lotr_sesa Fic for empy The Night of St.Nicholas
Fic.3860 words. For Empy's Christmas request.
Title The Night of St Nicholas.
Author bluegerl
Pairing Boromir/Aragorn, and Faramir and Eomer.
Category Au.Fanfic Lotr.
Rating NC17. Warnings A bit angsty, anxious.
Disclaimer. I have just borrowed these lovely fictitious people to play with, and hopefully please and entertain another Friend on LIvejournal. She asked for winter/snowy, happy ever after, (of course how could one do anything else at Christmas?), so here you are Empy, with love, and I do hope you have a wonderful Festive Season.
This has been Beta'd by such a wonderful brave little Elf rubyelf who has had a bad time and SO much to do, but she so sweetly offered to tidy it up for me. So, if you, dear Empy and any others, find mistakes, blame me. I make them often.
The Night of Saint Nicholas
The month of November had been hard to bear. It had left everyone with the feeling that there was nothing to look forward to. The leaves had fallen and now lay soggy and coldbundled beneath the shivering branches of the birches. Even the pine trees of the big Forest seemed to huddle together, seeking some form of comfort, but sighing, soughing in the chill breeze that was neither cold nor warm. That was the end of November. Grey, hopeless, miserable, unlovely and unloved.
Boromir sat in his office, pushing the papers round and round on his table. His fingers were covered in black ink from a badly cut quill, and his lists were sloping off the page, so that he read,
"Chains for Dungeon
0.20 Drms
"Chair mended, One, for kitchen
80.oo Crns
"Cheese Six Drums
1.oo Crn.
"Chopping block for heads
5.35 Crns.
"Chops for banquet
140 Crns
He peered again at the prices, swore and reached for the scraper blade. Everyone knew that chains cost eighty crowns and they didn't cost a mere twenty drihams, and whoever heard of 6 huge cheeses for only one crown? They were 5.35 Crns with the discount for quantity. His lines just didn't line up. Again.
Boromir was not a patient man when it came to paperwork; he was a lot more likely to cut a dead straight line with a sword than writing out rotten lists, where the last figure fell off the page and couldn't be found! Why did he of all people have to make lists in an office, when Faramir, Eomer and Aragorn were off in the woods, rollicking around, trying to find some deer to fill the larders with? Boromir picked up another list, the one that he had dictated to his clerk after he failed to add in the mistletoe, the crackers and more tubes of sprinkling-twinkle that the King had ordered.
He looked at it. It seemed to be correct, with all the costings written out neatly, in line, with the goods purchased. Then he reached the total on the back of the sheet, and decided that the King and the Treasurer should see how much the Christmas Jollity Festival was going to cost this year. Last year was bad enough, but this year someone would have to put their hands in their pockets a bit further. He could see Eomer's face, as it would surely grow steamily purple as he thought he would have to find yet more from his coffers to match the donations of The King of Gondor. But if they wanted a big party, then it had to be paid for by someone, somewhere, somehow.
Picking up the list and his cloak and stomping his feet back into his boots, he set off down the corridors to find the King. Half way there, he remembered they were all out hunting, and without him, too. So the answer was why didn't he go off and find them; it'd be a damn good excuse to get a bit of exercise in after all that table-sitting. Diverting himself down to the lower Level, he went to the Stable, and shoving the list into a deep pocket of his breeches, he climbed aboard Staghunter, clicked his tongue and set off to find the hunt.
Over the drawbridge, the snow started. Only small flakes at first, nothing of note. The snow was late this year, this first fall should normally have happened mid-November, and made that depressing grey foggy time much shorter. Still, it perhaps was here, and would have the decency to be not too much and not too little, and remain crisp, and clean. It was going to be Yuletide in three weeks from now, and St. Nick should be arriving on or about... erm... the fifth, or fifteenth was it? Boromir was bad on dates too.
While he had been musing on the arrival of festivities and a bearded saint, he had drifted from the road. Staghunter was covering the ground hungrily, tugging at the reins and tossing his head to be allowed to run as he wished. Boromir knew that was a stupid thing to do in a wood where one had to dodge and duck tree branches. Staghunter could dodge with the best of them, but he forgot he was carrying a load, who was not quite as fixed in place as Staghunter's skin. Boromir pulled the horse's head back into his chest, having to almost stand in the stirrups, with very little result. Horse and rider went careering off into the darker woods, slipping and sliding on the wet leaves, nimbly flitting past and around inconvenient trees, and hopping easily over fallen trunks. Boromir was beginning to enjoy himself. The air was warmer in here, and his blood was flowing as it should in big healthy man of middle years. His cheeks glowed and his eyes began to sparkle. Staghunter sensed the laughter bubbling up and gave a little buck for his joy. Horse and man set off, crazily, wildly into the Wood which, all too soon, became The Forest.
