Faramir Fiction Archive

Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal (R)

Written by Hurinhouse

15 January 2010 | 4894 words

Part 3

The loose stone on the path below threatened to announce their arrival and Legolas had as yet found no other way across the river. Though Elven sight is long, it does not bend trees, nor stone.

Aragorn knew they were relatively safe with the Dead at their backs, but they would only follow when the time for slaying was ripe, and could not be everywhere at once. He glanced at the black sails in the harbor. More than two score on his last count.

“I’ll just get a wee look, “ Gimli declared, and he strode toward the edge of the cliff, thirty meters ahead. Aragorn charged forward, hissed, “Gimli, stay back.”

He saw a glint of steel at Gimli’s right and as he drew Anduril he realized he should have had Legolas scout here, rather than below. But in lieu of a savage, a bandit leapt from the stand of trees and pounced upon Gimli like a great cat. He steered them quietly far from the edge as they rolled in a fury of limbs and leather and dirt. Five feet from Aragorn, the man landed deftly atop the dwarf, gloved hand upon his bearded mouth, blade at his throat.

“Haradrim scouts lie at a twenty foot drop, ye fool,” he breathed out before looking up at Aragorn. “Yer warg needs a leash.” Muffled protests were kept trapped beneath leather.

“Not when my goblin has a bow,” Aragorn growled out, and the newcomer found an elven arrow at his temple.

“Step lightly, edain, farther in,” Legolas menaced into the man’s ear, and he obeyed, Gimli still his hostage. When the group had traveled a good fifty meters, the intruder let Gimli go, thwarting the dwarf’s attempted kick with a swift hand.

Aragorn held Anduril at the rogue’s chest while Legolas scampered silently to the edge and peered over. The man looked to be less than half Aragorn’s own age. He wore rough dark clothes, green eyes glinting beneath golden hair like the first spring sapling among melting snow. His back was straight, proud, but he was not so bold that Aragorn suspected a trap.

“He speaks the truth. Gimli would have been skewered and our mission discovered.” Legolas was ever swift.

Aragorn noticed the man’s dagger, standard infantry issue in Minas Tirith. The hilt at his hip did not match. It gleamed of premium make. So… a thief. “What is your name, Renegade?”

“The King of Gondor. Yers?” A second arrow at the man’s neck; Legolas did not appreciate the slight against his companion. Aragorn would have laughed at the ignorant jest, if the rogue hadn’t have rubbed him the wrong way already.

“What is your business here?”

“You first… ranger.”

Aragorn hauled the man close, felt muscles ripple under cloth. He could hear Gimli threatening behind him as he snarled low into the witling’s ear. “The elf would have already impaled you. You are not at the advantage here.”

The man whispered, low and seductive, tilting his hips forward to brush against Aragorn’s, “Oh, but I am.”

Aragorn jerked back at the long-forgotten sensation. If need be they’d kill the mongrel, but he sensed an opportunity here. He sheathed his sword.

“We seek those ships.”

The man tensed at his words, gripped his dagger more tightly. “For wot purpose? Whom do ye serve?”

“I serve no one. We fight against Sauron, as do you.” He saw the rogue relax at his gamble. “We’ll go under cover of darkness, this evening.”

The man shrugged, “Tis a sound plan, for those who know little of Corsairs. They drink midday so that there are plenty of sober men to sail at night. The best time is now or not until the morrow.”

“We cannot wait that long and there is no path below where we will not be seen.”

“The Wild Men do not guard the river on the east side. None but those from Mordor dare cross.” The man gestured to the north side of the rocky height, a drop of more than one hundred feet. Aragorn shuddered in remembrance. But he needed those ships and he knew this cocky rogue could help.

“Now, tis your turn.”

“Meself, I seek only one ship.”

Legolas lowered his bow. “Which?”

“Whichever carries able men.”

Gimli snorted, bitterness in his gruff voice, “What of the Haradrim on the ledge? Do you plan to pounce upon them, as well?”

