FIC: Child of Hope (LotR)
Hey, how about that? This one is safe for my non-slash friends to read, should they wish to. Promise. *nod* Would I steer you wrong? ^_^
Title: Child of Hope
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Main Character: Boromir
Rating: G
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Duty, responsibility and the admonishments of his mother are all that stand between Boromir and a day better spent running through his city.
Notes: Pre-slash or gen, depending on how you want to read it. This one started as a quick little fic I figured could be finished in an evening and predictably, two weeks or so later, it's finally done. Many thanks to ithiliana for, among other things, her help in tracking down historical minutia. Notes expanding on all embedded Gondorian historical references are available at the end of the story.
2007 Men of Middle Earth Awards
Child of Hope
By Galadriel
Boromir itched. He itched from the inside of his collar down to the cinch of his belt. Finduilas had insisted he wear his newest tunic, but it hadn't had dust and mud ground into it, hadn't been drenched in sweat or had stray threads catch on errant nails; it hadn't been lovingly scrubbed and rinsed by the washerwomen, mended by the seamstresses, and that, in short, made it a garment not yet fit for the son of a Steward.
He kicked his legs and frowned at his boots. The blacking remained unscuffed, just as his mother had requested, but he longed to be up and away into the city, pounding their soles on the cobbles, scraping them against the curbs and corners as he scrambled up statues of his Kings.
The cold of the stone bench leeched through the cloth of his leggings, and he squirmed, each moment passing with the fullness of an Age. A beat of his heart and the walls of the White City took shape out of rock, Elendil himself hefting stones, shoulder to shoulder with his men, block after block laid down, raising ramparts, gates and streets.
Another beat, and Eldacar reclaimed his rightful throne, ascended in sunlight and shining armour, his sword and his rule now cleansed of Castamir's traitorous blood.
Again. Eärnil avenging Ondoher, recalling Dagorlad in Camp.
Hot blood pulsed through the veins of the smallest of soldiers, burning with the intensity of a hail of flaming arrows. Boromir twisted his features into a scowl, silently cursing the duties that kept him from the heroic deeds he was sure he was meant for on this day.
His mother's preemptive admonishment was the only spell strong enough to keep the child in his seat, in this hall, waiting.
His gaze tracked to his brother, quietly sitting cross-legged on the hide beneath Boromir's feet. Faramir displayed no hints of the impatience plaguing his brother, engaged as he was in rolling a wheeled wood horse back and forth, his full attention on the way the pelt's hairs prickled and smoothed beneath his toy.
Faramir was never much good when it came to games. He could not yet heft either of the wooden swords Beregond, son of Baranor of the Guard, had crafted for Boromir, and that made him a poor sparring companion indeed. Worse yet, Faramir was forever crawling into Boromir's lap with large, colourful volumes, insisting his brother sit still and read to him. Boromir did as requested, but he wished that Faramir would bring with him tales of bloody battles, victories and defeats instead of the gentler books their mother favoured, stories of the sea and the worlds beyond, of Elves and their strange, lilting languages.
But right now, trapped in the hallway outside his father's chambers, waiting for Denethor to finish meeting with his unbidden morning arrival, Boromir wished for any diversion that would lighten the heavy weight of obligation and responsibility. He saw no point in being made to dally with emissaries and envoys, exchanging formalities and pleasantries when he could be currying his horse or climbing to the top of the Tower, surveying the city and men.
He hoped against hope that his father was not greeting the emissary with the rattling cough. At the last banquet held in his honour, it was all Boromir could do not to clamp his hands over his ears and block out the dry, shuddering sound that emanated from the man's lips between breaths. He had spent most of the meal with his eyes squeezed shut, wishing the family was not required to be present to show hospitality.
After the third course, Boromir had felt a tug on his leg, and peered under the table to find Faramir, having slid from his place, twined around his boot. He smiled up at Boromir, then twisted his little face into a grimace as a particularly dusty cough drowned out some pleasantry of their father's. Boromir giggled and glanced up, only to be quickly silenced by a frown from Denethor that didn't match the conspiratorial wink of his eye.
Boromir sighed heavily, resolving to hide with the horses if it was indeed the self-same or some other repulsive messenger whose sense of importance outstripped that of the Lord he represented. When he became Steward, he wouldn't waste precious moments on the bad breath and sour words of old men.
He comforted himself with a good, long sulk that consumed enough time for the light filtering through the casement to slide a little further along the opposite wall; long enough for Faramir to grow bored of horse on hide and to take to driving it over Boromir's boots.
When the heavy doors finally creaked open, Boromir was preparing to launch a sneak attack against Umbar. Being the loving brother he was, he'd graciously gifted Faramir with the role of Steward; it was only fair to allow him a turn, given Boromir's birthright would eventually gift him the same. Faramir's horse had become the Corsair fleet, floating on the pelted sea, and Boromir was about to ascend as the hero of the piece. The scent of smoke and spice wafting from the inner chamber leant a certain ambience to the attacking party, the smell of men in close quarters under the cloak of darkness.
