The Fallen

The Fallen
Summary: Before reaching Mt. Doom Sam successfully killed Gollum, changing the course of history forever. Now Sauron rules, corrupting all within his reach. He begins in Ithilien. (Lots of Boromir and Legolas OC goodness). ;)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a twisted sense of sexuality.

*

Thunder rolled in a relentless, angry cry that shook the very foundations of the White City. The rain that had been plaguing Minas Tirith did show any sign that it would be letting up any time soon. A flash filled the windows and not long after a loud crack filled the air and the youngest presence within the Hall of the King jumped and trembled. He scooted closer to the Steward and tried to get his little hand into the larger man’s. Raising an eyebrow, Boromir wiggled his hand free and wrapped it around a tankard of ale sitting there on the table. He raised it to take a drink, nearly spilling it as the boy pushed himself forward, surrounding his waist with s, sh, shaking arms as the storm continued. Boromir frowned, then took his drink, giving his king a pointed look.

But the king was too wrapped up in reading a letter that had just arrived. Upon a dark horse, clad all in black and seemingly undaunted by the weather, a form with pale skin and gaunt eyes had rode right up to the main gate and removed something from his robe. He bid that a parchment and a box be given to King Elessar, then disappeared into the storm. Such were the times that the servants of Sauron paid no heed, approaching at will as if they had liberty to walk the lands freely. Elessar had broken the black seal and now read the latest of Sauron’s attempt at seducing the King of Gondor with power.

With a fatigued exhale he handed the letter off to his queen, then opened the box and looked at its contents. Whatever was within was surely bothersome. Disgusted, he moved it away as if it contained a snake, then rubbed his temples as if troubled by a headache. Wandering from the window where he had been standing and watching the storm, Lord Elrond came to the table and peered inside the cast aside container. “So he finally gives you a ring. What will you do?”

Aragorn looked to his wife’s father, shaking his head. “I will deny it, of course.”

The Elf Lord nodded and took a seat. “But what of the ring, Aragorn? You cannot destroy it. Sauron surely will not take it back. Keeping it will only tempt you. That is why he has given it to you.”

“Always a voice of hope,” Boromir said smartly, raising his tankard in a mock salute. “Trust an Elf.”

The King gave him a very sharp look. “Have a care what you say in front of my son, Boromir. I will not have you poisoning him against his mother and grandfather with your thoughtlessness.”

Taking a breath, realizing he had perhaps gone too far, Boromir bowed his head. “You are right. I am sorry.” He looked down, nudging the two-year-old prince. “You see the man with strange ears, boy? He is very smart and generally correct, worthy of your respect and honor. And if you ever intend on having any fun in this life you would do well to avoid being like him.”

Aragorn rubbed his temples again, leaning back in his chair with a groan.

Elrond, however, took no offence, offering a wan smile. “Worry not, Aragorn. Eldarion has his mother’s blood. No doubt he can already tell a fool from a wise man. He should be safe from Boromir.”

With conceding nod, Boromir drained his ale and grinned. “Indeed. No worries, Aragorn. My congratulations, Lord Elrond, on your blooming sense of irony.”

The Elf’s smile widened a bit as he said, “My thanks. However, the problem with the ring remains. It is a ring of power. Where is it to go? I do not doubt your strength, Aragorn, but as the years passed so would your defense against its call wane. Now that the Dark Lord is at full power even I fear to don Vilya for any reason. Neither dare I take this new ring back to Imladris for fear that together they would tempt me beyond my ability to withstand. I trust not this seeming weakness Sauron portrays.”

Boromir shook his head in dieemeeement. “I do not deny that Sauron is powerful, but if he were not afraid of Aragorn’s power, why not simply attack us and be done with it?”

“Because of the unity between Men and Elves,” Aragorn supplied, looking up. “However tentative it might be, he sees that we are willing to work together. Whether or not he could defeat such a force as we could make, I do not know and cannot guess, but if he attacked he would lose much of what he is trying to gain.”

