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As the Journey Begins	By : Larrkin2 Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1594 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
- 1-As the Journey Begins
- 2-Attention Invited
- 1
- 2
Disclaimer: No
copyright infringement is intended. I don't own
these characters.
This story is not meant to violate the rights held
by New Line,
Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any
disrespect
intended.

Attention
Deserved

by Larrkin

Larrkin2@yahoo.com

I
found myself wandering again, going nowhere in particular, just
following one of Rivendell’s many pathways through the golden
woods, past the streams, alongside the falls, answering the need to
keep moving my muscles and hoping to perhaps distract my mind.

A
flawed strategy to say the least. My thoughts followed me, nagging
even louder in my solitude. This feeling that I knew him had become
consuming. His image danced on the edges of my thoughts. And now,
last night, he’d invaded my dreams as well.

Aragorn,
son of Arathorn. Isildur’s Heir, Lord of the Dúnedain,
Heir to the throne of Gondor, and unyielding lodger in my mind and
soul.

I
know the history of my people well. I grew up surrounded by tales of
Gondor’s glory, and of the splendid years of peace and plenty,
of the legends and magnificent battles and victories, of the valiant
line of kings and the lore connected with this man. And indeed, he
was “no mere Ranger,” as Legolas had condescendingly
proclaimed.

Insolent
elf. Speaking out against me like that in front of the entire
council of nobles. Correcting me as though I were a callow youth in
need of instruction. Had I not been shocked to silence by his
statement I’d have returned his discourtesy in kind. I may yet
seek him out in private to address the issue of good manners. I
haven’t decided if he’s worth the trouble. But clearly
he and the Ranger are old friends and the pretty elfling prince
respects Aragorn since he readily accepted the man’s authority.

But
would I? Hm.

I
paused, finding myself in a secluded glade, far away now from the
graceful elvish buildings glittering in the distance, but still well
within the borders of Rivendell’s domain. Perhaps here, away
from the eternal tranquility of that otherworldly settlement, I could
center myself once more and find my comforting warrior’s
discipline.

Sitting
on a large outcropping of rock, I forced my mind to Gondor. I
thought of Faramir and my father, of my loyal company of warriors, of
the crisis pressing down upon our city from the east. Staggering
pressures threatened our people . . . and yet, seconds later, I
realized that, to my frustration, the wretched man had once again
overrun even my most grave thoughts of home.

I
shot up with a snarl and began to pace. Perhaps the enchantment of
these elvish lands had somehow damaged my mind . . . no. No, how
ridiculous and impossible. Still, I was definitely not in control of
myself, an awareness that sent a shiver up my spine.

And
again his rugged face haunted me, his clear eyes, his strangely wise
and patient gaze. Where had I seen Aragorn? Where? I knew that
gaze. I did! This was maddening! And it was getting worse. Every
day since the council this feeling that I’d seen the man, or
served with him, or known him had grown more profound.

The
simplest solution would have been to simply ask Aragorn how we knew
each other, or if indeed we ever had. But, no . . . no we had. I
was sure of it. He knew we had. I may not possess Faramir’s
second sight or enjoy my father’s ability to see inside men’s’
hearts, but I knew without a doubt that Aragorn looked at me with a
familiar air. He knew the answer to this vexing riddle. I
could end my perplexity. I could ask.

But
. . . no. I cared not to do such a thing. I could not say why. I
just chose not to. I didn’t need his aid. I would solve this
myself. I’d remember by myself.

Meanwhile
my temperament was suffering. This very morning I had snarled at the
youngest halfling about his persistent chatter. I immediately
regretted my impatience, for in truth I enjoy these little ones with
their merry hearts and laughing ways and trusting, childlike gazes.
I felt badly when I saw hurt cloud Pippin’s wide eyes before he
pivoted and stalked off.

But
I felt even worse when I glanced further away and saw Aragorn
watching me with a look of dark disdain, having clearly heard and
seen all. A hot wash of guilt had flooded me, making my face burn.
Not one of my finer moments.

Blast
the man! Why did he haunt me? How dare he presume upon the privacy
of my thoughts! And his presumption did not end there. He had taken
to issuing me orders as though I were an underling. I! A seasoned
warrior, Captain of the White Tower, a leader of men and heir to my
noble father the Steward of Gondor!

Aye,
that wretched elf was right – I did owe Aragorn my allegiance.
But did that include taking orders from him when he was not yet my
king? It was a cloudy issue for me. I could consult Gandalf about
it, but . . . no. No, again, I cared not to do such a thing. Again,
I just chose not to. And, again, I didn’t know why.

I
would conquer this. I had readily joined Aragorn in volunteering to
escort Frodo on his quest, so I’d chosen the further company of
the man. I would be in his presence every day and every night, and I
would conquer this!

The
quest also gave me the chance to speak with the winsome hobbit about
the Ring and how it might be used more wisely. Destroy it? The
sheer senselessness of such an act seemed unthinkable. And to place
it in the hands of this little one! I am fond of Frodo, sweet-faced
charmer that he is, but to see him made Ringbearer? Frodo Baggins,
hobbit of the Shire, so naïve, so like a boy, untrained in
warfare and unschooled in the ways of the mighty and the sovereign,
and yet entrusted with a power so great that it could destroy the
enemies of Gondor and secure freedom from tyranny for the peoples of
Middle Earth . . . if wielded by the right holder. Now how great a
folly was this?

I
alone harbored inner objections, though. For all his exalted
ancestry, Aragorn displayed the same ignorance that infested the
other members of the council. None seemed willing to use the power
right at our fingertips. Gandalf, in true wizard’s fashion,
bespoke his position admirably, moving even the stalwart dwarves to
silence with his fearsome display of the Black Speech, my fellow
noblemen shrinking like frightened schoolboys. And that arrogant
elfling prince may indeed be a fine warrior, but he is of little use
to my cause. He wholly submits to Aragorn’s will in this
matter, and the Ranger is resolute.

But,
I sense in Aragorn an overall hesitancy to fully accept that command
which is rightfully his. It seems beyond reason. However, if he is
indeed uncertain about himself or his direction it could prove
useful. I am no diplomat, but I am the only one at hand to bespeak
Gondor’s need and to champion a higher cause for the Ring. I
have never shirked any duty, nor hesitated to do what I must to
achieve my goal. Aragorn may yet listen to reason. I can only try.
And if he will not, the little one might.

I
pondered my course for some time in that secluded glade, struggling
to remember the various means of diplomacy my tutors had tried to
drill into my warrior’s head, and striving to avoid despairing
overmuch that I remembered little of it. And, of course, the
constant resurgence of Aragorn’s face and form and voice and
majestic manner plagued my thoughts.

The
shadows grew long, and yet I stayed there, reluctant to head back to
the settlement. I felt no healthier in mind nor spirit than when I’d
struck out seeking relief, and returning when I’d accomplished
so little was a disheartening notion. Still, I’d wandered far,
and I had to return before nightfall as I had no torch. Stumbling
about, lost in Rivendell’s hinterland, held no appeal, nor did
spending the night curled up in the forest without my cloak.

