An A/B Fic Fragment (and lots of rambling to boot!)
I was just mucking around this evening, answering comments, when I realized that April was the last time I posted any sort of fic... For some reason I though it had been less time than that, but with RL insisting on being terribly, well, insistent, I haven't really had the chance to write anything much in the meantime.
I'd like to say that I'm going to have something complete to show in the next couple days, but with albatross-revisions to do and the last mountain of paperwork that goes with finishing a degree as well as 31 final exams to mark for Monday, an interview to finish and a short blurb for a newsletter that I've been promising for longer than I care to recall, I'm thinking finishing fic is still a bit lower on my list than I'd like.
So, because what I am currenly writing appears to be on the long side, I've poked through the WIP disk in the hopes that I'll have some half-formed story to throw out to the gods of LotR (read: my Friends List) in order to keep my hand in...
In case anyone cares, here's what I'm sifting through:
- Fragments of the first Sharpefic I ever started, and the only one I haven't finished yet.
- A Helms Deep A/B, L/G. (No, Boromir's still dead, and no, it's not another one of those stories. ^_^)
- A Boromir-goes-to-Rivendell-as-a-child.
- That damn stalled LotRPS.
- Something that refuses to open. (Dammit!)
- And what I'm about to post, which has been so close to done for so long now that it makes me want to scream, but it's still not right. The movements from scene to scene towards the end are jerky, and at least two of these scenes are too short. *grumble* So close, dammit... Anyway...
[Untitled]
by Galadriel
The Lady turned from Aragorn, seeking out the gaze of Boromir. "And for you, son of Men, Lord of Gondor, we have but a humble offering." An attendant stepped forward, passing a gleaming band of gold to Galadriel. "It does not have any special properties. It will not hold against all strain, nor will it protect its wearer against the touch of the enemy. Only the strength of a man's will can gird him against the darkness to come. It is with that in mind, Boromir, son of Denethor, that we give you this belt." She placed it in his hands. "Wear it well."
***
The Men had pulled the boats up onto the bank and hidden them under the brush. Dwarf and Elf had gathered wood for the fire, which Merry and Pippin had coaxed into a crackling blaze, and Sam busied himself by laying the company's wet clothing out to dry. Frodo sat a little way from his companions with his back against an outcropping of rock, staring across the water, reflexively clenching and unclenching his fist.
Boromir surveyed the campsite. There was little left to be done before the evening's watch began. He tugged off his gloves, the water finally seeping into the seams, and handed them off to Sam. Temporarily released from the role of protector, he drifted away from the little group. He stopped briefly to retrieve something from his pack, then walked a small distance up the riverbank. Once he was sure he was out of sight, he looked at the object in his hands.
It shimmered in the light, gold thread shot through with silver. He pulled the belt taunt, winding the ends around his hands as he admired the workmanship. It seemed impossibly light and delicate. He turned it over, examining the shifting pattern.
On a whim he gave it an experimental tug, expecting it to tear in two. The weave gave a little as it stretched tight, but it did not break. The clasp remained cool against his palm, the ridges of the sculpted mallorn leaf gently pressing into his flesh.
"It is beautiful."
Boromir started. He had not heard the Elf approach, and the words were breathed directly in his ear. He tilted his head until Legolas appeared on the edge of his vision. "Yes," he said, a guilty flush creeping up from underneath his beard, "it is a pretty little thing." He unwound the belt from his fingers, folding its length as he moved to tuck it away.
Legolas stopped him with a hand on his own. "We are indeed favoured by the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, Boromir, and you no less than the rest. You will not find one with greater skill in weaving than the Lady and her companions. The clothes of Lórien are woven not only with thread, but with words also. Her blessing runs through the cloth as surely as the pattern itself." Legolas traced the belt with a fingertip, exposing the shapes of small, subtlety embroidered leaves to Boromir's untrained eye. "Keep it close, and her favour will travel with you always." The Elf released the belt and left Boromir alone on the bank.
After a few moments, Boromir slung the belt over his shoulder and began unbuckling the toggles of his leather jerkin.
***
Aragorn fumbled with Boromir's leather belt for a moment before releasing the clasp. It sprang open in his hand, and he tugged at it, hard, until it came free. He dropped it unceremoniously at the younger man's feet, adding to a growing pile of discarded gloves, bracers and gauntlets.