Seeing the Steward’s discontent with such an answer, Elrond continued on. “He wishes to defeat us, yes, Boromir, but what would he gain if he ruled a dead world? Sauron delights in perversion and pain. He wants to corrupt Middle-Earth as much as he wants to defeat its peoples. He could march through the lands, killing all within his path, but what would that leave him in the end? Nothing and no one.” He sighed and accepted a goblet of wine from a young maiden that offered, then went back to the heart of the matter. “What of Legolas? Have you heard nothing?”

The King shook his head, a look of worry on his face as he was reminded of yet another care. He looked down at the table absently as he replied, “Nothing. Months have passed with no word from Ithilien. I have sent riders and none have returned.”

“None?” Elrond repeated incredulously.

Aragorn nodded towards the letter Arwen had left on the table. “Not a single one. I fear the worst. In the letter he hints that Minas Tirith could fall to the same fate as ‘other places’ have fallen if I do not ally myself to him. I fear Ithilien has been taken again, Minas Morgul reclaimed. Legolas may be dead.” At that soft admission Arwen touched her husband’s hand in a comforting fashion.

The Lord of Rivendell took a long breath, looking worried as well. “That is a riddle that must be solved, Arn. rn. We have time before we must decide what should become of the ring Sauron has sent.” He looked at the window almost instinctively. “It is late. You should take some rest. Give me a while to ponder this matter.”

That was a choice Boromir could stand behind, after having discussed politics for the past few hours without stopping. His stomach rumbled in hunger and he nodded, looking to Arwen as he peeled the sleeping prince off of his lap. Eldarion yawned and clung to him with a soft moan. His mother smiled, a secret smile Boromir thought was directed more at the aggravation her son was causing him rather than any cuteness the child possessed. “Would you?” he asked hastily, knitting his brow at her.

The Queen of Gondor gave a little laugh. “Does it trouble you so to have to be gentle?”

The Steward scoffed at that with a frown. “Gentle? Nonsense. By the time he is ten I will have him lopping the heads off of Orcs without a single thought.”

“My thanks for your kind offer to teach him defense, but I believe I will have to speak with Aragorn first,” she said to him, taking her son into her arms. The prince nestled into her and fell promptly back to sleep. “Goodnight, Ada,” she said, smiling at his tender watching, then departing the Hall of the King.

The Lord of Rivendell turned his attention upon Boromir. “You have a gift from my grandson,” he stated, his voice neutral. “He seems to enjoy you. I trust you will not abuse that.”

Ruffled a bit by that, Boromir grabbed his empty tankard and fixed Elrond with a serious expression. “All joking aside, you should know better than to imply I would do otherwise. I would not teach him to go against his people, Men or Elves.”

Elrond exhaled, giving the Steward a clap on the shoulder. “I did not mean offense, but please, indulge a grandfather’s wisdom. He is going to look to you when Aragorn is ruling.”

“What do I know of children?” Boromir groused, walking with the Elf towards the hallway.

Thse Ese Elf Lord smiled that same smile Arwen took on, that expression that annoyed the Steward. “You understand more than you think. Come. Have dinner with me.”

He agreed, but not without a sigh. Talking with Elrond would likely bring up more of what he wished to have a break from. The effects of this war with Sauron.

*

The morning was misty and damp. Boromir walked along the parapet of the fourth level, trying in vain to see the lands below, but the fog that had settled was thick. He sighed, brushing his hair from his face. He had not slept very well lnighnight and missing out always made him feel grumpy the next day. Faramir used to tell him he was getting old. The elder sighed, reminded of his young brother who had died on the fields of Amon Hen. That death had been meant for him. Denethor had wanted him to go to Rivendell, but had relented, allowing Faramir to go in his place. It haunted him to think upon. What haunted him even more was seeing his father’s face when he heard the news. Somehow Boromir had not thought he would care and true, there had been a strange sort of relief in his eyes, but it was not the happy sort of relief that was expected. It was touched of a sorrow that only furthered what he himself felt.

