B2MeM fic: A Defense Wasted
B2MeM Challenge: B10 Aspects of Aragorn: Sellsword
Format: triple drabble
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Aragorn, OC
Pairings: None
Summary: Thorongil checks the motivations of his heart.
“What right hash a... a shellshword to lord it over true...” A belch. “Shtrue warriors of Rohan?”
Ever had Elrond admonished him that arguing with a drunkard is to wrong a man no longer present. Drink had certainly scattered this young man’s wits, though his mouth had yet to recognize it. Still, Thorongil could not help answering.
“I am no sellsword,” he said quietly, looking into the motives of his heart even as he gazed into the depths of his tankard. Have I become no more than a common mercenary? He thought of Arnor, of Bree and Rivendell, of all those Northern folk so beloved and familiar. His allegiance to these southern peoples, these strangers of Rohan and Gondor, must grip him with no less intensity of feeling and duty as that held for his northern kindred. Thankfully, a stirring of regard wholly beyond mere affection already kindled in his breast, and he was reassured. No mere sellsword was he, though he could never explain himself to these men in Thengel King’s host. So, still eyeing his drink, he answered, without choler but with firm conviction lest anyone doubt, “No, Cenric. I am no sellsword. I seek no recompense for my services beyond the honor of calling myself a soldier of Thengel King.”
Silence greeted these words. He looked over and saw that his defense was wasted, for the young soldier snored quietly, head down on the table.
Smiling a little at his own folly in letting a friend who normally held no rancor against him so sting him, Thorongil tossed some coin on the table and shook his shoulder. “Come now, Cenric. Time to go home.”
Cenric opened an eye and gave him a bleary grin. “Cap’n... you’re a good man...” He clumsily patted his arm. “... for a sellshword.”
Format: triple drabble
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Aragorn, OC
Pairings: None
Summary: Thorongil checks the motivations of his heart.
“What right hash a... a shellshword to lord it over true...” A belch. “Shtrue warriors of Rohan?”
Ever had Elrond admonished him that arguing with a drunkard is to wrong a man no longer present. Drink had certainly scattered this young man’s wits, though his mouth had yet to recognize it. Still, Thorongil could not help answering.
“I am no sellsword,” he said quietly, looking into the motives of his heart even as he gazed into the depths of his tankard. Have I become no more than a common mercenary? He thought of Arnor, of Bree and Rivendell, of all those Northern folk so beloved and familiar. His allegiance to these southern peoples, these strangers of Rohan and Gondor, must grip him with no less intensity of feeling and duty as that held for his northern kindred. Thankfully, a stirring of regard wholly beyond mere affection already kindled in his breast, and he was reassured. No mere sellsword was he, though he could never explain himself to these men in Thengel King’s host. So, still eyeing his drink, he answered, without choler but with firm conviction lest anyone doubt, “No, Cenric. I am no sellsword. I seek no recompense for my services beyond the honor of calling myself a soldier of Thengel King.”
Silence greeted these words. He looked over and saw that his defense was wasted, for the young soldier snored quietly, head down on the table.
Smiling a little at his own folly in letting a friend who normally held no rancor against him so sting him, Thorongil tossed some coin on the table and shook his shoulder. “Come now, Cenric. Time to go home.”
Cenric opened an eye and gave him a bleary grin. “Cap’n... you’re a good man...” He clumsily patted his arm. “... for a sellshword.”