Faramir Fiction Archive

Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal (R)

Written by Hurinhouse

15 January 2010 | 4894 words

Title: Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal
Author: hurinhouse
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir , Boromir/Aragorn, Denethor
Rating: G-R over all
Warning: AU
Summary: Boromir evolves
A sequel to Without Air, Fire Does Not Burn, the prequel to which is here

A/N notes: Bálin is pronounced Bay-lin… unless my elfish research is crap, which is entirely probable.

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Part 1

The ropes dug into his prisoner’s wrists. Good. His skin was still soggy, but it didn’t help his attempts at escape. Not that Faramir would be much use in stopping him this eve.

“How many men did you lose?”

“They’re not my men. They come and go as they please, unlike yours.”

Faramir toed the barrel the man sat on so that he had to scramble not to fall over backward.
“How many?”

“I know not. Per’aps six, which leaves us ‘alf as strong.”

Fara could barely imagine having only a dozen men to manage, except while in fair Ithilien, though it was rare he had time to inspect there.

“Your country appreciates your assistance, whatever the motive.”

Bálin held up his bound hands, tangled in the blanket he was wrapped in. “Aye, yer ‘ospitality is top rate.”

Faramir dropped onto a barrel and rubbed his still damp hair. His arms ached from the swim. The rest of him ached from the fall. They’d trekked as far as they’d been able from Osgiliath before he ordered tents erected.

He watched Bálin squirm within the ropes, still beautiful after one and twenty years. It hadn’t taken the bastard long to become something of a legend in the wild after he’d left. Rumors grew each year of the band of renegades led by the man with the scarred cheek and eyes of spring grass. Faramir had known in his heart it was Bálin, now finally had confirmation.

He didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in his voice, “There is still the matter that you were trespassing, not to mention that you are known outlaws.”

Bálin jumped up, rage in his eyes, “Without these outlaws you and your man would still be at the bottom of the river.”

Faramir shivered and he saw Bálin echo him. It had been a day of terror that took fifty seven men from Faramir’s own company. All brave, experienced men, frozen in fright. It would take weeks to recover all the bodies, if they could find a place to cross the river again before orcs spoiled them.

“A score, Bálin. An entire score of years since you left.” He kept his voice low, knowing Bálin’s guard stood outside.

“Aye. Thought ye’d be ‘appy I ain’t selling me body.”

“Your thieving and lying haven’t changed.”

“We don’t steal from the starving.”

“No, just from your country’s armed forces. Is that how you happened upon us this day? Searching for something to pilfer?”

Bálin looked toward the ground as he used the blanket to rub his damp hair. Faramir stood, loomed closer to him. He supposed his intention was as a threat, but he just wanted to grab Bálin, to remind him…

“Why did you leave, Bálin?”

Bálin shrugged indifferently. It seemed to Faramir that he was reining in discomfort at Faramir’s closing proximity. “Became tiresome, trudging about, nanny to a royal.”

He grabbed Bálin by the arms, pulled him close. He could feel a sudden filling below, “Why are you lying?”

“Not so. Ye were slowing me business down.”

Faramir leaned his hips against the other man’s, rotated. “So you left your business, too?”

Bálin panicked, struggled to get away, little leverage with bound hands. “Why, Bálin?”

Bálin shoved forward with his forearms, “We cannot!”

“WHY!?”

Bálin butt his forehead into Faramir, who let go of him and the bound man stumbled backward. In that moment Bálin cleanly slipped his mask back into place, tilted his palms up as if weighing two pieces of a puzzle, a mocking grin on his lips, “Royalty. Whore. Not a smooth brew.”

Faramir stared at Bálin, anger rushing up from within to warm his neck. He squeezed his hands to fists to prevent them flying.

“Tiron!” He yanked the canvas aside.

“Sir?”

“Take the prisoner.”

The hawk woke him, shrill voice bawling at the pre-dawn come too soon, the darkest hour before they’d see a glimmer of light. He’d never been so grateful to be awoken early. The shaking in his hands subsided slowly and he was chilled from the sweat dampening his clothes. A fever surely, so soon after near-drowning. That would explain why he hadn’t kept awake long enough to escape last evening. He looked at the ground beside him. Aromas was in a sound sleep.

