Another’s Guilt
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
5,251
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
5,251
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
“Presumed Guilty”
Another’s Guilt by Númenora
Disclaimers and Summary: See Chapter One.
Warnings: SLASH (M/M), Mpreg and Very AU
Rating: NC-17, PG-13 this chapter
Feedback: Yes, please review here or send to abookishgirl@netzero.net.
Disclaimers: See Chapter One.
Warnings: SLASH (M/M), Mpreg and Very AU
Thoughts and stressed words denoted by * *
Chapter Two
“Presumed Guilty”
*That knife was now pressed menacingly against Legolas’ vulnerable, pale throat and an equally menacing voice spoke to him in perfect Sindarin, ‘Move, Elf-filth and I’ll cut your murdering throat!’*
“*Saes, Hir-nin...*” Legolas voice trailed off as the sharp blade bit into his exposed throat, a thin line of red coating the already blood-stained knife.
“Silence!” Aragorn hissed ominously; he was not in the mood for any pleas for mercy from his cousin’s murderer.
“Aragorn, come, please; my brother is in need your skills of healing,” Boromir, the Steward’s eldest son cried out desperately. “Stay with me, Little Brother,” Pressing gentle kisses on Faramir deathly pale forehead.
The Gondorian Prince briefly took his eyes off of the beautiful Elda to give orders to the well-armed guards protectively surrounding their Royal charges, weapons drawn. “Morwen...Girion...watch him; if he tries to escape—kill him!” Aragorn kept the blade at Legolas’ neck until the two Royal guards secured him in their grasps, forcing him none-to-gently to his knees. The other guards moved closer for added protection against the perceived threat from the elf.
Legolas watched anxiously as the one call ‘Aragorn’ knelt by the wounded one called ‘Faramir.’ Faramir was not moving and he made no sounds that would tell Prince Legolas if he still lived. The elf prayed again to the Valar for this mortal’s life and he also selfishly prayed for his own for he knew that if Faramir died, he would be executed for the crime. He wanted desperately to tell these people that he only tried to care for and protect their friend, but he knew no one here would believe him. The only one who knew of his innocence; the only one that could save him now may already be dead and beyond helping anyone ever again. The thought filled the scared wood-elf with a hopelessness that he could only remember feeling one other time in his seven centuries of life—the day his adar told him that his mother was gone to Mandos’ Hall to be with Daerada (Grandfather) Oropher. Like that day so long ago, he let out a soft pitiful wail of despair though he tried valiantly to keep quiet and not anger the edain further.
“Quiet, you,” accompanied the bruising fingers gripping him and one of the guardsmen kneed him viciously for measure. The immortal struggled to comply as he fixed his gaze on the three men at the center of this tableau. He couldn’t see much from his vantage point (the uniformed males held him several feet away), but he watched as best as he could. Another male with long blond hair joined the one called ‘Boromir,’ placing a comforting arm across his broad shoulders. They looked hopefully towards the dark-haired man who hovered over the prone figure, hands working knowledgeably while giving terse orders to several uniformed men who scurried hither and yond, bringing plants and herbs that the Gondoran added to water and strips of cloth.
Since the man’s back was turned towards Legolas, the Elda couldn’t see exactly what the mortal was doing, but the fact that the adan worked steadily gave the elf hope that Faramir yet lived. The sun had set by the time Aragorn stood up; he and Boromir had carefully moved his patient from the path, nearer to the trees where a pallet consisting of several bedrolls was waiting and they covered him with warm blankets. A fire was also burning nearby to keep the young man warm and to keep water in a metal pot simmering with herbs hot. The not-unpleasant aroma from the herbs assailed Legolas as did the sight of the gathered men eating; they passed between them bread, dried fruits and meats and waterskins filled with water laced with simple wine. The Prince’s stomach growled loudly and his throat was parched; he hadn’t eaten for hours, having had only a handful of berries he foraged for just after dawn.