Crossing his arms, the Steward of Gondor stalked on, forsaking the hope of ever seeing anything in the fog. Not that there was much to see, as it was. Just the perfect picture of a city on the edge of fear and the empty plains that lead from Minas Tirith to dead Osgiliath. He had no real desire to see that again. It only served to remind him of happier times that were out of reach.

A traveling breeze brushed his auburn hair across his face again. He sighed, declining to remove it this time. Stopping near the wall, he gazed out across the fog and tried to make peace with his memories again. Unfortunately a voice interrupted his thoughts, drawing out more of his sour mood. “What causes the Steward of Gondor to brood so?” she asked and by the sound of her voice she was Elven.

Boromir did not turn to look at her. He gripped one wrist with his hand and cocked his head to the side. “A war that should have ended. Could have if things had been handled a little bit differently.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her sidle up to his right. He fought the urge to put a face to the voice.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, which surprised him. He thought all Elves shared the thought that should any Man use the Ring the whole of Arda would collapse into nothingness or some other such nonsense. He looked at her then, seeing before him a dark-haired Elven female wearing…armor. It was light chain mail in made the intricate custom of the Elves, silver with blue fabric accents. He raised his eyebrow at her attire and she smirked. “The men of your country seem a bit bothered that Elrond would have a female guardian. I had no idea mortals were so provincial.”

He grunted and tore his gaze away from her. “Elf males appear as delicate as females. It is not that you are a woman that troubles them as much as it is that any Elf can bear the weight of armor,” he shot, squinting his eyes as if he could see through the fog. It did no good, of course.

The Elf laughed lightly at his remark. “You don’t like Elves, do you?” she asked mildly.

Taking a breath, he shook his head. “I do not care, generally, one way or another. The only thing I care about is the stability of my country and that outsiders do not meddle in affairs that aren’t theirs.”

She was looking at him, he could tell. He did not bother to examine her expression, but if he had to guess he would say she was probably giving him that damnable grin Elves took on. Her tone only proved him correct. “You have an exaggerated sense of pride. Such foolishness will get you into trouble one of these days.”

“And you have a sharp tongue,” he responded, turning again to face her. “Are you bothering me with purpose, or for the general fun of it?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her full lips. “I saw you standing here. I was curious.”

“Curious, were you?” he said with a grunt, crossing his arms and looking away again. “I was not aware your own men could not hold your attention.”

He felt her presence begin to retreat. Her laugh cascaded through him as she said, “You flatter yourself, Lord Boromir.”

To that he could think of only one reply. “It was you that came to me.” But she was already gone. He abandoned the wall, seeing no sign that the fog would clear any time soon. This kind of weather only brought out the worst in him and he knew it. Strange meetings with meddlesome Elves did nothing to help matters, either. It was yet another thing that aided his brooding, for though he generally did not care one way or another for Elves, when socializing they seemed as a whole too proud and too delicate for his tastes. He did not like being told what to do and had no problem making it known, which usually ended in bad relations.

Entering the inner hallways of the level he walked he watched a few of his people pass about on their business. Even the staff appeared doubtful and afraid of what more was to come of this war. The Steward fought a wave of anger at the vision. These were his people that suffered, only Aragorn’s in name, not in heart. Sometimes he wondered what might have happened had Gondor’s king been raising among Men rather than the Elves he seemed so enamored of. Perhaps if action had been taken instead of entrusting such an impossible task to two small and innocent Shirelings then this terrible war would not be happening.

Grunting, he opened the door to the Hall of the King and found it empty. Boromir traversed the long path towards the throne, picturing there a figure not with brown hair, but gray. Even now he could still hear that voice if he closed his eyes and traveled ba fea few years. It both chilled him and awakened feelings of longing that he did not welcome. The dynamics of the house of Denethor were nothing if not mired by pain and frustration.

