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Reasons Not to Trust an Elf (NC-17) Print

Written by RubyElf

21 January 2011 | 12129 words

[ all pages ]

Part 6

Large, soft flakes of snow drifted lazily over the two men as they walked silently through the quiet streets of the city’s upper levels. The guards nodded to them as they passed, trying not to chuckle when Finn barked at them. When there were no guards to catch her attention, she darted back and forth, snapping at snowflakes and tying the lead around Boromir’s legs, drawing a trace of a smile from him.

They made their way to one of the small walled gardens that were hidden away in many corners of the city, and once the gate was pulled closed behind them, Boromir reached down and unhooked the lead from the puppy’s collar. Finn shook herself briskly from tail to ears, then galloped to the far end of the garden. Boromir brushed the snow off one of the stone benches and sat down, watching with amusement as Finn plunged her face into a snow drift, then emerged snorting and rubbing her nose with her paws.

“Cold, isn’t it?” Boromir called to her, smiling. “Daft thing.”

Aragorn, noticing that Boromir had cleared enough room on the bench for both of them, took what he hoped was an unspoken invitation and sat down beside him.

“Ever had a dog before?” Boromir asked.

Aragorn shrugged. “I’ve been in camps where the soldiers kept dogs. The men were fond of them, but they weren’t really pets.”

“Never had time for a dog before,” Boromir said. “I was always away.”

“I’m sure you’ll soon have her trained well enough to go anywhere you go.”

“As long as ‘anywhere’ isn’t the battlefield.”

“I doubt either of us will be seeing much of the front lines again any time soon,” Aragorn said. “The King and Steward aren’t supposed to endanger themselves like that.”

“The battlefield’s the only place where I’m any use,” Boromir muttered.

“That’s not true,” Aragorn disagreed. “You’re a very good Steward. No one could ever question your care for the kingdom or its people.”

“Is that a Steward’s duty?” Boromir asked. “Arandur doesn’t mean ‘servant of the kingdom,’ you know. It means ‘servant of the king’.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there’s a difference,” Boromir said sharply, irritated.

“All right, then. What’s the difference?”

Boromir thought for a long moment, and Aragorn wondered if he had decided to ignore the question, but then his answer came, carefully spoken and quiet.

“For my loyalty to my kingdom, I expect nothing from my kingdom in return.”

Aragorn leaned forward, looking across the snow-bound garden with his arms resting on his knees.

“And what of your loyalty to your king?”

Boromir glanced at Finn, who was rolling happily in the snow, oblivious to her master’s solemn mood.

“I suppose that depends upon what my king expects of me.”

Aragorn sighed. “A Steward’s duties…”

Boromir turned abruptly to fix him with a sharp look. “You wish me to be nothing more than your Steward?”

Aragorn met his eyes. “You wish me to be nothing more than your King?”

Boromir shrugged and turned away. “Might be easier. At least then I could be sure of where I stood.”

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “Have we ever been sure of where we stood, you and I?”

“No,” Boromir said, the flash of anger gone. “But when you first came to wear the crown and struggled under the weight of it, you came to me when you wanted to be Aragorn again for a while, and to forget about Elessar and his duties. Now I’m starting to think it’s Aragorn you’ve forgotten.”

Aragorn gave him a strange look. “But you haven’t.”

Boromir shook his head.

“Do you remember what I told you in Lothlorien?”

Boromir’s face flushed red. “A lot of things. Most of them not fit for polite company. And I was rather distracted at the time.”

Aragorn couldn’t contain a chuckle at that, even as he noted the redness that crept over Boromir’s face and felt a moment of satisfaction at knowing he was not the only one still stirred by memories of that night.

“I told you,” he said, “that I would have you be the one man who, even after I was crowned king, would always remember me and always treat me as the man I was that night.”

“I do recall that,” Boromir admitted quietly.

“It seems I may have forgotten,” Aragorn said.

“I just assumed you had lost interest in being that man anymore.”

Aragorn shook his head. “No. But I may have forgotten how to be.”

A sharp yip drew their attention. Finn, bouncing around in the leafless bushes chasing the scent of squirrels, was caught by her collar on a branch and demanding immediate assistance. Boromir laughed and went to extricate her. She gazed up at him pleadingly as he slid her collar over the twig, then, realizing she was free, barked excitedly and bounded off to dive headfirst into the nearest snow drift.

Boromir turned back toward the bench, but to his surprise he nearly collided with Aragorn, who was standing directly behind him, his expression intent and determined.

“Yes?” Boromir asked, raising his eyebrows.

There was still a Ranger’s wiry strength in the arms that pushed him firmly back until his shoulders found the high stone wall of the garden.

“Hmph! What’s this, then?” he asked, laughing.

“If I recall, at one point you seemed to think that any available wall with even a hint of privacy existed for the purpose of you slamming me against it,” Aragorn noted, hands on the other man’s chest.

“You didn’t complain.”

“No, but I did end up with some rather odd bruises. Arwen used to make a game of trying to guess what you’d shoved me into from the marks on my back.”

“Hmm,” Boromir mused, hands reaching for Aragorn’s hips. “I recall a towel rack… and the edges of some bookshelves… and a sink…”

“A few lamps… the side of the bath… rocks… trees…”

Boromir grinned and pulled Aragorn hard against him and kissed him, Aragorn’s hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, Boromir gripping him hard enough to leave some fine bruises. Arwen wouldn’t have trouble guessing the cause of those, though; the marks of the swordsman’s strong fingers on various parts of Aragorn had once been so common that Arwen had suggested Boromir must have an extra set of hands to be able to grope someone in that many different places at once.

A puzzled whine interrupted them, and Boromir glanced down to find Finn staring up at him with an expression of confusion and some concern.