Here in The Forest were the remains of the quarries and diggings from the most ancient of days in the Land of Rohan. Here, it was said, were the fairies and bogles that had fled when Man had walked onto the plains, and built his towering white cliffs of walls, homes and castles. Boromir wasn't a believer in Fairies, or Bogles. He did remember as a child having bad dreams about creatures, but he had enough of them in his real lifetime in the shape of Orcs and Uruk Hais... he shivered remembering those. They really had hurt him. The Fairies hadn't helped him then, but the King Healer had done their work. The Forest seemed to grow dark, as dark as those remembered days, when he had lain, fighting the shadows that loomed, threatening, demanding to take him, his life, his being, and lose it in the Eternal Dark.
He felt the horse slow under the needle-heavy branches of the huge black pines. This was The Forest Edge. He woke up from his reverie, and turned Staghunter, intending to retrace his steps and join up with the hunt. He hadn't heard a horn for some time, but then, he had been enjoying a noisy crashing sort of career through the Woods, and hadn't bothered. It was so seldom they had to worry about evil times now that Aragorn had been King for several years.
The Forest seemed to be so dark now, under the trees, and Staghunter was walking with care now, slipping still in the needlefall from years and years past. They threaded their way back, Boromir feeling colder; a chill was creeping through the trees, and here and there great flakes of snow tumbled up and down in the slack air. Boromir realised, as they came to a deep chasm with steep rocky sides and shrub-hidden bottom, that he had completely lost his way. He turned up the slope to his left, and came face to face with another cliff. Turning Staghunter to go down the slope again, the horse's front hoof found a rock which dislodged, throwing the animal off balance. Boromir was caught unawares, his seat in the saddle was relaxed and he was flung to one side, then off, as Staghunter slid on his side down the steep slope. Boromir fell heavily on his leg and back and he heard something, perhaps a dead branch, crack. He heard Staghunter screaming from the bottom of the gorge, and went to pull himself up to slide down to help his horse. Then the Steward of Gondor screamed. He screamed high and suddenly, with the pain as his leg crumpled and he fell again, backwards, head-down the slope, following the path made by the horse. Unconscious, he lay with his hair-tossed head beside the brown warm rump, the horse whickering as his master joined him.
The pain in Boromir's leg and back was excrutiating. He was sweating with the knifing shoots that seemed to course through his whole body if he tried to move anything more than his eyes and one arm, the one on which he was lying. He had to move. He had to help Staghunter. He knew he could move, suddenly, just once, at the most twice, before he fainted again, and that decided him. With a violent heave he turned, reached with his free hand for the pommel of the saddle, and pulled himself to sit upright, leaning over the crupperstrap. The world turned, flipped and darkened, then grew a little lighter, if even more painful.
Staghunter was pinned by a twisted root round his off foreleg. Boromir could see how it could be freed, but the horse could not manage it himself despite its struggles.
Once again Boromir pulled at his saddle, hauling himself over the hump of the horse's belly, and rolling down to land with another sharp scream from his white-lipped mouth. Now he could reach the sword hanging almost beside him, one strap broken in the tumbling descent. He pulled it with his less painful arm, and reaching over, a great groan gurgling up from his belly, he pushed the sword under the root where it caught round the twisted limb of the tree, fallen many months before. He took one last breath, and that hurt, just to breathe deeply enough to make one huge effort. He paused, then heaved his arm upward, levering the root free of the ties, at the same time coughing out 'Stand' to the horse. Staghunter convulsed, thrashed, and rose. Boromir's body tumbled back into the leafmould, unconscious, and barely breathing. The horse limped to his master, lowered his head and blew gently into Boromir's face, nuzzled his neck. Then he stood beside him, and waited, as the snow fell.
The snow was filling Boromir's nostrils when he awoke, great wet clumps of it clogging his hair. He was so cold, and his back hurt. He wondered why it was snowing in his bedroom. His back always hurt these days, he dreamily thought. His eyes were heavy with tears, but on his eyes, was Aragorn weeping over him again? Weeping for love of him? It upset Boromir when his King did that, as it reminded him of his death with the arrows in his breast and Aragorn kissing him back to life. He loved Aragorn too, so much. So very much that he would die again and again for him. This snow in the bedroom is a nuisance. A hand came up to wipe, and Boromir screamed again, a wail of high, thin pain. He was unable to move that hand, his back was in torment. He tried waggling his other hand. It seemed to move without striking knives in his back, but it was so cold. Everything was so cold.
One hand, what about feet? A foot wandered up and down, a knee flexed very gently, Aahhhh - no more, no more! The other foot was dead. He couldn't even feel if he had a foot there. He couldn't lift his head enough to see if he had two feet, Because if he had only one, he could be bleeding to his death again, and Aragorn wasn't here to kiss him alive again. Why wasn't Aragorn here, and Faramir and his little men, his Hobbits, they always had good advice for a silly old Steward... Boromir's mind wandered off again, and he half slept, half fainted.
