Disclaimer: I don't own Aragorn or Boromir. I'm just borrowing them for a while. Marin does belong to me, even though I'm not particularly fond of him. Caern is also mine.

The King's Braid

Chapter Eleven

Aragorn was pacing again. It was an activity he seemed to have been engaged in for a large proportion of the last three days, ever since he had arrived at Fornost. His agitation was extreme. Seeing Boromir like that at Bree – so unexpectedly – had shaken him to his very core. He wanted desperately to believe that he hadn't done anything to alert Boromir to the fact that something was wrong, but he knew it was a foolish hope. In that split second when they had stared at each other across the crowded tavern, Aragorn knew that his emotions had been written all over his face. He also knew that they had disappeared the moment he had been aware of Marin's presence beside him. If that didn't tell Boromir that something was amiss, then nothing would.

And Aragorn knew that, because of that single second of carelessness on his part, Boromir was now in certain danger. For he knew that the other man would come after him, to try and find out what was wrong. But Aragorn knew that if he did find out, then Marin would not be pleased.

Aragorn was no fool. He knew that his own life was in danger at least as much as Boromir's. He was well aware that he was outliving his usefulness as Marin's pawn, and that soon Marin would have no more need for him. But Aragorn could take care of himself. It was Boromir, in his ignorance, who needed to be kept safe. As much as he felt that something wasn't right, he had no real idea what he would get himself into by coming to Fornost.

At that moment, Aragorn heard the door open behind him. Knowing it would be Marin, come to berate him again for his carelessness, he turned around slowly, his face wearing a resigned expression. But it was not the councillor who stood before him. It was Boromir.

Aragorn's first coherent thought was that, seen in daylight instead of in a dingy tavern, he looked…different. Leaner, muscles more defined, skin weatherworn. That, coupled with his clean but coarse shirt, simple green cloak, and worn leather breeches and boots made him look like a man of the wild – like a Ranger, truth be known. His only concession to his former life was that his hair was bound up in a King's braid. Aragorn felt the familiar momentary flash of amused irritation that Boromir did not let his hair hang loose, but it disappeared as he suddenly realised the seriousness of the situation.

However, before Aragorn could say a single word, Boromir held up a hand to silence him. "I know," he said simply.

Different reactions warred with each other in Aragorn's mind: denial, pretence, amazement, relief. But he could not seem to express any of them. In the end he settled for a question. "How?" he asked.

"Caern," replied Boromir. He stared at Aragorn for a few moments, taking in the shock and pain that contorted his features. "You should have told me," he finished quietly, his voice filled with sorrow, and a little rejection.

Aragorn opened his mouth to defend himself, to protest that he had only been trying to keep Boromir safe, that there was nothing else he could have done, but the words were cut off by the re-opening of the door.

"Well, well," said a sardonic voice. "It seems that the cruelly separated lovers have finally been reunited." It was Marin. "Actually, I'm quite pleased," he continued, giving neither Aragorn nor Boromir time to respond. "I find that my plans have very nearly come to fruition, and therefore I no longer have need of a 'King' to hide behind. Your Majesty, I believe your reign is at an end."

So saying, Marin withdrew a dagger from somewhere within his robes. Aragorn was unarmed; Boromir's hand immediately went to his sword hilt. But although he managed unsheathe it, there was no time to raise his weapon before Marin struck. But not at Aragorn.

Quick as lightning, Marin plunged the dagger deep into Boromir's chest, withdrawing it again almost as fast. Boromir staggered backwards, his sword dropping from his hand, a red stain blossoming on the front of his shirt. Briefly he looked down at the wound, but then he raised his eyes again. They were filled with confusion, as if he couldn't quite understand what had happened.

"No!" cried Aragorn. He made to leap across the room towards Boromir, but his progress was impeded by the sight of a now red dagger being waved in front of him. All he could do was watch in horror as Boromir stumbled against the wall, and then slid to the floor.

Marin tutted. "So sad, watching a loved one die in front of your very eyes, and not being able to do a thing about it," he said. But his voice, instead of sounding sorrowful, was filled with malice. "But don't worry, My Liege," he continued, addressing Aragorn. "You won't be parted from him for long." And he laughed - a high, cold, cruel laugh.

That laugh jerked Aragorn out of his horrified trance. He was suddenly overcome with rage, like a red fog descending in front of his eyes. Abruptly, he jumped sideways, away from Marin, and snatched up Boromir's fallen sword from the floor. Without even pausing to think, he swung back around. There was the clash of metal on metal, and suddenly Marin's dagger was spinning away through the air, coming to rest with a clatter in the farthest corner of the room. For a brief moment, Aragorn stopped to consider how wonderful it felt to hold a weapon again, how comforting the feel of a sword hilt in his hand was.

But all that was pushed aside when he raised his eyes to contemplate Marin. As he did so a grim smile twisted his features. For it was now the councillor's turn to look shocked and horrified. Plainly he had not expected Aragorn to possess enough spirit to provoke any sort of retaliation. He had obviously thought that this final horrific act would break the King, and make him easy to dispose of. But he had been wrong. For it was now he who had a weapon pointed at him.

"Well?" asked Aragorn. His voice, although quiet, seethed with rage and venom.

Marin opened and closed his mouth several times. Aragorn could not tell if he were trying to say something, or if he was simply gulping for air. His former bravado was completely gone, and he was now a shaking wreck.

"Nothing to say?" said Aragorn mockingly. "Oh well, never mind. I think I've heard quite enough from you anyway." So saying, he advanced on Marin until the point of his sword was at the other man's throat.

But so intent was he on his revenge that Aragorn had not even noticed that someone else had entered the room.

"My Lord, no!" cried a voice. And then a hand was on his arm, forcing him to lower his weapon. Looking around, Aragorn saw that it was Caern. He struggled against the overseer's restraining hand, wanting desperately to finish the job, to give Marin exactly what he deserved.

"No," repeated Caern. "My Lord, you cannot do this."

"And why not?" enquired Aragorn icily.

"Because it is not right," replied Caern. "You cannot kill an unarmed man in cold blood. You would not be able to live with yourself afterwards, and you know it. There has been enough bloodshed," he finished softly.

Aragorn's shoulders sagged. "You are right," he said wearily. Casting one last loathing look at Marin, he gave up the sword to Caern, his fury and rage melting away as if by magic. He would have watched as Caern dealt with Marin, but a sudden, wracking cough from the other side of the room made him whirl around. "Boromir!" he cried.