The secret that will never be told.
For alex_quine who requested :-
Title: "The Secret that should never be told."
Author bluegerl
Category: FPF Aragorn, Arwen,
Rating G.
Words 3967.
Disclaimer. The persons of Arwen and Elessar/Aragorn are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien Estates, and I have merely borrowed these names for the story. The other persons are entirely imaginary but written with wishing!
Summary. The King is out of sorts, and seeks....
There were days when Elessar, King of Gondor felt at odds with himself, with the world and with nature itself. He was conscious of his temper which was prone to become short and he found himself snapping an answer when it would have been more circumspect to reply calmly.
Arwen who had been with all the moods of her husband, from his very young days before being sent into the wilderness to learn the ways of a warrior. She had waited for many years and had at last found a man, possessing Elfin blood, who also owned to the challenging frailties of being human. She had endured the proud father of two children, the worrying king with vast regions to guard and rebuild. She was also aware of the continual sadness in his eyes as he watched the fire, or stroked his son’s cheek as he slept. She knew of whom he was thinking then. Boromir, who should have lived to help Aragorn become King, to stay by his side, two strong loving men together. Sharing jokes, work and temptations as men. Arwen sometimes wished she could fill that space that dwelt in Elessar. She found it would help him if he could escape the confines of the castle, and ride free; gallop through the plains, walk admiring through the byways of the forests, drinking from his hand with water gathered in sparkling coldness from the brooks.
Arwen the wise and loving wife sent her man out; to be free and be alone with his own being. He took his old horse’s son, Brego was retired, but Berog was a true son and had his father’s spirit and willingness to listen to his rider’s thought. Elessar became Aragorn again, became Strider, the Ranger of the North lands. He forgot to be a king.
He stopped for sustenance, a quietly sociable evening at inns in the small hamlets and villages. He listened to his people speaking as they were wont to do amongst themselves, freely. It seemed that there was a contentment and relief abroad, now that men could mow and sow, reap and bind, play with their children who could run wild in safety. Orcs seldom ventured this far, and with the local militia organised by one old soldier in each a group of villages, they could cope with most brigands and robbers, and on occasion a marauding small group of Orcs.
When Aragorn had been on the road for nearly two sennights, he found a small hamlet of some seventeen houses. He could see signs of old battles, torn stones, a full slope of cairns beneath the spreading oak. He saw new thatch, wells with strong handles and sturdy supports for well-made heavy buckets.
He could smell the soil fresh-turned as he rode the grassy lane. There were cockerels strutting amongst the hens, dumpy, brown, industriously scratching. Kine moaned softly to the hissing of milk being squirted into jugs and mugs, and two spotted dogs danced round Berog’s hooves. His eyes searched for a likely place to seek a small repast and some barn to sleep in with his horse.
A tall young man came round the barnside carrying two brimming milk buckets. Aragorn’s heart stopped, then pounded as if it would break out. He shook his head and wondered why he found seeing this man, not long out of boyhood seeming, was so disturbing.
The buckets were taken into the newest thatched dwelling. The golden reed almost matched the colour of the young man’s hair… a sunlit gold. Berog halted by the water trough and Aragorn slipped the reins, loosening the saddle ties. He’d stay here as the sun was just touching the trees. As he stood waiting for Berog to finished dribbling water down his sleeve, the blonde man ducked out of the doorway and walked forward.
“Welcome, if you are a friend, beware if you are not.” His voice was low, strong and had a growl to it. Aragorn could hear an accent, a burring of the phrases that seemed familiar.
“I am a Ranger, returning North in a roundabout way, and am seeking a place to rest for the night for myself and my horse. I am named -“ He nearly said ‘Strider’ but something made him say - “Aragorn. Could I beg of you such a place?”
“Indeed. We are friendly folk, and have much regard for Rangers, and would be glad to share our small pleasures with one of such a Company.”
“Bring your horse - such a fine animal, to this barn. He can rest on clean straw that I have only today laid ready for a cow that will be calving in a day or three.” Berog snorted and walked, sniffing and smelling then lay and rolled. Then he stood and shook, snorting, pushed Aragorn toward the door.
Ducking beneath the headsill into the darker interior of the solid stone house Aragorn became aware of another person seated in a bed settle against a wall beside the fireplace.