Grabbing hold of his jerkin, Aragorn pulled Boromir in close, grinding himself against his adversary. Boromir's hips bucked slightly under the onslaught, and he growled against Aragorn's collarbone, his breath quickening as his fingers fought for purchase on the supple leather of the Ranger's coat. The warm exhalation of breath goaded Aragorn into action. He laid his forearm across Boromir's chest, forcing the other man backward. Aragorn advanced; Boromir retreated. Locked in a curious embrace, the two men stumbled toward the same wall of rock that, earlier in the day, had supported a distant and preoccupied Frodo. Only a few feet away, four Hobbits and a Dwarf slept soundly, oblivious to their sparring. Legolas, vigilant in his watch, sat just outside the circle of firelight, discreetly ignoring the forms writhing in the shadows.
The men hit the outcropping with a muffled thud. Boromir grimaced as the jagged stone pressed into his back. As a twinge of satisfaction at his pain passed across Aragorn's face, Boromir dipped his head to hide his discomfort, sinking his teeth into Aragorn's jugular. He did not exert enough pressure to break the skin, but the bite was enough to remind Aragorn that he was not Captain nor King in this place.
His pulse pounding through his veins and under Boromir's teeth, Aragorn mumbled against the bowed blond head. "Too much clothing." He was working with the toggles now, one hand groping at the loops while the other attempted to hold Boromir at bay.
The jerkin gave way to chain mail, and chain mail to an elaborate wire and silk tunic. A new set of toggles awaited the fumblings of a man used to dressing himself, not undressing others. He felt the rough scrape of beard as Boromir released his throat. A pair of hands, not his own, moved to the fastenings of his own clothing.
"Leave it." It was a command, not a request. Boromir's hands stilled, his face a deliberate mask, not asking, not telling.
The two stood in silence as Aragorn slowly unbuttoned Boromir's tunic, revealing warm skin to cool air. Aragorn held his companion's gaze, unfastening the garment by feel alone.
His hands slid down Boromir's torso, stopping briefly at each toggle before venturing on. Reaching his waist, Aragorn lingered for a moment before stopping his progress altogether.
Boromir looked down at the palm resting at his waist. "What?"
"You're wearing her gift."
"What of it?" The challenge simmered between them.
Appearing to back off, Aragorn smiled. "Nothing. It is," he unwittingly echoed Boromir's own assessment, "a pretty thing." The Ranger gently unhooked the mallorn leaf and slid the belt out from behind Boromir. He admired the handiwork, noting the way each individual thread seemed to catch the moonlight. He ran the length of it over his palms, listening to the faint whisper of fibre over flesh. "Do you trust me?" Aragorn wound the ends of the belt around his fingers, stretching it between his hands like a garrotte. He leaned against the Steward's son, his erection pressing sharply into Boromir's hip.
"Should I?" The edge of the belt rubbed against his chin.
"No." Aragorn leaned into a rough kiss, biting at Boromir's lips as he pushed the flat of the belt across his lover's windpipe.
***
They slept.
The belt remained wound around Aragorn's fist throughout the night, and with the morning came the chaos of camp movement. The fire was extinguished, the packs refilled, and the boats were uncovered for another day of travel. Somewhere among the turmoil Aragorn found himself holding Boromir's belt, having forgotten to return it with the rest of his discarded clothing. He folded it, carefully and reverently, placing it in his own pack with a silent promise to return it to its rightful owner as soon as they ran aground at the end of the day.
***
"Boromir..."
"They took the little ones!"
***
They laid his body in a boat, Man, Elf, and Dwarf, with the weapons of his enemies beneath his feet and the grey cloak of Lórien under his head. They arrayed the broken pieces of his sword and horn across his lap and stood in silence, gazing on their fallen comrade. Moments passed, each of the three willing away the instant of parting.
"Something is missing." Aragorn broke the silence first, shocked as the realization came over him. He moved swiftly to his pack, retrieving the golden belt.
They removed the leather belt from around Boromir's jerkin, replacing it with the gift of the Galadhrim. It shone about his waist. "I meant to return this to you, friend," Aragorn's fingers lingered on the clasp, "It should have been with you in your final battle."
"It has been restored to its rightful place." Gimli's words were cold comfort.
Launching the boat was quick work. The current caught the tiny craft almost immediately, pulling it toward Rauros.