He moved on past the throne that housed not his father, but a king in whom he did have faith when he not not being led by the prejudices of Elves. A sitting room lay to the right of the throne and it was there he entered, moving to a cart of assorted drinks and pouring himself one. Perhaps he did resent the Elves after all. Perhaps it was just the morning that was dark in its rising. He needed now a name to place the fault upon and saw no reason not to aim it at Elrond, whom had counseled the quest that had taken his brother from him.

Not the nicest sort of thing, of course, but then Boromir had never claimed to be the nicest sort of guy. He was a lot like his father, he reflected bitterly, tipping his glass back and draining it. With a comfortable resolve he gripped the bottle and poured himself another drink.

*

The archer ran her fingers along one of her arrows, her fingers dancing along the fletching in an absent-minded way as her eyes remained fixed upon a light vein within the black and white marble floor. The Queen of Gondor was saying something, but for the life of her Miriel was hard-pressed to pay attention until Arwen gripped her by the upper arm and shook her with a laugh. “Ai, Vana, man gar hannas lin? Le tiri pen nauth.” The former princess of Rivendell had a teasing expression upon her face.
(Ah, Vana, what has your attention? You stare without thought.)

Vana pursed her lips and leaned back against the window seat where she was perched. “Im idhren o gell ned Edain. Estel cuina no levain.”
(I wonder about your joy in Men. Estel lives among beasts.)

The queen laughed at that, shaking her head. “You are unfair, Vana. What makes you call them beasts?”

Giving her friend a dirty little look, the archer grinned. “They sweat and have hair all over them. Does that not denote a beast?” She blinked innocently when Arwen pursed her lips.

“What makes a man worthy of note is his manner and not even all Elves can be said to have the better of that,” she countered smartly, folding one of Prince Eldarion’s little shirts. “Besides, a beast of a husband after dark is no bad thing.”

Vana's hazel eyes widened in mock surprise. “Why, Arwen, if your ada even had the very idea of that cross his mind he would have a fit, I’m sure of it.”

“He has a grandson,” Arwen reminded her with a small smile.

“I am quite certain he still believes the babe was delivered by way of bird.” Vana grinned, toying with her arrow. Her expression became thoughtful. “What really makes me call them beasts are their tongues. Lord Boromir, for instance.”

Arwen’s eyebrow shot up. “Boromir? He is harmless.”

At that the archer hummed thoughtfully. “Harmless he may be, but his manners leave something to be desired.”

“He is troubled by the war, Vana.” The queen sighed and looked down at the little shirt in her lap. “We all are.”

Vana nodded. “We all are and not all of us behave as ungracious as he.”

“Boromir shows his pain differently.”

Crossing her arms, the archer exhaled deeply and glanced out the window. “He’s rude,” she persisted, then trailed off as she watched one of the men down below. She did not really believe all men were beasts, of course. It was a tease aimed at Arwen, but Boromir was a different matter.

Arwen watched her curiously. “He bothers you?”

Vana turned, shaking her head and getting to her feet. “He does not bother me,” she said crisply, then offered her friend a teasing smile. “I’m hungry. Care for some lunch?”

Looking at the window, likely at the position of the sun’s light, Arwen declined with a shake of her head. “Aragorn will return soon.”

Giving a snort, Vana headed for the door. “You wish to explore his beastliness?”

The queen gave a soft little laugh and tossed the shirt at her. Then something occurred to her. “Just how do you know men are hairy and sweaty?” she asked loftily.

The Rivendell archer grinned at that. “I went to where the male guards change and had a peek.”

Arwen’s eyes widened. “Vana!”

Vana drew herself up, then exited the sitting room with a small laugh. The hallway was bare save a few of the staff. Minas Tirith was, in truth, no Rivendell, but it had its charms. Even if she did believe that Men were at least somewhat akin to beasts, she agreed with Arwen. That was not necessarily a bad thing. She enjoyed how free Men seemed, for while she would not despair an Elf of learning dignity over the many long years of his life, there was a certain attraction to how brash and bold these mortals were. They did not live long enough to spare time for thought, it seemed to her, so they just acted and quite often were right, if reckless.

*