A.N. – Thanks for reviewing! Here's the next chapter – sorry to keep you
waiting. To RubyEmGypsy – keep up the terrific work on 'At Last'.
Chapter 2
Ice
Boromir knew he was insane to be out on a night like this. He could not sleep inside by a warm fire just as well as he could out here. Then again, he thought, maybe not. He still felt furious inside whenever he thought of his father; he knew if he went back to the steward's palace, he'd blow up at Denethor, and he couldn't afford to do that, for Faramir's sake. He'd years ago given up trying to get himself out of his father's favor so Denethor would make Faramir the next Steward. That only served to make Denethor to be crueler to his younger son.
Boromir's latest fight with his father had been over the issue of his younger brother, stationed out in the far southeast of Gondor, practically in Mordor, in a pocket of hills that could very easily trap him. Denethor insisted it was a good defense to have a force in that place; Boromir said that, defense or no defense, it would be a shameful waste of life. At this, Denethor had gone into one of his icy furies, and Boromir knew it was time to clear out before Denethor took it out on Faramir.
Then there was Mordor. The shadow had been growing lately, and explorers said that the darkness in Minas Morgul had become stronger, was starting to reach out towards Gondor. More and more orcs had come raiding across the Anduin; four times in as many months Rohan had called for help, and of course Boromir had been the one to take an army down to rescue Gondor's ally. Not that he minded that. However, he did mind his father's pigheaded insistence that there was no threat.
Now the thief. Boromir loved Gondor dearly, and would have like to think that was a perfect place, but he knew better. The sight of the thin young woman in her ragged cloak – thicker than his, but torn – dashing down the street with the loaf of bread she'd stolen to live just shoved that fact in his face like a pile of horse dung.
He was used to problems, big ones, but there had been too many lately and as usual when near or over his limits he'd left the Steward's Palace and refused the Tower of Guard or any inn. People annoyed him and distracted him at times like this more than the weather did. Being half- frozen was uncomfortable but not as infuriating as nosy nobles, whining servants, and maids and ladies staring at and fawning over him. Generally he like people, but at the moment, pouring sleet was more congenial.
He'd wandered away from the Tower of Guard, where Desdemona had nearly collided with him, without realizing it. Annoyed at his own lapse of alertness, he tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't even realized he'd put it there, and consciously moving it only reminded him of how very cold he was, and how stupid it had been of him to totally forget his surroundings. It wasn't particularly dangerous here, but if he did it in the city he could get in the habit and do it on guard duty, out by the Anduin, near Mordor, where it would be dangerous, where he could, through carelessness, lose his companions' lives, and his own.
~*~
"Finally, you've returned." Denethor's voice had said more than that, spoke of welcome and relief at seeing his elder son again. It was the relief that made Boromir uneasy, and slightly angry.
"Couldn't you see in your palantir that I was returning?" He'd never had any faith in the seeing-stone, but knew that sometimes his father could have visions in it of events far away.
"No; there was something blocking it. I think…"
"The Shadow of Minas Morgul."
"Yes, or, rather, the Shadows. I've sensed them growing lately. Your brother claims he has, too."
"If Faramir claims he's sensed something of the sort, I'd believe him. How does he fare?"
"Your fool of a brother lost thirty good fighters last I heard from him. Apparently caught off his guard and trapped…"
"Faramir caught off his guard, and I'm a Nazgul! Trapped…who could he NOT be trapped, in that box you've put him in?! How can you blame him? I could have done no better, probably worse!"
"How can I blame him!? He's a fool and a wizard's pupil, with his nose buried in some book of elven-lore, no son of mine!"
"He is your son, though I don't see how, as he has a heart! He's your son, and my mother's son, and he'd make a finer steward than either of us! You speak that way of my brother that way again – "
"YOU speak to ME that way again and I'll have you disinherited and exiled – "
"Fine! Disinherit me – " At this point, Boromir and Denethor were talking, half-yelling, on top of one another, and Boromir had never been angrier in his life. Denethor's next words, interrupting him, turned his fury to ice, though.
"And order your Valar-accursed brother to invade Mordor with a band of fifty." Denethor did not raise his voice, was not red in the face, but pale, with cold eyes; Boromir knew he meant every word of what he said.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of his father's hall, that had been the king's throne room, without even remembering to grab his heavy cloak.
~*~
Footsteps and a soft voice talking to itself yanked Boromir back to the present. Whoever it was, was close, and the storm kept him from recognizing the person, save that it was human and no orc. His storm-grey eyes narrowed as his hand tensed once more on the hilt of the light sword.