Legolas was the last to speak as they watched Boromir's body sail away from the shore. "May the Lady's favour follow you, Son of Gondor."
The funeral boat floated away, headed for the roaring falls.
END
I'd like to say that I'm going to have something complete to show in the next couple days, but with albatross-revisions to do and the last mountain of paperwork that goes with finishing a degree as well as 31 final exams to mark for Monday, an interview to finish and a short blurb for a newsletter that I've been promising for longer than I care to recall, I'm thinking finishing fic is still a bit lower on my list than I'd like.
So, because what I am currenly writing appears to be on the long side, I've poked through the WIP disk in the hopes that I'll have some half-formed story to throw out to the gods of LotR (read: my Friends List) in order to keep my hand in...
In case anyone cares, here's what I'm sifting through:
- Fragments of the first Sharpefic I ever started, and the only one I haven't finished yet.
- A Helms Deep A/B, L/G. (No, Boromir's still dead, and no, it's not another one of those stories. ^_^)
- A Boromir-goes-to-Rivendell-as-a-child.
- That damn stalled LotRPS.
- Something that refuses to open. (Dammit!)
- And what I'm about to post, which has been so close to done for so long now that it makes me want to scream, but it's still not right. The movements from scene to scene towards the end are jerky, and at least two of these scenes are too short. *grumble* So close, dammit... Anyway...
[Untitled]
by Galadriel
The Lady turned from Aragorn, seeking out the gaze of Boromir. "And for you, son of Men, Lord of Gondor, we have but a humble offering." An attendant stepped forward, passing a gleaming band of gold to Galadriel. "It does not have any special properties. It will not hold against all strain, nor will it protect its wearer against the touch of the enemy. Only the strength of a man's will can gird him against the darkness to come. It is with that in mind, Boromir, son of Denethor, that we give you this belt." She placed it in his hands. "Wear it well."
***
The Men had pulled the boats up onto the bank and hidden them under the brush. Dwarf and Elf had gathered wood for the fire, which Merry and Pippin had coaxed into a crackling blaze, and Sam busied himself by laying the company's wet clothing out to dry. Frodo sat a little way from his companions with his back against an outcropping of rock, staring across the water, reflexively clenching and unclenching his fist.
Boromir surveyed the campsite. There was little left to be done before the evening's watch began. He tugged off his gloves, the water finally seeping into the seams, and handed them off to Sam. Temporarily released from the role of protector, he drifted away from the little group. He stopped briefly to retrieve something from his pack, then walked a small distance up the riverbank. Once he was sure he was out of sight, he looked at the object in his hands.
It shimmered in the light, gold thread shot through with silver. He pulled the belt taunt, winding the ends around his hands as he admired the workmanship. It seemed impossibly light and delicate. He turned it over, examining the shifting pattern.
On a whim he gave it an experimental tug, expecting it to tear in two. The weave gave a little as it stretched tight, but it did not break. The clasp remained cool against his palm, the ridges of the sculpted mallorn leaf gently pressing into his flesh.
"It is beautiful."
Boromir started. He had not heard the Elf approach, and the words were breathed directly in his ear. He tilted his head until Legolas appeared on the edge of his vision. "Yes," he said, a guilty flush creeping up from underneath his beard, "it is a pretty little thing." He unwound the belt from his fingers, folding its length as he moved to tuck it away.
Legolas stopped him with a hand on his own. "We are indeed favoured by the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, Boromir, and you no less than the rest. You will not find one with greater skill in weaving than the Lady and her companions. The clothes of Lórien are woven not only with thread, but with words also. Her blessing runs through the cloth as surely as the pattern itself." Legolas traced the belt with a fingertip, exposing the shapes of small, subtlety embroidered leaves to Boromir's untrained eye. "Keep it close, and her favour will travel with you always." The Elf released the belt and left Boromir alone on the bank.
After a few moments, Boromir slung the belt over his shoulder and began unbuckling the toggles of his leather jerkin.
***
Aragorn fumbled with Boromir's leather belt for a moment before releasing the clasp. It sprang open in his hand, and he tugged at it, hard, until it came free. He dropped it unceremoniously at the younger man's feet, adding to a growing pile of discarded gloves, bracers and gauntlets.