It must have been the fiends in the sky that sent forth such a dooming dream. Isildur. Bálin thought he’d heard that name before, couldn’t place it. He shuddered and prayed he’d not have a repeat of the nightmare. He wasn’t devout, mind, in fact, he figured the Gods were something old professors created to get pupils to behave; after a thousand years the stories would seem as fact to most. But the dream hadn’t been natural, so better to play the part in case the Valar were authentic; and watching.

The foul creatures last eve had chased them down as if they were rabbits, and the winged beasts they rode upon brought back memories of terrors he’d thought were buried. He’d asked his comrades to stay and fight with him, with the soldiers they’d planned to rob, but only Aromas remained, the fear of the others worse than even his own. When they’d fell the bridge, relief washed over him. Briefly.

“Mablung!” His brother’s voice called out through the neighboring tent. His brother. He’d been close enough to smell him last evening, his scent the same as it’d been twenty years past, breaking through the stench of river mire and blood and whiskey. Gods how he wanted to throw him down and ravage him, grind into him, any misdeed that would be deemed immoral and wicked, qualities he’d never minded before.

“Sir?”

“Have a small party prepare for Minas Tirith within the hour. Include my mount.”

“Shall the prisoners walk, Sir? They’ll slow us down, but I’d hardly trust them with our stock.” Bálin’s teeth ground tight at the thought of getting near a horse.

“Set them loose.”

“The prisoners? Didn’t you wish to interrogate them once more?”

“I have no further use of them.”

The silence hung in the air, cutting into Bálin’s chest, before the sergeant replied with a curt, “Sir” and Bálin heard him trudge across the stones.

Faramir’s voice had been heavy with guilt and regret. Odd how that gripped Bálin in the gut. He’d buried all those fickle burdens long ago.

The weak sun peaked over Mindolluin, just enough for Faramir to pack his saddlebags. They’d used fire sparingly. The lofted beings were not stopped by the loss of the bridge, and the men could not fend off a second attack.

His mind drifted back to the dream, last evening the third recurrence. He’d sent messengers ahead to report the loss of the bridge before collapsing to his cot, had planned to follow midday with a full account in person. But this time the vision carried an urgency he could not place. I must speak to Father.

As he’d drifted off with three hours till dawn, he’d had visions of tying Bálin to the pole of his tent, forcing him to speak his mind. But in the light of day he knew there was no corralling fire, and Faramir had not the strength to try, nor the time.

Part 2

Like the wearing of a helmet made too small, his head felt a gripping, squeezing. And the foul taste in his mouth… when he swished with water, his stomach rebelled again to start the process anew, his muscles weak and quivering from the effort to lean over the side.

It had been five days since he’d heard the Horn, since Denethor had shot up the tower stairs and scoured the palantir. Three days since he saw Faramir shot down, abandoned by his supposed companions; abandoned by Thorongil. Denethor was not blind.

He’d spent the first day in the tower, scrambling for another view, hoping for a miracle. He’d seen the Halfling with his son in the woods. The creature had looked to be begging Faramir, trying to hand him something. Faramir had backed away, steering clear of the object. After what appeared to be an argument, the Halfling rushed upon the man, forcing their hands together.

A bright light had shot from their joined palms, seemed to suspend them in a mutual stupor for many moments, before they both fell to the ground, startled. Faramir stumbled, helped the Halfling stand, set something in the culprit’s hand. A knowing look passed between them before they both became alert, looked toward the east. Faramir pushed the Halfling away, and the coward ran, leaving what was left of Denethor’s heart alone in the woods. And now a half-wit carried Arda’s future away.

That’s when Denethor saw the new breed of orc descend upon his son, grotesque beasts of great stature and rudimentary weapons, with no comrades but two more of those tiny men to help. Why could not Fara’s place have been exchanged with that scrap of a would-be king?

