The avenue of bare, spindly trees curved away ahead of them. There was not a breath of wind to stir the brown carpet that crunched underfoot, but up ahead Boromir could see Arin and Rullo zig-zagging back and forth trying to raise a blizzard of leaves, Arin throwing handfuls into the air, where Rullo ran around him and every-so-often jumped to catch a fluttering leaf swirling about his nose.
Boromir clicked his tongue at the pack-pony to bring it up to his shoulder and trudged on, taking a few moments to scuff his own little copper-coloured blizzard about his feet. A few paces ahead Aragorn half turned and smiled at him, eyes meeting, and in that smile Boromir could see love and understanding for all that they had gone through over the past few weeks.
The King had set the Prince of Ithilien to rule in Gondor for a time and gone on retreat to the White Mountains, whilst the Steward and his son had been hunting in the Greenwood. In truth, a small party of Rangers had escorted them up the Anduin as far as the Falls of Rauros where they had left them, with provisions for a two-week’s march. On the bank, hidden beneath an overhang grown thick with fern, a boat lay, waiting. They had settled Arin with the dog and strict instructions to hold him close, in the midst of their gear and with only a moment’s pause to remember, had taken up paddles to drive the little boat forward upstream against the current and in time, across to the far bank.
The shadows had drawn in about their camp, cut by the flickering campfire, when Rullo’s head, laid across the sleeping boy’s feet, came up and he silently rose and slipped into the dark. Aragorn paused in pouring wine from a skin into cups, but Boromir simply smiled and ducked his head, half turning to listen to the faint rustling in the undergrowth that resolved itself when the dog returned with another at its side, a long-legged shaggy grey hound that sniffed at them each in turn, then approached the fire, turned around three times and lay down to sleep.
When Arin awoke in the morning his eyes went wide at the sight of the dog, stretched out on the ground. Adar had told him about Beorn’s dogs and that in all likelihood one would guide them along the way, but he had not expected it to be so big or, when it raised its head to look at him, for it to smile at him, and then to sneeze at the wood ash swirling in the sunlight. The boy giggled and the men, bent over the fire, cooking, exchanged a swift glance at the glad sound.
Arin had begged to be allowed to meet the shape-shifters who had saved Boromir’s life and that of the tiny spark growing within him after Amon Hen, but since they had reached the Falls of Rauros, when Arin had gazed up at the thunderous wall of water, no doubt imagining his Adar, close to death, laid in the fragile elven boat, the boy had been subdued. He had been so quiet that Aragorn had thought to ask him if he had changed his mind, but Boromir would not allow it. Once begun this was a journey that he and Arin must make and it was as well that they made it now. Nevertheless, the child’s laughter as the dog continued to sneeze, raising more ash so that now Rullo had started sneezing too, was a welcome sound.
The little party followed the beast for eight days through forest and across sunlit glades until an especially dark, thick tract of thorny scrub opened out into a wide meadow and there lay the home-place of the Beorning. Boromir had laid down his pack then, Aragorn helping him to unbuckle his gear and Boromir had taken Arin up in his arms, carrying him towards the longhouse, where a group of tall, dark men stood and waved and cheered them homewards. And when at last, he had set the boy’s feet on the beaten earth of the yard, one giant of a man had knelt to place a huge hand gently on the child’s head, before rising to buffet Boromir across the shoulders and then to envelope him in a hug that swung him off his feet.
Aragorn had abandoned their packs and walked forward and the tall man had set Boromir down and strode towards him across the meadow and when they met, he had knelt to the King of Gondor and Arnor. Elessar raised Grimbeorn of the Beorning to his feet and embraced this leader of his men in the final battles against the Dark Lord and what words they exchanged left both well satisfied with the other.
The days that followed were as a welcome into a place of succour, laughter waking and deep sleep that refreshed every part of tired bodies, so that Aragorn thought his Boromir glowed golden in the sunlight on the meadow and both Boromir and Arin saw the tautness fall from about his mouth and temples and a younger man, less burdened by care trod the grass. Boromir wondered if this was the face his father had seen so many years ago, had loved and feared too.