No one offered the elf any nourishment and he ached from his earlier assault; and his ribs were further aggravated by his arms that had been pulled back by the tightly bound ropes cutting into the tender flesh of the elf’s slender wrists. His ankles were just as securely bound, but they were protected from the coarse ropes by the soft leather boots he wore. He was glad that the young mortal yet lived, but his earlier feelings of despair and despondency returned, though he managed to keep quiet this time. He was, however unable to keep his tears at bay and they streamed down unchecked, leaving clear tracks through the dirt and grime smudging the stunning heart-shaped face. He faced the fact that everything in his life had changed. He had never before been so hungry or ill-treated and there was never a time when he’d felt so bereft of hope. *I want to go home...I want Adar...my brothers.*
Tears continued to fall and no one noticed; nor would they care if they did. Exhaustion and grief soon overwhelmed him and he gave into them and for a few hours, Legolas was happy as he slipped into reverie...and was home again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Éomer tried in vain to get Boromir to eat, but the young captain refused. “You must eat something; you will do Faramir no good if you fall ill.”
“I know you mean well, but I care not for food; I do not believe that it would stay down even if I tried. Peace, My Lord—I know you mean well.”
“Then drink some tea, at least—it will refresh you so that you can keep your vigil,” Aragorn said sensibly. “I will join you as I will need to keep his wound clean.”
Nodding his assent with a grateful, sad smile, Boromir took the offered cup and sipped the hot brew carefully. Éomer took up Aragorn’s former position on the other side of the sleeping red-head as the Crowned Prince of Gondor sat close to his cousin, placing a tender kiss to the man’s right temple.
“What of the elf, Your Highness? I would never have thought that a member of the First Born would act so cruelly. I can’t imagine what Faramir could have done to provoke such a violent response.” Éomer asked Aragorn, perplexed.
“You blame my brother for this?” Boromir asked incredulous and a bit angrily.
“Peace, Cousin; Éomer did not mean to imply that,” The Prince soothe.
“Nay, I did not; in my bewilderment, I misspoke. Forgive me.” Éomer said contritely.
Calmed down, Boromir nodded as he turned back to watch over his little brother, cooling his fevered brow with a cool compress.
“He looks so young and fragile—I would not think him capable of out-matching someone as well-trained as Faramir,” Éomer continued mindful of Boromir’s feelings.
“I know of elves; don’t let their appearances fool you. Though slight of build, elves can be quite strong and though youthful-looking, this elf could be thousands of years old. They are fierce warriors and can out-match even the best-trained among us. They’ve had centuries to perfect their skills.” The Prince explained.
“But surely a warrior would act more honorably. Elves are noted for their honor.”
“Elves are people with free will and not all are noble. Some care naught but for themselves and all others including the very innocent do not even warrant their consideration.” Aragorn said with conviction and a hint of bitterness tingeing his words.
“I see.” Éomer looked over at the Steward’s youngest and brushed soft, damp tendrils off the too-warm forehead as he digested what Aragorn told them. “I just wish this hadn’t happened to you, Dear Friend.”
“We all wish that,” Boromir said; he never took his eyes from his brother. “I’d give anything.” The trio lapsed into silence after that, but the Crowned Prince of Gondor allowed his eyes to drift away from his injured cousin over to the slumbering wood-elf.
*Rest while you can and enjoy your walk in elven dreams for it will be the last bit of peace you will have—I will see to that!* He continued to stare at the prisoner leaning against an old stump as he slept—the ever-present guards flanking—until it was time to replace Faramir’s soiled bandage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boromir jerked himself awake, berating himself for falling asleep in the first place. Faramir needed him.
As if reading his thoughts, Aragorn said as he handed the man another cup of tea, “Faramir would not begrudge you some rest, Cousin. As Éomer pointed out last night, you will be of no use if you become ill, too.”
“My head understands this, but my heart does not. I feel as if he will die if I but turn away.” His hand caressed Faramir’s face tenderly, testing for fever at the same time. “How is he, really?”
“The bleeding has stopped, but the blood loss keeps him weak. The herbs that I have been giving to him have kept the infection down, though he is still too warm for my liking. It was a vicious attack; the only true blessing is that no vital organs were seriously damaged, though the sheer size and dept of the wound will take time to heal. We will have to remain here at least another day until he is stronger; I don’t want to move him prematurely.”
After adjusting the blanket more securely, the healer continued, “I’ve sent two of rangers ahead to the outpost to bring back a proper healer to rendezvous with us for we will have to travel slowly. Míriel has been constructing a stretcher to bear Faramir and we all can take turns carrying him, though the Royal Guardsmen and Rangers have all volunteered to bear him the entire way. They admire and love him; it broke their hearts when Lord Denethor reassigned him from the Rangers to the Diplomatic corps.”