Darkness
had indeed fallen before I regained my chamber. I had blundered into
only two dead-ends before finding my way through the dense foliage
and back to the path. It could have been worse. A fire had been lit
in my room and it was warm and comforting, though I did not expect to
find much ease there for my troubled heart. Surely this bewitching
place had softened my mind. The nagging sense that I knew Aragorn
still consumed me. It now seemed that I could even smell the aroma
of the man’s pipe.

“Where
have you been?”

I
spun, my hand on my sword, and there in a shadowed corner I saw him,
or rather, I saw the glow of his pipe.

Aragorn
stood slowly and stepped into the light, looking as though he was
waiting for an answer, but would not wait for long. Annoyed that he
had succeeded in startling me, I made no reply. He grunted low, as
if he’d expected my defiance, then he crossed to the hearth and
leaned over the fire, knocking the ashes from his pipe. Placing it
on the mantle, he turned to study me again, somber and expectant.

Suddenly
I could bear it no longer. “I know you!” I
blurted out before I could stop myself.

Aragorn
stared at me for a long moment, clearly astounded, then he smiled
softly and, I swear, indulgently.

“Aye,
little fledgling,” he replied. “You do indeed. Although
it surprises me that you remember. You were no more than four years
of age when I left the service of your grandsire.”

I
froze. ‘Little
fledgling!’ No!
It could not be! Fire shot through my body, memories surging up so
fast and thick I nearly lost my legs.

Only
one man had ever called me that, a warrior of great renown and honor
who had served Gondor when I was a child. A warrior so beloved of my
grandsire that he made my own father jealous and anxious for his
position of ascension. A man I had nearly worshipped for his valor
and had vowed to emulate, and a man who had been good to me, who
never seemed to mind me trailing at his feet or climbing into his lap
– a man who had cared for me, a man I’d loved.

“Thorongil,”
I breathed.

He
smiled again. “Aye, Boromir. Your memory serves you well.”

*************

Of
course he looked stunned. It shocked me that he remembered me at
all, much less the assumed name I had taken so long ago.

He
had been so small when I left The White City. Memories of him raced
through my head and filled my heart: his sturdy little boy’s
body and his wide bright eyes, his quick, eager mind, his
stubbornness and determination to master something new, his
willingness to accept obedience to the warrior’s code of
discipline, although this last was often learned from his position
stretched over my knee.

After
serving Boromir’s grandsire, Ecthelion, for some time it had
became difficult for me to remain in Minas Tirith, not only because
my destiny called me away, I knew not where, but because Denethor’s
growing distrust and resentment made it impossible for me to remain.
Boromir himself played a small role in his father’s swelling
rivalry with me, the child’s adoration of the valiant Thorongil
being obvious even to the casual observer.

A
bittersweet scene flashed through my mind, my last sight of Boromir
as I rode from Minas Tirith . . . a child’s high, sweet voice,
raw with tears, calling after me. I would ne’er forget
glancing back over my shoulder for one last look, and seeing that
adorable little boy tear free from his father’s hold and come
running behind me, his bright blond hair flying wildly, his arms
waving.

“Thorongil!
No, please!” he
had screamed. “Don’t
go! Please, pleeeeease come back! I don’t want you to go!”
Then: “Take
me with youuuu!”

This
last forced me to halt my mount and jump down to deal with him.
Boromir crying such a plea in front of his father and grandsire and
the scattered men at arms was awkward and it would harden Denethor’s
heart anew, but more importantly, it bespoke Boromir’s anguish.
My fledgling had deserved my attention.

I
knelt and he flew into my embrace, sobbing on my shoulder. I waited
until he had quieted enough to hear me, then I drew him back and
looked at him, saying in a firm voice, “Boromir,
you must listen to me. You belong here, with your people, not
wandering the wild with a man seeking his destiny. You shall grow to
be a great and noble warrior, a brave Son of Gondor, the pride of
your people and a credit to your father and grandsire. This is where
you must stay, my little fledgling. Stay, grow strong, and make me
proud of you.”

He
wept piteously, but he did hear me, and he understood. “Yes,
my lord,” he
whimpered.

“Hush
now, little one,”
I said. “Soon
all men, even the mighty and the great, shall call you ‘my
lord,’ and you shall be worthy of that title. And fear not.
No doubt we shall meet again one day.”

He
nodded, then flung himself at me for one final embrace, whispering,
“I love you,
Thorongil.”

I
had fought to hold back my own stinging tears and murmured back, “I
love you too, little fledgling.”

And
now, here he stood, tall, strong, the consummate warrior I knew he
would grow to be. I had known who he was the moment he rode through
Rivendell’s gates. He was alone, having made the long journey
from Gondor without guard or kinsmen. Yet he was clearly unafraid,
looking around with wonder and fascination while his mount danced
energetically beneath him.

Boromir
had the look of his father to him, the resolute pride and confidence,
and the glitter in his eye that dared the world to challenge him.
Denethor had done well by my fledgling, and I felt a surprising
shimmer of regret course through me at having missed all the years I
could have spent watching him grow.

“I
knew it,” he said, still shaken. “I’ve been going
mad with trying to remember, but I-I just could not --”

“Why
did you not simply ask me?” I inquired, knowing full well that
the stubborn hardheadedness of the child I knew yet lived in the man
he had become.

Boromir
shifted from foot to foot, clearly flustered, an exposed and
vulnerable look in his eyes, and then he surprised me.

I
had expected a defensive response, or an evasive one, but instead, a
faint glimmer of that little boy peeked out, and a shy smile tugged
at the corners of his mouth as he said, “I should have.”

I
had to smile back, my heart swelling with sudden pride at his
truthfulness. Crossing the space between us, I opened my arms to
him, saying, “Aye, but you were always of a stubborn bent of
mind.”

He
came into my embrace with a wry grin and a small sniff of
resignation. “I seem to recall you saying so.”

“You
gave me much occasion to.”

“I
was but four years of age, my lord!”

“A
poor excuse.”

He
then surprised me once more. He laid his head on my shoulder as he
had in our last moments together years before, although he had to
lean down slightly to do so.

I
closed my eyes, lost for a moment in the overwhelming bliss of that
one small, but enormous gesture. I enfolded him closer, and he
responded, allowing himself to be controlled and pulled tightly
against me, and I swear I felt the hammering of his heart as strongly
as my own.

“I
. . . I missed you, Thorongil,” he murmured.

As
I did long ago, I fought back the tears that stung my eyes. “And
I you, little fledgling.”

We
drew back after several long minutes and he looked at me with new
understanding, those same glittering and inquisitive eyes searching
my face.

“How
could I have not recognized you?” he marveled.

“I
am much changed,” I replied. “Many years have passed
since you last saw me, Boromir, hard years spent roaming the wild as
a Ranger. Such a life weathers and ages a man. You were quite young
when I left you. As I said, I am surprised you remember me at all.”

Boromir’s
intense gaze locked on mine. “But, I did know you, if not in
my mind, then in my heart. I could not rest for knowing you, and for
not knowing you, and struggling to remember. Yet, now that my memory
returns, I see you as plainly as you have ever lived in my mind’s
eye.” He smiled, a great warmth of affection in his eyes.
“Nay, my lord, you have not aged much from that young hero of
my childhood. You are that man still.” He flashed another
ready smile. “But it is shocking to stand so tall that I look
directly at you.”