As the gentlemen -- father and guest -- stepped into the hallway, Faramir looked up, smile breaking through the furrowed brow and set jaw, marring the perfect mirror of Boromir's own expression.
It wasn't until strong arms scooped him up, surprised and wriggling, that Boromir abandoned the raid and took stock of his assailant. He shrieked in glee and clasped his arms around the man's neck, weaving his fingers together and burying his face in the floating curtain of hair.
"Thorongil!"
One day, Boromir would be a Steward worthy of his father, worthy of the line of their ancestors. He would test the mettle of Mordor, stand strong with his brother by his side, keep the City safe until the day the King returned.
And if the King ever did come back, Boromir hoped he would be a man like this one, a hero smelling of pipeweed and leather, someone who could hew Orcs in half with a single blow, repel invaders with nothing more than a sword and quiver of arrows; someone who knew how to tell the best of stories, sing the most exotic of songs, and who knew just where to find the most perfect of hiding places.
Boromir could endure the itchiest of tunics, the dullest of duties for a man like that. But for now he would be content to simply bask in the favour of his hero, pretend that he had become Steward and Thorongil his King.
END
(November 28, 2005)
Gondorian Historical References:
Elendil: Dúnadan of Númenor, first wielder of Narsil. He founded the Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor in SA 3320, and became the first High King. He was slain by Sauron during the Last Alliance.
Eldacar: Twenty-first King of Gondor, his kingship was usurped by Castamir in the Kin-strife (TA 1432 through 1448). After fleeing to Rhovanion in 1437, Eldacar returned to Gondor to rout the rebels in 1447, and killed Castamir in 1448 at the Battle of the Crossings of Erui.
Eärnil II: Thirty-second King of Gondor, he defeated the Haradrim and Wainriders in TA 1944 at the Battle of the Camp, avenging the deaths of King Ondoher and his sons. This Wainrider defeat echoed and completed that begun in 1899 by King Calimehtar on Dagorlad.
Gondorian attack on Umbar Corsairs: In TA 2080, Ecthelion II, twenty-fifth Ruling Steward of Gondor, sent out a small raiding party led by Thorongil to Umbar. The raiders successfully carried out a surprise attack on the Corsair fleet, burning a great many of the ships.Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.
Title: Child of Hope
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Main Character: Boromir
Rating: G
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Duty, responsibility and the admonishments of his mother are all that stand between Boromir and a day better spent running through his city.
Notes: Pre-slash or gen, depending on how you want to read it. This one started as a quick little fic I figured could be finished in an evening and predictably, two weeks or so later, it's finally done. Many thanks to ithiliana for, among other things, her help in tracking down historical minutia. Notes expanding on all embedded Gondorian historical references are available at the end of the story.
2007 Men of Middle Earth Awards
Child of Hope
By Galadriel
Boromir itched. He itched from the inside of his collar down to the cinch of his belt. Finduilas had insisted he wear his newest tunic, but it hadn't had dust and mud ground into it, hadn't been drenched in sweat or had stray threads catch on errant nails; it hadn't been lovingly scrubbed and rinsed by the washerwomen, mended by the seamstresses, and that, in short, made it a garment not yet fit for the son of a Steward.
He kicked his legs and frowned at his boots. The blacking remained unscuffed, just as his mother had requested, but he longed to be up and away into the city, pounding their soles on the cobbles, scraping them against the curbs and corners as he scrambled up statues of his Kings.
The cold of the stone bench leeched through the cloth of his leggings, and he squirmed, each moment passing with the fullness of an Age. A beat of his heart and the walls of the White City took shape out of rock, Elendil himself hefting stones, shoulder to shoulder with his men, block after block laid down, raising ramparts, gates and streets.
Another beat, and Eldacar reclaimed his rightful throne, ascended in sunlight and shining armour, his sword and his rule now cleansed of Castamir's traitorous blood.
Again. Eärnil avenging Ondoher, recalling Dagorlad in Camp.
Hot blood pulsed through the veins of the smallest of soldiers, burning with the intensity of a hail of flaming arrows. Boromir twisted his features into a scowl, silently cursing the duties that kept him from the heroic deeds he was sure he was meant for on this day.
His mother's preemptive admonishment was the only spell strong enough to keep the child in his seat, in this hall, waiting.
His gaze tracked to his brother, quietly sitting cross-legged on the hide beneath Boromir's feet. Faramir displayed no hints of the impatience plaguing his brother, engaged as he was in rolling a wheeled wood horse back and forth, his full attention on the way the pelt's hairs prickled and smoothed beneath his toy.