“It is strange that all who meet him loves him except for the one who should love him above all. I have spent my life trying to make it up to Faramir; to give to him the love that Mother can no longer give and the love that Father refuses to give him. It is not fair! It is not...” Tears that he had been battling since they found his younger brother fell unbidden; he could no longer fight them nor did he wish to.
Aragorn pulled his relative into his strong embrace and they both allowed themselves to feel their sadness over what had happened. Hearing the sobs, the men became concerned that Lord Faramir had gotten worse or, Valar forbid, had died. Some stood looking fearfully while others looked with hate at the still sleeping Elda who was responsible.
One of the men who first guarded the elf pulled his sword, ready to end the life of the immortal. Another sentinel held his wrist to stay his sword hand; with a sympathetic look, he advised, “The elf must stand trial. Only King Arathorn or the Crowned Prince can order a summary execution—and that is only on the battlefield and in times of war. Please stand down.” Reluctantly, Girion did as he was asked and backed away from the bound elf.
Noticing that their Prince had resumed his care of the prone figure, the humans breathed easier as they realized that their fears were proven wrong and their former lieutenant yet lived—the innocent Elven Prince was safe for the moment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Éomer looked to the lightening sky as he entered their camp; the pinks and purples along with the stars valiantly fought a losing battle against the rising sun in the last hour before dawn. He had gone foraging for food (something more substantial than dried fare) after getting a few hours of troubled sleep. Faramir wouldn’t be able to eat what he’d caught, but he felt that he was somehow helping the pretty young man. Éomer had a secret fondness that went beyond simple friendship, but he has kept his feelings to himself knowing how much his sister Éowyn cared for the diplomat. Of course, his uncle was hoping for a match with the Crowned Prince for his niece—it was a truly complicated mess! *Perhaps, when you are better, Dear Friend, I will tell you how I feel*.
He made his way over to a group of the rangers bearing his ‘catch’ for he refrained from calling it game. Though he did hunt the wild hare, there wasn’t any true sport or skill in the catching; no arrows were used. He simply plucked the defenseless animals from their hutch while they slept. Of course, in Éomer’s opinion, there wasn’t much more sport or skill involved in hunting hare with a bow either. He slowed as he neared the spot where the elf was being held and found himself staring much as the other men were who guarded the immortal. It was not because he posed any threat presently nor the fact that the Elda was stunningly beautiful, but because, like him, none (or not many) had ever been this close to an elf nor had they ever witnessed one sleeping—open eyes very disconcerting.
One of the Gondorians came over to relieve him of his burden—ten hares, large bunch of wild onions and a large celery root. “Thank you, Corporal. I think that this will be a welcome change from dried meats and berries.”
“That it will, my Lord Captain. I only hope that the aroma will be enough to make Captain Boromir hungry enough to eat this day.” The young Corporal observed worriedly.
“My thoughts exactly; and perhaps it will spur our dear Faramir to get better, smelling real food.” Sadness clouded his words at the unlikelihood. He took one last look at the elf before leaving the ranger to prepare the animals for a stew.
Aragorn turned as Éomer approached them; he had just changed the dressing on his patient’s wound. “I see that you’ve been very productive this morning.” The Prince smiled gently as he was joined by the Rohirric Captain.
“I thrive to be of use, Your Highness,” Said with a ‘humble’ bow of his head. Then more seriously, “Is he any better?”
“Some, but not enough.” His eyes traveled over to the blond captive coldly before turning to look at Faramir, lovingly watched over by his ever vigilant brother.
“Have you slept any, Aragorn?” Éomer inquired. He knew that Boromir managed to fall asleep before he left to hunt for the rabbits—though he suspected not for long.
“I rested my eyes briefly, charging the guardsmen to wake me if I sleep for more than half an hour.” Aragorn admitted.
“Then why don’t you rest now and I’ll wake you in an hour or two; sooner if Faramir awakens or...changes...” Éomer’s voice faltered.
“I think that I will. He is a bit stronger, I think.” Draping his arm across the blond’s shoulder, they walked over to the spot where the sons of Denethor were. Aragorn checked on the red-head before leaning himself against the tree close to Faramir and closed his eyes. He briefly opened them again and smiled as his cousin momentarily abandoned his charge to drape a blanket over him. The words ‘sweet dreams’ were the last he heard before falling into a light sleep.