Endahil had found him on the stone floor the next morning. Now he lay in his fine featherbed, a cutting counterpoint to the damp leaves he saw his son lie among during his last moments. He couldn’t find in himself the will to eat, despite Endahil’s constant attempts. He’d heard him turn countless messengers away, mostly with queries from council members. No doubt the greedy scoundrels lay in wait for his demise.

None of it mattered. He’d hand the Stewardship over to any cocky popinjay with the linage, for he had no son to leave it to.

In a dark corner of a roadside tavern, leagues south of the city, a nervous man met with a cut-throat. The servant had been selected for the task due to his ability to ride with haste and inquire with discretion.

At the dimly lit table he quietly stuttered out his lord’s request, then with shaking hands slid a blue linen pouch across the stained and gouged wood. The shadowed rogue opposite found a goodly sum inside, a sum that would grant him many dancing girls; or an estate in the country.

“M’lord and ‘is fellows… they think there’s no other way, mind. Say the country needs able leaders with war coming.”

Silent as the snow, the rogue finished his mead and left the table, pouch in hand.

Long quiet shadows felt reverent after passing through the bustling world of frantic servants outside. As he drew farther in, spiced soap and brandy washed over him in waves and he rocked back on his heels at the notion of incessant chess games and pony rides on strong shoulders. It was then Bálin saw the man lying in the bed, mattress plump with great down feathers encased in rich brocade. It looked softer than a scrap of canvas thrown over decayed logs.

He drank in the sight, with both longing and bitterness. He reveled in memories of tiresome tales of old, scattered with prized mentions of elves and warriors. Stern reprimands and a stinging backside. Hugs, tight as bears, and the look of love from a woman with kind eyes and intimate knowledge.

He shook the useless far-off dreams from his head and drew his knife. He had business to conduct. The older man opened weary eyes, flinched at the foreign movement in his room. Bálin found the edge of the bed and looked at the face, rough years carved into a soft life. It was handsome but unreadable. Disbelief, hope, fear, dread… recognition?

A weak hand reached out, “My Boromir?”

Bálin’s breath caught and he backed away. The dagger nearly slipped from his hand before he tightened his hold and lurched forward, placed the blade against the thin skin of his father’s neck. Denethor ignored the blade, his eyes following Bálin’s other hand. The man’s grip was faint, but he must have possessed some bewitchment for Bálin found himself unable to do anything but watch as his wrist was turned, mind caught in some trap that brought a prickling to his eyes.

Denethor gazed at the horse burned into Bálin’s flesh. “I knew. All this time, I knew you’d find your way home.”

Bálin fell upon his knees, knife clattered to the floor, cuffs swiping furiously at the moisture in his eyes like a school boy. He supposed he was one once. Denethor saw his cheek. His frown was more wonderment than disapproval. “You are the outlaw.”

“I am.”

“Is that why you did not come before now?”

“I am a villain, not a prince.” Denethor appeared to swallow doubt, studied his son, breathed in every ounce of him. It seemed to him that this great leader saw through him, into his soul, and grew in strength as he looked his fill. Bálin felt as a lost hound and he knew that this man would lead him to something beyond his measure.

“No longer,” Denethor replied, his voice firm, gaining vigor. He gestured to the hearth with a nod of his chin. “Above the mantel.”

Bálin rose, retrieved the sword that had been forged for him seven and thirty years prior. It was heavier than he was used to, but he was strong now these last years. Again he knelt by his father’s side, this time with head bowed, and repeated the words of fealty, words he had only ever heard his brother speak on that fateful day so long in the past.

His father accepted his pledge with a choked whisper, and when Boromir looked up, he could see joy balance behind Denethor’s lid.

“I thank ye for yer faith… Sir. I would that I shared it.”

Denethor gripped him, held him close. His eyes willed Boromir to listen, “You will find it. You are a Húrin.”

Boromir stared at his father for long moments, then stole back out into the night.

The bells rang a joyous rhythm every hour for three days. The melody lifted spirits, though without recognizing the notes, the citizens had no notion of the occasion. Some surmised the Lord Faramir was returned from his long journey to the north, a new cadence created to celebrate. Others guessed the old steward was announcing an engagement, a pressing need to forge heirs forcing him from his decades long mourning.