“‘ave you rope? Something that can stretch across the cliff?”

The dwarf grudgingly patted the side of his pack, “Aye.”

“Then they will be busy.” And with that, he began to arrange stray logs into a pile.

Aragorn guessed the rogue’s plan, had grudgingly read the sincerity in his eyes, nestled right up there between arrogance and benighted charm. He received a matching nod from Legolas.

“You have not told us your business here.”

The young man’s swagger slowed.

“Restitution.”

Gimli secured logs with the rope, lowered them a handful of feet from the south side of the bluff. When he was safely on the north side with the others, he cut the rope. They heard the wood clatter down the south slope, followed by a grunt and a shuffling from the front ledge. One by one they jumped off the north edge, Legolas pulling Gimli off with him. It was a long way down but the water was deep and they made it across with minimal trouble.

Now they made their way to the harbor, following their impromptu guide and his waiting comrades, and Aragorn hoped, with the Dead not far behind.

Boromir had learned a mammoth ship from Dol Amroth had been intercepted by the Corsairs, a ship containing two hundred soldiers the Steward needed at the unprotected borders of Osgiliath. He spun tales of river adventure and heroism to the brigands he’d run with over the years. Some of them believed; even more followed, eager to leave Minas Tirith as war was on the way. Aromas backing him helped, a pattern of twenty some years now. They’d stowed away on a merchant ship at the Harlond upon quitting the city, Boromir unsure exactly how he’d retrieve the men of Dol Amroth if he were to actually survive the wretched rocking.

Now he marveled at his good fortune here in Pelargir, battling barbarians on the side of fighters he’d never seen the likes of. The elf was graceful and effortless, the dwarf like a bull set loose. But the fearless skill with which the haughty north man fought… there was something about this agile ranger. No man had ever impressed Boromir, and this stained self-appointed deputy of Arda wouldn’t be the first, yet now he found himself sneaking glances between foes, some detail about the man at the tip of his tongue.

A clever slash by a younger Haradrim brought his full attention back where it belonged. Boromir shook the blood from his arm and gutted the wild boy in return. The broadsword sung in his hands, light and balanced, and not for the first time he marveled at the craftsmanship of those under the Steward’s employ. Decades earlier, he’d stolen a sword from a scoundrel fencing jewels one foggy morning, who’d undoubtedly stolen it before him. It was heavy and he’d had to clear the rust, yet it served him all these years in the wild.

But this brilliant work of artistry swung as an extension of his arm and though he’d only had it a matter of days, it had extracted from within the alley cat, a warrior. He sliced at the Wild Men with abandon, hearing no words of surrender when they came, only the call of his mother, and a soldier’s command from long ago. He bellowed as he hacked at dark braided hair and necks strung with beads and hands that held bone-hilted knives. One savage became the next three became the next fifteen, and the blaze surged through his limbs until he came to the last of his prey and then searched for more.

When enough pirates were slain to ensure victory, the ranger pulled Boromir aside, willing him to calm with soothing eyes of authority, and the Dead closed the gap in protection. The older man touched his lips and heart in an odd gesture. Boromir felt a flutter in his chest.

“My thanks. I would repay you but it must be on another occasion for we are now in haste.”

Boromir swallowed an odd disappointment, wiped the gore from his blade, “There is refuge in ‘igher numbers. More Corsairs will soon follow. And my cargo needs a ship.”

“Come if you wish. We sail for Minas Tirith.”

Boromir stopped, a brow raised. Aragorn didn’t seem surprised, “You may share Captain’s Quarters with me. The men may bunk below.”

