Through Bitter Chains, Chapter One
by Rhysenn


Rating: R
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic

Summary: An Elvish slave learns much about the ways of Men — who, above all else, desire power.

Story Notes:
This is a multi-chaptered, semi-AU story.

The One Ring remains lost, perhaps even forever. Sauron lies dormant, unable to return whilst his Ring of Power is hidden from him, although the whisper of his formless malice creeps across Middle-earth like an insidious shadow. There is discord and suspicion among the different folk of the land, and through the passage of time, they have grown apart instead of being united. The races of Elves and Men have long been sundered, and have had no dealings with each other for many years.

Minas Tirith is the capital of the lands of Anórien, of the divided realm of Gondor; it is a flourishing city, wealthy and of much profitable yield; but its people have fallen into greed and selfishness, forsaking the nobler ways their forefathers had lived by. Decadence, rivalry, pride and covetousness; sexuality is about rough passions and obsessive power plays. But yet, amidst corrupting desire there still lives in some the rare, pure spirit of the elder days.

Central Characters:

Boromir has claimed the title of King of Anórien, ever since the kingdom of Gondor had disintegrated into several smaller states due to internal strife and civil conflict.
Faramir, his younger brother, is Prince of the city.
Aragorn, born of true yet forsaken royalty, has returned to Minas Tirith after his wanderings in the wild; he now serves as chief steward of Boromir's household. *
Gandalf, Aragorn's trusted friend and counsellor; he is the only other who knows that Aragorn is the true royal heir, biding his time to reclaim his birthright and reunite the scattered peoples of Gondor to their former glory.
Legolas, an Elf of Mirkwood; a prize of great value, as this story shall tell.

* The premise in this story that Aragorn lives in Minas Tirith serving as steward of the house is based on the canon fact in The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A: 'The Stewards' — that Aragorn did indeed return to Gondor, although his true identity remained concealed; he went under the name of Thorongil, and served as a great captain of Ecthelion II.


Many thanks to Megan and Tyellas, my wonderful beta readers for this series.

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Through Bitter Chains

Chapter One


Once a year, the hunters would stop along their route at Minas Tirith, and this was a much-anticipated arrival. They would often bring exotic and strange wares pillaged from far lands: from curiously-fragrant pipe-weed to silver-gold leaves that would never wither, perfect adornment upon the finest of garments — and, on occasion, live goods they would also bear. As indeed on this occasion.

Though the peoples of Minas Tirith transacted with these hunters from afar, they never quite welcomed them. Perhaps an old suspicion lingered in their minds, their better senses warning them against frequent dealings with such rough, uncultured folk. For although these strangers fashioned themselves as 'hunters,' in truth they were not of the revered Dúnedain of the North, whose rare kind seemed to have disappeared, percolated into the very land that they knew so well.

No, these swarthy men were kin to the Easterlings, dangerous and treacherous. Even though the folk of Anórien conducted business with them for reasons of profitable trade, they still far from trusted them; thus the hunters would not linger long, and in the brief period they stayed, both parties would gain some form of commercial benefit.

For Minas Tirith was rich, yet secluded from the other realms of Middle-earth; journeys from place to place were avoided, since marauding bands often lurked along the high roads, and it was no longer possible to travel the lands and hope for a hospitable reception in foreign parts. Middle-earth was divided, fragmented into many states and territories each distrustful of the other, and folk were content to roam within their own boundaries and venture little further; thus, missing out on the wonder and beauty that lived in distant corners of the world.

Today, however, the people of Minas Tirith did not have to look far beyond their borders to behold wonders from afar. The hunters brought these right to their gates, in full splendour, great things revealed and even greater, yet concealed.

For this year, amidst the colourful and amazing array of other goods that they had gleaned on their travels, the hunters had a prized possession they wished to sell, for a high price and not to just any bidder on the street. They wanted audience with King Boromir himself to present their offer.

