Disclaimer: Don't own Aragorn or Boromir. Do own Marin, but I'd be happy to auction him off to the highest bidder once I'm finished with him.

The King's Braid

Chapter Nine

Boromir sat staring at his pint of ale, contemplating drinking it but knowing he wouldn't. It was the same every time he came here, but he had fooled himself into thinking that having it on the table provided some sort of barrier between himself and the world. Of course, it was not this that really stopped people talking to him – it was the fact that they simply never talked to strangers. At least, not the ones who so obviously did not want to be spoken to. But nonetheless Boromir felt somewhat at ease here. Here he could preserve his anonymity – something he would never have been able to do had he stayed in Gondor, or even in Rohan. Rumour and questions would have followed him everywhere had he remained in the south. So he had travelled slowly north, seeking to leave behind all reminders of his former life.

And he had ended up in Bree. A place he had heard tales of from the hobbits during the Quest of the Ring. For them a place of dread, but also a place of hope. For it was here that they had met Strider, a friend of Gandalf's who had proved a true companion over the following months, and who had turned out to be Aragorn, heir of Isildur, and true King of Gondor and Arnor. Boromir knew that he was only bringing more pain on himself by coming here, but he had found himself unable to completely sever all links with the past. So he had come to Bree, although he did not spend all of his time there. He had taken to wandering the wild, shunning company for most of the time. Several times he had found himself on the borders of the Shire, and had been tempted to visit his hobbit friends. But the thought of telling them of the change in Aragorn always made him turn away, although doubtless they had heard of the King's new found cruelty, if only in rumour.

The lifestyle had taken its toll on him. He had sold his horse for much needed funds on reaching Bree, so all his wandering had been done on foot. So whereas before he had been somewhat broad of frame and sturdily built, he was now leaner and thinner – more like Aragorn if he had but known. His clothes were worn and frayed, his cloak patched and dirty from sleeping on the ground. And his hair straggled over his shoulders, left long not now by the request of a loved one, but because he simply could not be bothered to do anything about it. And he had stopped tying it back in a braid as he had been used to do, preferring to let it hang loose - to hide his face, as he told himself.

At that moment the door to the inn opened, and a group of people entered. Boromir did not look up to see who had arrived – doubtless it was just another group of Breelanders looking for a few pints of ale and some talk and laughter. He simply wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself to ward off the cold draught from outside, and went back to contemplating his glass. So he did not notice the sudden changes that came over the small tavern; the expressions of surprise and disdain that appeared on most peoples' faces, the suddenly flustered manner of the landlord Barliman Butterbur, or even the almost complete hush that descended at the entrance of this particular group of people. The silence lasted for about five seconds before it was broken.

"Landlord!" The word was rapped out. "His Majesty King Elessar is travelling to Fornost, and wishes to stay here tonight before continuing his journey. Have you suitable accommodations?"

Boromir's head snapped up. Surely he couldn't have heard correctly…could he? But turning to look towards the door, he saw that it was true. Aragorn was here. At the sight of him, Boromir's breath caught in his throat. Standing in the firelight, Aragorn looked as tall and noble as Boromir remembered him. He seemed every inch the royal leader of Middle-earth. But Boromir could also see that he looked tired and wan. His face was pale, and he had lost weight. It had only been a few months since Boromir had seen him, but Aragorn was changed. Almost Boromir rose from his seat and went across to him, wanting to comfort him, to put a smile back on that grim face. Then with a start, he remembered why it was that he was sitting here while Aragorn was standing across the room surrounded by his guards and officials. Abruptly, his face clouded over and he made as if to turn back to his drink.

But he was too late. As if bored with Butterbur's flustered ministrations, Aragorn had turned away and was surveying the room. In that instant his eyes met Boromir's, and Boromir could see that for a split second they widened with shock and…something else? But before he had a chance to identify that second emotion, it disappeared, and the slightly bored, cold stare returned. It was as if shutters had slammed down behind Aragorn's eyes, blocking off all emotion from the outside world. Refocusing, Boromir realised that Marin, the King's senior councillor, had appeared beside Aragorn. The expression on Marin's face was one of pure malice. It was only there for a flickering second, and then the councillor's calm, unruffled exterior was back in place, but in that instant, Boromir saw that something was dreadfully wrong.

A sudden suspicion leapt into his mind. It had no definite form, but it told him that everything was not as it seemed. The way Aragorn had immediately clamped down on his emotion as soon as Marin had appeared suggested that the councillor had some sort influence over the King. Boromir knew that Aragorn had seen Marin as his most trusted advisor after himself, but the expression on Marin's face seconds before illustrated that this influence had become something much more sinister.

From that vague notion, Boromir's mind took a running jump into the territory of his heart. He knew it was a foolish hope to entertain, but what if Marin's influence over Aragorn even extended to his relationship with Boromir? What if everything Aragorn had said to him at their last meeting was a lie? 'But why?' a voice inside him whispered. 'What have Marin's plans, whatever they may be, got to do with you?' But that was the point, Boromir suddenly realised. Marin's plans didn't have anything to do with him – that was why he had been gotten out of the way. 'But,' whispered the traitorous little voice again, 'there are much easier ways to get rid of someone. Killing them, for instance.' Boromir frowned. That was right. Surely having him alive made him some sort of threat to Marin, even if he was at the other end of the kingdom. Unable to fathom a reason for such a course of action, Boromir sighed.

It was then that he noticed Aragorn being hustled out of the tavern by his guards. His whole thought process had only taken a few seconds, but Marin had obviously decided that the current situation was unacceptable. Gone was the chance for Boromir to deduce anything more from the King and his councillor.

One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he was putting himself in danger by remaining here. The fact that Marin hadn't killed him months ago provided some little reassurance, but Boromir knew he shouldn't take the risk that the councillor might suddenly change his mind.

But he knew that he couldn't leave it there. He had to find out what was going on, and resolve the confusion in his heart once and for all. And to do that he would have to follow Aragorn and his entourage to Fornost. But right at this moment, Boromir knew he needed to concentrate on staying alive. He rose from his chair, and walked across to the door. Opening it slightly, he peered out to make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for him. Satisfied it was safe, he opened the door further, and slipped out into the night.