Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is. Boromir's comments about his dream were taken from the book.
Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture.
Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.
Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, Theodred/Boromir, Imrahil/Hirgon.
Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?
Thanks: Earendilstar, tenshiamanda, Faile, GoldenRose, Azure Blood, Jessica, and Stormraider for reviewing.
Authors Notes: Well, I have a feeling there will be more pairings added onto this fic, but you'll just have to wait and see who they are. Any suggestions would be appreciated though. Upon rereading FOTR, I have edited the prologue and the first two chapters. I hope this chapter clears up a bit of the confusion.
~Cinaed)
The Golden Arrow
By Cinaed
Chapter Two
The evening air was both cool and harsh, whipping at the group of warriors who hunted a certain dangerous prey. Despite the bitter truce between the survivors of Gondor and the people of Rohan, King Aragorn and his fighters hunted the foes they knew to be totally against them: the orcs and any Uruk–hai that ventured into Rohan.
Aragorn knelt in the dust of the beaten trail, his fingers pressing against the imprint of a tiny footprint as a slight frown brought out the lines in his face. "I know not what sort of creature has this type of footprint. In truth, it looks like a human child's," he murmured to his companions, a faint note of bewilderment in his voice. "I daresay it is no orc imprint."
"Is it a goblin's?" quietly suggested one of his men, but the king shook his head once more, looking grave and bewildered.
"I don't believe so, Beregond." A shadow passed over the Gondorian monarch's face for a moment before he rose from his crouch, looking determined. "No matter the manner of creature this footprint belongs to, we shall continue to hunt the orcs. Now, let us pursue the cursed creatures!"
He mounted Roheryn, and cast an approving glance upon his warriors as they hastened to follow suit. They were travel–worn and world–weary, but prepared to fight and destroy the vile creatures that had invaded their homeland and enslaved their people. Every one of them held his weapon in readiness as Aragorn urged his steed forward in the direction that the orcs had fled. The group was known as the Gondorian Horsemen though there were Rohirrim in their midst.
By the looks of it, the Gondorian Horsemen were only a few hours behind the orc–band. They would easily be able to take the orcs by surprise during the night, which was exactly what Aragorn planned to do.
So forward the horsemen galloped, down the beaten path and through the thick vegetation of the forests that engulfed them. Their eyes remained focused ahead, intent on their goal. Soon the battle would begin, and the slaying of countless orcs would commence. It would be an impressive night!
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was nearing midnight when they struck. Humming filled the air as countless arrows were fired. Soon screams of agony and shock filled the campsite as the orcs learned the hard way that they were being attacked. Many fell to the arrows from Aragorn's bowmen, but any who tried to flee found themselves skewered upon one of the javelins or blades of the Gondorians. Occasionally an orc would strike a horseman down, but that fallen man was quickly avenged, and soon the clearing was filled with dead or dying orcs. The forest filled with the stench of orc–sweat and blood, but the human warriors ignored the horrible odors for the moment.
Suddenly, in the midst of battle, Aragorn heard an astonished cry, and turned his eyes towards the bellower just in time to see Beregond plunge headlong into the last group of living orcs, his pike jabbing frantically into one before he disappeared from view.
"Beregond!" The shocked yell was wrenched from the king's throat as he rushed after the fellow Gondorian. His sword flickered in the flames of the orcs' torches as he stabbed and shoved the blade into the vital areas of many orcs in a vain attempt to follow the loyal soldier. What in Middle–Earth had possessed Beregond so?
He heard many of his soldiers rally and charge forth upon the luckless orcs, their battle cries filling the night air. "For Beregond!" a number of them yelled while the rest roared, "To the king!"
Within a few minutes the battle was over, and all the orcs had been slain.
Aragorn nearly staggered as victory cries filled the former campsite, his exhaustion obvious as sweat trickled down his face. Every muscle on his lean, powerful frame ached from exertion, and dark blood stained his plain clothes from minor wounds. Still, he held his blood–spattered sword in shaking hands and looked for one of his most stalwart soldiers. Had Beregond survived his foolhardy venture?
"My liege?" The soft call barely reached his ears. With an effort, the king turned his head. There was Boromir, looking bleak as blood trickled from a shallow cut on his cheek. "We've found him."
"Take me there!" The automatic demand was commanding and didn't betray the trembling that had begun in his knees. Even if he lost a few men at every battle, Beregond had been a closer friend than most, and to die on a seemingly suicidal mission would have been a crushing blow to his young son.