“This is my Mother. I am named Bromidir, and my Mother is Aireonal, once of Vergsanet, by the River Gilrain. Please, be comfortable and take a cup of mead.” Bromidir indicated a stool, an embroidered backed chair, and a bench. He poured beakers of honey’d mead giving one to his mother and another to Aragorn. “I have still to see to the beasts before night, so if you will excuse…”
Aragorn sat on the bench, and smiled at Aireonal. Now his eyes were used to the gloom, he could see she had once been very fair, of a good height, and a fairness of complexion to match her hair. She remained very still, and seemed not to see him, though she drank slowly from her mug.
A commotion at the doorway and two burly men entered. One of enormous girth and heavily bearded advanced toward Aragorn.
“Bromidir is a very trusting young man, and he takes people too much on their word. We are the elders of this village and would know your reasons for being here, and from whence you came. You say you are a Ranger, heading to the North? The North is not this way. Here is down toward the southern sun, and the north is beyond the mountains. Why do you say this?”
Aragorn smiled and unbuckled his swordbelt, laying it on the ground. He pulled his dagger from his boot and held it, handle out toward the enquirer.
“I offer no animosity.. I am merely wandering, following my horse’s nose as he will learn his way back. His father came from the North, but his son has much to learn. I merely seek to rest a while, and seek company to while away the quiet evening.”
“Bendoc… You take his swordbelt. We will return it, untouched, on your leaving. I have your word then, that no harm will come - you have no witchcraft, no ill bodings for these good people here?”
“You have my word, as firm as would be the promise of the king.” Aragorn bowed his head, his hand across his jerkin over his heart.
“Peace then, brother, and be kind to these folk. Aireonal has seen her share of bad times. There should be no more. We bid you a good rest, and happy departure.”
Bromidir talked with Bendoc and the big man for a few minutes on the path outside and bidding them a fair evening he came in.
“I shall soon have the fire ready for these, they were snared yesterday and will make a sturdy meal.” He grinned, a wide open smile with fine teeth. Aragorn’s heart did another leap. He knew that smile - it had not been seen much on the Quest, but surely it was that smile, radiating joy from every dimpled crease. Aragorn found breathing suddenly difficult. This boy, this young man, surely only in his early manhood was perhaps a relation, although Aragorn had not heard of another line in Denethor’s family.
Aragorn was given the job of turning the spit occasionally, and he sat beside the fire on the small stool, watching as Bromidir cared for his mother. He could see she was nearly helpless in her limbs, and her mind would seeming disappear and she would almost converse to an unseen listener. Bromidir washed her carefully, and brushed her long silver hair, plaiting it back afresh.
She reached up and stroked her son’s face, then kissed him, and tucked her head on to his shoulder as he lifted her to her chairbed, and settled her against pillows. He was so engrossed in his carefulness he seemed to have forgotten the presence of Aragorn.
He seemed startled when he turned back to the fire. “I’m sorry, I have to apologise for not explaining. My mother is dumb, and … is not very… very well.”
He folded the cloths carefully with long clever fingers, and laid them on the shelf. Her robe he hung from a light stick, where it moved gently in the stirring air. He took the pot out to the muckheap by the barn and returned with another bucket of water setting the water cauldron in the fire ashes to heat.
“I thought you may like to bathe a little… We are fortunate that we have plenty of water for this small village.”
The rabbits were roasting well, the turnips and cabbage greens burbling well in the cauldron, so there was time to share another beaker. Aragorn’s eyes were watching, absorbing each move, each gesture, as if seeing them again, afresh. His heart seemed to be halfway up his gullet and beating as if he were - loving?
“You’ve come far then? Where today, and how long have you been travelling? We see few travellers here, and are always grateful to hear their news and what is happening elsewhere in the Kingdom.” The head with the straw-golden hair was leaning toward Aragorn, curious. “The King seems to be doing a grand business. He must be a big brave man and so busy.” The boy’s face was ruddy in the firelight, showed the straight nose, strong jaw and how finely the neck was set into the hard muscled shoulders. Aragorn was fascinated, absorbing this beauty, as if he had not seen such before, comparing it with remembered curves and lines. .
“Oh I think the King does what he can, I don’t think he enjoys his work that much, but someone has to do it.”
“Oh, he is a brave man, I’ve heard tell of his deeds, his fighting and when he was the mythical Thorongil how he fought the Balrog. We do have some story tellers through sometimes, and once we had a wizard with a long white beard, and a staff that had a lamp. He told us many stories about this man who was to be King, and how they would make Middle Earth well again by destroying something called ‘A Ring’. I think it must have been so heavy, it took so many of them, was it nine or ten, to carry it to Mount Doom?” His fingers toyed with the edge of the beaker. He looked shyly up at Aragorn. “I expect you know more than that about our King… you who travel so much?”