I
grinned, enjoying his easy and charming manner. “Aye, well
imagine my shock, seeing my little fledgling grown so sturdy and
strong.”

We
shared a laugh, and he observed, “No longer a fledgling, my
lord. No longer that little boy.”

I
paused, watching him for a moment, then said, “Ah, but as you
see in me shadows of the young hero you once knew, I see in you
shadows of my stubborn fledgling. You are now a mighty Captain of
Gondor, but the little boy lives in you still, Boromir. There is no
hiding him from me. I am not taken in by appearances.”

His
eyes widened slightly, then he dropped his gaze, that shy grin
surfacing again. “You never were, my lord,” he murmured,
sounding very much like the child I knew. Ah, but he was so
delightful!

This
had gone far better than I could ever have dreamed. Now I could move
on and deal with the matters that had brought me in search of him.

I
had been giving Boromir small orders for several days, measuring his
ability to accept my authority, something I felt would be a challenge
to a fellow leader of men, as indeed it had proven to be thus far.
Our quest would be difficult enough without a constant disruptive
undercurrent of insubordination. I would not stand for it. Boromir
would have to submit to my command, and I was not sure he would be
able to do so, a dilemma that nagged at me. Clearly it troubled
Boromir as well, his displeasure with the way things were likely made
worse by his resentment of the obvious bond between Legolas and me.
Something had to be done.

My
purpose became clear earlier in the day when I saw my fledgling snap
at Pippin. Boromir’s struggle with my authority, his
fascination with the Ring and, as I now knew, his frustrating
bewilderment over my identity had beaten him down until his temper
had erupted and he had snarled at a guileless hobbit, a little soul
in whom he obviously delighted.

Had
I not stepped from the shadows, allowing my sudden movement to catch
Boromir’s eye, he would not have noticed me watching him. But
I wanted to see how he responded, and what I saw reflected in his
gaze told me all I needed to know. His instant remorse and shame
touched my heart. There was no defiance, only painful regret.

I
suffered a few regrets myself, watching Boromir turn and stalk away,
guilt weighing heavily on his broad, stooped shoulders. I had been
remiss with my fledgling, allowing him too much time to come to terms
with his discomfort himself. I knew what needed to be done, and I
had no misgivings about doing it. It is, however, no great challenge
for me to toss a hobbit over my knee and lower his britches for some
much-needed discipline. Boromir would be a different matter.

A
hobbit has a unique advantage. If he desires he can fight me all he
wants to and he is still going to end up over my knee taking the
spanking he deserves. But the struggle, the overpowering and the
lack of choice are oddly comforting. They keep a small measure of
dignity, for they did all they could to fight it, but were simply
unable to stop the inevitable. Good thing, too, for in their hearts
they know exactly what they need, and forcing me to stop is the last
thing they desire.

As
is true for many, there is solace for the halflings in knowing there
is a force bigger than themselves who has only their best interests
at heart, even if that best interest results in a burning backside.
They can feign all the resentment they choose to, pour out their fury
and frustration, struggle and kick and thrash to their hearts’
content and still end up getting exactly where they wanted to go –
nowhere . . . and, of course, the little ones are not alone in such
feelings.

There
is, however, a mutual awareness, for they are never disciplined
without understanding the reason. Of course, they are rarely
perplexed about why they are over my knee to begin with, but in case
they are, as they were in Bree when I first showed them the
consequences of misbehavior, I explain the matter clearly so that
they do understand.

Such
is rarely needed, though, for the little ones know very well why they
are being spanked, and they know what they need from me, so much so
that on several occasions when I have been willing to forgive a
misdeed with merely a few stern words, they have continued to
deliberately provoke me and press the issue until they at last
achieve the result they truly desired.

No
matter. The halflings have many reasons for what they need, all
valid and worthy of my respect. I care about them as if they were of
my own flesh and if one of these beloved small souls seeks an extra
measure of my attention, I shall more than willingly give them that
attention.

I
loved my fledgling just as much. He deserved that same attention,
and my lap fits all sizes. Legolas had been there more times than I
could count over our many years together, our understanding having
been established long ago. But how could I convince Boromir to
willingly submit?

I
had thought to perhaps threaten him with expulsion from the
Fellowship unless he vowed to accept my authority. But I wanted
Boromir’s submission to be of his own free will, not in
response to a threat. I could, in fact, see no other way. So I
pondered the problem whilst sitting in his chamber awaiting his
return.

And
then Boromir presented the answer himself, laying it before me so
clearly that I wondered at having failed to see it myself. Of
course, I had never considered that he would remember me from so long
ago. The fact that he did, however, solved my problem nicely.

Our
affection from the past was still real and potent. Boromir clearly
felt it as strongly as I did, and I knew that our old bond would
withstand the new demands I planned to place upon it, beginning with
the basic form of discipline that had been so effective with him as a
child.

I
did not deceive myself. Boromir may yield to my authority at
present, but he would surely still challenge me on occasion and find
himself in further need of correction. He and Legolas had much in
common – pride, obstinacy and, if what I sensed in my fledgling
was correct, a certain need for attention.

Leaders
such as Boromir, schooled in self-sufficiency, often harbored the
mistaken belief that the need for loving attention did not befit
their station, so they disdained any unseemly longing for even the
most simple care, forsaking the little boy inside who yearned for
that loving attention, burying him so efficiently that he ceased to
exist.

But
I would not permit that stoic denial of need to plague my fledgling.
Boromir was about to learn that he was worthy of care. As with the
hobbits and my beloved elfling, my attention to him was attention
deserved.

“Come,”
I now told him. “Remove your sword and be at ease. We have
much to talk about. You have missed your dinner, my fledgling, and
you must be hungry. I shall call for food and drink that you and I
may dine alone and enjoy some private conversation.”

Boromir’s
eyes lit up. “Aye, a fine idea! I am eager to learn of your
adventures since leaving The White City.”

“As
I am longing to hear of yours, Captain of the White Tower.” I
watched him flash a soft, triumphant smile. “We may be here
well into the night.”

********

Thorongil!
I could scarcely believe it. Thorongil. My Thorongil.

When
he’d embraced me earlier I’d nearly shed the tears that
clouded my eyes. Instead I lowered my head to his shoulder, fighting
for control, trying to not shame myself or embarrass him, and yet I
could do nothing less than be fully honest with this man who held me
so closely. I told him that I’d missed him.

Memories,
rich and dizzying flowed through me, wondrous, but also bittersweet.
A deep sorrow lurked beneath my skin, forcing my heart to race.
Tears kept threatening, tears of remembered anguish in losing someone
so dear to me, and the torment of having no power to control that
certainty.

But
I quickly shoved such thoughts to one side, for here he stood,
embracing me, this man I’d cherished in my little boy’s
heart so long ago! Thorongil. My Thorongil.

I
was delighted with his suggestion that we spend the evening talking
and dining alone. I suddenly felt starved, having been away from the
settlement since morning, and I felt equally starved to hear all he
felt willing to share about himself since we had parted so many years
ago. He clearly seemed eager to learn of my deeds as well, so much
so that he bid me begin first, insisting that he wanted every detail.