Faramir was never much good when it came to games. He could not yet heft either of the wooden swords Beregond, son of Baranor of the Guard, had crafted for Boromir, and that made him a poor sparring companion indeed. Worse yet, Faramir was forever crawling into Boromir's lap with large, colourful volumes, insisting his brother sit still and read to him. Boromir did as requested, but he wished that Faramir would bring with him tales of bloody battles, victories and defeats instead of the gentler books their mother favoured, stories of the sea and the worlds beyond, of Elves and their strange, lilting languages.
But right now, trapped in the hallway outside his father's chambers, waiting for Denethor to finish meeting with his unbidden morning arrival, Boromir wished for any diversion that would lighten the heavy weight of obligation and responsibility. He saw no point in being made to dally with emissaries and envoys, exchanging formalities and pleasantries when he could be currying his horse or climbing to the top of the Tower, surveying the city and men.
He hoped against hope that his father was not greeting the emissary with the rattling cough. At the last banquet held in his honour, it was all Boromir could do not to clamp his hands over his ears and block out the dry, shuddering sound that emanated from the man's lips between breaths. He had spent most of the meal with his eyes squeezed shut, wishing the family was not required to be present to show hospitality.
After the third course, Boromir had felt a tug on his leg, and peered under the table to find Faramir, having slid from his place, twined around his boot. He smiled up at Boromir, then twisted his little face into a grimace as a particularly dusty cough drowned out some pleasantry of their father's. Boromir giggled and glanced up, only to be quickly silenced by a frown from Denethor that didn't match the conspiratorial wink of his eye.
Boromir sighed heavily, resolving to hide with the horses if it was indeed the self-same or some other repulsive messenger whose sense of importance outstripped that of the Lord he represented. When he became Steward, he wouldn't waste precious moments on the bad breath and sour words of old men.
He comforted himself with a good, long sulk that consumed enough time for the light filtering through the casement to slide a little further along the opposite wall; long enough for Faramir to grow bored of horse on hide and to take to driving it over Boromir's boots.
When the heavy doors finally creaked open, Boromir was preparing to launch a sneak attack against Umbar. Being the loving brother he was, he'd graciously gifted Faramir with the role of Steward; it was only fair to allow him a turn, given Boromir's birthright would eventually gift him the same. Faramir's horse had become the Corsair fleet, floating on the pelted sea, and Boromir was about to ascend as the hero of the piece. The scent of smoke and spice wafting from the inner chamber leant a certain ambience to the attacking party, the smell of men in close quarters under the cloak of darkness.
As the gentlemen -- father and guest -- stepped into the hallway, Faramir looked up, smile breaking through the furrowed brow and set jaw, marring the perfect mirror of Boromir's own expression.
It wasn't until strong arms scooped him up, surprised and wriggling, that Boromir abandoned the raid and took stock of his assailant. He shrieked in glee and clasped his arms around the man's neck, weaving his fingers together and burying his face in the floating curtain of hair.
"Thorongil!"
One day, Boromir would be a Steward worthy of his father, worthy of the line of their ancestors. He would test the mettle of Mordor, stand strong with his brother by his side, keep the City safe until the day the King returned.
And if the King ever did come back, Boromir hoped he would be a man like this one, a hero smelling of pipeweed and leather, someone who could hew Orcs in half with a single blow, repel invaders with nothing more than a sword and quiver of arrows; someone who knew how to tell the best of stories, sing the most exotic of songs, and who knew just where to find the most perfect of hiding places.
Boromir could endure the itchiest of tunics, the dullest of duties for a man like that. But for now he would be content to simply bask in the favour of his hero, pretend that he had become Steward and Thorongil his King.
END
(November 28, 2005)
Gondorian Historical References:
Elendil: Dúnadan of Númenor, first wielder of Narsil. He founded the Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor in SA 3320, and became the first High King. He was slain by Sauron during the Last Alliance.
Eldacar: Twenty-first King of Gondor, his kingship was usurped by Castamir in the Kin-strife (TA 1432 through 1448). After fleeing to Rhovanion in 1437, Eldacar returned to Gondor to rout the rebels in 1447, and killed Castamir in 1448 at the Battle of the Crossings of Erui.
Eärnil II: Thirty-second King of Gondor, he defeated the Haradrim and Wainriders in TA 1944 at the Battle of the Camp, avenging the deaths of King Ondoher and his sons. This Wainrider defeat echoed and completed that begun in 1899 by King Calimehtar on Dagorlad.
Gondorian attack on Umbar Corsairs: In TA 2080, Ecthelion II, twenty-fifth Ruling Steward of Gondor, sent out a small raiding party led by Thorongil to Umbar. The raiders successfully carried out a surprise attack on the Corsair fleet, burning a great many of the ships.Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.