Boromir was mildly suspicious when his court messengers conveyed this to him; he rarely had dealings with these hunters, although he interfered not with his people's choosing to do business with them. It was not to be denied that the hunters often peddled that which was much to be desired in Minas Tirith, and trade in such varied and valuable items increased the status of Anórien among the other independent states in the realm of Gondor.

However, his curiosity was piqued, and Boromir saw no harm in conferring with the hunters. He sent word that he would meet them, as requested; and shortly after noon he left his palace to descend to the gates of the White City, where the hunters would be waiting.

Faramir, his younger brother and prince of the city, accompanied him; as they strode through the streets the crowds hurriedly parted to let them pass, for they were both fair of face and grand of stature, and the people beheld them with great respect. Boromir was strong, skilled of weapon and equally swift of resolve; he took no wife, and delighted in the art of war. And from that love of his also sprang his chief weakness: a tendency toward rash violence. Faramir, who was more learned in lore and music, often had to tactfully restrain his older brother, who could be vicious when provoked and would never suffer the slightest affront to his pride.

There was already a large throng of people at the gates, engaged in negotiations with the traders; but all activity ceased the moment King Boromir and Prince Faramir arrived. The hunters stepped forward to speak with the king. There were four of them in all — their leader was a stout man with a bushy beard and an unyielding look about him.

Unseen by all, a wizened old man materialised as if from nowhere and stood at a distance, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes as he observed the proceedings. His keen, obscured gaze missed nothing. Few knew or saw much of him, save the occasional glimpse, although most knew that this old man was on close terms with the steward of the household.

Presently, the leader of the hunters stepped forward, and bowed low before the king and prince.

"Good afternoon, my noble lords," he said with exaggerated politeness; the crooked smile on his lips betrayed his devious nature. Boromir was not deceived.

"What do you desire to speak to me about?" he asked shortly. "It is the middle of the day, and other matters of import also beckon."

"Gracious you are, lord, for finding time to speak with us lowly travelling traders," the leader continued, although the glint in his eye remained. "I'm sure you will discover that your precious time spent here is far from wasted... indeed, you will find much pleasure ere our leave be taken."

"That I will judge, when I have heard the matter," Boromir replied.

"Is it not true, as rumours say," said the leader slyly, "that in Minas Tirith and its surrounding country, slavery has been legalised and made a way of life amongst you?"

Boromir hesitated briefly.

"Yes," he answered stiffly. "Yet it is also the same manner in the other states of Gondor. And this is a local statute that has little to do with the trade you deal in." He allowed a tone of impatience to slip into his voice. "Now, what have you to say of your own matter? Speak swiftly, and I will give reply as I deem fit."

"Very well, I will be brief and direct." The leader turned and signalled to his companions, two of whom went at once to their caravan. They disappeared inside, drawing the flaps closed behind them; there followed some strange, muffled noises from within. The crowd waited in anticipation.

A few minutes later, their heads reappeared and they climbed out of the caravan, although with great difficulty, as if they were dragging something heavy. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the load that the two hunters were hauling out — perhaps a treasure chest, full of jewels and lost wonders? — but they gasped when they finally saw what it was, for it surpassed even their imagination.

It was more exquisite and beautiful than jewels, for it was living; and although few present had beheld another of its kind before, yet to all it was unmistakable what this creature was.

An Elf.

Everyone stared, fascinated by the elf's wild, undefined beauty — natural as the stars, captivating as the Sea. It was clear that pains had been taken by the hunters to preserve this prized possession in its prime condition; yet the elf had not escaped unscathed, perhaps having had to be subdued by force on several occasions. There was a fresh bruise flowering on his cheekbone, yet it did not mar the delicate features set in the pale face. The elf's eyes shone with a defiant light, a silver fire, as he twisted against the leather bands that held his arms behind his back. His blond hair fell in fine, slightly tousled locks upon his slim shoulders.