Each had arrived with words in their hearts that came easier to lips in this place. Aragorn thanked Grimbeorn for the lives of his man and their son and Boromir went to sit amongst the hives, to tell the bees of his adventures, although he was half convinced they already knew all, buzzing gently about his head, crawling over his face and hands. It was Arin whose voice sounded most often, for as a bairn of the home-place he was welcomed in every corner and sat chattering away to the women during the daytime, particularly to the healers, salting away in his child’s mind the pieces of the mystery of his being.
Once, he and Rullo disappeared in the night. Aragorn heard them go and went to warn Boromir, but the man was already awake, lying motionless listening to the snuffling of the great black bear outside in the dark. He did not fear for the boy, gone to meet the bear, but wept silent tears for the pain of his own first meeting, carried from the elven boat high against the bear’s chest, his face pressed into sopping fur and such loss in his heart it had buried itself too deep for memory until now. Aragorn’s body curved around him, a tender cradling, and as Arin rode on the bear’s shoulders through the night, Boromir let fall away the hurt of a former time, wrapped in the embrace of one who had never ceased to love him, throughout the lonely years.
They had spent some days with the Beorning and now were on their return journey, each with something of the peace of that home-place about him, but so laden with gifts, combs of honey, scented candles, barrels of a potent honeyed liquor, that Grimbeorn had lent them a pack-pony to carry the boxes and bundles. They had crossed the Anduin at a ford and were now in a tract of woodland. The sky away to their right set over Rohan, but they were headed west towards the edge of the White Mountains, where their Ranger escort would be waiting.
Arin and Rullo’s game with the leaves was growing more boisterous. Arin was chasing Rullo, trying to drop leaves on his back and the big dog was weaving in and out of the trees, barking enthusiastically. An especially brilliant pile of leaves saw them plunged into a blizzard of scarlet drops and then they disappeared momentarily out of sight over a little rise. Boromir was turning to ask Aragorn when they might camp when they heard a faint cry, there was a moment of sickening silence and then Rullo’s frantic barking from within the copse.
Casting aside the pony’s rein Boromir began running, and Aragorn with him. The men plunged through the trees, breaking aside branches the child had ducked under and yet the slope below them seemed empty. The dog’s barking sounded closer now and it was with a shout and a sudden lunge that Boromir threw himself sideways to bring Aragorn to the ground as the earth seemed to open beneath them. As they lay winded, their feet almost over the lip of the hole, the forest floor trembled and both men scrambled away a few feet from the pit. At the other side of the jagged gash where the ground had fallen away, Rullo was still peering down into the darkness, barking. Boromir saw the big dog crouch as though preparing to leap and roared at him to lie down. Then he rolled onto his stomach and inched forward until Aragorn’s hand placed firmly on his back, stilled him. Aragorn leant in to speak quietly in his ear, “There’s rope around the packs. I’d not lose both of you into that hole.”
Aragorn whistled up the pony, which would come no closer than the edge of the path. He judged that it felt the ground to be unstable into the coppice, got to his feet and stepped softly, blessing his elven upbringing, towards the beast, which was sidling, nervously, into the middle of the path. As Aragorn slipped away, Boromir took a breath and, willing the tremor from his voice, called down into the pit.
“Arin? Hello there, lad. Can you hear me?”
There was no reply. Rullo was still whining and Boromir was drawing breath to quiet him, when from below a small voice said uncertainly, “Adar? I’m down in a hole.” A laugh half choked Boromir, but he was able to reply with due gravity,
“Yes, lad. We know you’re in the hole. Your father is fetching a rope and we’ll have you out of there in no time. Are you hurt?”
There was another pause and then Arin’s voice came back,
“No. I’m very dirty,” and then quietly, “Adar?”
On the surface Boromir was letting out the breath he had been holding, thankful that the child seemed unharmed and replied, more cheerfully,
“What is it lad?”
“There are hobbits down here. I think they’re dead.”
Summary: Aragorn takes Boromir and Arin on a visit to old friends.
Rated: PG
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: Fallen LeavesChapters: 4 Completed: Yes
Word count: 9365 Read: 3697
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."