Grabbing hold of his jerkin, Aragorn pulled Boromir in close, grinding himself against his adversary. Boromir's hips bucked slightly under the onslaught, and he growled against Aragorn's collarbone, his breath quickening as his fingers fought for purchase on the supple leather of the Ranger's coat. The warm exhalation of breath goaded Aragorn into action. He laid his forearm across Boromir's chest, forcing the other man backward. Aragorn advanced; Boromir retreated. Locked in a curious embrace, the two men stumbled toward the same wall of rock that, earlier in the day, had supported a distant and preoccupied Frodo. Only a few feet away, four Hobbits and a Dwarf slept soundly, oblivious to their sparring. Legolas, vigilant in his watch, sat just outside the circle of firelight, discreetly ignoring the forms writhing in the shadows.
The men hit the outcropping with a muffled thud. Boromir grimaced as the jagged stone pressed into his back. As a twinge of satisfaction at his pain passed across Aragorn's face, Boromir dipped his head to hide his discomfort, sinking his teeth into Aragorn's jugular. He did not exert enough pressure to break the skin, but the bite was enough to remind Aragorn that he was not Captain nor King in this place.
His pulse pounding through his veins and under Boromir's teeth, Aragorn mumbled against the bowed blond head. "Too much clothing." He was working with the toggles now, one hand groping at the loops while the other attempted to hold Boromir at bay.
The jerkin gave way to chain mail, and chain mail to an elaborate wire and silk tunic. A new set of toggles awaited the fumblings of a man used to dressing himself, not undressing others. He felt the rough scrape of beard as Boromir released his throat. A pair of hands, not his own, moved to the fastenings of his own clothing.
"Leave it." It was a command, not a request. Boromir's hands stilled, his face a deliberate mask, not asking, not telling.
The two stood in silence as Aragorn slowly unbuttoned Boromir's tunic, revealing warm skin to cool air. Aragorn held his companion's gaze, unfastening the garment by feel alone.
His hands slid down Boromir's torso, stopping briefly at each toggle before venturing on. Reaching his waist, Aragorn lingered for a moment before stopping his progress altogether.
Boromir looked down at the palm resting at his waist. "What?"
"You're wearing her gift."
"What of it?" The challenge simmered between them.
Appearing to back off, Aragorn smiled. "Nothing. It is," he unwittingly echoed Boromir's own assessment, "a pretty thing." The Ranger gently unhooked the mallorn leaf and slid the belt out from behind Boromir. He admired the handiwork, noting the way each individual thread seemed to catch the moonlight. He ran the length of it over his palms, listening to the faint whisper of fibre over flesh. "Do you trust me?" Aragorn wound the ends of the belt around his fingers, stretching it between his hands like a garrotte. He leaned against the Steward's son, his erection pressing sharply into Boromir's hip.
"Should I?" The edge of the belt rubbed against his chin.
"No." Aragorn leaned into a rough kiss, biting at Boromir's lips as he pushed the flat of the belt across his lover's windpipe.
***
They slept.
The belt remained wound around Aragorn's fist throughout the night, and with the morning came the chaos of camp movement. The fire was extinguished, the packs refilled, and the boats were uncovered for another day of travel. Somewhere among the turmoil Aragorn found himself holding Boromir's belt, having forgotten to return it with the rest of his discarded clothing. He folded it, carefully and reverently, placing it in his own pack with a silent promise to return it to its rightful owner as soon as they ran aground at the end of the day.
***
"Boromir..."
"They took the little ones!"
***
They laid his body in a boat, Man, Elf, and Dwarf, with the weapons of his enemies beneath his feet and the grey cloak of Lórien under his head. They arrayed the broken pieces of his sword and horn across his lap and stood in silence, gazing on their fallen comrade. Moments passed, each of the three willing away the instant of parting.
"Something is missing." Aragorn broke the silence first, shocked as the realization came over him. He moved swiftly to his pack, retrieving the golden belt.
They removed the leather belt from around Boromir's jerkin, replacing it with the gift of the Galadhrim. It shone about his waist. "I meant to return this to you, friend," Aragorn's fingers lingered on the clasp, "It should have been with you in your final battle."
"It has been restored to its rightful place." Gimli's words were cold comfort.
Launching the boat was quick work. The current caught the tiny craft almost immediately, pulling it toward Rauros.
Legolas was the last to speak as they watched Boromir's body sail away from the shore. "May the Lady's favour follow you, Son of Gondor."
The funeral boat floated away, headed for the roaring falls.
END