Aragorn looked into the fire, and then tipped his mug. He turned the spit one more time, and smiled at the boyman. “I know a bit more about the King, but it would spoil your view of him if I told you he was just like real ordinary men, like Bendoc or yourself. He has his days when nothing goes right, and days when the birds sing. I expect he’d like to go hunting more.”
“I’d like to meet him, but I can’t travel. I’m being trained to take over the Stewardship of this Village, and then of the five other Villages around. Tervogs is old and his wisdom is being passed on. Mother also I could not leave, although my betrothed will care for her as I do.”
“You have no father then? Just your betrothed? Where is your father, or …
Aragorn’s mind went groping for links. There should be a link…. He watched as Bromidir’s face went even more rosy… was he blushing?
“I am to be wed on the next Full Moon, and then my daughter will be five, and I hope my son that Felinollia is carrying will be the first of many.” He chuckled and looked down at his hands, then shyly up at Aragorn. “I want a tribe of boys. Girls is fine, and a couple would be grand, but I like boys and we have few enough in this village after the wars and battles. Bendoc would wish to be a father, but he was wounded severely and is now gelded. Torgevs has three daughters only and one is simple in the head. I could supply the whole village with fine strong boys.” He threw back his head and laughed joyously… A rolling rollocking laugh that trembled the rosemary drying from the beams. Aragorn felt tears come to his eyes. He knew that laugh, he’d not heard it for too many years. He remembered when the laugh was playing with the Hobbits when they set off on the quest. When they sat round campfires and Peregrine Took had come out with some remark that had them all guffawing.
“I’m sure you will have many many fine boys. But what happened to your Father? Did he suffer the same fate as the men in this village during the wars. Did you know him? What was his name?” Aragorn was leaning forward, his elbows digging into his knees and his hands gripping his empty beaker hard enough to crack it. “When did you last see him?”
“Oh, I didn’t know him. He was here with my Mother before the Time of the Quest. He was much younger than I am now when he first came, and my mother was barely old enough to love. He was clearing and fighting Orcs from the Lands of Gondor. He came often, my mother told me when I was small, when he could, and loved her. She cried as she told me, but I didn’t understand very much as I was only a very small child. He was always fighting to save our country, and his. Then he was sent off to join a dangerous mission, and he never came back. I didn’t ever see him, I don’t know his name as I was not supposed to know it because he was someone special, Mother said.”
“But your mother can tell you now? Surely she can explain who he was and why he went, leaving you alone with your Mother? He must have held you as a babe?”
“No, she can’t. We had a bad time when the men had all been taken for the battles that were going on, it seems. There was only Tervogs and Bendoc’s father here when the brigands, the robbers, and the orcs they brought kept returning. These burnt the village time and time again, even as we tried to save it. One time a great band of them came, and destroyed almost everything, That was when Bendoc who was just in his majority had his wound. They even killed and ate the cats, dogs, everything. And the women they raped, they killed, they tortured. It was the last battle before the End. Mother was with child again it is said, but there was no saving her from the creatures. They did what they did, she bled, she was left with nothing moving from her breast downwards, she was all cut and torn in pieces. And Bendoc says they did the worst… something they do with men, but not with women. Some terrible person took out her tongue and pushed it into her. The opposite they did with men, they took Bendoc’s maleness and tried to put it in his mouth. He was bleeding from no teeth and they thought he was dead. My mother I think they left also as dead. I had been in the woods where we were always sent when the bandits came. I was about eight or ten years I think. I don’t think my Father ever knew what happened to Mother, he was off so busy trying to defend Gondor and when he went on this Quest, he never ever came back. I can remember one man, a tall golden laughing man, they say I resemble him.”
Bromidir rose and pulled the cauldron from the hook. He nodded at the rabbits and Aragorn lifted them from the spit. He wondered why his hands weren’t shaking more. He felt sweat begin to gather at his temples. Sitting with his host at the table, seeing the care with which the fine hands that work had callused but not distorted pulling tender morsels from the rabbit, putting the hot bread soaking in the juice. He placed them in a deep dish and placed a cloth around his mother’s neck, and made a nest for the bowl in her lap. He smiled shyly at Aragorn again.
“She won’t let me feed her if we have guests… so if it please you, do not see if there is a mess or the bowl should fall. I hate to ask, but some are so distressed they think they are helping if they fetch the bowl, or mop her bedding. She is a very proud woman, my mother.”