One of the hunters started to shove the elf forward; but the other quickly hissed at him, and they both made a concerted effort to treat their prisoner less roughly. The elf's ankles were shackled by chains that chafed his smooth skin raw. He wore a tunic of dark green, the raiment of folk who dwell in forests; it concealed but flattered the slim body beneath, although it was torn in several places to reveal pale bare skin.

The elf wrenched violently away from the touch of the hunters each time they tried to urge him along. He rebuked them in his own tongue, which sounded melancholic and melodious at the same time, like a lament of nature.

Boromir could not take his eyes away from the elf. He was entranced by the elf's beauty, simple yet divine; and he found himself overcome with an intense desire to have this prize for his own, whatever the cost. The untamed appeal of the elf excited him, like the thrill of embarking on war — a conquest that lay before him, which he would bend all his thought towards conquering and possessing.

The leader of the hunters noticed Boromir's unabashed hunger, and smiled. Perhaps half the battle was already won.

"Behold!" The leader gestured towards the elf with a proud sweep of his hand. "This is a prize beyond the reckoning of gold and silver, one of the rarest and most beautiful species to walk the earth — a gem from the forests of Mirkwood in the vast lands beyond. We went forth and brought him here, since we knew that he would bring you much pleasure, O king. A slave such as this you would likely never find again."

"You chose well," Boromir acknowledged curtly. "What would you ask for his price?"

"Only a trifle, my lord," the leader said, his voice placating. "It is but a small thing, a token for a possession as priceless as this; the rest of its value consider a gift of goodwill from our people to yours. We ask only for the dwelling places that lie on the farther shore of the Anduin — the land of Ithilien."

"You ask for Ithilien!" Boromir laughed sharply, and shook his head. "Then you do belittle the worth of that land, if you think its length and breadth is worth an exchange for a single slave, even though he be an elf of Mirkwood. Much of the land is not populated, no doubt; yet it has rich resources of game for hunting and fishing, and we will not relinquish it so lightly. It is ours by territorial right, and its value is far greater than what you offer."

Faramir, standing by Boromir's side, nodded approvingly; however he cast a searching glance at his brother, as if sensing Boromir's urgent desire to have this elf as his own.

"Pardon I beg if I spoke contrary to my intention," the leader said, still glib and smooth of tongue. "Rather we hold Ithilien in high regard. As travelling folk we have wandered many leagues, homeless, and above all else we wish to have a land to call our own. We greatly desire Ithilien, for it would be an honour to dwell at such proximity to your fine city. We have searched far and wide to find this special gift to present to you as a token of our friendship, O King Boromir — for the elf is immortal, and his beauty will never fade. He will be a fine heirloom of your house for generations to come."

Boromir looked thoughtful; he was silent for a moment, and the stillness settled without a ripple over the entire assembly as they waited for the king's decision. Boromir's eyes strayed towards the elf once more; the elf looked back at him, and a fiery will burned in his eyes, unbroken still. But rather than being deterred, this aroused in Boromir a keen sense of challenge, and he took a step forward.

"I shall inspect the gift, ere I give you my reply," he said, not taking his eyes off the elf.

Faramir looked ill at ease, and he gave the hunters a dark look; he trusted them not, and had never been happy allowing them to trade at the gates. But he could do nothing except watch Boromir walk towards the elf, who silently stood his ground.

Boromir neared the elf, who did not flinch even as he drew to a halt merely inches away. Fire blazed in those silver-grey eyes, a fierce resentment at being called a 'slave' and casually traded for a plot of land. Even as he looked into the elf's eyes, Boromir hesitated to touch him; however, primal need bettered his instinctive wariness, and he reached forward to brush his hand lightly against the elf's dirt-stained cheek.

It was a seemingly tender movement, but beneath the light touch burned was a raw yearning, which the elf evidently detected. In response he moved a step backwards, breaking contact with Boromir.

A shadow of anger flitted across Boromir's face; but a possessive determination triumphed, and he drew back calmly, a grim smile on his face. He turned to the leader, who was waiting eagerly for an answer.

