Race of Men
Just an AU fic I came up with. It sort of reveals both my love of Aragorn and my love of Boromir's innocent side. :) Hope you enjoy!
Aragorn rode across the vast plain with in a burst of delighted fury. His emotions were flying faster than his horse. He wanted nothing more than to be back in Imladris where he belonged… or didn't.
His confrontation with Elrond before he had left was still ringing in his ears, despite it having occurred days before. Elrond had told him resolutely he must associate with men and, though the words never left the wise elf's lips, he knew he was trying to tell him he shouldn't be among the Elves.
Tears stung in the man's eyes as he considered himself unwelcome at the place he had known and loved since he could remember. The idea he would be made to leave was absurd, Elrond loved him like a third son, but even before the altercation, he could still sometimes sense it. Those that knew Aragorn would comment how they never knew of a man so alike to the immortal beings, yet among elves, he could always tell the difference. He was different, and a thousand years in the company of those creatures of light wouldn't change that in the slightest.
So as he rode towards Rohan, the steady drum roll of his horse's hooves tattooing the ground like an agonised heartbeat, he prepared himself to be comfortable around his own race. It wasn't as if he was inexperienced in handling them of course; he had fought alongside many different men in many different battles, but fighting is not as difficult as talking. One sword stroke is no different from another, but words? Words were much more difficult to handle, to use, to understand.
Upon the horizon, he could see a hill rise up against the backdrop of empty lands, tall and proud and crowning it, the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Even from a distance, he thought he could see the pricks of movement that were the citizens going about their daily business, unaware the concealed heir of Gondor was drawing closer at every moment.
"My Lord Aragorn" cried Naman. Aragorn's eyes flashed and the Rohan Marshall looked around, "Estel" he corrected. "It is wonderful to see you once more my good friend." The Marshall looked, rather than happy to see Aragorn, a little relieved. Aragorn took in the surroundings he passed by; bleak, dismal, so many faces displaying fear or confusion.
"King Thengal is eager to consult with you; however he is currently in council with another visitor so I'm afraid you shall have to wait: I'll inform him of your arrival." Naman bowed slightly, casting Aragorn one fleeting glance before running heavily up the steps into the Golden Hall.
Aragorn gave a gentle sigh and made his way slowly around to the stables.
The smell of man-beaten wood and fresh leather saddles found its way to his nostrils and he felt comfortable at once. Entering the main building, he saw it to be devoid of humans except for one man, much younger than himself but certainly not a boy, who was tending to his horse as if it were his beloved.
The man had fair hair that was tied at the nape of his neck loosely so as to avoid getting it in the way as he polished the hooves of his steed. He had a gentle face, much like his father's thought Aragorn as he observed, only with less lines carved into it from worry.
The man finally became aware of his presence and stood abruptly. His blue eyes that were widened in shock were rather generic in shade, a common colour for those of Rohan but his manner was of a higher standard than the folk who lived in the houses down the slope. The man frowned and took a step towards Aragorn who said in a calm voice, "I see you've grown a fair amount, Théoden"
"How do you know me? Who are you?" the tone was, rather than harshly accusatory, merely curious. Aragorn laughed, "It would appear I have changed too then? Well maybe not, you were very young when you saw me last." Théoden tilted his head to the side in confusion, "I recognise you. When I see you, I have some memory of…of something to do with battle, and my father."
Aragorn lifted his head to the rafters as he laughed and walked over to Théoden so he could sit down by his side. "I recall it was I who convinced you that, at five years of age you were too young to ride into battle with myself and your father." There was a moment whilst the younger man contemplated this, and then he slapped his knee in delight. "Aragorn! My goodness it's been so long, I had forgotten you."
"Well I'm glad you have remembered me, it saves tedious explanations. It seems there is still much to catch up on however, if I am not mistaken, not only have you found yourself a wife, but are now a proud father." Théoden's smile widened even more and his entire stature seemed to swell with pride. "Théodred will be a strapping young man."
The way the man spoke his son's name was all it took for Aragorn to see the adoration he held for the infant. "Much like his father then?" Théoden laughed jovially and, out of the high of his spirits, hugged Aragorn tightly.
Aragorn returned the embrace, happy for the man – he deserved that much. Théoden returned to tending his horse as he spoke, "My brother is a father too, twins Éomer and Éowyn, my nephew and niece. They are fine children, but a year older than Théodred."
Aragorn smiled and cast his eyes around the stable they were sat in. It was as luxurious as the houses of men. Gandalf, he recalled, had once jested that the men of Rohan gave their horses pillows of silk and blankets of satin amongst their hay. As he watched, one of the horses began to grow restless due to some invisible omen. The stallion began to rear and buck and as Théoden made to try calm the beast, Aragorn took his shoulder and made him sit by his own horse.
Slowly, he approached the magnificent creature, pure white, its beauty seeming to glow as he neared it. He began to murmur under his breath, speaking words of a tongue recognised by the younger man, but not understood. Within a few moments, the horse was no longer attempting an escape by barging through the wooden hold. Instead, he was edging towards Aragorn uncharacteristically, as tame as any of the other steeds surrounding him.
Aragorn turned his head to see Théoden watching with admiring fascination. "How do you do it? That is one thing I will never forget about you. Did you not look so different, I would have thought you to be an Elf." Aragorn could feel the sorrow show in his eyes but he tried to brush past the comment, "You mean if I looked fairer?" The two men laughed, "I suppose so" admitted Théoden a little sheepishly, "But then again, who can possibly rival them? It is no shame to be a man"
Aragorn scrutinised this Prince of Rohan, heir to the throne, and saw the patriotism in his features as he spoke of his pride of his race. He felt shame at the fact he couldn't bring himself to agree. How could he be so treacherous? How could he not be proud he was of the race of men? Thoughts of the crumble of Gondor, the fall from pure bravery and loyalty invaded his mind. He found himself scowling but luckily Théoden had returned his gaze to his work.