Chapter 2
Ice
Boromir knew he was insane to be out on a night like this. He could not sleep inside by a warm fire just as well as he could out here. Then again, he thought, maybe not. He still felt furious inside whenever he thought of his father; he knew if he went back to the steward's palace, he'd blow up at Denethor, and he couldn't afford to do that, for Faramir's sake. He'd years ago given up trying to get himself out of his father's favor so Denethor would make Faramir the next Steward. That only served to make Denethor to be crueler to his younger son.
Boromir's latest fight with his father had been over the issue of his younger brother, stationed out in the far southeast of Gondor, practically in Mordor, in a pocket of hills that could very easily trap him. Denethor insisted it was a good defense to have a force in that place; Boromir said that, defense or no defense, it would be a shameful waste of life. At this, Denethor had gone into one of his icy furies, and Boromir knew it was time to clear out before Denethor took it out on Faramir.
Then there was Mordor. The shadow had been growing lately, and explorers said that the darkness in Minas Morgul had become stronger, was starting to reach out towards Gondor. More and more orcs had come raiding across the Anduin; four times in as many months Rohan had called for help, and of course Boromir had been the one to take an army down to rescue Gondor's ally. Not that he minded that. However, he did mind his father's pigheaded insistence that there was no threat.
Now the thief. Boromir loved Gondor dearly, and would have like to think that was a perfect place, but he knew better. The sight of the thin young woman in her ragged cloak – thicker than his, but torn – dashing down the street with the loaf of bread she'd stolen to live just shoved that fact in his face like a pile of horse dung.
He was used to problems, big ones, but there had been too many lately and as usual when near or over his limits he'd left the Steward's Palace and refused the Tower of Guard or any inn. People annoyed him and distracted him at times like this more than the weather did. Being half- frozen was uncomfortable but not as infuriating as nosy nobles, whining servants, and maids and ladies staring at and fawning over him. Generally he like people, but at the moment, pouring sleet was more congenial.
He'd wandered away from the Tower of Guard, where Desdemona had nearly collided with him, without realizing it. Annoyed at his own lapse of alertness, he tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't even realized he'd put it there, and consciously moving it only reminded him of how very cold he was, and how stupid it had been of him to totally forget his surroundings. It wasn't particularly dangerous here, but if he did it in the city he could get in the habit and do it on guard duty, out by the Anduin, near Mordor, where it would be dangerous, where he could, through carelessness, lose his companions' lives, and his own.
~*~
"Finally, you've returned." Denethor's voice had said more than that, spoke of welcome and relief at seeing his elder son again. It was the relief that made Boromir uneasy, and slightly angry.
"Couldn't you see in your palantir that I was returning?" He'd never had any faith in the seeing-stone, but knew that sometimes his father could have visions in it of events far away.
"No; there was something blocking it. I think…"
"The Shadow of Minas Morgul."
"Yes, or, rather, the Shadows. I've sensed them growing lately. Your brother claims he has, too."
"If Faramir claims he's sensed something of the sort, I'd believe him. How does he fare?"
"Your fool of a brother lost thirty good fighters last I heard from him. Apparently caught off his guard and trapped…"
"Faramir caught off his guard, and I'm a Nazgul! Trapped…who could he NOT be trapped, in that box you've put him in?! How can you blame him? I could have done no better, probably worse!"
"How can I blame him!? He's a fool and a wizard's pupil, with his nose buried in some book of elven-lore, no son of mine!"
"He is your son, though I don't see how, as he has a heart! He's your son, and my mother's son, and he'd make a finer steward than either of us! You speak that way of my brother that way again – "
"YOU speak to ME that way again and I'll have you disinherited and exiled – "
"Fine! Disinherit me – " At this point, Boromir and Denethor were talking, half-yelling, on top of one another, and Boromir had never been angrier in his life. Denethor's next words, interrupting him, turned his fury to ice, though.
"And order your Valar-accursed brother to invade Mordor with a band of fifty." Denethor did not raise his voice, was not red in the face, but pale, with cold eyes; Boromir knew he meant every word of what he said.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of his father's hall, that had been the king's throne room, without even remembering to grab his heavy cloak.
~*~
Footsteps and a soft voice talking to itself yanked Boromir back to the present. Whoever it was, was close, and the storm kept him from recognizing the person, save that it was human and no orc. His storm-grey eyes narrowed as his hand tensed once more on the hilt of the light sword.