“Come,”
he said, “tell me how my mischievous little fledgling grew to
become a great Captain of the White Tower. And leave nothing out.”

I
did my best. My years spent growing from the boy he had known to the
man I’d become had been exacting and often embittering. But
overall, I was satisfied with them and with what I had been able to
achieve. I felt a certain pride in my accomplishments and in the
glory of Gondor, its years of splendor made possible through the
dedicated service of our warriors and of the leadership of my father.

It
was true, however, that Gondor had fallen onto harder times of late.
The building strength of Mordor had slowly begun to penetrate the
hearts and minds of my people. I’d spoken the truth at
Elrond’s Council – Gondor was the first line of defense
for the lands of Middle Earth, and though we were once a mighty
force, we were becoming beaten down.

But
I would not speak of that at the moment. Aragorn had asked for a
personal account of myself and my life, so that was what I would
gladly share with him, for this was a time of reunion, and I
delighted in the intimacy of it. So we took seats before the fire, a
small round table between us, and I began to speak.

Aragorn
listened, clear-eyed and attentive, smiling gently at times, but ever
with his gaze fastened upon me, absorbing every word. He often
nodded slightly, a whisper of a grin on his lips and a look of fond
approval in his eyes that sent my heart soaring and encouraged me to
speak proudly on, longing to see that look again.

Several
times I heard my own words, and I paused, realizing how eager to
impress I sounded, much like that little boy Aragorn said he saw in
me. He caught my eye when I hesitated, and he smiled quietly,
indulgently, I swear reading my every thought. He did so with
increased sharpness when Faramir entered my chronicle.

Halfway
through our dinner he suddenly said, “Tell me more of this
little brother you esteem so highly. Your love for him is strong.
Why did he not join you on your journey here?”

I
glanced up at him and found that calm understanding in his gaze, and
I knew that he had sensed my feelings of frustration and remorse,
even though I thought I had hidden that ache well. Aye, he was too
discerning, and I suppose the grief I felt when speaking of Faramir
would not escape his notice, although I knew I’d never be able
to fully express the extent of that grief. I fell silent for a few
moments, wondering how to begin, how much to say.

Aragorn
waited patiently, then he said, “He was born the year after I
left?”

“Aye.”
I nodded, idly poking with my knife at the contents of my plate.
“When I was five years old. Faramir . . . Faramir is bright
and courageous and well-appointed.”

“You
are very alike then.”

I
caught and returned his grin, flushing at the notion. “Nay, my
lord. Faramir and I are very different in many ways. There is so
much about Faramir to be admired I scarce know where to begin.”
I lowered my gaze, thinking of my brother’s ready smile and
modest laugh and his bashful, self-effacing manner. How to describe
him? How to do him justice? Finally I simply started talking:

“Faramir
is quiet in nature, good and kind-hearted, almost to a fault. He has
far more patience than I do, and his skills are more subtle and
complex than grand and showy, like mine are. He was always a good
student, far better than I was, so he is splendidly well-spoken, with
a gift for diplomacy. And he has a fondness for music, and he has a
talent for storytelling and lore and . . . and . . . .”

Aragorn
grinned. “You are describing him admirably, my fledgling. Go
on.”

I
glanced at him, still feeling I hadn’t said enough, but unable
to think of what more to say. Then I recalled one very important
thing -- “Ah! I near forgot! Faramir can see into men’s
hearts, like our father, though he does not judge them harshly, the
way Denethor does. And he is blessed with the Sight – he
dreams visions.”

Aragorn’s
brow went up, and a shimmer of affection for him shot through me. It
seemed he really understood my little brother, and admired him as
well, just from listening to me speak of him. Encouraged, I went on:

“Faramir
is also a fine warrior, most able and quick with a bow, and an
excellent strategist and leader of men. He Captains the Ithilien
Rangers, an elite guard that watches over our borders. But he, well,
Faramir does not glory in battle.”

A
sudden flash of anger erupted within me, that familiar heartache
surfacing. I dropped my gaze and said, “My little brother
never hesitates to do his duty. Aye, he has at times needed my help,
but any Captain in such a situation would need such help! Faramir
always, always strives to do his best and to do what is right, but .
. . .” I took a breath, struggling to calm myself, knowing
Aragorn was watching me closely.

“Faramir
is of a gentler nature than I am,” I finally added. “He
would sooner solve disagreements with words than with swords. That
is an admirable quality, is it not?"

He
nodded slowly. “Most admirable, my fledgling.”

I
looked up at him again, and said, “Aye, you see the truth of
it, as do I, as do many others who appreciate and love my brother for
the good man that he is. But to others . . . .”

I
turned to gaze at the fire, my throat tight and sore, something big
and hurtful seething and raging within my chest, just below the
surface of my skin, at a level wherein I could control it, but just
barely. I glanced down to see my knife trembling in my aching hand,
and I relaxed my grip and went on:

“To-To
certain others, those who are blinded by stupidity and would see no
value in him regardless of what he does . . . to those others my
beloved little brother seems weak and faint-hearted and of little
worth. But it is not true!”

“But
you support Faramir with your love, and you care for him and protect
him,” Aragorn said, his tone gentle. “You have ever
protected him.”

“Aye!”
I shot back. “From those too lackwitted to see his value!”

“Like
Denethor?”

I
stared at him, struggling to find words for a despair so great I
rarely let myself fully feel it. I finally muttered, “Aye,”
and I was able to utter no further word on the matter.

Aragorn
looked as though he hadn’t expected me to be able to do so. He
merely lowered his eyes to my plate and gave my remaining dinner a
nod and said, “You must finish, my fledgling.”

Strange
how comforting his quiet, simple command was. Somehow it calmed me.
The comment was something one would say to a child, and a sudden
memory flashed forth –

“Finish
eating, Boromir.”

“Why?”

“Because
it is your duty. You need to grow big and strong if you plan to be a
great warrior of Gondor one day. Eat, sir.”

“Even
those green things?”

“Aye,
even those.”

“But
they are nasty, Thorongil.”

“Nevertheless.
Duty requires it, little one.”

“Sometimes
I do not like duty, Thorongil.”

“I
dare say.”

I
grinned at the memory, then to my utter shock, Aragorn suddenly said,
“Eat, sir. Duty requires it.”

I
gasped and shot him a stunned look and he burst into a chuckle,
grinning a positively roguish grin. I couldn’t help it. I
burst out laughing as well, my heaviness of heart instantly
vanishing. Of course, I sputtered out the only reply I could:

“Sometimes
I do not like duty, Thorongil.”

“I dare
say.”

And we laughed
again. I paused a bit before obeying just to gaze at him admiringly,
and then I did as he ordered, saying, “Now I would hear of
you.”

His
life told like a fanciful legend. He told it humbly, almost
apologetically, downgrading his heroism through much of it as though
uncomfortable with his valor and his own deeds. Such a life he’d
led! I found myself inwardly squirming at what suddenly seemed like
bluster on my part when I’d been speaking, but he hadn’t
seemed to think as much, so I tried to diminish the feeling.