Aragorn could understand… if this is a woman that had drawn a young Boromir to love while he was warring with the tribes and the invaders, she must have been a wondrous young being. He was sure this was Boromir’s son. His heart twisted in agony as he thought back, when no one had ever thought that a young hot-blooded warrior would find solace and passion, and make children. Boromir had never mentioned any such happening, but then… they had never had the time or the place to talk of such things. Women and marriage and children were just dreams that passed, were almost impossibilities, for who knew who would survive? He himself had not thought he could ever live to marry and love his Arwen. He’d given up all hope many times, and just fought on unable to think of anything.
He was trying to count the years back… This could not be. The Quest had been… when Boromir was… how old was Boromir when he began the Quest that called him from ever seeing his son?
“Can I ask, you seem only young… I would guess about your middle to late twenties? And yet you talk of the Quest which took your father away and that was over twenty years ago?”
Bromidir laughed again, that full throated happy noise, his head thrown back and his chin shining greasy in the candlelight.
“Me? You can add another five to that figure. I shall have another one on my marriage day. So I shall have to hurry and make my tribe of sons. I have promised to name at least one of them for Bendoc… he’d like two boys he said.”
Aragorn then felt himself blush. Boromir may have been young then, and lithely strong as this young one. Aragorn’s meeting with Boromir gave him the idea that he would have been a mature man, but … yes, why not, Boromir in his prime, Aragorn gazed at the slim young beautiful body. He was looking at Boromir as a young man. He had to know, he dearly so dearly wished to confirm his hopes… that Boromir would live again, and breed many children, to bring them all on into life.
Aragorn’s dark hair fell forward, the candlelight catching the silver glints. He himself was no longer a young man, being over his middle years, and Boromir would now be… a very mature man. His heart tightened, became a knot and he had to watch his bony hands before the tears began. Boromir, with a son of perhaps thirty… and becoming a grandfather? Aragorn’s throat hurt. He took another piece of bread, and wiped his plate, taking some minutes. Then he looked up at this face he’d known and loved, but with a few more lines, a rougher aspect and tired, haggard, but always, always brave and truly his.
“I would like to bathe this evening if I may. Will you join me? We could share some rather fragrant soap I was gifted, and the fire is bright and warm. Your mother will be sleeping will she not?”
“Aye, I mind not. I am glad to share my pleasures with a gentle stranger. You seem so quiet and careful, it pleases. Sometimes our guests can become noisy and fretful, or drink so much of the honey’d mead that they are argumentative and wish to fight me. I find you very restful. Yes, we will bathe.”
Aragorn spoke of his travels as a Ranger might, he talked of places he’d visited as a hidden king. He regaled this eager listener with tales of The Quest, speaking as if he had heard it from another who had been close to a Steward’s brother’s knight. He spoke of The Ring, and of the two Hobbits who bravely at such cost took it to Mount Doom, and ended the terrors for Middle Earth
“Which haven’t completely stopped, have they?”
“No, but there should never be another Ring forged, as the makers have gone beyond any Time. We trust that there will always be some brave souls who will fight the shadows, the wraiths and the fears that remain.”
“Come, let us retire. I am ready for my bed, and I hope you will be comfortable on the furs and the palliasse here before the fire? We shall wash and be clean with your fragrant soap. What perfume is it? Felinollia has a way with herbs and can make a sweet that tastes of deep scarlet roses. I should like her to make a soap that smells of that deep scent. I would make her wash twice daily with it - to perfume her body in all the quiet secret places. Then I would make sons and cry my love to her.”
Aragorn watched as Bromidir disrobed, seeing the slim thighs, the strong arms flex and stretch to pull the tunic up. Then he watched, his heart in his mouth as the head was pulled free and tossed to settle the golden hair. He knew that gesture. His eyes watched the pale buttocks flex as Bromidir bent to soak the cloth in the cauldron… Then his heart did stop. There - just there - was the mark. A small pale brown pattern on the skin, in the shape of a horse’s shoe. Boromir had laughed as Aragorn had fingered it before pressing further down, and further in. Boromir’d said it was from being kicked in the backside by a horse when he was small. Here it was again. A birthmark that could be none other than passed from a father to a son.
Aragorn felt a weight rise from his heart, from his soul. Boromir may have died, but he had left a legacy. Maybe he knew, somewhere, that he had a son, and was having grandsons, and descendants. Aragorn felt strangely very, very happy. As if… as if his pain had been changed to peace.
He smiled at Boromir’s son, offering the scented soap of Arwen, the wisest woman in Middle Earth. Aragorn couldn’t wait to ride back home, and tell her a secret that should never be told.