The Moon rose on a white, white land. White trees lifted pearl-pale arms and thanked the sky for their decoration in time for the night of St. Nicholas. The stars winked back their agreement from a sky of Christmas Pudding black. Not velvet as has been many times said, velvet is smooth and silent. The sky of tonight had scudded clouds, dotted like currants all over between the stars. Boromir grinned; he liked Christmas Puddings, with cream and a bit of holly in the top and flames .. He was so cold. Why was he so cold?
He began to whimper, little bitten moans. From the cold, the pain, the fear and the loneliness of being here, in the The Forest, lost. Without his brother, or his Captain, his King. He wanted to call out, but there was no-one to call to. He couldn't hear any horns, and if the moon was up, they would be back in the Castle, in front of a roaring fire and looking forward to a... Boromir didn't want to think about that. He was beginning to think he wouldn't have what they were looking forward to, because he would be here, hidden, under the snow with no kiss to bring him alive. He didn't like dying... it hurt. He wanted help. He grunted out Staghunter's name, "Stag! Stag, Here!"
There was no movement, no horse. Boromir was really alone now. He hoped Stag had gone off home and when they saw him, they'd at least know his rider was out somewhere in the wilds of Rohan. He hadn't told anyone where he was going either. He had really lost all his battle skills, no backup, no forward planning, no thought for himself or his men, they would curse him... he slept again, and the snow fell.
Far away in the sparkling night sky, came the sound of bells. It could have been just the frost settling in the dripping snow, or a tree brushing a branch against another. It may have been a bird, calling, calling. But it sounded like bells. Far bells, fairy bells, sleigh bells, bells on his fingers and bells on his toes, I like what he does with his nose... Fainting was easy he thought;it stopped his back hurting, and his hand didn't feel so cold then. He proceeded to faint.
The bells became closer, voices called, dogs barked and sang the song of bloodhounds on the search. The hounds pulled the keepers' arms from their sockets as they leant to leap over the cliff edge, howling and moaning their demands of reward. Their quarry was waiting, lying there hiding in the bushes, they would find him out.
Figures gathered, pointed, spoke ... decided. Ropes were brought, the horses led to where young trees could be cut to be lashed together, the saplings forming a bed between them. Faramir and Aragorn slid, regardless of self and clothing, on their bottoms, hands grabbing at scrub or rocks to break their descent. The hounds had been pulled away, and given their meaty reward. Eomer stood at the top, rubbing his hand through and through his hair, his hood fallen back, gathering snow. He watched as Aragorn crawled forward, disappeared behind a dark green bush that anchored itself to a huge rock.
Faramir called from another side, "He's here, he's down here, Come, Oh come!" and a sound of brush being shoved aside and a sobbing note, a wail rose.
Aragorn stood and raced into the thicket, smashing the clutching branches aside, fighting them as if they were the Orcs, until he won through to the little space where Faramir kneeled, tears rolling down his face. "He is so hurt, I fear for him, my brother, my big strong brother, Oh Aragorn, help him. Give him help. Oh, my brother."
Aragorn knelt and laid his hands on the cold blue forehead of a sleeping man, a dead man? No. Not dead, not while he, Aragorn was King of Gondor and was a Healer. He raised the cold hand to his lips, then to his cheek, then he kissed the palm, and licked it. He stroked the arm that had no life and whispered words of love, of healing, of life, then bowing low, laid his head against the frozen knuckles gripped around the broken sword.
He raised his head, and kissed first the lips, hard, unyielding, made of ice. The eyes, ice-wet with snow tears, were closed as if in peace. He breathed upon the cold, cold forehead, and loved. He stayed, his lips upon that forehead that he had kissed once before, in desperation, to save the man he loved beyond perdition. He loved him still, and desired him still, he needed him still. This man is his; he belongs to no other!
Eomer called down to Faramir, who had been standing, watching the King kneeling before his Steward begging him to stay, to live, to be his, his love.
"The stretcher is ready, the horses are steady, and we can make haste before moonset. Can he be moved safely?" He had seen Faramir's wave of hope and Eomer's voice rang with sense. "The cold will become severe as dawn approaches, and he cannot be left. The Reaper would come then, despite our King."
