Disclaimer: Don't own Aragorn. Don't own Boromir. Damn damn damn!
The King's Braid
Chapter Three
Aragorn stood on the temporary dais that had been erected outside the city walls and surveyed the crowd. There was nowhere in Minas Tirith big enough for the whole population to congregate, so the anniversary festivities were taking place on the Pelennor.
Boromir stood next to Aragorn, offering silent yet comforting support. His hair was pulled back into its customary braid, and Aragorn's fingers itched to untie the fastening that held it in place and let it fall forward about Boromir's face. That, however, would have to wait until later. Right now he had to address the crowd that stood expectantly in front of him.
"People of Minas Tirith, today we celebrate the anniversary of our deliverance. It has been one year exactly since the destruction of the One Ring and the defeat of Sauron." Cheers rang out across the plain. "On that day Gondor faced its greatest threat, and emerged victorious. However, there are two people without whose assistance we would now very probably be in the thrall of the Dark Lord. I speak, of course, of the Halflings. Please raise your glasses to Frodo and Samwise, the saviours of Middle-earth."
"Frodo and Samwise," roared the crowd, accompanied by the sound of clinking glasses. All now thought that the King had finished his speech, and the festivities could begin again. Aragorn, however, remained standing, and the crowd quickly quietened down as they perceived he had more to say.
"It saddens me, on this day of happiness and rejoicing, to have to speak to you of such a serious matter," announced Aragorn. "But speak I must. No doubt you have heard of the fires that have endangered people's lives over the past few nights. Our thoughts and aid go out to those affected by these events. I must now say that these fires were caused by people who wish Gondor and her King ill. Some of you may have heard rumours that there are those who do not wish to be ruled by me. They uphold the views of the late Lord Denethor, and do not believe that a King has the right to reclaim the throne." Aragorn felt Boromir stiffen slightly beside him. "I will say only this," he continued. "These people will be discovered, and any alliances they have made with outsiders will be swiftly quelled. Such opposition will not be tolerated, and it will be stopped."
Having now finished, Aragorn sank down into his seat. The crowd instantly broke into excited chatter. Aragorn knew they were speaking of what he had just said, but he ignored them, turning instead to Boromir. "I am sorry I had to bring up your father," he apologised.
"Do not trouble yourself, dearest," replied Boromir. "It is not you I am angry at, it is him. Even after all this time, I still cannot believe how strongly he opposed your claim…even though I once shared his views," he finished, with a wry smile.
Aragorn smiled back. Then he sighed. "Is it right for a King to feel so exhausted after addressing his subjects?" he joked.
"No, you must be getting old," said Boromir. Then, before Aragorn could retaliate, he continued on a more serious note. "I was proud of you today, Aragorn. You showed your people why a King should be ruling Gondor, and not a Steward. I have faith that you will be able to solve this problem, and from that your reign will emerge stronger than ever."
"Thank you, Boromir," murmured Aragorn. Guilt at the secret he was keeping from his companion rose up again in his heart, but he pushed it down, choosing instead to answer Boromir's previous remark. "And what do you mean I'm getting old?" he protested. "I could best you in any challenge you'd care to set!"
Boromir smiled cheekily. "Would you like to prove that?" he asked, a wicked glint in his eye.
"What did you have in mind?" enquired Aragorn, with a twinkle of his own.
Boromir stood up and addressed Aragorn formally. "My Lord, I believe you have made sufficient appearance before your people for the day. There are more pressing demands on your time that must be addressed."
"Your advice is noted and accepted," replied Aragorn. He stood also, and the two men made their way back up into the city. By the time they had reached the citadel, Aragorn's itchy fingers had had their way, and Boromir's hair flowed freely over his shoulders.