Title: "The Secret that should never be told."
Author bluegerl
Category: FPF Aragorn, Arwen,
Rating G.
Words 3967.
Disclaimer. The persons of Arwen and Elessar/Aragorn are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien Estates, and I have merely borrowed these names for the story. The other persons are entirely imaginary but written with wishing!
Summary. The King is out of sorts, and seeks....
There were days when Elessar, King of Gondor felt at odds with himself, with the world and with nature itself. He was conscious of his temper which was prone to become short and he found himself snapping an answer when it would have been more circumspect to reply calmly.
Arwen who had been with all the moods of her husband, from his very young days before being sent into the wilderness to learn the ways of a warrior. She had waited for many years and had at last found a man, possessing Elfin blood, who also owned to the challenging frailties of being human. She had endured the proud father of two children, the worrying king with vast regions to guard and rebuild. She was also aware of the continual sadness in his eyes as he watched the fire, or stroked his son’s cheek as he slept. She knew of whom he was thinking then. Boromir, who should have lived to help Aragorn become King, to stay by his side, two strong loving men together. Sharing jokes, work and temptations as men. Arwen sometimes wished she could fill that space that dwelt in Elessar. She found it would help him if he could escape the confines of the castle, and ride free; gallop through the plains, walk admiring through the byways of the forests, drinking from his hand with water gathered in sparkling coldness from the brooks.
Arwen the wise and loving wife sent her man out; to be free and be alone with his own being. He took his old horse’s son, Brego was retired, but Berog was a true son and had his father’s spirit and willingness to listen to his rider’s thought. Elessar became Aragorn again, became Strider, the Ranger of the North lands. He forgot to be a king.
He stopped for sustenance, a quietly sociable evening at inns in the small hamlets and villages. He listened to his people speaking as they were wont to do amongst themselves, freely. It seemed that there was a contentment and relief abroad, now that men could mow and sow, reap and bind, play with their children who could run wild in safety. Orcs seldom ventured this far, and with the local militia organised by one old soldier in each a group of villages, they could cope with most brigands and robbers, and on occasion a marauding small group of Orcs.
When Aragorn had been on the road for nearly two sennights, he found a small hamlet of some seventeen houses. He could see signs of old battles, torn stones, a full slope of cairns beneath the spreading oak. He saw new thatch, wells with strong handles and sturdy supports for well-made heavy buckets.
He could smell the soil fresh-turned as he rode the grassy lane. There were cockerels strutting amongst the hens, dumpy, brown, industriously scratching. Kine moaned softly to the hissing of milk being squirted into jugs and mugs, and two spotted dogs danced round Berog’s hooves. His eyes searched for a likely place to seek a small repast and some barn to sleep in with his horse.
A tall young man came round the barnside carrying two brimming milk buckets. Aragorn’s heart stopped, then pounded as if it would break out. He shook his head and wondered why he found seeing this man, not long out of boyhood seeming, was so disturbing.
The buckets were taken into the newest thatched dwelling. The golden reed almost matched the colour of the young man’s hair… a sunlit gold. Berog halted by the water trough and Aragorn slipped the reins, loosening the saddle ties. He’d stay here as the sun was just touching the trees. As he stood waiting for Berog to finished dribbling water down his sleeve, the blonde man ducked out of the doorway and walked forward.
“Welcome, if you are a friend, beware if you are not.” His voice was low, strong and had a growl to it. Aragorn could hear an accent, a burring of the phrases that seemed familiar.
“I am a Ranger, returning North in a roundabout way, and am seeking a place to rest for the night for myself and my horse. I am named -“ He nearly said ‘Strider’ but something made him say - “Aragorn. Could I beg of you such a place?”
“Indeed. We are friendly folk, and have much regard for Rangers, and would be glad to share our small pleasures with one of such a Company.”
“Bring your horse - such a fine animal, to this barn. He can rest on clean straw that I have only today laid ready for a cow that will be calving in a day or three.” Berog snorted and walked, sniffing and smelling then lay and rolled. Then he stood and shook, snorting, pushed Aragorn toward the door.
Ducking beneath the headsill into the darker interior of the solid stone house Aragorn became aware of another person seated in a bed settle against a wall beside the fireplace.
