16 December 2010 | 890 words
Character: Aragorn, Boromir, Faramir
Warnings: Inappropriate behavior in front of Dwarven company
Summary: Boromir doesn’t back down. Ever.
Snowed in at home today. Getting rather tired of it. Really, two feet is plenty.
“You know, this really hasn’t gone our way so far,” Faramir pointed out. “Perhaps we ought to think about letting it go for a little while.”
Boromir’s green eyes flashed, and Faramir knew his brother’s answer before he spoke; Boromir did not back down from a challenge. Ever.
“No. Not until we get him. Just once, that’s all I want. So start coming up with ideas. You’re the one who’s always been good at things like this.”
“I’m also the one who usually got caught and punished for it,” Faramir reminded him. “Don’t you remember how angry father was when he found out it was me that let mice loose in one of his council meetings?”
Boromir laughed. “Oh, I remember. You’d have got a beating that day if I hadn’t… hmm.”
“I don’t like that look in your eye at all, brother.”
The stone halls of the city echoed the footsteps of the two men as they hurried toward the throne room.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Faramir warned. “You know he’s meeting with that delegation of dwarves from Helm’s Deep, and something tells me dwarves aren’t keen on practical jokes…”
Boromir muttered something vulgar about the kinds of things dwarves were rumored to be keen on and kept walking. The two brothers strode into the throne room together to find Aragorn seated at the long meeting table with a number of dwarves, obviously of some status with the gold rings woven into their beards and the handsome inlay of metal and jewels worked into the light armor they wore.
“Gentlemen!” Aragorn called to them, gesturing. “These fine fellows have brought news of how our friend Gimli fares in restoring the Glittering Caves.”
Boromir took his seat next to the king, and Aragorn smiled at his steward broadly, then gestured for Faramir to take a seat as well.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, nodding to the dwarf who’d been speaking. “Please go on. The Steward and his brother know Master Gimli personally and will be delighted to hear how well things are going.”
“Certainly,” Boromir said. “Let’s hear it.”
The dwarf gave Boromir a rather sharp look, but continued with his report about the work on the new gates for the city. Boromir paid him no attention; he was preoccupied with his attempt to dig the little wooden box from beneath the hem of his heavy over-tunic without anyone wondering what he was fiddling with under the table. He gave Faramir a quick glance, and right on cue his little brother launched cheerfully into a round of questions about gem mining. The dwarves, obviously pleased by the young man’s interest in one of their favorite topics, launched into a detailed explanation, giving Boromir time to carefully slide the small box down to the floor next to Aragorn’s feet. Glancing over to make sure the king was absorbed in the ongoing discussion, he innocently shifted in his chair as his foot kicked the box, knocking it over.
Boromir and his brother had made a point to dress in fitted breeches that day, and the dwarves’ feet didn’t quite reach the floor from where they sat, so the only place for a pair of panicked mice to run was into the shelter of Aragorn’s long official robes. For a long moment, Boromir feared that the little creatures might have run off in another direction.
Aragorn twitched slightly, his expression suddenly distracted. Boromir grinned broadly.
Aragorn’s eyes widened and he twitched rather more sharply, this time enough so that the dwarves had stopped talking and turned to look at him. Boromir was counting in his mind how long it would take the scrambling little beasts to reach an area of the king’s personal anatomy where they would require immediate attention. Four… three… two…
The king’s guests stared in bewilderment as he lurched from his seat with an alarmed exclamation, wildly shaking his robes. They looked even more astonished when he began desperately slapping at his groin with both hands. The string of profanities that escaped him would have been at home in any dwarven drinking contest, but they were apparently baffled by its use at this moment. Aragorn, still flailing, remembered that he had an audience and attempted to force himself to be still, although he could not help shuddering as tiny paws roamed into highly personal places.
“Please… friends… you must excuse me… I have… well…”
He could not think of any rational explanation for his behavior at the moment, so he turned abruptly and fled to deal with the issue in a more private location. Boromir gave his brother a triumphant grin, laughing heartily.
“Not a good idea…” he chuckled, wiping his eyes as the dwarves stared at each other in confusion.
Faramir looked in the direction that Aragorn had gone and thought to himself that this unexpected success had made the stunt a much, much worse idea than he had initially thought.
Continue to Best Served Cold
NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at http://www.faramirfiction.com/Fiction/escalation. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!
Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: