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Ignite (R) Print

Written by Hurinhouse

01 March 2010 | 8657 words

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Chapter 3

Even the Steward’s private room was taken over, the halls so full of wounded and dying men that the healers had to step over them. Putting the Houses of Healing on the sixth circle made little sense to Boromir. How often did you need surgeries this far from battle?

He stripped off the leather waistcoat he’d won in a skirmish years ago, the lack of air here making the room hot and stuffy. The Steward’s own bed was pushed to the side while several men lay on the floor surrounding it. The silly dolt would be mortified to know he slept in luxury whilst other men made do with cold hard stone. Boromir figured someone had to enjoy it, why not the Steward’s son?

He watched as Aragorn sat at the edge of the bed, eyes closed, a trembling hand on Faramir’s brow. It had never fully sunk in who Aragorn was until the moment Fara’s eyes opened, filled with admiration and knowing awe directed toward his savior. Boromir’s jaw tightened and a strange sour feeling within his stomach assailed him then. But Aragorn moved on to heal dozens more and Boromir wasn’t sure which man to observe.

As he stood at the door, he took in Faramir’s clammy ashen skin, cooling from the abating fever. He recalled a fevered brow from long ago, a strap of leather between sore gums, tears collecting on soft puffy cheeks. He remembered watching a woman rub the infant’s back as she held a hand out for Boromir to join them.

“Come, tell your brother a story,” she’d coaxed. He wished he had a story to tell now, but Fara had drifted off again and Boromir could truly use some fresh air.


It’d been almost three days since Aragorn had called Faramir out of the Black Breath, days filled with the agony of remembrance. He’d woken first on the wet grass and saw his father, managed to crawl to him. He hadn’t been able to stop the stinging tears from clouding his vision. There were things he should have said, should have done, and he recalled none of them at that moment, could only try to ignore that the one person left that had known him all his life was gone.

Now he rested in the Steward’s chambers, sifting through the chest at the foot of his father’s bed, healing for no good purpose. He’d heard the excited whispers among the nurses before he’d left the Healing Houses, that the Outlaw alone had carried him all the way from the field, some levels by horse, some by foot. But he’d left right after and now was nowhere to be found. Most likely another tall tale.

He opened a small box and gasped. Flashes of golden skin and musk and careless laughter rushed through his mind. The thrill of forbidden trysts. Pain. He rubbed the fleshy part of his palm.

“Endahil, this horse. Where did it come from?”

“Your father always kept it in that chest.”

“This is the missing piece from my set.”

“It is.”

“Why would Father have kept it? Why not give it to me?”

As he looked closer, he noticed this silver horse was different than his. It was undoubtedly of the same set, but the horse’s legs had been crushed.

“The soldiers used it during the searches for your brother.” At Faramir’s questioning look, Endahil continued, “Your father had taken Boromir to watch the blacksmith cast the horses…”

It hit him then, why the horses had been on his shelf since long before he was old enough to play with them. They hadn’t been made for him, but for Boromir.

“Father said the blacksmith had broken the mold before he could make the final horse.”

“The man had pulled a horse from the fire; it slipped from his tongs. Boromir reached down to pick it up- “

“- and burned his palm,” Faramir’s head reeled and he shut his eyes.

“You’ve heard the story, then. The blacksmith feared My Lord would hang him, so he fled. The soldiers used the horse during their searches for the little lad.”

The horse fell to the stones and Faramir made no attempt to stop it. He could detect Endahil retrieve it, knew the man resented Faramir for his father’s death, but he could not pull himself from the shock long enough to care.


Reserve horses were used as pack ponies, along with strays found on the Pelennor. The animals were confused at their odd cargo. As the company prepared to leave the city, Boromir could hear the damnable brutes whickering in protest. He hadn’t eaten that morning, stomach rebelling at the early hour, so he stole a snack from the nearest saddlebag while the privates packed the food, careful not to get too close to hooves or teeth. As he turned to join the front of the column, his eye caught on the neighboring mare, her markings especially beautiful.

Dark and light swirls mingled in his memories with arrows and howls and an unlikely connection between two frightened beings. The words to a lullaby he wasn’t aware he knew sprang into his head and he found himself caressing the blue roan’s withers.

The first part of the first day, Boromir walked beside the mare. She seemed to gravitate toward him each time he fell out of line, and Boromir would chide her gently. He saw Aragorn turning in the saddle far up front several times, watching, but he couldn’t be bothered by it, hadn’t the room for the notion in his head with all the others floating up there.