Aragorn finished his kiss. Rose, and with smooth suddenness, rolled his Steward on to his back, lying him almost over his own cloak that he had tucked beneath the crumpled form. Boromir's body flopped; he flinched not nor cried out. Aragorn pulled the far edge of his cloak where he had bundled it under the heavy weight, until Boromir was lying flat upon its soft fur. Faramir threw his two over-furs upon the still shape, and caught two more that Eomer had tossed down, weighted with a rock. Several hound-men had found a way down to the base of the cliff. They carried, four to a side, the heavy fur-hidden burden so carefully round and back up to the waiting group. Faramir fell into Eomer's arms, and clung, shivering, while the soft beard nuzzled his neck, kissing softly in reassurance. "I fear, Eo, I fear for my brother, he looks..." Eomer held a sobbing Faramir, and stroked his cold tangled hair. The snow was still tossing and whirling in huge flakes from the gathered darkened sky.
Aragorn was seeing to the settling of his Steward, his man, on the stretcher, and refusing the offer of a mount, steadfastly walked with his hand upon the bridle of a stretcher-horse, glancing back between their heads in watchful care, throughout the dark night.
The night of St Nicholas, the patron saint of Children and Fools brought Boromir home to the Castle. The snow had fallen thick, and filled the fields with silver blankets, the trees lifted coated fingers like those of children playing with bubbles, and gently dropped their presents on unguarded heads. The Castle resounded with the sound of bells, calling bells, ordering bells, and perhaps hid the sound of the sleigh bells of a Saint who looks after the foolishness of grown children.
Seven anxious days later, a weak but familiar voice began its daily grumble. "Why can't I get out of bed, so I can sit over there by the fire?"
"My porridge is cold, Merry, be a good little lad and hot it up for me? There's a good boy... Where's Pippin?"
"Mince Pies? Aaah, will he share those with me? I suppose not. He'll have eaten them all by the time he gets here!"
Everyone had become used to hearing the Steward's brown rumbly voice resonate first thing in the morning as he called for his chamber pot. Then the cursing, swearing as he swung himself semi-upright. Aragorn would depart to the other side of the room, as his services were rudely refused. He was waiting to see if the pot was first used, then passed safely to him for disposal. On the first solo occasion it had caught on the bindings on Boromir's leg that restrained his hip and knee movements, and had poured its contents onto the other thigh and the bed below it. That had resulted in some very colourful, albeit weak, cursings that had not sifted into the hearing of the King ever before.
He returned with a clean pot, a jug of steaming water, towels, some unguent, and a soap of some perfume.
Boromir sniffed "You've stolen some of Arwen's special soap, you fancy poof. Just cos you like smelling so pretty, you think I should. I thought you said you loved my personal perfume, especially when I'm all sweaty after you've had your dirty, wicked, kingly way with me. I prefer you... Hey! When are you going to have your kingly way with me again? I can turn over here, you know, although me bum isn't quite as accessible as it used to be, but I'm sure you can manage somehow!"
Aragorn grinned, laid out his bowls and oils, poured the hot water, then approached his Steward, lying helpless, his eyes pleading, brilliant green with love and laughter.
"Lie still and shut up, I shall wash you as and how I want. You have my permission to moan, but quietly, or the Hobbits'll be back like a shot. Now, let’s have that arm... Hmmm yes, smells awful under there, needs cleaning properly..."
Aragorn fetched out his tongue and licked, sniffed, and licked again. His Steward giggled.
"I wonder if the other one smells as bad...." and leaning across the smiling face he raised another arm and sniffed. "Yep, just as bad... this will be a long job. Are you up to it, Boro? Aaah yes, I see you think you may be... perhaps... mmm?" and his softly curling hair fell across his face as he bent and nipped with sharp white teeth at a bare nipple, then licked, and sucked and nipped again. Boromir developed a slightly high singing in his throat. His eyes had gone from a bright golden green to the dark of Mirkwood trees, black with desire. His one good arm lifted to grab the light brown head of his King, the other more slowly stroked a hard muscled shoulder. The King kissed his Steward thoroughly across his chest to his other nipple, then slowly licked and sucked his way downward to offer aid and comfort to his suffering love, wherever they both desired it.
Faramir poked his head round the door, a little worried at the loud groans that he'd heard coming to his brother's room. He was bringing some breakfast, but instantly realised that breakfast was a little superfluous at the present time, so he ran back with it to his own room. He stood the heavy tray on the dresser while he ripped off his house clothing, and then carried the breakfast-tray, its contents still hot and smelling deliciously bacony, to the bed where Eomer sat against the six big pillows, scratching his belly hair and yawning.
Faramir announced in his best Butler's voice, "Breakfasts are here, and you can have both. I suggest the bacon first as it's hot, but then... yes, the bacon, as that isn't any good when it's cold, and I can keep myself hot for after the bacon." and he sat on the bed, the tray settled comfortably between them.
From two rooms in the castle there was a wholly satisfied silence, and a perfume of bodily satisfactions, of bacon, and freshly made mince pies. It would be a fine, snowy, merry Christmas in a few days' time.
The list of the necessities, the cost of the preparations, and the total that was for the shocked eyes of Kings and Treasurers, was left on the table in the office. Wet, bloody, and unreadable.