Some of the old codgers insisted the merrily bold air of the chime was the call of the Steward’s first son, Boromir, lost to Gondor as a child of six summers. Young folks with short memories shook their heads and laughed.

With a renewed strength the Steward had finally taken some of the soup his chamberlain had been pandering. He held a meeting in his chambers with his most trusted advisors. The first order of business was a moment of silence for a newly deceased council member, the lord found dead in his home the night previous, throat slit, a blue pouch full of coin in his hand.

The next order of business… the defense of Gondor.

Part 3

The loose stone on the path below threatened to announce their arrival and Legolas had as yet found no other way across the river. Though Elven sight is long, it does not bend trees, nor stone.

Aragorn knew they were relatively safe with the Dead at their backs, but they would only follow when the time for slaying was ripe, and could not be everywhere at once. He glanced at the black sails in the harbor. More than two score on his last count.

“I’ll just get a wee look, “ Gimli declared, and he strode toward the edge of the cliff, thirty meters ahead. Aragorn charged forward, hissed, “Gimli, stay back.”

He saw a glint of steel at Gimli’s right and as he drew Anduril he realized he should have had Legolas scout here, rather than below. But in lieu of a savage, a bandit leapt from the stand of trees and pounced upon Gimli like a great cat. He steered them quietly far from the edge as they rolled in a fury of limbs and leather and dirt. Five feet from Aragorn, the man landed deftly atop the dwarf, gloved hand upon his bearded mouth, blade at his throat.

“Haradrim scouts lie at a twenty foot drop, ye fool,” he breathed out before looking up at Aragorn. “Yer warg needs a leash.” Muffled protests were kept trapped beneath leather.

“Not when my goblin has a bow,” Aragorn growled out, and the newcomer found an elven arrow at his temple.

“Step lightly, edain, farther in,” Legolas menaced into the man’s ear, and he obeyed, Gimli still his hostage. When the group had traveled a good fifty meters, the intruder let Gimli go, thwarting the dwarf’s attempted kick with a swift hand.

Aragorn held Anduril at the rogue’s chest while Legolas scampered silently to the edge and peered over. The man looked to be less than half Aragorn’s own age. He wore rough dark clothes, green eyes glinting beneath golden hair like the first spring sapling among melting snow. His back was straight, proud, but he was not so bold that Aragorn suspected a trap.

“He speaks the truth. Gimli would have been skewered and our mission discovered.” Legolas was ever swift.

Aragorn noticed the man’s dagger, standard infantry issue in Minas Tirith. The hilt at his hip did not match. It gleamed of premium make. So… a thief. “What is your name, Renegade?”

“The King of Gondor. Yers?” A second arrow at the man’s neck; Legolas did not appreciate the slight against his companion. Aragorn would have laughed at the ignorant jest, if the rogue hadn’t have rubbed him the wrong way already.

“What is your business here?”

“You first… ranger.”

Aragorn hauled the man close, felt muscles ripple under cloth. He could hear Gimli threatening behind him as he snarled low into the witling’s ear. “The elf would have already impaled you. You are not at the advantage here.”

The man whispered, low and seductive, tilting his hips forward to brush against Aragorn’s, “Oh, but I am.”

Aragorn jerked back at the long-forgotten sensation. If need be they’d kill the mongrel, but he sensed an opportunity here. He sheathed his sword.

“We seek those ships.”

The man tensed at his words, gripped his dagger more tightly. “For wot purpose? Whom do ye serve?”

“I serve no one. We fight against Sauron, as do you.” He saw the rogue relax at his gamble. “We’ll go under cover of darkness, this evening.”

The man shrugged, “Tis a sound plan, for those who know little of Corsairs. They drink midday so that there are plenty of sober men to sail at night. The best time is now or not until the morrow.”

“We cannot wait that long and there is no path below where we will not be seen.”

“The Wild Men do not guard the river on the east side. None but those from Mordor dare cross.” The man gestured to the north side of the rocky height, a drop of more than one hundred feet. Aragorn shuddered in remembrance. But he needed those ships and he knew this cocky rogue could help.