When
he finished, then chuckled at my amazement, shrugging off his heroic
deeds yet again, we spoke on, enjoying each other’s company.
Hours later, long after our dinner remains had been taken away, when
the room glowed warmly with firelight and a cloud of smoke from his
pipe hovered white and sweet-smelling above us, we still sat talking
quietly. I could not recall the last time I’d felt so content,
so . . . safe. I had certainly never felt like this in Denethor’s
presence, even though I was the one he doted upon, while poor Faramir
. . . .

No!
I would not slip into that torment again! Not now. Not while
sitting here, sharing the company of this compelling man. I had felt
at ease with Aragorn this whole time, even when we paused for
occasional breaks, saying nothing. We would sit quietly, watching
the fire, and then one of us would start talking again, casually, as
if suddenly recalling more that we wanted to say . . . so much to
say.

Ethereal
voices blending in song now floated through the darkness outside.

“The
elves are singing in the Hall of Fire,” Aragorn said. “The
fires burn all year there. Songs are sung and great tales are told
long into the night.” He gave me a lazy smile. “Tonight
we share our own Hall of Fire, little fledgling.”

I
chuckled softly. “How can you continue to call me that?”
I asked, though I was surprised to notice that I didn’t mind it
at all.

“It
suits you.”

“Indeed
it does not!” I returned, still grinning. “Do I look
like a little fledgling to you?”

He
shifted his gaze to me and said with gentle seriousness, “Indeed.
I still say the name suits you.”

Stubborn
man! I laughed again. “It does not!”

“It
does.”

“No,
it does not!” Not that I cared, but he could be truly vexing.

A
short silence followed.

“Boromir,”
he finally said, gazing levelly at me, “it does.”

I
stared at him, ready to object again, but a suddenly smoldering
undercurrent in his manner and something glittering in his steady
gaze made me pause.

It
was unsettling. I did not like it. My throat felt dry and I
swallowed hard. And then I drew a calming breath. This was simple
enough to explain. His stubbornly determined air had simply . . .
surprised me. Few ever dared give me such a look. I was
unaccustomed to it. Little wonder I’d been startled to
silence. His reaction had surprised me and I did not like it and I
was unaccustomed to such treatment and this suddenly seemed a silly
thing to bicker over, even in good sport.

Of
course, the issue itself was not what had mattered. The
confrontation had, and the outcome. But I decided to be gracious
about this. Ridiculous small matter. I smirked and shrugged,
feigning indifference. I’d fashioned a casual response when he
spoke again:

“It
pleases me to call you that.” His gaze softened and he cast me
his ready, winning smile. “But fear not, little fledgling. I
shall try to refrain from doing so in front of others.”

Well.
There was a comfort indeed.

I
considered my reply. Unbefitting though it was, I genuinely did not
mind him calling me by that name. It even felt oddly soothing. A
strange warmth stirred in my chest to think that Aragorn wanted to
use that endearment, that it pleased him to preserve that affection
between us. But images of how four blithesome hobbits might respond
to hearing Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, called ‘little
fledgling’ made my cheeks burn. And if that comely elf ever
heard it! The burn now seared!

“You
do not mind it so very much, though, do you?” he suddenly
asked, and his glance told me that he already knew the answer.

Again
I was thrown, and I heard myself blurting out the honest truth, “No,
my lord.”

He
smiled suddenly. “You are a great lord yourself now, Boromir,
as I once told you you would be. Do you remember that day?”

“Of
course,” I replied.

Did
I remember that day? Aye, alas, the memory lived. I might not have
recognized Aragorn as Thorongil, but I would never forget him
leaving. After he’d ridden away I’d cried myself into a
stupor and my father had glared at me for days, thoroughly ashamed by
my behavior. And oh, the pain of his disapproval! I felt it still,
like a stab upon an old wound that had never fully healed.

My
heart quickened, fierce memories slamming into me: Thorongil,
abandoning me for something better, my despair and my bewilderment,
my confusion as to what I had done to make him want to take his
leave. Surely I had done something wrong. I’d made him want
to go away. My fault . . . my failing.

Then
came my father’s condemnation of my tears, the shame I felt at
disgracing him, my sudden loneliness and uncertainty and fear and my
anguish and longing for Thorongil, for his strong arms and his
understanding gaze and his patient willingness to explain things to
me. The pain of it had been shattering, and I had decided then and
there to do whatever I must, be whatever I needed to be in order to
avoid ever feeling that way again.

I
studied Aragorn now from the corner of my eye. He stared at the fire
as though working out some plan. What could he be thinking about?
The quest, no doubt. I pondered what it must feel like to be who he
was, Isildur’s Heir, a king without his throne, a wanderer,
living in self-imposed exile. In a way, I could imagine it . . . but
then again, I could not.

A
shadow returned to my mind, the feeling that Aragorn seemed neither
ready nor willing to embrace his destiny. After what he had told me,
I had to credit some of his mysterious reluctance to his upbringing.
From the age of two he had lived here in Rivendell with his mother,
becoming Lord Elrond’s adopted son and raised amongst these
elves. He was probably more akin to elves than to men in thought and
feeling.

So
how could Aragorn understand the needs of his own people after
spending his most tender years learning from these serene folk? The
early lessons are the most important and from what I had seen this
was not an ideal place to raise a young human warrior, a future king
of men.

Still,
the elves had indeed taught Aragorn well. Amongst his own people,
during his days as Thorongil in the service of my grandfather,
Aragorn had been a great warrior and leader, so I could hardly
question his upbringing. But could these elves have given a man the
same sense of duty to his people that he might have learned
surrounded by his own kind? Of course, his years with the Rangers
needed to be considered . . . he was such an enigma.

But,
in truth, all this meant little, to me at present. Aragorn was yet
the Thorongil I loved, and that was all that mattered to me. Perhaps
he was a man questioning his destiny, but Aragorn was no less the
valiant hero I’d loved, and loved still, even if he was a man
in search of himself.

I
did, however, wonder briefly how he viewed this question of the Ring.
I remembered my thoughts from earlier that day, before I’d
known Aragorn was Thorongil, thoughts that he could possibly be
convinced to favor Gondor’s cause. And it suddenly occurred to
me that, although Denethor had hurt my poor brother deeply yet again
by his heartless scorn, my father had been right to insist I travel
to Rivendell instead of Faramir. My stomach fluttered and shivers
danced along my veins.

This
had gone far better than I could ever have dreamed.

I,
not Faramir, had a childhood bond with Aragorn, a bond that stood
strong even to this day, therefore I now enjoyed a unique position to
effect the course of our journey. I could yet gain the Ring for
Gondor! If Aragorn could be influenced by anyone, I was best suited
to that task.

A
sudden horror slammed into me! What was I thinking? How could I
take advantage of our old attachment? It was unseemly to even
contemplate such a thing! What kind of man was I to consider
dishonoring the memory of all Thorongil had been to me merely for
gain?

I
struggled to work this out . . . did it come down to a choice between
defiling that memory by using it to sway Aragorn and hopefully gain
the Ring for Gondor, or to honor our past connection and thereby
abandon all hope for Gondor? There had to be an answer. I narrowed
my eyes at the fire, thinking.