Title The Night of St Nicholas.
Author bluegerl
Pairing Boromir/Aragorn, and Faramir and Eomer.
Category Au.Fanfic Lotr.
Rating NC17. Warnings A bit angsty, anxious.
Disclaimer. I have just borrowed these lovely fictitious people to play with, and hopefully please and entertain another Friend on LIvejournal. She asked for winter/snowy, happy ever after, (of course how could one do anything else at Christmas?), so here you are Empy, with love, and I do hope you have a wonderful Festive Season.
This has been Beta'd by such a wonderful brave little Elf rubyelf who has had a bad time and SO much to do, but she so sweetly offered to tidy it up for me. So, if you, dear Empy and any others, find mistakes, blame me. I make them often.
The Night of Saint Nicholas
The month of November had been hard to bear. It had left everyone with the feeling that there was nothing to look forward to. The leaves had fallen and now lay soggy and coldbundled beneath the shivering branches of the birches. Even the pine trees of the big Forest seemed to huddle together, seeking some form of comfort, but sighing, soughing in the chill breeze that was neither cold nor warm. That was the end of November. Grey, hopeless, miserable, unlovely and unloved.
Boromir sat in his office, pushing the papers round and round on his table. His fingers were covered in black ink from a badly cut quill, and his lists were sloping off the page, so that he read,
"Chains for Dungeon
0.20 Drms
"Chair mended, One, for kitchen
80.oo Crns
"Cheese Six Drums
1.oo Crn.
"Chopping block for heads
5.35 Crns.
"Chops for banquet
140 Crns
He peered again at the prices, swore and reached for the scraper blade. Everyone knew that chains cost eighty crowns and they didn't cost a mere twenty drihams, and whoever heard of 6 huge cheeses for only one crown? They were 5.35 Crns with the discount for quantity. His lines just didn't line up. Again.
Boromir was not a patient man when it came to paperwork; he was a lot more likely to cut a dead straight line with a sword than writing out rotten lists, where the last figure fell off the page and couldn't be found! Why did he of all people have to make lists in an office, when Faramir, Eomer and Aragorn were off in the woods, rollicking around, trying to find some deer to fill the larders with? Boromir picked up another list, the one that he had dictated to his clerk after he failed to add in the mistletoe, the crackers and more tubes of sprinkling-twinkle that the King had ordered.
He looked at it. It seemed to be correct, with all the costings written out neatly, in line, with the goods purchased. Then he reached the total on the back of the sheet, and decided that the King and the Treasurer should see how much the Christmas Jollity Festival was going to cost this year. Last year was bad enough, but this year someone would have to put their hands in their pockets a bit further. He could see Eomer's face, as it would surely grow steamily purple as he thought he would have to find yet more from his coffers to match the donations of The King of Gondor. But if they wanted a big party, then it had to be paid for by someone, somewhere, somehow.
Picking up the list and his cloak and stomping his feet back into his boots, he set off down the corridors to find the King. Half way there, he remembered they were all out hunting, and without him, too. So the answer was why didn't he go off and find them; it'd be a damn good excuse to get a bit of exercise in after all that table-sitting. Diverting himself down to the lower Level, he went to the Stable, and shoving the list into a deep pocket of his breeches, he climbed aboard Staghunter, clicked his tongue and set off to find the hunt.
Over the drawbridge, the snow started. Only small flakes at first, nothing of note. The snow was late this year, this first fall should normally have happened mid-November, and made that depressing grey foggy time much shorter. Still, it perhaps was here, and would have the decency to be not too much and not too little, and remain crisp, and clean. It was going to be Yuletide in three weeks from now, and St. Nick should be arriving on or about... erm... the fifth, or fifteenth was it? Boromir was bad on dates too.
While he had been musing on the arrival of festivities and a bearded saint, he had drifted from the road. Staghunter was covering the ground hungrily, tugging at the reins and tossing his head to be allowed to run as he wished. Boromir knew that was a stupid thing to do in a wood where one had to dodge and duck tree branches. Staghunter could dodge with the best of them, but he forgot he was carrying a load, who was not quite as fixed in place as Staghunter's skin. Boromir pulled the horse's head back into his chest, having to almost stand in the stirrups, with very little result. Horse and rider went careering off into the darker woods, slipping and sliding on the wet leaves, nimbly flitting past and around inconvenient trees, and hopping easily over fallen trunks. Boromir was beginning to enjoy himself. The air was warmer in here, and his blood was flowing as it should in big healthy man of middle years. His cheeks glowed and his eyes began to sparkle. Staghunter sensed the laughter bubbling up and gave a little buck for his joy. Horse and man set off, crazily, wildly into the Wood which, all too soon, became The Forest.