“This is my Mother. I am named Bromidir, and my Mother is Aireonal, once of Vergsanet, by the River Gilrain. Please, be comfortable and take a cup of mead.” Bromidir indicated a stool, an embroidered backed chair, and a bench. He poured beakers of honey’d mead giving one to his mother and another to Aragorn. “I have still to see to the beasts before night, so if you will excuse…”
Aragorn sat on the bench, and smiled at Aireonal. Now his eyes were used to the gloom, he could see she had once been very fair, of a good height, and a fairness of complexion to match her hair. She remained very still, and seemed not to see him, though she drank slowly from her mug.
A commotion at the doorway and two burly men entered. One of enormous girth and heavily bearded advanced toward Aragorn.
“Bromidir is a very trusting young man, and he takes people too much on their word. We are the elders of this village and would know your reasons for being here, and from whence you came. You say you are a Ranger, heading to the North? The North is not this way. Here is down toward the southern sun, and the north is beyond the mountains. Why do you say this?”
Aragorn smiled and unbuckled his swordbelt, laying it on the ground. He pulled his dagger from his boot and held it, handle out toward the enquirer.
“I offer no animosity.. I am merely wandering, following my horse’s nose as he will learn his way back. His father came from the North, but his son has much to learn. I merely seek to rest a while, and seek company to while away the quiet evening.”
“Bendoc… You take his swordbelt. We will return it, untouched, on your leaving. I have your word then, that no harm will come - you have no witchcraft, no ill bodings for these good people here?”
“You have my word, as firm as would be the promise of the king.” Aragorn bowed his head, his hand across his jerkin over his heart.
“Peace then, brother, and be kind to these folk. Aireonal has seen her share of bad times. There should be no more. We bid you a good rest, and happy departure.”
Bromidir talked with Bendoc and the big man for a few minutes on the path outside and bidding them a fair evening he came in.
“I shall soon have the fire ready for these, they were snared yesterday and will make a sturdy meal.” He grinned, a wide open smile with fine teeth. Aragorn’s heart did another leap. He knew that smile - it had not been seen much on the Quest, but surely it was that smile, radiating joy from every dimpled crease. Aragorn found breathing suddenly difficult. This boy, this young man, surely only in his early manhood was perhaps a relation, although Aragorn had not heard of another line in Denethor’s family.
Aragorn was given the job of turning the spit occasionally, and he sat beside the fire on the small stool, watching as Bromidir cared for his mother. He could see she was nearly helpless in her limbs, and her mind would seeming disappear and she would almost converse to an unseen listener. Bromidir washed her carefully, and brushed her long silver hair, plaiting it back afresh.
She reached up and stroked her son’s face, then kissed him, and tucked her head on to his shoulder as he lifted her to her chairbed, and settled her against pillows. He was so engrossed in his carefulness he seemed to have forgotten the presence of Aragorn.
He seemed startled when he turned back to the fire. “I’m sorry, I have to apologise for not explaining. My mother is dumb, and … is not very… very well.”
He folded the cloths carefully with long clever fingers, and laid them on the shelf. Her robe he hung from a light stick, where it moved gently in the stirring air. He took the pot out to the muckheap by the barn and returned with another bucket of water setting the water cauldron in the fire ashes to heat.
“I thought you may like to bathe a little… We are fortunate that we have plenty of water for this small village.”
The rabbits were roasting well, the turnips and cabbage greens burbling well in the cauldron, so there was time to share another beaker. Aragorn’s eyes were watching, absorbing each move, each gesture, as if seeing them again, afresh. His heart seemed to be halfway up his gullet and beating as if he were - loving?
“You’ve come far then? Where today, and how long have you been travelling? We see few travellers here, and are always grateful to hear their news and what is happening elsewhere in the Kingdom.” The head with the straw-golden hair was leaning toward Aragorn, curious. “The King seems to be doing a grand business. He must be a big brave man and so busy.” The boy’s face was ruddy in the firelight, showed the straight nose, strong jaw and how finely the neck was set into the hard muscled shoulders. Aragorn was fascinated, absorbing this beauty, as if he had not seen such before, comparing it with remembered curves and lines. .
“Oh I think the King does what he can, I don’t think he enjoys his work that much, but someone has to do it.”
“Oh, he is a brave man, I’ve heard tell of his deeds, his fighting and when he was the mythical Thorongil how he fought the Balrog. We do have some story tellers through sometimes, and once we had a wizard with a long white beard, and a staff that had a lamp. He told us many stories about this man who was to be King, and how they would make Middle Earth well again by destroying something called ‘A Ring’. I think it must have been so heavy, it took so many of them, was it nine or ten, to carry it to Mount Doom?” His fingers toyed with the edge of the beaker. He looked shyly up at Aragorn. “I expect you know more than that about our King… you who travel so much?”