Perhaps
I could help Aragorn and Gondor both. Even the strongest men
sometimes failed to consider the best possible outcome or to make the
most learned decision. I’d often won Denethor’s
admiration and regard by challenging him openly, confronting him with
what he may not have considered or did not wish to hear. Risking his
disapproval sometimes brought a sweet reward. Even if he chose not
to agree with me, Denethor had at least respected my courage in
opposing him. So, oddly enough, a bit of insubordination had often
worked in my favor.

“What
goes through your mind, my fledgling? You have the look of mischief
to you.”

I
flinched and glanced at Aragorn. He sat watching me with that soft,
agreeable smile and a gaze of pure affection. I recognized the look.
He used it often with the hobbits. I squirmed, astounded that I
could feel so immediately and deeply touched by that look.

“Ah,”
he murmured, “I see I am right. You still go silent when you
are caught planning naughtiness.”

Naughtiness?
Of all the irksome words! The man could be exasperating.

I
flashed him an exaggerated frown, saying, “Aragorn, for pity’s
sake, I am a full-grown man! I am no longer a boy, nor am I an
impish hobbit.” Heaving an indignant sigh, I then muttered, “I
hope you also plan to save this patronizing treatment for when we are
alone, or the others will never learn to respect my authority.”

He
sobered so suddenly I instantly felt I’d been overly harsh.
I’d begun to call up an apology, but just as suddenly he said,
“Your authority?”

A
hot spark shot through me. Again, that feeling I did not like surged
forth.

“Aye,
well, my authority as such . . . . ” No words formed in my
head.

“I
do not understand.”

Shifting
in my seat I replied, “Well, what I mean to say is . . . the
authority due me as . . . the authority any commander . . . I mean,
any . . . any . . . . As I am certain you agree . . . . ”

I
sounded absurd.

Aragorn
studied me, waiting. My throat went so dry I had to swallow hard. I
did not like this feeling!

He
wasn’t doing anything but watching me, patiently, without
emotion, without a frown of disapproval or judgment. Yet I could not
calm my hammering heart, nor could I seem to find my tongue.

Releasing
another low grunt from the back of his throat, Aragorn stood and
moved to the hearth, cleaning his pipe as he had before and laying it
again on the mantle. Then he turned to me again, his eyes bright
with an alarming gleam.

“This
is the very matter I came to speak with you about,” he said.

My
absurdity held. “What matter?”

The
alarming gleam deepened. “Before we leave Rivendell you and I
need to reach an understanding, Boromir. I refer to the chain of
command within our Fellowship.”

It
was my turn to watch him silently.

“Frodo
directs this quest,” Aragorn went on. “As Ringbearer he
decides our course. My role is to support Frodo in any way I can.”

“As
I understand it, that is a role we all share.”

“Indeed.
However, it is important that you also understand that, while
Gandalf guides our course and Frodo bears the Ring, I am to be obeyed
in all other matters.”

I
sat transfixed, wondering when this matter of leadership had been
decided. And for reasons surpassing my understanding, I became
slightly . . . vexed.

“Do
you understand what I mean?”

“Aye,”
I replied, trying to avoid feeling insulted.

“What
do I mean?”

I
wrestled my temper and promptly lost. “Surely you must know.”

He
simply watched me, a far more effective method of making me squirm
than if he’d become aggravated by my discourtesy.

In
truth I didn’t mean to challenge his authority. Not much. I
was, for the most part, willing to concede it to him. In my heart,
Thorongil yet lived in Aragorn and I meant no disrespect. But I
couldn’t help feeling a little vexed by his condescension. It
felt almost as if he was trying to provoke me, a ridiculous notion I
dismissed at once.

I
simply had a desire to show him that I could be of use, that my
opinions should be heard, and that I deserved a say in all matters.
I had much useful experience as Captain of the Guard, and I felt that
this quest would benefit from two strong leaders, if for no other
reason than to keep the dwarf and the elf from slaying each other.
For now, though, I would give him the answer he still awaited.

Stubborn,
stubborn man.

**********

“You
mean that you have assumed command of the Fellowship, and that your
authority is to be recognized and your orders obeyed.”

He
said it with a sigh of annoyance and a veneer of control so thin that
a slight tap might have shattered it. But that veneer would shatter
when I chose to tap it. For now I had just flicked it lightly to
test its strength, and my fledgling’s impertinence was firmly
in place.

I
thought carefully, anxious to deal with everything at once and fully
aware that Boromir had no idea the depth of all he had revealed to
me. I had ached to comfort him immediately, yet I knew what he
needed most while he spoke was my attention and my restraint. So I
had struggled throughout the evening, wishing I had Denethor before
me to answer for his cruelty to both his sons and fighting down my
own ferocious regrets at having left Boromir when he had been so
young and unable to understand.

But
I had reined in my desires thus far, so I could practice control a
bit longer for his sake. I had a specific purpose to accomplish
tonight. I would handle this carefully. I would do this right. My
fledgling deserved no less.

As
for his so called 'answer' I merely 'hmmed,' returned to my chair,
sat and faced him, saying, “I know this shall likely prove
difficult for you. You have much experience as a leader, so
accepting a subordinate role shall be hard. I do understand, and
before we go on I wish to say that the Fellowship is fortunate to be
joined by a warrior such as you. You are invaluable. I can think of
no other I would sooner choose for the quest, and even more so after
this night. I am glad of your company, Boromir.”

He
watched me, his eyes growing wider with my every word. He looked
plainly fascinated at my change in tone, wondering at it, and waiting
with wary curiosity to see where I planned to go next. I had meant
every word, though, and he needed to hear them, needed to know that I
saw his value and was thankful for his companionship before this
discussion became more difficult for him.

“However,”
I continued, “there are some basic matters you must fully
understand and accept before we move any further, for despite your
obvious devotion to a warrior’s code of ethics, you do possess
a mutinous air, my fledgling. I am certain you know of what I speak.
You have felt it, have you not, this inner struggle when I give you
an order?”

He
hesitated, a just response to feeling a bit cornered, but he was
honest. “Aye,” he finally muttered.

“When
you issue orders to your men you expect them to be obeyed.”

“Aye.”

“As
do I. Soon we shall be out in the wild. The others, Gimli, Gandalf
and Legolas are all well seasoned in the ways of battle --”

He
interrupted me with a snort of contempt. At my expectant look he
said, “Legolas? Seasoned?” Another snort.

“Ah,
I see,” I said, surprised that he would be so openly insulting
of someone he knew I regarded highly. A clear, if covert, affront.
His inner distress was beginning to surface.

“Do
not underestimate the elves. Think of your ancient lore. You may
not have had many dealings with these folk, nor care for them and the
strangeness of their ways, but do not judge them simply by their
looks. Legolas is an old and dear friend, and he is ruthless in
battle. Look deeper, my fledgling. Do not be taken in by
appearances.”

He
dropped his gaze, flushing, obviously troubled by his own intolerance
and even more troubled that he had displayed it to me and been
scolded for it. Ah, well. This was going to be an evening of
painful lessons for my fledgling.

“Perhaps
you feel that after this night of renewing old bonds it will be
easier for you to accept my leadership,” I continued.

Boromir
drew a long breath and let it out slowly, his jaw working. He truly
was trying to cooperate, hard as this had to be for him. “Perhaps.”