Here in The Forest were the remains of the quarries and diggings from the most ancient of days in the Land of Rohan. Here, it was said, were the fairies and bogles that had fled when Man had walked onto the plains, and built his towering white cliffs of walls, homes and castles. Boromir wasn't a believer in Fairies, or Bogles. He did remember as a child having bad dreams about creatures, but he had enough of them in his real lifetime in the shape of Orcs and Uruk Hais... he shivered remembering those. They really had hurt him. The Fairies hadn't helped him then, but the King Healer had done their work. The Forest seemed to grow dark, as dark as those remembered days, when he had lain, fighting the shadows that loomed, threatening, demanding to take him, his life, his being, and lose it in the Eternal Dark.
He felt the horse slow under the needle-heavy branches of the huge black pines. This was The Forest Edge. He woke up from his reverie, and turned Staghunter, intending to retrace his steps and join up with the hunt. He hadn't heard a horn for some time, but then, he had been enjoying a noisy crashing sort of career through the Woods, and hadn't bothered. It was so seldom they had to worry about evil times now that Aragorn had been King for several years.
The Forest seemed to be so dark now, under the trees, and Staghunter was walking with care now, slipping still in the needlefall from years and years past. They threaded their way back, Boromir feeling colder; a chill was creeping through the trees, and here and there great flakes of snow tumbled up and down in the slack air. Boromir realised, as they came to a deep chasm with steep rocky sides and shrub-hidden bottom, that he had completely lost his way. He turned up the slope to his left, and came face to face with another cliff. Turning Staghunter to go down the slope again, the horse's front hoof found a rock which dislodged, throwing the animal off balance. Boromir was caught unawares, his seat in the saddle was relaxed and he was flung to one side, then off, as Staghunter slid on his side down the steep slope. Boromir fell heavily on his leg and back and he heard something, perhaps a dead branch, crack. He heard Staghunter screaming from the bottom of the gorge, and went to pull himself up to slide down to help his horse. Then the Steward of Gondor screamed. He screamed high and suddenly, with the pain as his leg crumpled and he fell again, backwards, head-down the slope, following the path made by the horse. Unconscious, he lay with his hair-tossed head beside the brown warm rump, the horse whickering as his master joined him.
The pain in Boromir's leg and back was excrutiating. He was sweating with the knifing shoots that seemed to course through his whole body if he tried to move anything more than his eyes and one arm, the one on which he was lying. He had to move. He had to help Staghunter. He knew he could move, suddenly, just once, at the most twice, before he fainted again, and that decided him. With a violent heave he turned, reached with his free hand for the pommel of the saddle, and pulled himself to sit upright, leaning over the crupperstrap. The world turned, flipped and darkened, then grew a little lighter, if even more painful.
Staghunter was pinned by a twisted root round his off foreleg. Boromir could see how it could be freed, but the horse could not manage it himself despite its struggles.
Once again Boromir pulled at his saddle, hauling himself over the hump of the horse's belly, and rolling down to land with another sharp scream from his white-lipped mouth. Now he could reach the sword hanging almost beside him, one strap broken in the tumbling descent. He pulled it with his less painful arm, and reaching over, a great groan gurgling up from his belly, he pushed the sword under the root where it caught round the twisted limb of the tree, fallen many months before. He took one last breath, and that hurt, just to breathe deeply enough to make one huge effort. He paused, then heaved his arm upward, levering the root free of the ties, at the same time coughing out 'Stand' to the horse. Staghunter convulsed, thrashed, and rose. Boromir's body tumbled back into the leafmould, unconscious, and barely breathing. The horse limped to his master, lowered his head and blew gently into Boromir's face, nuzzled his neck. Then he stood beside him, and waited, as the snow fell.
The snow was filling Boromir's nostrils when he awoke, great wet clumps of it clogging his hair. He was so cold, and his back hurt. He wondered why it was snowing in his bedroom. His back always hurt these days, he dreamily thought. His eyes were heavy with tears, but on his eyes, was Aragorn weeping over him again? Weeping for love of him? It upset Boromir when his King did that, as it reminded him of his death with the arrows in his breast and Aragorn kissing him back to life. He loved Aragorn too, so much. So very much that he would die again and again for him. This snow in the bedroom is a nuisance. A hand came up to wipe, and Boromir screamed again, a wail of high, thin pain. He was unable to move that hand, his back was in torment. He tried waggling his other hand. It seemed to move without striking knives in his back, but it was so cold. Everything was so cold.
One hand, what about feet? A foot wandered up and down, a knee flexed very gently, Aahhhh - no more, no more! The other foot was dead. He couldn't even feel if he had a foot there. He couldn't lift his head enough to see if he had two feet, Because if he had only one, he could be bleeding to his death again, and Aragorn wasn't here to kiss him alive again. Why wasn't Aragorn here, and Faramir and his little men, his Hobbits, they always had good advice for a silly old Steward... Boromir's mind wandered off again, and he half slept, half fainted.