“I think she’d like to know what you think you’re doing,” he chuckled. “It’s all right, lass. He’s not as bad as he looks.”

Back to Boromir’s rooms, where the shredded rugs and chewed shoes were ignored as doors were locked and a fire stirred to life in the hearth to warm the cold air and lamps lit. Somehow in the midst of this boots and coats and heavy winter tunics managed to be removed and tossed into various corners; Finn investigated these with mild curiosity, but she was exhausted from her busy and destructive day and was soon asleep on the floor by the fire.

“Shall we?” Aragorn asked, nodding toward the bedroom.

Boromir grinned and took Aragorn by the shoulders, moving him sideways a few steps.

“What are you… ow!”

Boromir shoved, and Aragorn fell backwards hard into the chair Finn had mauled. He gave Boromir a reproachful glare, which only widened Boromir’s grin.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but it was,” Boromir said.

“Why?”

“Because I like shoving you around and I haven’t got to do it nearly enough lately.”

“Bastard.”

Boromir made no attempt to apologize, but he did attempt to make it up to him by busying himself with stripping off Aragorn’s breeches and tossing them over his shoulder before pushing himself between his knees and kissing him.

“That’s quite nice,” Aragorn said. “But it doesn’t excuse you throwing me into a chair.”

“Well, since the dog chewed it up and I’m going to have to get rid of it anyway, I thought we might as well make good use of it first.”

“You have a very nice, comfortable bed,” Aragorn protested.

Boromir grinned and kissed him again. “You’re spoiled, you are. What happened to the man who was happy as long as we could find a patch of ground without any sharp rocks?”

“That didn’t mean I wouldn’t have preferred a bed, had one been available.”

“Well, it’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s all the way over there,” Boromir said, nodding toward the bedroom while his hands were busy stripping off whatever clothing remained between the two of them. “And you’re right here, and I don’t see any reason I ought to waste the time getting you to… augh!”

He jerked back abruptly and spun to glare at Finn, who was staring up at him with surprise, apparently not expecting such a dramatic reaction.

“Cold puppy nose in your arse a good enough reason to relocate to the bedroom?” Aragorn asked innocently.

Boromir growled and tugged him to his feet. “Ruin all my fun ideas.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of others,” Aragorn said, allowing himself to be forcefully directed toward the bedroom.

“I’m already thinking. I’ll send you back to Arwen wearing some nice new marks for her to guess at.”

“At least that’ll prove to her how civil we’re being to each other.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Do you suppose Legolas is still in that closet?”

Boromir laughed. “I hope so. Don’t worry about him. He’s always bragging about how hardy elves are. We’ll go fetch him later.”

It was, in fact, quite a bit later when the two of them finally managed to extricate themselves from Boromir’s bed and locate their own clothes. When they went to let Legolas out of his prison, though, the elf was nowhere to be found.

“Bloody elf must have gotten away,” Boromir muttered.

Aragorn shook his head, grinning. “Oh, I doubt that.”

The two men could hear Legolas shouting before they even reached the royal family’s quarters, and Boromir brightened considerably at the distinctly unhappy tone of the elf’s voice.

“Let me up!” Legolas was shouting, as Aragorn pushed the door open.

Faramir looked up at them from the floor, where he was occupied with sitting on and restraining a frantically squirming elf who, despite his arms being bound behind his back, was still desperate enough to be putting up a reasonable fight. For some reason, his head was wrapped in what appeared to be a dark-colored wet turban.

“What in the world are you doing to him?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir grinned. “Ask your wife.”

Arwen emerged from one of the other rooms, drying her hands on a towel. Seeing the two men, she smiled approvingly.

“Good boys. I knew I’d only have to tell you once.”

“What are you doing to the elf?” Boromir asked.

“Oh, it’s already done,” she said lightly. “You can let him up now, Faramir.”

The man pulled the slipknot, releasing the bound arms, and Legolas immediately twisted out from under him and jumped to his feet, unwinding the wet rag around his head with an expression of dismay as he hurried to the mirror on the far wall.

“You’re right, Arwen,” Faramir said. “That is a lovely color.”

The elf stared in horror at his reflection in the mirror and ran his hands through the once-golden hair that was now completely dyed a deep, vivid purple.

“What have you done?” he demanded, horrified.

“It’ll wash out eventually,” Arwen said.

“It will?” Legolas asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes. It won’t take more than a month or so.”

“What? What am I supposed to do till then? I can’t go around looking like this! I’ll have to go into hiding!”

“And what a terrible shame that would be,” Boromir said. “You’re lucky Arwen got to you before I did… I was planning on giving you a thorough beating, but the Queen does have a talent for justice.”

Legolas glared at him balefully as he stormed past the two men and out into the hall, slamming the door behind him.

“He’ll be back,” Arwen said cheerfully.

“Why is that?” Aragorn asked.

She reached for a small bottle on the table and handed it to Aragorn. He studied it curiously, as did Boromir; it appeared to be some sort of light oil, with an oddly familiar herbal fragrance.

“This is the cure for that awful itching powder,” Aragorn said, eyes widening.

Arwen smiled. “Of course it is.”

“But where…”

“He’s bound to stumble upon some of it,” she said. “It’s on just about everything in his room.”

Boromir gazed at her with admiration. “You, my Queen, are an extraordinary woman.”

She smiled gently. “Perhaps. Now, off with you two. There’s a bottle of wine on the bookshelf in your room, Boromir; I think you’ll find that it has… pleasantly stimulating qualities.”

Both men turned red as she ushered them toward the door and out into the hall.

“Boromir?” she called, as they walked away.

“Yes?”

“My husband does have to appear in public tomorrow. Please do plan your bruises accordingly.”

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