Aragorn/Boromir/Faramir

He was in a sober state of mind, not having rested enough after spending

the past few weeks traveling to Lothlorien from his home in Gondor.
And to

what purpose? To receive help from these strange people—these elves
and

even stranger folk—this Elrond—whose little stronghold seemed to him

almost irrelevant in comparison with mighty Gondor?

“He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Elrond replied, and as he went on
to

describe whence the ranger had come and from whom he descended, Aragorn

couldn’t help smiling to himself.

Maybe Boromir did not remember Aragorn, but Aragorn remembered Boromir.

 

They had encountered one another perhaps twenty years earlier. At that

time, the ranger had called himself Thorongil, and it was around that
time

that he had first heard of the Dunlending. He was in Bree, having his

usual dinner and beer at the Pony when a stout hobbit burst in through
the

door, panic in his eyes.

“The thin man, I have seen him!” The hobbit shouted. Heads turned toward

him from the bar.

“He’s here!” Strider heard a voice murmur behind him.

“Where have you seen him? What have you seen?” The barmaid asked, fear

evident in her rough features.

“Two—perhaps three,” the hobbit mumbled, his small body trembling, “He—he

picked them up, and threatened them—yelled something—and after they
hung

helplessly from his grasp, pleading to be let down, he finally threw
them

unto the earth!”

A few gasps, then the barmaid, grasping the dish in her hands, stared

directly at the fear-stricken hobbit and whispered loud enough that
the

ranger could hear, “did he leave? Is he still about?”

The small one lowered his brow, nodding his disheveled head.

Strider bit his lip; who was this thin man, and what was he doing in
here?

He got up from his seat and left a few coins on the table, then walked

toward the bar.

“Pardon me,” he said in a low tone, “but what did this man look like?”

The two looked up at the dark ranger for a few mute seconds, and then
the

hobbit spoke up.

“Thin he was. Not tall for a man. And bearded. He looked rough, as if
he

had been traveling.”

Strider thanked him, then walked out the door, aware of the two pairs
of

curious eyes following him.

After that day, the ranger heard several other accounts of The Thin
Man—so

many that he was growing increasingly curious. Who was he, and why
was he

harassing hobbits? He seemed very interested in learning about Hobbits

here and the nearby Shire; disturbingly so, in fact. Strider had made
it

his mission to track the Thin Man down and question him.

After a year of following the Thin Man in the North, Hollin, and across

southern Gondor, the ranger had finally come face to face with him
in

Pelargir. But this was not before he first encountered the two sons
of the

Steward of Gondor.

It was not a pleasant encounter. Strider had tracked the Thin Man to
the

Olde Bath House Inn, where he had seen him request a room. Following
in

his tracks, the ranger planned to request a room there as well, unaware

that the Dunlending had noticed his presence and was planning to put
a

stop to his mission. In fact, upon requesting his room, the Thin Man
had

notified the Innkeeper of the presence of a strange, dark man who seemed

to be following him, and requested that he be reported to authorities
and

observed for unusual behavior.

Not an hour later, the authorities—the heirs to the Steward of Gondor—had

Aragorn by the wrists—and were taking him into custody.

Bewildered, Strider thrashed in their grasp, crying to be released and

demanding to know why he is being taken.

“We wish to question and examine you,” the younger man replied as calmly

as he could while straining to hold the ranger’s wrists in place. The

older man was quickly wrapping a sturdy rope about those wrists, to

Strider’s astonishment.

“We have received word that you have been harassing a guest in this
Inn,”

he said.

The ranger was speechless with shock. He? Harassing the Dunlending?

“You misunderstand!” He cried out at last

“We understand perfectly,” the older muttered, biting his lip as he

tightened the knot he was forming, “this is the second report we have

received about a man of your description.”

Strider let his head roll down to his chest, emitting a sigh of exasperation.

After the older man finished securing the binds, he turned to the younger

and said, “Keep watch of this one, Faramir. I will return shortly,
and

then we will decide what is to be done with him.”

The older man turned to leave, and Strider was left in the room with

Faramir, bound and speechless. This wasn’t anything he couldn’t get
out

of—it may take some time, an hour or two if he wanted to be discreet
about

it—and he would free himself.  He wondered if it was worthwhile
to try to

explain himself to his guardian: from what he had gathered, the young
man

wasn’t going to trust him.

No sooner than he entertained the thought, however, that a very loud
and

surprising thud was sounded, and an arm appeared behind the man’s neck—the

Thin Man had grabbed Faramir and swung at him with his fist.