“And
then again, perhaps not.” He shifted in his seat again.
“Boromir, when I issue orders I expect to be obeyed. Can you
do that?”

His
color deepened. “Of course. I have done so.”

“You
have done so, aye, but whether you are aware of it or not, you resent
the subordinate role enough for it to be plain. True, you have not
confronted me openly, but much can be said by way of an underlying
hostility. I fear that soon your enmity will become so profound the
others will begin to detect it, if indeed they have not already begun
to do so, despite the fact that, at present, you disguise your
displeasure in softer raiment.”

Immediately
he squared off, ready to object, but I quickly added, “Boromir,
of course you resent having to submit to a higher authority. You are
accustomed to command. And, although this night has meant much to us
both, I see no reason to believe it will change your nature.”

He
shot up and paced a few steps, then spun to face me, sputtering, “Why
do you think tha --”

“Sir,"
I said firmly, "I did not, ‘assume’ command as you
scornfully implied. Such language suggests that I forcibly seized
the position regardless of what others might think. The position, in
fact, was awarded me, yielded me by all, understood and accepted by
all because I am the one best suited to it. So you see, this night
has not fully driven all thoughts of rebellion from you.”

He
clearly ached to challenge my statement, but he was unable to do so.
His disquietude grew, a flurry of emotions crossing his strong
features whilst he shifted his weight from one leg to the other,
plainly bewildered and uncertain as to what to do with himself,
reminding me yet again of that little boy of old, as he had so often
this night. I felt for him, but we had far yet to go.

“Sit
down,” I said. “We are not finished.”

He
glanced at me as though I had just announced his doom, but he obeyed.
He would certainly rally his defenses, but I was ready. I waited a
few moments, letting him settle himself, before I spoke again.

“We
needs settle this matter now, before it becomes worse.”

He
made no response.

“It
will indeed become worse.”

Again,
no reply.

“Do
you not agree?”

His
few nods were small and grudging.

“I
did not hear you.”

He
raised his head with a snarl and snapped, “AYE! I-I don’t
know that I agree with all you have said, but, aye! All right! Very
well! If indeed something needs to be settled as you say, let us do
so now!”

I
allowed a suitable silence to build, his harsh words hanging heavily
in the room, then I said in a stern tone, “Look at me, sir.”

He
closed his eyes as if this was absolutely more than he would bear,
but then he opened them quickly and fired me a furious look.

“Do
I look like a hobbit?”

Boromir
went scarlet, dropping his gaze to glare at the table. “No,
sir.”

“Boromir!”
He shot me a quick look ere I could issue him yet another order to
do so. “No, I am not a hobbit, so do not snarl at me. Address
me with courtesy and respect, as I do you. And I trust you shall
choose to treat all others with the same respect, be they man, elf,
dwarf or little hobbit.”

My
poor fledgling was positively red-faced. It was difficult to watch
him suffer a humiliation he had brought upon himself. I did not
enjoy this. But I wouldst not permit Boromir to treat anyone with
such disrespect. Earlier today when he had barked at Pippin, Boromir
had wounded himself as much as he had wounded the little one, perhaps
even more so. Aye, this was difficult for both of us. But I was
committed to doing for Boromir what needed to be done. So I waited,
watching him wage war within himself, struggling to let him work this
out, and ready to respond in any number of ways.

My
fledgling was made of strong stuff. He cast a long sideways glare at
the fire, closed his eyes and opened them slowly, then turned to me.
“Please forgive me, my lord,” he said, coldly
dispassionate. “I was unmannerly and spoke with disrespectful
harshness. I am sorry.”

Again,
he surprised me. Of course he was fairly quivering with unspoken
bitterness, his words a bit shaky, but it surprised me that he had
been able to say them at all.

I
longed to jump up and haul him from his chair and hug him senseless,
but I merely smiled and said, “'Tis alright, my fledgling. You
are forgiven. Think no more on't.”

He
released a breath and shifted his shoulders. They looked stiff and
tight. I imagined they were by now. “Pippin needs to hear
those words from you as well,” I told him. “Do you not
agree?”

He
nodded. “Aye. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

“Good.”
I grinned suddenly. “You know, for all you disdain Legolas,
the two of you have much in common.” He frowned at me, clearly
having never expected to have heard such a thing, nor particularly
happy to be hearing it. I chuckled. “He has a fearful temper
and little control over it as you saw in council.”

My
words affected him as I had hoped. He stared at me, his eyes wide,
then he burst out laughing. I went on: “I feared he would not
be able to sit still without jumping up and losing his elvish
reserve. Especially when he was seated so closely to the dwarves.”

We
both chuckled in short bursts, Boromir releasing some of his tension
nicely. I felt a twinge of guilt, making my beloved elfling the
subject of some teasing when he was not there to defend himself, but
I accepted the swat of self-reproach. I was speaking nothing but the
truth.

“I
kept waiting for them to come to blows,” Boromir said.
“Although it was he who held back his companions when they shot
to their feet.”

“True,
and I could scarce believe it. I was proud of him.”

“Well,
he’d already been admonished once by you in front of all. I
vow he did not wish to invite more.”

“I
regretted having to do so, but I had not expected that he would turn
his ill-temper upon my fledgling.”

“Insolent
elf!”

“Ohhh,"
I grinned and gazed off fondly. "He has ever been so.”

Boromir
quieted, relaxed now. He studied me with interest, clearly curious
about my fond gaze. “You have known each other long,” he
asked, endearingly casual.

“Aye,"
I grinned again, softly. "A long time. Legolas and I have
traveled many paths together.”

My
fledgling became even more charmingly jealous, asking with veiled,
barely controlled envy, “And does this proud prince of Mirkwood
ever rebel against your authority? He backed down easily enough in
council.”

Aye,
Legolas had indeed backed down, but not before he had behaved badly,
disrupting the fragile peace of Elrond’s Council. Part of me
itched to inform Boromir that Legolas had already answered to me for
his little show of temper, and that my elfling was at this moment
likely spending an uncomfortable evening standing up in the Hall of
Fire.

Revealing
to Boromir that Legolas sometimes ended up over my knee might have
made this easier for both of us. He would have perhaps been
comforted in knowing that he was not alone in this, that the proud
elf already submitted to it.

I
spanked Legolas for his often ill-planned choices and his wayward
temper and for reasons that had to do with a need for attention, but
he did not challenge my authority. If my temperamental elf stayed
true to his nature on our quest, Boromir might learn his secret, but
I would not break that trust to make my present task easier.

“Legolas
sometimes rebels, but he seldom needs to be reminded of who is in
charge.”

Boromir
nodded and a silence fell. I could let this go no longer. But, as
he ever seemed able to do, my fledgling surprised me yet again.

“I
know how you remind the hobbits who is in charge,” he suddenly
murmured.

I
cast him a glance. He kept his gaze on the fire and said, “You
spank them.”

I
watched him in silent astonishment.

“I
overheard them talking several days ago,” he went on. “I
was sitting in a grove, near a statue that was overgrown with thick
foliage, so I was hidden from their view when they happened by,
chattering as they often do. I couldn’t see them, but I-I
accidentally heard what they were saying.”