TBC
Please review (No flames)
Disclaimers and Summary: See Chapter One.
Warnings: SLASH (M/M), Mpreg and Very AU
Rating: NC-17, PG-13 this chapter
Feedback: Yes, please review here or send to abookishgirl@netzero.net.
Disclaimers: See Chapter One.
Warnings: SLASH (M/M), Mpreg and Very AU
Thoughts and stressed words denoted by * *
Chapter Two
“Presumed Guilty”
*That knife was now pressed menacingly against Legolas’ vulnerable, pale throat and an equally menacing voice spoke to him in perfect Sindarin, ‘Move, Elf-filth and I’ll cut your murdering throat!’*
“*Saes, Hir-nin...*” Legolas voice trailed off as the sharp blade bit into his exposed throat, a thin line of red coating the already blood-stained knife.
“Silence!” Aragorn hissed ominously; he was not in the mood for any pleas for mercy from his cousin’s murderer.
“Aragorn, come, please; my brother is in need your skills of healing,” Boromir, the Steward’s eldest son cried out desperately. “Stay with me, Little Brother,” Pressing gentle kisses on Faramir deathly pale forehead.
The Gondorian Prince briefly took his eyes off of the beautiful Elda to give orders to the well-armed guards protectively surrounding their Royal charges, weapons drawn. “Morwen...Girion...watch him; if he tries to escape—kill him!” Aragorn kept the blade at Legolas’ neck until the two Royal guards secured him in their grasps, forcing him none-to-gently to his knees. The other guards moved closer for added protection against the perceived threat from the elf.
Legolas watched anxiously as the one call ‘Aragorn’ knelt by the wounded one called ‘Faramir.’ Faramir was not moving and he made no sounds that would tell Prince Legolas if he still lived. The elf prayed again to the Valar for this mortal’s life and he also selfishly prayed for his own for he knew that if Faramir died, he would be executed for the crime. He wanted desperately to tell these people that he only tried to care for and protect their friend, but he knew no one here would believe him. The only one who knew of his innocence; the only one that could save him now may already be dead and beyond helping anyone ever again. The thought filled the scared wood-elf with a hopelessness that he could only remember feeling one other time in his seven centuries of life—the day his adar told him that his mother was gone to Mandos’ Hall to be with Daerada (Grandfather) Oropher. Like that day so long ago, he let out a soft pitiful wail of despair though he tried valiantly to keep quiet and not anger the edain further.
“Quiet, you,” accompanied the bruising fingers gripping him and one of the guardsmen kneed him viciously for measure. The immortal struggled to comply as he fixed his gaze on the three men at the center of this tableau. He couldn’t see much from his vantage point (the uniformed males held him several feet away), but he watched as best as he could. Another male with long blond hair joined the one called ‘Boromir,’ placing a comforting arm across his broad shoulders. They looked hopefully towards the dark-haired man who hovered over the prone figure, hands working knowledgeably while giving terse orders to several uniformed men who scurried hither and yond, bringing plants and herbs that the Gondoran added to water and strips of cloth.
Since the man’s back was turned towards Legolas, the Elda couldn’t see exactly what the mortal was doing, but the fact that the adan worked steadily gave the elf hope that Faramir yet lived. The sun had set by the time Aragorn stood up; he and Boromir had carefully moved his patient from the path, nearer to the trees where a pallet consisting of several bedrolls was waiting and they covered him with warm blankets. A fire was also burning nearby to keep the young man warm and to keep water in a metal pot simmering with herbs hot. The not-unpleasant aroma from the herbs assailed Legolas as did the sight of the gathered men eating; they passed between them bread, dried fruits and meats and waterskins filled with water laced with simple wine. The Prince’s stomach growled loudly and his throat was parched; he hadn’t eaten for hours, having had only a handful of berries he foraged for just after dawn.