Aragorn leaned heavily on Boromir's shoulder as the two friends limped towards where the two soldiers had found Beregond. The trembling in his knees was replaced by a pain in his chest as he saw the crown of dark brown locks streaked with only a sprinkle of gray. The rest of the man's frame was covered by two orc carcasses.
"Why hasn't anyone taken the orcs and burned them?" Boromir's voice was harsh and filled with anguish, and his grip on his king's other shoulder tightened momentarily before he controlled himself. The two soldiers hastily removed the carcasses, but it was Boromir's keen gaze that saw the odd sight first, and it was he who let out a startled gasp.
"What is this?" he cried out, leaving Aragorn's side in a bound and kneeling beside Beregond. A young boy who had to have been younger than seven lay stretched out beneath the soldier's motionless body. His hands were stretched above his head and chained to a pole. It seemed as if Beregond had seen the captured youth and attempted to rescue him, but had been struck down before he could free boy.
Unsheathing his sword, Aragorn strode forward and brought the blade whistling down. The sword bit through the rusted iron, and the child's tiny hands were free.
As soon as the blade came whistling down, Boromir pulled Beregond into his arms and turned his fellow soldier so that his face was towards at sky. At the motion, the second–in–command cried out again. There was still color in Beregond's muddy face! The body stirred and the older Gondorian softly gasped before sinking deeper into unconsciousness. One look at his frame explained why he had lain as if lifeless: many cuts had torn his shirt to shreds, and an orc's knife had buried itself deep into his left shoulder.
"The boy lives as well," Aragorn exclaimed suddenly, kneeling also as he sheathed his sword once more. His keen gray eyes had observed the timid rise and fall of the young boy's chest. A warm, roughened hand pressed to the child's delicate cheek made the boy flinch even if still inert. Someone holding a torch closer to him revealed what was wrong: an ugly bruise was beginning to form on the right side of his pale face.
A sharp command from Aragorn made healers scurry to his side, and the young child and Beregond were quickly taken care of as the flickering torch lights revealed their injuries to the skillful men. Wounds were washed and bandaged, and soon the duo lay resting peacefully on blankets as Boromir and Aragorn watched over them.
"How did a child come to be in an orc band's campsite?" Boromir murmured softly, glancing down at the young boy and frowning in bewilderment. His baffled gaze studied the youth's dreaming visage, taking in the wavy, messy locks of wavy brown fell around the slightly ashen face. A long, bony nose separated his closed eyes and led downwards to thin, rose pink lips. All in all, the boy looked no older than eight or nine, a little younger than Beregond's son.
"Perhaps he was captured to be their slave," suggested Aragorn in a grim tone.
"Or their next meal," muttered one of the soldiers nearby, having overheard their discussion.
Aragorn sighed, knowing the truth of the man's words. At length, he spoke, his husky voice rising above the crackling flames as the orcs' bodies were burned. "When we have burned all the bodies, we shall find a place to rest. We will bury our fallen comrades tomorrow morning." Without even being told of the number, he knew that at least a handful of the band had fallen to the orcs.
"Seven men were slain, King Aragorn." A grim statement from a familiar brunet made the king wince briefly, feeling each man's death a blow to his heart. "Four Rohirrim and three Gondorians." Theodred's dark eyes betrayed his own pain at the death of his countrymen, for they had joined the Gondorian Horsemen because of their loyalty to him.
"Hirgon, in the morning after we've buried our comrades, I will need you to ride to Edoras to tell King Theoden of the four Rohirrim's valiant deaths."
The errand–messenger nodded in acknowledgement to his sovereign's order, his face just as smudged and wan as the rest of the Gondorian Horsemen. "Shall I give any news to Prince Faramir, milord?"
Boromir spoke before Aragorn could, and his tone was gentle upon the thought of his brother. "Tell him that we trust he is in excellent health, and that we miss his war songs, Hirgon."
"Aye, sir, I'll do that." The errand–messenger bowed to both the steward and the king before vanishing in the direction of where they burned the orcs.
A glance from his sovereign made Boromir duck his head to hide a fleeting smile. "If anyone asks, milord, you were the one who said that we miss his war songs," he stated, earning a wry smile from the gray–eyed swordsman. How many times during their youth had Boromir moaned at Faramir's songs and called them useless for a warrior?
"Of course I was the one to say that," agreed Aragorn, the dry smile lingering on his lips.