Aragorn looked into the fire, and then tipped his mug. He turned the spit one more time, and smiled at the boyman. “I know a bit more about the King, but it would spoil your view of him if I told you he was just like real ordinary men, like Bendoc or yourself. He has his days when nothing goes right, and days when the birds sing. I expect he’d like to go hunting more.”
“I’d like to meet him, but I can’t travel. I’m being trained to take over the Stewardship of this Village, and then of the five other Villages around. Tervogs is old and his wisdom is being passed on. Mother also I could not leave, although my betrothed will care for her as I do.”
“You have no father then? Just your betrothed? Where is your father, or …
Aragorn’s mind went groping for links. There should be a link…. He watched as Bromidir’s face went even more rosy… was he blushing?
“I am to be wed on the next Full Moon, and then my daughter will be five, and I hope my son that Felinollia is carrying will be the first of many.” He chuckled and looked down at his hands, then shyly up at Aragorn. “I want a tribe of boys. Girls is fine, and a couple would be grand, but I like boys and we have few enough in this village after the wars and battles. Bendoc would wish to be a father, but he was wounded severely and is now gelded. Torgevs has three daughters only and one is simple in the head. I could supply the whole village with fine strong boys.” He threw back his head and laughed joyously… A rolling rollocking laugh that trembled the rosemary drying from the beams. Aragorn felt tears come to his eyes. He knew that laugh, he’d not heard it for too many years. He remembered when the laugh was playing with the Hobbits when they set off on the quest. When they sat round campfires and Peregrine Took had come out with some remark that had them all guffawing.
“I’m sure you will have many many fine boys. But what happened to your Father? Did he suffer the same fate as the men in this village during the wars. Did you know him? What was his name?” Aragorn was leaning forward, his elbows digging into his knees and his hands gripping his empty beaker hard enough to crack it. “When did you last see him?”
“Oh, I didn’t know him. He was here with my Mother before the Time of the Quest. He was much younger than I am now when he first came, and my mother was barely old enough to love. He was clearing and fighting Orcs from the Lands of Gondor. He came often, my mother told me when I was small, when he could, and loved her. She cried as she told me, but I didn’t understand very much as I was only a very small child. He was always fighting to save our country, and his. Then he was sent off to join a dangerous mission, and he never came back. I didn’t ever see him, I don’t know his name as I was not supposed to know it because he was someone special, Mother said.”
“But your mother can tell you now? Surely she can explain who he was and why he went, leaving you alone with your Mother? He must have held you as a babe?”
“No, she can’t. We had a bad time when the men had all been taken for the battles that were going on, it seems. There was only Tervogs and Bendoc’s father here when the brigands, the robbers, and the orcs they brought kept returning. These burnt the village time and time again, even as we tried to save it. One time a great band of them came, and destroyed almost everything, That was when Bendoc who was just in his majority had his wound. They even killed and ate the cats, dogs, everything. And the women they raped, they killed, they tortured. It was the last battle before the End. Mother was with child again it is said, but there was no saving her from the creatures. They did what they did, she bled, she was left with nothing moving from her breast downwards, she was all cut and torn in pieces. And Bendoc says they did the worst… something they do with men, but not with women. Some terrible person took out her tongue and pushed it into her. The opposite they did with men, they took Bendoc’s maleness and tried to put it in his mouth. He was bleeding from no teeth and they thought he was dead. My mother I think they left also as dead. I had been in the woods where we were always sent when the bandits came. I was about eight or ten years I think. I don’t think my Father ever knew what happened to Mother, he was off so busy trying to defend Gondor and when he went on this Quest, he never ever came back. I can remember one man, a tall golden laughing man, they say I resemble him.”
Bromidir rose and pulled the cauldron from the hook. He nodded at the rabbits and Aragorn lifted them from the spit. He wondered why his hands weren’t shaking more. He felt sweat begin to gather at his temples. Sitting with his host at the table, seeing the care with which the fine hands that work had callused but not distorted pulling tender morsels from the rabbit, putting the hot bread soaking in the juice. He placed them in a deep dish and placed a cloth around his mother’s neck, and made a nest for the bowl in her lap. He smiled shyly at Aragorn again.
“She won’t let me feed her if we have guests… so if it please you, do not see if there is a mess or the bowl should fall. I hate to ask, but some are so distressed they think they are helping if they fetch the bowl, or mop her bedding. She is a very proud woman, my mother.”