Dumbfounded, Strider watched from his chair, and leaving discretion

behind, immediately began attempting to loosen his bonds. But he was
not

fast enough—by the time he successfully freed himself, the young man
was

lying unconscious on the floor, having suffered greatly under the hands
of

the Dunlending. Faramir had been a fair guard, but he was still

inexperienced and ill prepared for the cunning of the Thin Man.

Strider reached out and grabbed the man by his torn shirt and swung
at

him, but no sooner had his firm, clenched hand come into violent contact

with the man’s bearded face than the Dunlending tore away from his
grasp

and fled out the door.

Strider wasted no time, and was immediately on the man’s tracks. He
chased

him down the hallway and out the front door of the inn, to the

bewilderment of the guests and barmen. The ranger was fast, but the
Thin

Man was faster, and Strider did not catch up to him until they were
well

into the heart of the city. At this point, Strider grabbed at the man’s

collar and begun thrashing at him madly, administering blow after smashing

blow, until the Dunlending was a bloody mess hanging from Strider’s
strong

hand, completely at his mercy.

It was at this point that the older of the two men—Boromir—had caught
up

with them, and he made his presence known by means of a sword thrust

threateningly at the back of Strider’s neck.

“Don’t move,” Boromir hissed.

Feeling the menacing point at his neck, Strider rolled his head in

frustration.

“Let him go,” the Steward’s son continued, astonished that the ranger

managed to escape.

No. Not after he had finally caught up with him.

“That would be most foolish,” Strider tried to explain.

“Let him go, or I will slay you!” Boromir pressed the sword’s tip firmly

against the ranger’s neck.

This seemed a bit much. He will slay him for the sake of a stranger?

Strider sighed and released his grasp upon the bloody collar. The man
fell

to the ground, then immediately collected himself and darted off.

“You fool,” Strider hissed, “We will both regret this!”

“Turn around,” was Boromir’s icy reply. His sword was still at the man’s

neck, and, accompanied by two men who were with him, he lead the captive

back to the room where he had been bound.

His brow darkened markedly after he discovered his younger brother lying

unconscious on the floor of the room.

He ran to Faramir immediately, a silent scream lodged in his throat.

“Faramir!” he cried, inspecting the younger man’s bruised and bloodied

body. His head rolled up to face Strider. “What have you done to him?
You

will pay for this!”

“It was not I who beat him!” Strider started, but it was all in vain.

Boromir raced toward the ranger, smashing his body against the wall.

Strider’s face grimaced in pain as Boromir’s fist flew at him: the
man was

as strong as he seemed.

Tears in his eyes, the Steward’s son bound Strider once again to the
post

to which he was previously tied. Dizzy from the blow, the ranger thrashed

about, attempting to prevent Boromir from tying him, to no avail.

After the binds were again secured, the man ran to his brother on the

floor. He collected the unconscious body in his strong arms and carried

him out of the room. “Make sure he does not escape this time,” he heard

Boromir call to someone as he left the room.

Waiting for someone with whom to speak rationally, Strider hung limp
in

his bounds, marveling at his ill luck. He’d been bested before, but
caught

like this? Strider, chieftain of the Rangers of the North? He bit his
lip

in anger at himself. “He probably thinks himself valiant, this red-haired

man,” he thought, “saving a poor fellow from a brute such as myself.”
The

ranger was tired and hungry and, most of all, he was angry at the

injustice which he was made to suffer. Fatigue had made him grow weary,

however, and despair gradually took the place of rage.

It was around that time that Boromir returned to him, no less angered
than

before. Strider propped his head a bit until his blue eyes met Boromir’s

brown ones. A few seconds of staring, then a harsh hand slapped across
the

ranger’s face. Exhausted, Strider emitted a groan of pain. Once again,
the

blue eyes trailed upward through loose strands of dark hair, but before

they met Boromir’s gaze again, the hand slapped his face a second time.

Strider suffered a torrent of slaps before the auburn-haired man spoke
to

him again. “I will see that you pay for what you have done to my brother,”

he hissed.

“I told you,” Strider groaned, “I have not laid a finger upon him. Release

me.”

In response to these words, another slap flew across the prisoner’s
face.

“You lie,” Boromir muttered, choking back tears.

They stared at one another, both heaving—Strider from pain and Boromir

from exertion. Tears began streaming down from his brown eyes: he was
not

sure that Faramir would regain consciousness anytime soon. The thought
of

his little brother, only eighteen years of age, beaten and suffering,

broke his heart. He sought only to punish the culprit before him.