The Moon rose on a white, white land. White trees lifted pearl-pale arms and thanked the sky for their decoration in time for the night of St. Nicholas. The stars winked back their agreement from a sky of Christmas Pudding black. Not velvet as has been many times said, velvet is smooth and silent. The sky of tonight had scudded clouds, dotted like currants all over between the stars. Boromir grinned; he liked Christmas Puddings, with cream and a bit of holly in the top and flames .. He was so cold. Why was he so cold?
He began to whimper, little bitten moans. From the cold, the pain, the fear and the loneliness of being here, in the The Forest, lost. Without his brother, or his Captain, his King. He wanted to call out, but there was no-one to call to. He couldn't hear any horns, and if the moon was up, they would be back in the Castle, in front of a roaring fire and looking forward to a... Boromir didn't want to think about that. He was beginning to think he wouldn't have what they were looking forward to, because he would be here, hidden, under the snow with no kiss to bring him alive. He didn't like dying... it hurt. He wanted help. He grunted out Staghunter's name, "Stag! Stag, Here!"
There was no movement, no horse. Boromir was really alone now. He hoped Stag had gone off home and when they saw him, they'd at least know his rider was out somewhere in the wilds of Rohan. He hadn't told anyone where he was going either. He had really lost all his battle skills, no backup, no forward planning, no thought for himself or his men, they would curse him... he slept again, and the snow fell.
Far away in the sparkling night sky, came the sound of bells. It could have been just the frost settling in the dripping snow, or a tree brushing a branch against another. It may have been a bird, calling, calling. But it sounded like bells. Far bells, fairy bells, sleigh bells, bells on his fingers and bells on his toes, I like what he does with his nose... Fainting was easy he thought;it stopped his back hurting, and his hand didn't feel so cold then. He proceeded to faint.
The bells became closer, voices called, dogs barked and sang the song of bloodhounds on the search. The hounds pulled the keepers' arms from their sockets as they leant to leap over the cliff edge, howling and moaning their demands of reward. Their quarry was waiting, lying there hiding in the bushes, they would find him out.
Figures gathered, pointed, spoke ... decided. Ropes were brought, the horses led to where young trees could be cut to be lashed together, the saplings forming a bed between them. Faramir and Aragorn slid, regardless of self and clothing, on their bottoms, hands grabbing at scrub or rocks to break their descent. The hounds had been pulled away, and given their meaty reward. Eomer stood at the top, rubbing his hand through and through his hair, his hood fallen back, gathering snow. He watched as Aragorn crawled forward, disappeared behind a dark green bush that anchored itself to a huge rock.
Faramir called from another side, "He's here, he's down here, Come, Oh come!" and a sound of brush being shoved aside and a sobbing note, a wail rose.
Aragorn stood and raced into the thicket, smashing the clutching branches aside, fighting them as if they were the Orcs, until he won through to the little space where Faramir kneeled, tears rolling down his face. "He is so hurt, I fear for him, my brother, my big strong brother, Oh Aragorn, help him. Give him help. Oh, my brother."
Aragorn knelt and laid his hands on the cold blue forehead of a sleeping man, a dead man? No. Not dead, not while he, Aragorn was King of Gondor and was a Healer. He raised the cold hand to his lips, then to his cheek, then he kissed the palm, and licked it. He stroked the arm that had no life and whispered words of love, of healing, of life, then bowing low, laid his head against the frozen knuckles gripped around the broken sword.
He raised his head, and kissed first the lips, hard, unyielding, made of ice. The eyes, ice-wet with snow tears, were closed as if in peace. He breathed upon the cold, cold forehead, and loved. He stayed, his lips upon that forehead that he had kissed once before, in desperation, to save the man he loved beyond perdition. He loved him still, and desired him still, he needed him still. This man is his; he belongs to no other!
Eomer called down to Faramir, who had been standing, watching the King kneeling before his Steward begging him to stay, to live, to be his, his love.
"The stretcher is ready, the horses are steady, and we can make haste before moonset. Can he be moved safely?" He had seen Faramir's wave of hope and Eomer's voice rang with sense. "The cold will become severe as dawn approaches, and he cannot be left. The Reaper would come then, despite our King."
Aragorn finished his kiss. Rose, and with smooth suddenness, rolled his Steward on to his back, lying him almost over his own cloak that he had tucked beneath the crumpled form. Boromir's body flopped; he flinched not nor cried out. Aragorn pulled the far edge of his cloak where he had bundled it under the heavy weight, until Boromir was lying flat upon its soft fur. Faramir threw his two over-furs upon the still shape, and caught two more that Eomer had tossed down, weighted with a rock. Several hound-men had found a way down to the base of the cliff. They carried, four to a side, the heavy fur-hidden burden so carefully round and back up to the waiting group. Faramir fell into Eomer's arms, and clung, shivering, while the soft beard nuzzled his neck, kissing softly in reassurance. "I fear, Eo, I fear for my brother, he looks..." Eomer held a sobbing Faramir, and stroked his cold tangled hair. The snow was still tossing and whirling in huge flakes from the gathered darkened sky.