At supper the next evening, he was summoned to present himself before the Captain of the Host. Summoned. If Aragorn considered Boromir some kind of subject now, he’d slit him, end of the world coming or no.

A sergeant led him away from camp, beyond a stand of trees and into a clearing. Aragorn sat astride a fresh horse, waiting, the blue roan beside him. Boromir fumed, “I am not yer pupil.”

“Tis good, as I’ll prefer you in other capacities.” The sergeant shifted stance uncomfortably and Aragorn pointed at the roan before Boromir could voice his outrage. “That fellow has seen battle. He lost a good owner on the Pelennor and has been reduced to pack pony.”

“If I ‘ave ever been astride a ‘orse, it were a long time ago.”

“Then we have not a moment to lose.” The annoying captain gestured the sergeant forward before pulling his own reins, trotting off into the field toward a gallop.

The sergeant held the roan, waiting for Boromir to mount. The Steward’s black sheep glared after Aragorn for a good four laps before he hoisted into the saddle, telling himself two attempts was not too awful. He wasn’t sure why he bothered to stay. The sergeant spoke humbly and low, informing Boromir on the roan’s verbal and knee commands. Then he backed to the edge of the clearing.

They practiced for two hours of the dial, Aragorn alongside Boromir, encouraging, instructing. When Boromir would lose control, Aragorn would ride up against him, knee to knee, direct him on steadying his horse, placing his reins. Boromir thrilled at the sensation of air whipping through his hair, the bruising his ass took as hooves pounded into the clay not enough to diminish the excitement coursing through him. He’d been without ties his entire life, but this rush tasted like a freedom he’d never known.

He moved ahead of Aragorn, gloating at his feat until the man surged even farther, tipping his chin politely as he passed, causing Boromir to laugh anew.

At sunset Aragorn slowed the pace, allowing the horses a cool down for several laps around the clearing. Boromir was alarmed to realize then that he hadn’t spared one thought to his angle since he’d climbed atop that horse, hadn’t planned an escape, an excuse, a mode of operation, nor a sly reply to any unwanted inquiries. He was slipping.

They turned the animals over to the sergeant and ate a slim meal before parting ways, Aragorn to the tent Boromir knew the man would share if he’d only accept, Boromir lying beneath a cloudy night sky. He imagined the stars he knew so well, all those evenings he’d drifted off shortly before dawn.

No fires en route to Mordor. No bawdy stories to ease the dread. Just nervous recruits and bloodthirsty veterans looking for glory.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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7 Comment(s)

Oh, do not torment us! It’s fine but too small. And it increased my appetite a lot.
I love this story!
I like Boromir like that – so cold or hot in contrary? So strong, bold and cynical. And I do not understand had he any feelings for Faramir at all. He seems to be heartless.
I like Denethor like that – so gentle and loving with Faramir.
I like the idea of it! And have no patience!
Thank you for such interesting story and wonderful style of writing!

— Anastasiya    Saturday 20 February 2010, 18:50    #

I had a look in at this site, saw your story and read the different parts of it. Slightly different to what I normally read, but I really like it. Your style of writing is unusual and appealing with a real drive.

— Wormwood    Sunday 21 February 2010, 12:34    #

thank you so much for your kind feedback. i hope to get the next parts up very soon.

— hurinhouse    Tuesday 23 February 2010, 3:17    #

This is looking very interesting. Am looking forward to more of it.

— Bell Witch    Tuesday 23 February 2010, 16:03    #

thank you very much. i hope the rest will be worth your while.

— hurinhouse    Monday 1 March 2010, 6:01    #

Oh, damn Boromir!
All story I waited to see him surrendered to his love (is Faramir his love, is it not?) but now again I see only strange refusal. He’s terrible. He causes Faramir pain. But I’m happy for Faramir stayed with Eowyn. You described it so beautiful!
But I still hope to see a sequel!!!
Thank you! It was incredible!

— Anastasiya    Monday 1 March 2010, 17:47    #

thank you so much – i’m pleased you’re (kind of) enjoying it. LOL ;)

to be honest, i had planned for faramir to die in boromir’s place at parth galen, but that was too tidy for me and so faramir lives. for now.

— hurinhouse    Tuesday 2 March 2010, 2:31    #

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