle into a rhythmic rising and falling.
He cannot get close enough. He wraps his arms about his rescuer and curls his hand round Estel's rigid sex. Estel moans and climaxes with a shudder. The exquisite tightening sensation urges Boromir into frenzy; he thrusts deeper and releases with a cry. They collapse to the cool grass, sticky and sweating. It is some time before either can muster the strength to gather their clothes and crawl toward the warmth of the fire. Once there, they collapse again and sleep.
*
Boromir feels the rim of a cup against his lips and opens his mouth gratefully. The water is slightly bitter, but he drinks nonetheless; he is parched. Still groggy, he grasps Estel's hand and pulls him close. Estel obligingly curls against Boromir's body and kisses his ear.
"Still don't know why you saved me," Boromir mumbles.
There is silence. Then Estel drapes an arm round Boromir's body, drawing him nearer. "I saw you born. I could not see you die."
It makes no sense, but Boromir is too exhausted to question him. He falls into a deep, restful slumber.
*
"My lord?"
There is firelight in his eyes. He blinks, then covers his eyes with his arm.
"Lord Boromir?"
Slowly, Boromir lifts his arm, blinking past the glare of a torch. The face of a soldier -- Gondorian, not Haradrim -- swims into focus. He frowns.
"By all the -- it is you!" The soldier whoops and shouts. "It's Lord Boromir!" He turns and calls to his compatriots on the far side of a river. "He lives!" There is an answering cheer.
Boromir allows himself to be pulled up, then looks around. He is on the Harad bank of the river Harnen. The smell of water rises to his nostrils -- a delicious smell. He saw no rivers in deepest Harad. He stares blankly at the soldier -- the face is familiar, but the name eludes him. "What's happening?"
"I was patrolling, my lord, and there was a man leading a horse --" The soldier's words tumble out excitedly, and gradually Boromir makes sense of them. The man -- Estel -- was headed north to the riverbank, carrying an unconscious Boromir slung over the horse's saddle. Upon seeing the soldier, he gave Boromir into his care, saying he'd found him lying insensible on the roadside.
"Where is he now?" Boromir cries, leaping up and staggering forward.
"Why, he's gone, my lord. Steady on there!" He grasps Boromir's arm to keep him from falling. "Said he had pressing business elsewhere."
Boromir staggers another step, realizing that his unsteadiness is not from exhaustion. Estel has drugged him, the more easily to abandon him. "Wretch," he mutters. Unbidden tears sting his eyes.
"I don't know, my lord. Seems to me he saved your life -- you must have been wandering for days before he found you. How you escaped from the Haradrim -- well, I'll wager it's quite a tale, eh?"
"Yes," Boromir replies. "Quite a tale."
"Lord Denethor will be overjoyed. And young Lord Faramir as well -- they were beside themselves, they were. The army was ready to -- you'll hear about all that soon enough, I expect. Ah, here we are. Come on, my lord."
Boromir allows himself to be helped onto the small skiff that will take him to Gondor. He looks back at the Harad shore, seeking a last trace of his mysterious rescuer. Estel. Was that truly his name, any more than Hidâr? He doubts it. And Boromir knew in his heart, somehow, that he would disappear -- and he has. It is as if he never existed at all.
But he does, for Boromir is alive and well, and headed back into the embrace of his family. And looking up at the familiar stars, the son of Stewards hopes they will meet again some day.
End.
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Date: 2008-11-07 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-07 05:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-07 05:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-07 06:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-07 11:42 pm (UTC)*hugs you tight*
Anto
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Date: 2008-11-08 05:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-08 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-10 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 05:17 pm (UTC)To summarize, I love love love this story, and you rock as a writer. :-D
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Date: 2008-11-14 05:29 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you liked it! It always makes me smile that Aragorn has about twenty different names, so what's one more, right? Hee. I'm also really pleased that you liked my take on Boromir - I imagine he had some growing up to do at this point still.
I'm just really chuffed that you enjoyed the story, sweetheart. Thank you so very much. *hug*
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Date: 2008-12-29 09:31 pm (UTC)You really show something about how he was brought up, the strength and pride, but also how he cannot be caged and enslaved, although he physically is. And how he can be gracious and thankful to the women feeding him, when he could also have been contemptuous towards them.
(There's also the weirdness of him being handled while he was asleep, which seems strangely coincidental to me right now - upon re-reading! But that's entirely another thing *g*)
And I LOVE the fondness with which he thinks and speaks of Faramir. So totally egoless and proud.
"And I feel that if I let you go, you'll disappear." Boromir is close to tears and cannot fathom why.
Oh, that whole paragraph is so gorgeous. And that at that moment, he can let go all that pent up anger, hurt, fear and frustration of the past time.
It was beautiful :)
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Date: 2008-12-31 07:09 pm (UTC)That is kinda strange and coincidental, the handling. Whuh.
he can let go all that pent up anger, hurt, fear and frustration of the past time.
And Aragorn is old enough and experienced enough to understand - I liked doing that contrast.
Thank you so much for the lovely feedback. :)
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Date: 2009-11-15 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-15 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-01 08:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-01 05:31 pm (UTC)