"I will lease you the land of Ithilien for five years," Boromir said resolutely; and Faramir despaired, for he knew his brother was bartering their country's land for what was clearly a personal pursuit, the nature of which Faramir feared to discover.

"For five years you may dwell there, you and your people," Boromir continued. "That shall be the price for this elf-slave." He spoke the last word deliberately, and darkly relished the helpless rage in the elf's eyes.

"Twelve years," the leader swiftly countered, driving a hard bargain, playing on the controlled lust he sensed in the king.

"Seven years and that is my final offer," Boromir said flatly; he might yearn deeply for the prize offered, but he would not be taken advantage of by reason of weakness. He gave the elf a careless look that disguised the intensity of his true feelings, and turned to face the leader of the hunters. "This which you offer, though of high quality, cannot justify such an exorbitant price. Seven years, and no more."

The leader consulted briefly with his companions; finally, they acquiesced, and the matter was sealed. The terms of the transaction were agreed upon: the captured elf would be promptly handed over to Boromir (for the king did not trust the hunters to treat their captive decently any longer, once his usefulness in negotiating a deal had been served); in return, they would receive the written deed giving them leave to inhabit the realm of Ithilien for seven years.

Through all this, the elf held his head high; his bright eyes shimmered as he watched his fate sealed with a handshake between Boromir and the leader of the hunters.

Boromir briskly gave instructions with regard to his new elf-slave.

"Take him back to the palace," he told the guards, who stood by awaiting his word. "And hand him into the care of Aragorn; he will know what to do. Tell him that I want to see my new slave present at the dinner feast tonight."

The elf gave his new master a long, measured look, as if trying to gauge the person that would rule his life henceforth. And if one wondered that the elf did not feel misery at his capture and sale into a bleak existence in servitude, one only had to look into his eyes to see the volumes of sadness that ached within his soul, which loved nature and beauty and freedom.

Now that Boromir had obtained what he wanted, he barely spared the elf another glance. The deal done, he turned on his heel and departed, with Faramir by his side. The guards came near, and escorted the king's new slave back to the palace; the elf shrugged away their restraining hands on his shoulders, but allowed himself to be led away without a fight.

A distance down the road, Faramir fell into stride with Boromir.

"This is not altogether well, my brother," Faramir said, his voice troubled. "It is a decision too rashly made. We should have taken counsel ere we gave the hunters any reply."

"There was no need," Boromir replied; he seemed pleased with his afternoon's acquisition. "For my mind was already made up; and now, the deal has already been sealed. I cannot go back on my word."

"But do you really think it wise?" Faramir could not hold back any longer. "Permitting slavery in our kingdom is one thing, but — Elves are the Firstborn, and Men are the Followers. That is the way it has been decreed, ere the world begun. Are we not overstepping our boundaries by making an elf a slave of our household? It is contrary to the original purpose of the fair Kindred."

"He is not a slave of the household," Boromir answered. "He will be my personal slave, and will serve me alone. For it is no coincidence that he was offered to me, and — I do not conceal my heart from you, brother — I deny not that I desire him greatly, from when I first laid eyes on him."

Being kinder of heart, Faramir felt pity for the elf; also, something about the feral hunger that his brother had professed alarmed him, although he did not speak of it at present.

Instead he asked, "Can we not find some work suitable for him in the palace?"

Boromir looked at his brother with great surprise. "Faramir, would I have leased out the use of Ithilien to those barbarians, just to recruit another officer in the palace? I think not. Nay, it is the elf and his physical beauty that I have found great pleasure in."

"You did not even ask his name," Faramir pointed out.

"It does not matter now." Boromir's lip curled with arrogance and satisfaction. "He is mine."

As the two brothers headed back towards the citadel, the wizened old man drew his grey cloak about him; he turned away, and was gone. Moments later he was seen slipping into the palace by the back doors; news of what he had witnessed he brought to Aragorn, steward of the king's household, whose duty it had been to remain behind in the palace whilst the king and prince were both absent.




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