The cabin was small, but held enough space for a table and a bed. A small bed barely enough for one. Boromir slept in worse places most of the time, but not with a man who matched his strength, or exceeded it, watching him from the mattress as he unlaced his tunic. He had visions of clients long ago, the fat ones, who tried to fuck him in the back of their carriages before he had the good sense to duck out. A wave of panic rippled through him. The man was long and lean, but Boromir could see the muscle beneath. He undressed without a care, somewhere between assured and distant, and little twinges ran up and down Boromir’s cock while warnings flashed in his head. As many men as Boromir had serviced, this man was far more experienced in matters of much more import than buggery; though that as well, he guessed. Suddenly shy, Boromir felt like a fledgling, as though he stood compared to the moon itself, and that annoyed him more than anything.

In only breeches, the man who called himself Strider pulled supplies from a pack and looked at Boromir. “Remove your tunic, Bálin, if you please.”

When he poured whiskey over the short deep wound the renegade sucked in a breath. The lantern flickered in the dim room, but Aragorn could see fine hairs standing to attention in the cool air. The cocky imp would betray no fear, but pain was more difficult to hide.

Bálin had fought well, instinctually. His confidence surpassed his lack of finesse. He was skittish, but dauntless and his eyes burned a hole in the top of Aragorn’s head as he took up his fine bone needle. He’d refused to be tied down, so Aragorn used half his energy to hold the arm still.

He recalled Bálin’s hilt. “You hail from Gondor.”

“I am no soldier.”

“But you are Dunedain.”

The man looked up, defiant. “Most call me a killer.”

The scar on Bálin’s cheek stirred the tumult Aragorn felt tingling in his groin and he reveled in the little pulses of anxiety he could feel running under Bálin’s skin. How good it would feel to teach this arrogant pup manners. He set the thoughts aside and concentrated on his next stitch, “The men on the ship, their livery is of Dol Amroth?”

“Aye. The steward requested ‘em, but the Corsairs intercepted.”

“What of your men? Most did not board.”

“They’re their own men, they owe Gondor nothing.”

Gondor? He watched Bálin squeeze a cloth on the table, bite back the pain. A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. “Those ghosts ye carry. Do they travel with us?”

“Yes. Somewhere.”

“Yer a wizard.”

Aragorn chuckled, felt Bálin tense. “Nothing so clever as that. Just a man. There. Keep this dry.”

Aragorn turned the arm and froze, his grip tightening. He was oblivious to Bálin’s tugging as he stared at the horse upon his palm. “I’ve seen this shape. Twice.”

Bálin stopped struggling. Aragorn cleared a catch from his throat, “A recent companion had a miniature in his pack made of silver. He kept it with him; a reminder of a lost lover.”

Bálin’s indignation seemed to melt away. Aragorn let go of his wrist.

“The first time, though, was many years ago. The shape was burnt into the skin of a child I knew. His palm.” Aragorn was barely able to keep both of the startling revelations straight in his head for the magnitude of each.

He watched as the young man stood, strode across the cabin, stopped short by Aragorn’s call, “I’d heard that lad had gone missing. His father was never the same.”

The other turned the knob, stopped just outside the door. “The lad’s father will be fine.” A pause. “Your ally with the toy horse… does he still live?”

Brave hands squeezing leather came to mind, the drawing of steel from flesh a sound Aragorn would not soon forget. But no scream.

“I do not know.”

The mist made what little horses they had skittish, an expectancy that betokened the company was not alone. Their time in Ithilien had drawn to a close, their commander gone ahead to the White City with the prisoners. Word had traveled that the Lord Denethor was recovered. What fate that meant for the trespassers was anyone’s guess.

The rangers drank liberally, splashing faces and filling water skins. The trek across Cair Andros had lifted their spirits, most of them relieved to be back on the west side of the river. A shout was called out down the line, causing each man to watch the graceful boat drifting tranquilly down the Anduin. It veered toward the western bank, an unnatural detour, and several men strung their bows. But as the prow came closer, they saw naught but a man inside, the white tree stitched across his chest.

“Help!” one man cried and three of them helped him drag the boat against the reeds. He reached out toward the man’s chest…“Is that- “

As he was touched, the Lord Faramir bolted upright, falling into a coughing fit that racked his body in spasms.

Finis

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