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15 September 2008 | 331 words
Title: Ancient Customs Well Employed
Pairing: Aragorn, Boromir, Faramir
Summary: Gilraen’s son was ever resourceful
Disclaimer: Imagination only; no fact whatsoever.
“I would not usurp my brother.” Grateful to have him home, alive, he was more than happy as the Steward’s Advisor.
“Not even for The King’s Right?” He froze; saw Aragorn studying him. He’d never dreamed…
“That custom was outlawed centuries ago, Sire.”
“Didn’t your brother fail history lessons?” Oh, this man would run Gondor skillfully.
“Would all aspects of the Right hold true?”
Aragorn laughed, “You speak of the Steward’s Clause?” Lower, “You watch him. You want him.”
Heat flared Faramir’s cheeks.
“You’re my only obstacle. So yes, it applies.”
“Then I’d be pleased to serve as your Steward.”
Silk robes for a captive? Harad must net a fortune.
Surely his absence at the Coronation would alert Aragorn. The Citadel would be searched for Gondor’s Steward, these renegades hanged.
“Move.” He stumbled into the light… a million candles glowing amidst the murmuring crowd. Soft bonds mocked his struggles for freedom.
He quaked: Aragorn waited at the poles, eyes hungry; Faramir athirst beside him, wearing the Steward’s ring. They watched traitors tie Boromir’s shaking hands high, slice the robe from him. The buzz silenced.
Aragorn’s fingers were coarse against his cheek; his lips silk.
“You should have listened to Denethor.”
Sixty years of filth, starvation. Eighty of uncertainty. His mother had bid: Duty, honor, love, My Son.
He’d fulfilled the first; today, forsaken the second.
The third he’d craved twenty-five years, since he spied Gondorian captains teaching the young Prince to fight. Golden and proud, new as spring rain, he swung a blade like he was dancing.
Aragorn knew then: Arwen would be his Queen, this warrior his love, willing or no.
He snapped a ring tight, let his brother have him first, a necessity. Then, firm touches and soft words ensured Boromir’s curses, gasps, shudders, remained Aragorn’s for eternity.
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