No one offered the elf any nourishment and he ached from his earlier assault; and his ribs were further aggravated by his arms that had been pulled back by the tightly bound ropes cutting into the tender flesh of the elf’s slender wrists. His ankles were just as securely bound, but they were protected from the coarse ropes by the soft leather boots he wore. He was glad that the young mortal yet lived, but his earlier feelings of despair and despondency returned, though he managed to keep quiet this time. He was, however unable to keep his tears at bay and they streamed down unchecked, leaving clear tracks through the dirt and grime smudging the stunning heart-shaped face. He faced the fact that everything in his life had changed. He had never before been so hungry or ill-treated and there was never a time when he’d felt so bereft of hope. *I want to go home...I want Adar...my brothers.*
Tears continued to fall and no one noticed; nor would they care if they did. Exhaustion and grief soon overwhelmed him and he gave into them and for a few hours, Legolas was happy as he slipped into reverie...and was home again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Éomer tried in vain to get Boromir to eat, but the young captain refused. “You must eat something; you will do Faramir no good if you fall ill.”
“I know you mean well, but I care not for food; I do not believe that it would stay down even if I tried. Peace, My Lord—I know you mean well.”
“Then drink some tea, at least—it will refresh you so that you can keep your vigil,” Aragorn said sensibly. “I will join you as I will need to keep his wound clean.”
Nodding his assent with a grateful, sad smile, Boromir took the offered cup and sipped the hot brew carefully. Éomer took up Aragorn’s former position on the other side of the sleeping red-head as the Crowned Prince of Gondor sat close to his cousin, placing a tender kiss to the man’s right temple.
“What of the elf, Your Highness? I would never have thought that a member of the First Born would act so cruelly. I can’t imagine what Faramir could have done to provoke such a violent response.” Éomer asked Aragorn, perplexed.
“You blame my brother for this?” Boromir asked incredulous and a bit angrily.
“Peace, Cousin; Éomer did not mean to imply that,” The Prince soothe.
“Nay, I did not; in my bewilderment, I misspoke. Forgive me.” Éomer said contritely.
Calmed down, Boromir nodded as he turned back to watch over his little brother, cooling his fevered brow with a cool compress.
“He looks so young and fragile—I would not think him capable of out-matching someone as well-trained as Faramir,” Éomer continued mindful of Boromir’s feelings.
“I know of elves; don’t let their appearances fool you. Though slight of build, elves can be quite strong and though youthful-looking, this elf could be thousands of years old. They are fierce warriors and can out-match even the best-trained among us. They’ve had centuries to perfect their skills.” The Prince explained.
“But surely a warrior would act more honorably. Elves are noted for their honor.”
“Elves are people with free will and not all are noble. Some care naught but for themselves and all others including the very innocent do not even warrant their consideration.” Aragorn said with conviction and a hint of bitterness tingeing his words.
“I see.” Éomer looked over at the Steward’s youngest and brushed soft, damp tendrils off the too-warm forehead as he digested what Aragorn told them. “I just wish this hadn’t happened to you, Dear Friend.”
“We all wish that,” Boromir said; he never took his eyes from his brother. “I’d give anything.” The trio lapsed into silence after that, but the Crowned Prince of Gondor allowed his eyes to drift away from his injured cousin over to the slumbering wood-elf.
*Rest while you can and enjoy your walk in elven dreams for it will be the last bit of peace you will have—I will see to that!* He continued to stare at the prisoner leaning against an old stump as he slept—the ever-present guards flanking—until it was time to replace Faramir’s soiled bandage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boromir jerked himself awake, berating himself for falling asleep in the first place. Faramir needed him.
As if reading his thoughts, Aragorn said as he handed the man another cup of tea, “Faramir would not begrudge you some rest, Cousin. As Éomer pointed out last night, you will be of no use if you become ill, too.”
“My head understands this, but my heart does not. I feel as if he will die if I but turn away.” His hand caressed Faramir’s face tenderly, testing for fever at the same time. “How is he, really?”
“The bleeding has stopped, but the blood loss keeps him weak. The herbs that I have been giving to him have kept the infection down, though he is still too warm for my liking. It was a vicious attack; the only true blessing is that no vital organs were seriously damaged, though the sheer size and dept of the wound will take time to heal. We will have to remain here at least another day until he is stronger; I don’t want to move him prematurely.”
After adjusting the blanket more securely, the healer continued, “I’ve sent two of rangers ahead to the outpost to bring back a proper healer to rendezvous with us for we will have to travel slowly. Míriel has been constructing a stretcher to bear Faramir and we all can take turns carrying him, though the Royal Guardsmen and Rangers have all volunteered to bear him the entire way. They admire and love him; it broke their hearts when Lord Denethor reassigned him from the Rangers to the Diplomatic corps.”