The two friends grinned at their inside joke, and their smiles loitered upon their mouths even after the orcs had been burned to ashes and after they had moved the unconscious man and child to a different campsite.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was dawn when Aragorn woke from his brief doze, his sleep–blurred vision immediately seeking out his dearest companion. Boromir had seemingly also just awoken, for he was rubbing his face as if to ward off further dreams. The steward's face was troubled, but he managed a quick smile when he noticed Aragorn's gaze.
"Did I wake you?" The soft inquiry drifted to the king's ears over the sound of crackling fires. The Gondorian Horsemen had traveled enough in secret to know which logs caused smoke or not.
Aragorn shook his head, the oily locks of dark brown whipping around his tanned visage at the movement. "Nay, I woke up because of the sun," he murmured back, raising himself to a sitting position to wave a hand at the sunrise.
Boromir's eyes followed the gesture, and he gazed at the first light for a long moment. "Faramir would probably be spouting off a line of poetry if he had been here to see the sunrise," he sighed after that instant. His longing to see his brother's face once more was obvious.
"Despite the fact that it wasn't wholly his choice, we know that Faramir is honored to be helping in keeping the peace between Gondor and Rohan, Boromir. How many times has he assured you of that fact in Hirgon's messages?"
"And how many times have we both known that he is only trying to assuage my fears?" The response was almost a snap, but not quite as the steward ran a trembling hand through his straight, golden–brown mane.
"He has at least one friend in Edoras," Aragorn pointed out, ignoring his friend's tone.
"Aye, but Éomer is often abroad, fighting the orcs that slip into Rohan more and more with each passing month."
"There are enough people loyal to Éomer in Edoras not to let anything happen to your brother, Boromir," stated a quiet, firm voice, and Theodred crouched beside the two men, his face serious. "And my father is too focused upon revenge against the orcs to bother with tormenting your brother." There was an odd weariness in the prince's voice, but both Boromir and Aragorn understood.
"Perhaps Hirgon will come back with news that your cousin is much herself again, Prince," suggested the steward, his tone kind as he focused upon the prince's pain instead of his own.
Theodred sighed. "After being tortured by the Uruk–hai, I doubt Eowyn will ever be herself, but I thank you for your kindness." He paused, and then asked, "How fares Lord Imrahil in Rivendell?"
The former Prince of Dom Amroth had gone to reside at Rivendell four years earlier, as a part of the treaty between Gondor and the elves. In return, Elf–lord Elrond promised to send aid to Aragorn and the Gondorian Horsemen in their time of greatest need.
"As far as we know, he is well and is learning much of the elven living," Aragorn replied. "He has not sent a letter to us in three months."
"Aye, and Hirgon has even offered to ride to Rivendell to check on him," added Boromir, a small smile of secret knowledge flickering upon his lips. "Just to make certain he hasn't fallen ill.'"
"As if anyone could get sick while residing in a place of elves!" Theodred exclaimed, not getting the inside joke between the steward and the errand–messenger. It was only when Boromir chuckled that the prince realized he had been teasing him, and reluctantly grinned. "Well, I will rouse the men and get a hunting expedition ready to find our breakfast."
As the prince rose from his crouch and moved off to awaken the other Gondorian Horsemen, Aragorn gazed intently at Boromir, attempting to figure out the joke. After a moment, recognition flared in those gray eyes, and he smiled. "I had hoped Imrahil would find someone to heal his heart after the Uruk–hai killed his wife and young daughter."
"Aye, so had I, and if Hirgon was not such an excellent messenger, I would have suggested to you sooner that he be allowed to reside with Imrahil in Rivendell."
"Perhaps in a year or so we'll train another messenger and be able to release Hirgon to Imrahil's side," suggested Aragorn thoughtfully, turning his eyes upon the bodies of Beregond and the rescued child. He gave a start, for the youth's eyes were wide open and gazing towards the sky.
The boy's eyes were a sharp green that seemed almost grayish in their dark shade. For a second Aragorn stared, thinking that the lad had died and his eyes had opened during death, but then he saw the steady rise and fall of the child's chest.
"What are you thinking about, lad?" The king's gentle inquiry earned a blink from the child, and then he propped himself upright with one elbow, wincing slightly before turning his green gaze upon the sovereign.
After a moment of contemplation, those green eyes brightened and turned almost merry. "Well, good sir, I was trying to decide whether being eaten by orcs or being enslaved once more was the better fate." His voice was a clear, high quality, almost a soprano that had not been broken yet by age.