“Now, tis your turn.”

“Meself, I seek only one ship.”

Legolas lowered his bow. “Which?”

“Whichever carries able men.”

Gimli snorted, bitterness in his gruff voice, “What of the Haradrim on the ledge? Do you plan to pounce upon them, as well?”

“‘ave you rope? Something that can stretch across the cliff?”

The dwarf grudgingly patted the side of his pack, “Aye.”

“Then they will be busy.” And with that, he began to arrange stray logs into a pile.

Aragorn guessed the rogue’s plan, had grudgingly read the sincerity in his eyes, nestled right up there between arrogance and benighted charm. He received a matching nod from Legolas.

“You have not told us your business here.”

The young man’s swagger slowed.

“Restitution.”

Gimli secured logs with the rope, lowered them a handful of feet from the south side of the bluff. When he was safely on the north side with the others, he cut the rope. They heard the wood clatter down the south slope, followed by a grunt and a shuffling from the front ledge. One by one they jumped off the north edge, Legolas pulling Gimli off with him. It was a long way down but the water was deep and they made it across with minimal trouble.

Now they made their way to the harbor, following their impromptu guide and his waiting comrades, and Aragorn hoped, with the Dead not far behind.

Boromir had learned a mammoth ship from Dol Amroth had been intercepted by the Corsairs, a ship containing two hundred soldiers the Steward needed at the unprotected borders of Osgiliath. He spun tales of river adventure and heroism to the brigands he’d run with over the years. Some of them believed; even more followed, eager to leave Minas Tirith as war was on the way. Aromas backing him helped, a pattern of twenty some years now. They’d stowed away on a merchant ship at the Harlond upon quitting the city, Boromir unsure exactly how he’d retrieve the men of Dol Amroth if he were to actually survive the wretched rocking.

Now he marveled at his good fortune here in Pelargir, battling barbarians on the side of fighters he’d never seen the likes of. The elf was graceful and effortless, the dwarf like a bull set loose. But the fearless skill with which the haughty north man fought… there was something about this agile ranger. No man had ever impressed Boromir, and this stained self-appointed deputy of Arda wouldn’t be the first, yet now he found himself sneaking glances between foes, some detail about the man at the tip of his tongue.

A clever slash by a younger Haradrim brought his full attention back where it belonged. Boromir shook the blood from his arm and gutted the wild boy in return. The broadsword sung in his hands, light and balanced, and not for the first time he marveled at the craftsmanship of those under the Steward’s employ. Decades earlier, he’d stolen a sword from a scoundrel fencing jewels one foggy morning, who’d undoubtedly stolen it before him. It was heavy and he’d had to clear the rust, yet it served him all these years in the wild.

But this brilliant work of artistry swung as an extension of his arm and though he’d only had it a matter of days, it had extracted from within the alley cat, a warrior. He sliced at the Wild Men with abandon, hearing no words of surrender when they came, only the call of his mother, and a soldier’s command from long ago. He bellowed as he hacked at dark braided hair and necks strung with beads and hands that held bone-hilted knives. One savage became the next three became the next fifteen, and the blaze surged through his limbs until he came to the last of his prey and then searched for more.

When enough pirates were slain to ensure victory, the ranger pulled Boromir aside, willing him to calm with soothing eyes of authority, and the Dead closed the gap in protection. The older man touched his lips and heart in an odd gesture. Boromir felt a flutter in his chest.

“My thanks. I would repay you but it must be on another occasion for we are now in haste.”

Boromir swallowed an odd disappointment, wiped the gore from his blade, “There is refuge in ‘igher numbers. More Corsairs will soon follow. And my cargo needs a ship.”

“Come if you wish. We sail for Minas Tirith.”

Boromir stopped, a brow raised. Aragorn didn’t seem surprised, “You may share Captain’s Quarters with me. The men may bunk below.”

