FIC: Purpled Nail (LotR)
Title: Purpled Nail
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir (mention of Théodred)
Rating: G
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: High in the Redhorn Pass, Boromir is mystified as to why he itches.
Notes: Written on a whim to annoy savageseraph. I can think of few better motivations to write fic. She says of the following story, "Clearly, you are working way far against canon, aren't you? I mean it's practically an AU." *G* Not an AU.
Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee;
~From The Flea, John Donne.
Purpled Nail
By Galadriel
Boromir scratched. And scratched. By the Valar, if this itching did not stop... He flinched as a nail scraped too deeply, waited for the slow welling of blood.
The bead bloomed, blossomed and broke, painting his skin. He sighed as he counted one more in a growing collection of raised red bumps; he hadn't been in this much discomfort since the morning after the night spent in the stables of Edoras. Burrowing far under the straw, Théodred giggling at his side, both Steward's son and King's heir had hid from duty and fathers.
Daylight brought recriminations, lecture upon lecture about improper behaviour, the role of heirs, the proper deportment of children; but even worse was the belated pronouncement of biting, sucking, itching fleas.
Boromir frowned. He had bathed in the icy springs flowing from this place, scrubbed himself down in a steady stream of cold; this far up in the mountains, all but the hardiest of insects would die, and even those surviving should be in deep hibernation. Racking his brain, he could not recall the presence of anything that could possibly carry lice or gadflies since they began their ascent.
A hiss of triumph to his left caught his attention. Aragorn was entrenched in picking something small off his clothes, taking great joy in squashing it messily between thumb and forefinger. As if sensing Boromir's eyes, he looked up at his companion and smiled, gaze only snapping back to his task as he spotted another tiny leaping speck, wrist flicking as he nabbed it out of the air.
Boromir's brow furrowed, thoughts clicking into place like game tiles, burrowing night creeping inevitably toward dawn. He scratched fiercely at his arm, lips curled back in a grimace, eyes narrowing to slits, never leaving Aragorn.
Glimpsing the look and the knowledge underneath, Aragorn grinned apologetically. "Sorry," he murmured, fingers pressing together. The flea popped against his nail.
Squish-crush.
END
(August 30, 2006)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir (mention of Théodred)
Rating: G
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: High in the Redhorn Pass, Boromir is mystified as to why he itches.
Notes: Written on a whim to annoy savageseraph. I can think of few better motivations to write fic. She says of the following story, "Clearly, you are working way far against canon, aren't you? I mean it's practically an AU." *G* Not an AU.
Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee;
~From The Flea, John Donne.
Purpled Nail
By Galadriel
Boromir scratched. And scratched. By the Valar, if this itching did not stop... He flinched as a nail scraped too deeply, waited for the slow welling of blood.
The bead bloomed, blossomed and broke, painting his skin. He sighed as he counted one more in a growing collection of raised red bumps; he hadn't been in this much discomfort since the morning after the night spent in the stables of Edoras. Burrowing far under the straw, Théodred giggling at his side, both Steward's son and King's heir had hid from duty and fathers.
Daylight brought recriminations, lecture upon lecture about improper behaviour, the role of heirs, the proper deportment of children; but even worse was the belated pronouncement of biting, sucking, itching fleas.
Boromir frowned. He had bathed in the icy springs flowing from this place, scrubbed himself down in a steady stream of cold; this far up in the mountains, all but the hardiest of insects would die, and even those surviving should be in deep hibernation. Racking his brain, he could not recall the presence of anything that could possibly carry lice or gadflies since they began their ascent.
A hiss of triumph to his left caught his attention. Aragorn was entrenched in picking something small off his clothes, taking great joy in squashing it messily between thumb and forefinger. As if sensing Boromir's eyes, he looked up at his companion and smiled, gaze only snapping back to his task as he spotted another tiny leaping speck, wrist flicking as he nabbed it out of the air.
Boromir's brow furrowed, thoughts clicking into place like game tiles, burrowing night creeping inevitably toward dawn. He scratched fiercely at his arm, lips curled back in a grimace, eyes narrowing to slits, never leaving Aragorn.
Glimpsing the look and the knowledge underneath, Aragorn grinned apologetically. "Sorry," he murmured, fingers pressing together. The flea popped against his nail.
Squish-crush.
END
(August 30, 2006)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, athelingas, rugbytackle.