Aragorn could understand… if this is a woman that had drawn a young Boromir to love while he was warring with the tribes and the invaders, she must have been a wondrous young being. He was sure this was Boromir’s son. His heart twisted in agony as he thought back, when no one had ever thought that a young hot-blooded warrior would find solace and passion, and make children. Boromir had never mentioned any such happening, but then… they had never had the time or the place to talk of such things. Women and marriage and children were just dreams that passed, were almost impossibilities, for who knew who would survive? He himself had not thought he could ever live to marry and love his Arwen. He’d given up all hope many times, and just fought on unable to think of anything.
He was trying to count the years back… This could not be. The Quest had been… when Boromir was… how old was Boromir when he began the Quest that called him from ever seeing his son?
“Can I ask, you seem only young… I would guess about your middle to late twenties? And yet you talk of the Quest which took your father away and that was over twenty years ago?”
Bromidir laughed again, that full throated happy noise, his head thrown back and his chin shining greasy in the candlelight.
“Me? You can add another five to that figure. I shall have another one on my marriage day. So I shall have to hurry and make my tribe of sons. I have promised to name at least one of them for Bendoc… he’d like two boys he said.”
Aragorn then felt himself blush. Boromir may have been young then, and lithely strong as this young one. Aragorn’s meeting with Boromir gave him the idea that he would have been a mature man, but … yes, why not, Boromir in his prime, Aragorn gazed at the slim young beautiful body. He was looking at Boromir as a young man. He had to know, he dearly so dearly wished to confirm his hopes… that Boromir would live again, and breed many children, to bring them all on into life.
Aragorn’s dark hair fell forward, the candlelight catching the silver glints. He himself was no longer a young man, being over his middle years, and Boromir would now be… a very mature man. His heart tightened, became a knot and he had to watch his bony hands before the tears began. Boromir, with a son of perhaps thirty… and becoming a grandfather? Aragorn’s throat hurt. He took another piece of bread, and wiped his plate, taking some minutes. Then he looked up at this face he’d known and loved, but with a few more lines, a rougher aspect and tired, haggard, but always, always brave and truly his.
“I would like to bathe this evening if I may. Will you join me? We could share some rather fragrant soap I was gifted, and the fire is bright and warm. Your mother will be sleeping will she not?”
“Aye, I mind not. I am glad to share my pleasures with a gentle stranger. You seem so quiet and careful, it pleases. Sometimes our guests can become noisy and fretful, or drink so much of the honey’d mead that they are argumentative and wish to fight me. I find you very restful. Yes, we will bathe.”
Aragorn spoke of his travels as a Ranger might, he talked of places he’d visited as a hidden king. He regaled this eager listener with tales of The Quest, speaking as if he had heard it from another who had been close to a Steward’s brother’s knight. He spoke of The Ring, and of the two Hobbits who bravely at such cost took it to Mount Doom, and ended the terrors for Middle Earth
“Which haven’t completely stopped, have they?”
“No, but there should never be another Ring forged, as the makers have gone beyond any Time. We trust that there will always be some brave souls who will fight the shadows, the wraiths and the fears that remain.”
“Come, let us retire. I am ready for my bed, and I hope you will be comfortable on the furs and the palliasse here before the fire? We shall wash and be clean with your fragrant soap. What perfume is it? Felinollia has a way with herbs and can make a sweet that tastes of deep scarlet roses. I should like her to make a soap that smells of that deep scent. I would make her wash twice daily with it - to perfume her body in all the quiet secret places. Then I would make sons and cry my love to her.”
Aragorn watched as Bromidir disrobed, seeing the slim thighs, the strong arms flex and stretch to pull the tunic up. Then he watched, his heart in his mouth as the head was pulled free and tossed to settle the golden hair. He knew that gesture. His eyes watched the pale buttocks flex as Bromidir bent to soak the cloth in the cauldron… Then his heart did stop. There - just there - was the mark. A small pale brown pattern on the skin, in the shape of a horse’s shoe. Boromir had laughed as Aragorn had fingered it before pressing further down, and further in. Boromir’d said it was from being kicked in the backside by a horse when he was small. Here it was again. A birthmark that could be none other than passed from a father to a son.
Aragorn felt a weight rise from his heart, from his soul. Boromir may have died, but he had left a legacy. Maybe he knew, somewhere, that he had a son, and was having grandsons, and descendants. Aragorn felt strangely very, very happy. As if… as if his pain had been changed to peace.
He smiled at Boromir’s son, offering the scented soap of Arwen, the wisest woman in Middle Earth. Aragorn couldn’t wait to ride back home, and tell her a secret that should never be told.