The cabin was small, but held enough space for a table and a bed. A small bed barely enough for one. Boromir slept in worse places most of the time, but not with a man who matched his strength, or exceeded it, watching him from the mattress as he unlaced his tunic. He had visions of clients long ago, the fat ones, who tried to fuck him in the back of their carriages before he had the good sense to duck out. A wave of panic rippled through him. The man was long and lean, but Boromir could see the muscle beneath. He undressed without a care, somewhere between assured and distant, and little twinges ran up and down Boromir’s cock while warnings flashed in his head. As many men as Boromir had serviced, this man was far more experienced in matters of much more import than buggery; though that as well, he guessed. Suddenly shy, Boromir felt like a fledgling, as though he stood compared to the moon itself, and that annoyed him more than anything.

In only breeches, the man who called himself Strider pulled supplies from a pack and looked at Boromir. “Remove your tunic, Bálin, if you please.”

When he poured whiskey over the short deep wound the renegade sucked in a breath. The lantern flickered in the dim room, but Aragorn could see fine hairs standing to attention in the cool air. The cocky imp would betray no fear, but pain was more difficult to hide.

Bálin had fought well, instinctually. His confidence surpassed his lack of finesse. He was skittish, but dauntless and his eyes burned a hole in the top of Aragorn’s head as he took up his fine bone needle. He’d refused to be tied down, so Aragorn used half his energy to hold the arm still.

He recalled Bálin’s hilt. “You hail from Gondor.”

“I am no soldier.”

“But you are Dunedain.”

The man looked up, defiant. “Most call me a killer.”

The scar on Bálin’s cheek stirred the tumult Aragorn felt tingling in his groin and he reveled in the little pulses of anxiety he could feel running under Bálin’s skin. How good it would feel to teach this arrogant pup manners. He set the thoughts aside and concentrated on his next stitch, “The men on the ship, their livery is of Dol Amroth?”

“Aye. The steward requested ‘em, but the Corsairs intercepted.”

“What of your men? Most did not board.”

“They’re their own men, they owe Gondor nothing.”

Gondor? He watched Bálin squeeze a cloth on the table, bite back the pain. A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. “Those ghosts ye carry. Do they travel with us?”

“Yes. Somewhere.”

“Yer a wizard.”

Aragorn chuckled, felt Bálin tense. “Nothing so clever as that. Just a man. There. Keep this dry.”

Aragorn turned the arm and froze, his grip tightening. He was oblivious to Bálin’s tugging as he stared at the horse upon his palm. “I’ve seen this shape. Twice.”

Bálin stopped struggling. Aragorn cleared a catch from his throat, “A recent companion had a miniature in his pack made of silver. He kept it with him; a reminder of a lost lover.”

Bálin’s indignation seemed to melt away. Aragorn let go of his wrist.

“The first time, though, was many years ago. The shape was burnt into the skin of a child I knew. His palm.” Aragorn was barely able to keep both of the startling revelations straight in his head for the magnitude of each.

He watched as the young man stood, strode across the cabin, stopped short by Aragorn’s call, “I’d heard that lad had gone missing. His father was never the same.”

The other turned the knob, stopped just outside the door. “The lad’s father will be fine.” A pause. “Your ally with the toy horse… does he still live?”

Brave hands squeezing leather came to mind, the drawing of steel from flesh a sound Aragorn would not soon forget. But no scream.

“I do not know.”

The mist made what little horses they had skittish, an expectancy that betokened the company was not alone. Their time in Ithilien had drawn to a close, their commander gone ahead to the White City with the prisoners. Word had traveled that the Lord Denethor was recovered. What fate that meant for the trespassers was anyone’s guess.

The rangers drank liberally, splashing faces and filling water skins. The trek across Cair Andros had lifted their spirits, most of them relieved to be back on the west side of the river. A shout was called out down the line, causing each man to watch the graceful boat drifting tranquilly down the Anduin. It veered toward the western bank, an unnatural detour, and several men strung their bows. But as the prow came closer, they saw naught but a man inside, the white tree stitched across his chest.

“Help!” one man cried and three of them helped him drag the boat against the reeds. He reached out toward the man’s chest…“Is that- “

As he was touched, the Lord Faramir bolted upright, falling into a coughing fit that racked his body in spasms.

Finis

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