Another torrent of slaps was unleashed on the ranger’s face, until he
was

delirious from pain and no longer fully conscious. But no matter how
hard

the son of Gondor hit him, he felt that he had not avenged his brother

enough. His young, beaten brother, who now lay bruised and unconscious
at

the hands of a military doctor in whose care Boromir had left him.

“Who are you?” Boromir growled, but Strider was too delirious to reply.

“Speak!” the man demanded. After several seconds of silence, he raised
the

ranger’s chin with prodding fingers and glared into his vacant blue
eyes.

Strider hung limp and helpless from the bonds around his wrists. He
gazed

upon Boromir’s face, beads of sweat forming at his scalp and dripping
down

his face.

“Do with me as you wish,” the ranger said at last, “but I’m afraid you

will discover I am not the man you seek.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“I wish no harm to your fellow man. I seek only to capture the villain
you

just let go.”

But it was too late; delirious with rage at the injustice that had been

done to Faramir, Boromir grabbed at Strider’s collar and muttered,
“My

brother will not soon recover from the blows!”

“I am sincerely sorry for your brother—“ Strider began, but a sharp
tug to

his hair brought an abrupt stop to his words. Boromir’s fiery eyes
gazed

down in hunger upon the victim in his grasp, prepared to undo him in
any

manner possible.

Suddenly, the ranger felt the prodding tip of Boromir’s sword once more
at

his neck. The sharp point lay threateningly against the soft skin of
his

throat, dividing the two men’s faces. “Do with you as I wish, shall
I?”

Boromir hissed, his other hand still tugging at the ranger’s hair.
“Shall

I sever your fair neck?”

Strider’s breath was hot against the man’s skin, but he remained silent,

blue eyes rolled to stare at Boromir.

“Or shall I cut you in half? Slowly?” he muttered, and began to move
the

sword downward against the front of the ranger’s tunic, cutting the
cloth

as the blade moved. A feverish smile worked its way to the corners
of

Boromir’s mouth as he heard a gasp that Strider accidentally emitted.

“Yes, now you are afraid,” he whispered, the blade cutting through the

rough fibers, menacingly close to the ranger’s skin. But Strider did
not

remove his gaze from Boromir’s eyes as the sword moved through his
tunic,

nor did he flinch when the cloth fell softly to the floor.

Unbeknownst to himself, Boromir was growing a little frustrated with
the

ranger’s apparent lack of emotion. He tugged harder at the man’s hair,
and

Strider gasped as his head shot farther back.

“You say nothing, but I can feel your fear,” Boromir whispered, the
point

of his nose millimeters away from the ranger’s wet skin. He felt Strider’s

throat move as he swallowed, moist breath leaving his nostrils.

Boromir moved closer, now pressing his nose against the man’s tremulous

neck, teeth brushing against hot skin. Strider’s body froze, a dead
man’s

stare in his eyes, as those hard teeth closed around the flesh of his

neck. The sword still aimed at him, ever insistent against the bare
skin

of his chest.

A sudden move, and Strider had shifted so that the sword was at his
side,

cutting part of the bond around his wrist. Had Boromir not caught the
man

in time, he may have freed that hand completely. “You are mad,” the
ranger

whispered, blue eyes glaring.

Another slap to his aching face.

“You will pay for your insolence.” Boromir’s face was red with delirium,

and Strider wondered if he were a rational man before this nighmare
of a

misunderstanding had begun.

The steward’s son grabbed the near-free wrist and tightened the bonds

there. He then seized the ranger’s face and took his mouth to his lips,

pressing hard for several seconds before tearing the man away and throwing

his head back against the wall. Strider gasped as Boromir released
him,

strands of dark hair flying around his face.

Liquid blue eyes peered at Boromir from between moist bunches of hair;

mayhaps the man really was prepared to suffer any offence at Boromir’s

hand. That hand now pawed roughly at the ranger, grabbing the moist
cloth

at the front of his trousers. Strider’s teeth clenched in pain and
his

eyes shot open in surprise, but it almost seemed that he was ready
for

this, too.

“What does it take to hurt you?” Boromir breathed against his neck,
“what

does it take to shame you?”

In response to this, once again Boromir received only silence. It was

maddening. He clenched his fingers harder, nails scraping against the

tender flesh beneath. Part of him felt surprised with himself, almost

resentful—a part that was stifled by his rage and delirium.

He almost fell backward in shock when the ranger suddenly bent forward,

seizing Boromir’s lips, rough hands forcing the auburn head to his
face.

Boromir had not expected him to escape, but he expected even less that
the

kiss be returned.

(To be continued!)