"Enslaved again?" Boromir repeated the two words, his tone puzzled.
Those green eyes focused upon the steward and widened in surprise. Slender eyebrows rose to disappear behind his wavy, messy tendrils. "You–you mean you didn't see–and I, I just gave myself away?" There was absolute horror in that high voice, and something akin to despair. "Oh, I'm a fool of a Took indeed!"
"Boy, what are you talking about?" Boromir's voice was just as gentle as Aragorn's had been, and he moved to kneel beside the now–trembling young boy. "Beregond rescued you from the orcs during the battle, and we've been waiting for the two of you to wake up ever since."
"Beregond? You mean the kind fellow who killed the orc who was–was going to–and then another orc came up from behind and–and–" The lad pushed himself into a sitting position and gazed wildly around him until his eyes fell upon Beregond, who lay trembling beside him. A look of relief formed on his bruised face, and immediately he winced.
"His name is Beregond of Gondor, and he has a young son a little older than you, by the looks of it," Aragorn murmured softly, attempting to calm the distraught boy. "People call me Strider, and my companion is Boromir. You're in the company of the Gondorian Horsemen."
"Aye and I'd like to know who would enslave a human!" added Boromir, a dark note in his tone. "I'd like to have a talk with that fool."
"Well, that fool' is dead, and he wasn't enough of a fool to enslave one of his own kind," declared the young boy, his own expression one of misery.
While Boromir continued to look bewildered, Aragorn's facial expression shifted to one of shock and understanding. "Oh." The word was almost whispered as the king's eyes betrayed his sorrow for the quivering, injured boy, suddenly comprehending his fear and anguish. "You're a halfling."
How many years had it been since the people of the lands known as Eriador had begun to enslave the halflings of a place called Shire? Ten years, Aragorn decided at last as he watched the youth in sympathy. When he and the others of Gondor had learned of the enslavement of the little people, they had been outraged but had done nothing. Now the king felt a deep pang of regret.
The halfling's dark green eyes glimmered with unshed tears but he nodded and mumbled, his throat tight with despair, "I'm Peregrin Took, and begging your pardon, sir, but we call ourselves hobbits."
Aragorn reached out and gently grasped the hobbit's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Fear not, Peregrin Took. We are Gondorians, and none of us look upon slavery with favor. You will be a free hobbit amidst our company."
The green–eyed halfling opened his mouth to respond, looking almost painfully hopeful, when a soft, dreamy voice interrupted him. The sing–song words came from Boromir, whose gray eyes had suddenly gone vacant.
// "Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul–spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand." //
As hobbit and king gazed upon the steward in wonder, Boromir's tone remained dreamy. "I have had a dream of late that has troubled me though I have not spoken of it to even you, my dearest friend. In the dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of that light a remote but clear voice cried that riddle to me."
"What is Isildur's Bane, and where is Imladris?" cried Peregrin Took in a mixture of fearfulness and astonishment.
At the hobbit's cry, the vacant look fled from Boromir's eyes, and the steward closed them, struggling to be rid of the odd weariness that filled his bones.
"Imladris is what the elves call the Last Homely House East of the Sea. We men call it Rivendell," Aragorn explained, glancing at Boromir with concern as the steward sighed deeply.
"But what is Isildur's Bane?" repeated Peregrin, his eyes flickering between the two men.
"Of that I do not know, for the first thing that springs to mind is Sauron himself." The king's words were grim, and beside him Boromir shuddered slightly at the thought.
"Who is Sauron?"
The innocent question made Boromir and Aragorn look upon the hobbit with shock, and a timid smile formed on his lips at their surprised looks.
"We should not speak of the Dark Lord so often at one time, especially after killing so many of his minions. Perhaps in a safer place I shall be able to tell you more of him," Aragorn commented, his eyes flickering around the campsite as the soldiers shuffled around, preparing for the morning meal as Theodred's hunting party returned with numerous slain stags and hares.
As Peregrin looked disappointed at the evasion, Beregond softly groaned beside him. The trio turned towards the stirring man, and the hobbit momentarily forgot about his question.
Even as Beregond opened his eyes and asked in a voice slurred with speech, "Did we slay them all?" Aragorn leaned back and cast a glance over the busy campsite.
It was time to head to Rivendell.
(To be continued
Preludes: In the next chapter, Legolas, Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam are entertained in Mirkwood. Thranduil and Gandalf decide upon what to do with the Ring, and there will be more about the wars that plague Middle–Earth. ~Cinaed)