"I suppose you are more used to the society of Elves than any other man?" Théoden's tone was amused and Aragorn smiled, "Indeed, my greatest friend is of that race." He saw Théoden raise his eyebrows in surprise, "Oh yes, the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas son of Thranduil is my closest companion. He's wonderful company." Théoden was looking at him in awe, forgetting about the saddle he was now buffing with a rag of old clothing. Aragorn thought how strange his life must seem to other men – for some reason that thought made him feel so alone.
"My Lord, King Thengal is ready to greet you now"
Aragorn turned to see Naman had returned, his eager smile awaiting him. He looked around to Théoden to find the young man had stood and approached him. "Goodbye Aragorn, I'm glad I had this chance to speak with you, can I see you after your meeting with my father?" His face was eager but Aragorn shook his head longingly, "Alas my friend we cannot meet, I am to counsel at Minas Tirith all too soon and I must embark upon my journey as soon as possible."
And with that, they shook hands and parted company, Théoden to his steed, Aragorn to the King who awaited his company and advice. No to meet again until war threatened once more, and the fate of Middle Earth was in peril.
The sight of Minas Tirith had been steadily gaining height and magnitude with every minute as Aragorn's steed galloped across the plains of Pelannor. He was in desperate need of sleep but his stay at Rohan had taken longer than the few hours he had anticipated; he hadn't set off before the last hours of day began to wane. To make up for his miscalculations, he had ridden throughout the night, glad his horse, Ellawin, had rested well.
The wind was so cold it was bone breaking and he shivered, wrapping his cloak tightly around him and securing his hood, Grinding his teeth against the pain of the whipping lashes the wind threw at his raw face, he rode on into the darkness that swallowed him as he travelled.
The gates opened as he approached and he barely had to slow Ellawin down to enter. There was a figure waiting for him and as he dismounted the being approached him and, as guard took care of Ellawin, dragged Aragorn out of sight into the deep buildings of white stone.
"I am glad you are here Aragorn, I was worried you weren't going to show." Aragorn nodded his head, "I would never break a promise to you Sergin."
Sergin smiled from beneath his hood and beckoned him to follow through the corridors, "Lord Denethor has taken leave; you know how the Lady Finduilas likes to be in the South in times of stress, with the birth of their second son so close, they have retired there for her comfort. Young Boromir is in my charge until their return, unfortunately he hasn't been very agreeable, he hates to be left behind but he must continue his studies. I fear for him, and his younger sibling, be they boy or girl; Denethor's corruption is growing every day I implore for your assistance in keeping the greatness of Minas Tirith alive."
Aragorn followed him into a room where every surface was covered in books and papers and quills and ink pots; with ripped scraps and blue splodges and tatters of old feathers. There were high cases stacked with similar items, and on the top of the highest sat a small boy, his arms folded and his legs crossed in protest. He had bristly brown hair and icy grey eyes, with a stubborn grimace as he beheld them both. "Boromir, I've told you about this, come down at once!"
The boy shook his head; he couldn't have been more than six years of age, maybe younger. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Lord Sergin, there is a message for you."
The guard's voice rang through the echoing halls from a long way away. Sergin cursed and patted Aragorn on the arm, "I'll be back once I've got rid of the messenger," and he departed, leaving Aragorn and Boromir looking at each other, one with irritated immaturity, and the other with amused curiosity.
"Why won't you come down, young Boromir?"
Aragorn's tone was pleasant and Boromir had a hard time staying cold and indifferent. "Because he wants me to, he isn't my father. I shan't listen to him." It appeared the boy was nothing more than a pest, no doubt about it, but Aragorn wasn't fooled. "Not even to listen to a story?"
Boromir looked intrigued, he leaned forwards slightly, but then he remembered where he was and he settled back into his resolute position of rigidity. Aragorn sat comfortably in a chair and began to speak in a low voice. "Have you learnt to use a sword yet, Boromir?" The way the boy's face twisted in a scowl told him no. "Don't worry, when you are but a few years older they will train you, and then you will be such a wonderful warrior. I can see that strength in you; you will be brave like the Kings of old."
Despite himself, Boromir loosened his limbs and gripped the edge of the book case, his eyes once distant, now wide and full of interest.
"Really?" his voice was small and full of eagerness. "Oh yes," reassured Aragorn, he wasn't lying, the manner of the boy told him much; here was a boy that would grow into a fine man, proud most likely as he had to take after his father, but brave too, courageous and Aragorn looked forward to seeing him in the future. "I can see much about you, and I tell you, if you work hard, it will turn out alright in the end."
"What's your name?" the boy asked and leaned even further towards this strange man with the soft voice and stormy eyes. "Estel," he replied calmly, using his disguising name for obvious reasons.
At that moment Sergin returned, looking flustered. He landed in the seat with a sort of exhaustion and handed Aragorn some papers. Unable to speak of Denethor due to his son's presence, they merely exchanged code conversations that would be meaningless to the child, and ran through papers.
At one point, Aragorn spotted Boromir looking a mixture of tired and engrossed. He met the boy's eye and winked. Boromir gave him a clumsy wink back and when Aragorn beckoned with a his index finger, the child found himself clambering down to the floor, hopping onto Estel's knee and resting on the table with his elbows.
Within minutes, the boy was asleep, his head resting on Aragorn's chest and his body curled on his lap. Aragorn smiled as he felt Boromir mumble something about 'swords' in his sleep and gave a soft chuckle.
He could tell this boy would be great; he didn't know how, he didn't know when, but he hoped he would be there to see it when it happened.
Reviews would be appreciated :) x