“It is strange that all who meet him loves him except for the one who should love him above all. I have spent my life trying to make it up to Faramir; to give to him the love that Mother can no longer give and the love that Father refuses to give him. It is not fair! It is not...” Tears that he had been battling since they found his younger brother fell unbidden; he could no longer fight them nor did he wish to.
Aragorn pulled his relative into his strong embrace and they both allowed themselves to feel their sadness over what had happened. Hearing the sobs, the men became concerned that Lord Faramir had gotten worse or, Valar forbid, had died. Some stood looking fearfully while others looked with hate at the still sleeping Elda who was responsible.
One of the men who first guarded the elf pulled his sword, ready to end the life of the immortal. Another sentinel held his wrist to stay his sword hand; with a sympathetic look, he advised, “The elf must stand trial. Only King Arathorn or the Crowned Prince can order a summary execution—and that is only on the battlefield and in times of war. Please stand down.” Reluctantly, Girion did as he was asked and backed away from the bound elf.
Noticing that their Prince had resumed his care of the prone figure, the humans breathed easier as they realized that their fears were proven wrong and their former lieutenant yet lived—the innocent Elven Prince was safe for the moment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Éomer looked to the lightening sky as he entered their camp; the pinks and purples along with the stars valiantly fought a losing battle against the rising sun in the last hour before dawn. He had gone foraging for food (something more substantial than dried fare) after getting a few hours of troubled sleep. Faramir wouldn’t be able to eat what he’d caught, but he felt that he was somehow helping the pretty young man. Éomer had a secret fondness that went beyond simple friendship, but he has kept his feelings to himself knowing how much his sister Éowyn cared for the diplomat. Of course, his uncle was hoping for a match with the Crowned Prince for his niece—it was a truly complicated mess! *Perhaps, when you are better, Dear Friend, I will tell you how I feel*.
He made his way over to a group of the rangers bearing his ‘catch’ for he refrained from calling it game. Though he did hunt the wild hare, there wasn’t any true sport or skill in the catching; no arrows were used. He simply plucked the defenseless animals from their hutch while they slept. Of course, in Éomer’s opinion, there wasn’t much more sport or skill involved in hunting hare with a bow either. He slowed as he neared the spot where the elf was being held and found himself staring much as the other men were who guarded the immortal. It was not because he posed any threat presently nor the fact that the Elda was stunningly beautiful, but because, like him, none (or not many) had ever been this close to an elf nor had they ever witnessed one sleeping—open eyes very disconcerting.
One of the Gondorians came over to relieve him of his burden—ten hares, large bunch of wild onions and a large celery root. “Thank you, Corporal. I think that this will be a welcome change from dried meats and berries.”
“That it will, my Lord Captain. I only hope that the aroma will be enough to make Captain Boromir hungry enough to eat this day.” The young Corporal observed worriedly.
“My thoughts exactly; and perhaps it will spur our dear Faramir to get better, smelling real food.” Sadness clouded his words at the unlikelihood. He took one last look at the elf before leaving the ranger to prepare the animals for a stew.
Aragorn turned as Éomer approached them; he had just changed the dressing on his patient’s wound. “I see that you’ve been very productive this morning.” The Prince smiled gently as he was joined by the Rohirric Captain.
“I thrive to be of use, Your Highness,” Said with a ‘humble’ bow of his head. Then more seriously, “Is he any better?”
“Some, but not enough.” His eyes traveled over to the blond captive coldly before turning to look at Faramir, lovingly watched over by his ever vigilant brother.
“Have you slept any, Aragorn?” Éomer inquired. He knew that Boromir managed to fall asleep before he left to hunt for the rabbits—though he suspected not for long.
“I rested my eyes briefly, charging the guardsmen to wake me if I sleep for more than half an hour.” Aragorn admitted.
“Then why don’t you rest now and I’ll wake you in an hour or two; sooner if Faramir awakens or...changes...” Éomer’s voice faltered.
“I think that I will. He is a bit stronger, I think.” Draping his arm across the blond’s shoulder, they walked over to the spot where the sons of Denethor were. Aragorn checked on the red-head before leaning himself against the tree close to Faramir and closed his eyes. He briefly opened them again and smiled as his cousin momentarily abandoned his charge to drape a blanket over him. The words ‘sweet dreams’ were the last he heard before falling into a light sleep.
TBC
Please review (No flames)