Aragorn was seeing to the settling of his Steward, his man, on the stretcher, and refusing the offer of a mount, steadfastly walked with his hand upon the bridle of a stretcher-horse, glancing back between their heads in watchful care, throughout the dark night.
The night of St Nicholas, the patron saint of Children and Fools brought Boromir home to the Castle. The snow had fallen thick, and filled the fields with silver blankets, the trees lifted coated fingers like those of children playing with bubbles, and gently dropped their presents on unguarded heads. The Castle resounded with the sound of bells, calling bells, ordering bells, and perhaps hid the sound of the sleigh bells of a Saint who looks after the foolishness of grown children.
Seven anxious days later, a weak but familiar voice began its daily grumble. "Why can't I get out of bed, so I can sit over there by the fire?"
"My porridge is cold, Merry, be a good little lad and hot it up for me? There's a good boy... Where's Pippin?"
"Mince Pies? Aaah, will he share those with me? I suppose not. He'll have eaten them all by the time he gets here!"
Everyone had become used to hearing the Steward's brown rumbly voice resonate first thing in the morning as he called for his chamber pot. Then the cursing, swearing as he swung himself semi-upright. Aragorn would depart to the other side of the room, as his services were rudely refused. He was waiting to see if the pot was first used, then passed safely to him for disposal. On the first solo occasion it had caught on the bindings on Boromir's leg that restrained his hip and knee movements, and had poured its contents onto the other thigh and the bed below it. That had resulted in some very colourful, albeit weak, cursings that had not sifted into the hearing of the King ever before.
He returned with a clean pot, a jug of steaming water, towels, some unguent, and a soap of some perfume.
Boromir sniffed "You've stolen some of Arwen's special soap, you fancy poof. Just cos you like smelling so pretty, you think I should. I thought you said you loved my personal perfume, especially when I'm all sweaty after you've had your dirty, wicked, kingly way with me. I prefer you... Hey! When are you going to have your kingly way with me again? I can turn over here, you know, although me bum isn't quite as accessible as it used to be, but I'm sure you can manage somehow!"
Aragorn grinned, laid out his bowls and oils, poured the hot water, then approached his Steward, lying helpless, his eyes pleading, brilliant green with love and laughter.
"Lie still and shut up, I shall wash you as and how I want. You have my permission to moan, but quietly, or the Hobbits'll be back like a shot. Now, let’s have that arm... Hmmm yes, smells awful under there, needs cleaning properly..."
Aragorn fetched out his tongue and licked, sniffed, and licked again. His Steward giggled.
"I wonder if the other one smells as bad...." and leaning across the smiling face he raised another arm and sniffed. "Yep, just as bad... this will be a long job. Are you up to it, Boro? Aaah yes, I see you think you may be... perhaps... mmm?" and his softly curling hair fell across his face as he bent and nipped with sharp white teeth at a bare nipple, then licked, and sucked and nipped again. Boromir developed a slightly high singing in his throat. His eyes had gone from a bright golden green to the dark of Mirkwood trees, black with desire. His one good arm lifted to grab the light brown head of his King, the other more slowly stroked a hard muscled shoulder. The King kissed his Steward thoroughly across his chest to his other nipple, then slowly licked and sucked his way downward to offer aid and comfort to his suffering love, wherever they both desired it.
Faramir poked his head round the door, a little worried at the loud groans that he'd heard coming to his brother's room. He was bringing some breakfast, but instantly realised that breakfast was a little superfluous at the present time, so he ran back with it to his own room. He stood the heavy tray on the dresser while he ripped off his house clothing, and then carried the breakfast-tray, its contents still hot and smelling deliciously bacony, to the bed where Eomer sat against the six big pillows, scratching his belly hair and yawning.
Faramir announced in his best Butler's voice, "Breakfasts are here, and you can have both. I suggest the bacon first as it's hot, but then... yes, the bacon, as that isn't any good when it's cold, and I can keep myself hot for after the bacon." and he sat on the bed, the tray settled comfortably between them.
From two rooms in the castle there was a wholly satisfied silence, and a perfume of bodily satisfactions, of bacon, and freshly made mince pies. It would be a fine, snowy, merry Christmas in a few days' time.
The list of the necessities, the cost of the preparations, and the total that was for the shocked eyes of Kings and Treasurers, was left on the table in the office. Wet, bloody, and unreadable.