“Go
on.”

He
narrowed his eyes, gazing off as though watching what had happened
and flushing slightly. “Sam wanted to stop and let Frodo rest
on a stone bench nearby, but Frodo insisted he was fine and he told
Sam to stop fussing, and Merry laughed and said that he knew why
Frodo didn’t want to sit on that stone bench, to which Pip of
course asked why.”

I
smiled to myself, remembering the day exactly and knowing how Frodo’s
bottom became so sore.

“Sam
insisted that Frodo needed a rest," Boromir continued. "He
said, ‘Here, Mr.
Frodo, you can sit here on my lap, nice and cushioned.’ Merry
howled with laughter and said, ‘Sam,
you grow more Tookish everyday! Frodo doesn’t want near any
laps right now. Do you, Frodo?’”

I
chuckled and Boromir grinned in spite of himself. Still staring off,
he went on.

“Pippin
was now beside himself. He demanded to know what was going on, and
then, suddenly, he paused in mid-fuss and said, ‘Oh.
Oh, I see. Oh, dear! Poor Frodo!’”
I was about to go find out what was wrong with the little one, see
if he needed any help, but Frodo quickly said, ‘Pip,
stop it. I’m fine.’ But
Pippin pressed on, saying, ‘Was
it a bad one, Frodo? I mean, a long one?’

“Sam
now sounded close to clouting Pip. ‘For
pity’s sake,” he
cried. “Leave him alone! Can’t you see he’s
blushing enough?’ And then Merry said, ‘They’re
all bad ones, you Took.’
And Pippin muttered, ‘Aye,
that’s true.’”

I
had not stopped chuckling since he began. “Go on!” I
again implored.

“Well,
by now my curiosity was burning, and I nearly stepped out to ask them
what they were yammering about, but a moment later Frodo said,
calmly, ‘It was a
spanking, Pip, like any we’ve all had from Strider from time to
time. And, yes, my backside is sore right now, but it always is for
awhile after he's spanked me. I’ll be fine.’”

Boromir
paused to shake his head in amazement. “I was sure I had not
heard them aright, but then they went on! Pip said, ‘Aye,
true, we’ve all suffered Strider's expert spankings. But some
seem worse to me than others.’
They all agreed to this, and then they started discussing which
'Strider spankings' were the most memorable for each of them!”

'Strider
spankings!' I laughed loudly. That would have been an interesting
discussion. Boromir gazed at me with mildly amused astonishment.
“To hear them talk! Do you spank these little ones every day?”

It
took me a moment to recover from laughing anew at that. Finally I
shook my head and choked out, “Nay, o-only when needed, but
that does seem to be often.”

Boromir
was now laughing aloud, too. It felt good, sharing such merriment
with him. We had been struggling though difficult matters, with
bigger matters yet to come, so this bit of enjoyment was most
welcome. The little ones had once again charmed my path.

“You
tell a story well, sir,” I said, our chuckling winding down.
“And I do discipline the hobbits in just that way, as you may
find yourself wanting and needing to do sometime.”

“Spank
a hobbit?” He looked startled.

"Indeed.
It might be the very thing they need from you, sir."

"I
could never sp --"

“Do
you care about them?” I asked. “Would you do anything
you could to see they obeyed you and therefore remained safe?”

Then
he paused and thought for a moment. “Aye.”

“Does
it seem overly harsh to you? After all, they may look like children,
but they are adults . . . at least, I think Pippin is an adult."
I knit my brow, pondering. "I am not certain of that.”

Again,
he thought this over. Then Boromir fired me a glance, his eyes
widening fast. He shot to his feet and began to wander aimlessly and
with sudden edginess. “Well, n-no . . . no it doesn’t
seem overly harsh. True, though not children from what I have seen
thus far they sometimes act like little boys.”

“Naughty
little boys.”

He
stopped and fired me a frown. “That’s a wretched word,
Aragorn.”

I
chuckled. “But to the point.” Grinning at his wince, I
said, “The first time I spanked them they were furious before
hand. Then, after I had finished with each one and they all were
comforted and sore-bottomed, they promptly fell asleep.”

Boromir
watched me, stunned. “They fell asleep?”

“They
were exhausted and frightened and alone, with no direction and no one
to guide their next move. I had been watching for them, knowing they
were due to arrive in Bree, and that Gandalf was not there to meet
them. I had to get them and the Ring safely here.”

A
sudden memory surged forth – Frodo, small and wary and utterly
beautiful, sitting hunched over in that dark common room, a lost
sweet lamb amongst a rowdy pack of hungry wolves. I shook my head.
“You should have seen them, Boromir. Four halflings in that
dangerous Inn, alone and acting like --”

“Heedless
halflings,” he said in a hushed voice, resuming his seat with a
groan of dismay, his eyes full of dread.

“Aye.
And they tried to challenge me.”

He
made a sound of disbelief. “No. They did not!”

“Aye.”

“Faith!
The little bratlings!”

“Mmm.
Of course, I was a stranger, and a scruffy-looking stranger, so they
were simply being cautious. But I could not hope to safely transport
four insubordinate hobbits all the way here without establishing some
discipline from the start. I had to assume authority over them.”

Boromir
froze, his gaze locked on mine. It seemed he was barely breathing.
Then he shot to his feet once more, again too flustered to be still,
pacing a short path, his arms stiff at his sides, ending in tight
fists. He anxiously cleared his throat with a feigned cough, and
said, “Well, perhaps I was wrong.”

“You
were not wrong.”

“After
all, they are, as you say, adults.”

“What
does being an adult have to do with this?”

“Spanking
them does seem overly harsh.”

“Boromir.”

“They
needed to be treated with honor and, and dignity.”

“They
needed to understand what would happen should they rebel, my
fledgling. They needed to know that I would not tolerate them
endangering themselves or any of us because of stubbornness or
foolishness. They needed to know that I was in charge."

I
stood and blocked his path and grabbed him by his muscled arms to
halt his mad pacing. Holding him steady, I looked at him and said,
"And, just as importantly, they needed to know that I was
concerned for them. I honored them with my care and attention."
I sighed. "Indeed, I should have disciplined them more,
because it was their disobedience that resulted in Frodo’s
stabbing and near-death.”

Boromir
scowled and shot back, “But to use such a method! You could
have simply demanded that they accept your authority and that would
have been enough!”

Ah.
Finally. My opening.

“Is
it enough for you?”

Boromir
simply stared at me, his mouth open slightly. Then in a small voice
he murmured, “Aye.”

I
watched him. “Is it, my fledgling?”

He
made no reply.

“Boromir,”
I said calmly, “it is one thing to say you accept something, to
know in your mind why it is necessary, but it is another thing to
accept it in your heart and take it deep inside of you.”

I
felt him trembling. He shook his head ever so slightly, seemingly
dazed, yet in his glistening eyes I saw an understanding he could not
conceal. But he was appalled, and a moment later he pulled back from
me as though my touch burned him. I released his arms, but I held
his gaze.

“As
you do with Legolas, you also have much in common with the little
ones. They needed to be shown who was in charge and so do you, my
fledgling. I intend to see it done so that no question of my
authority remains in your mind.”

“A-Aragorn
. . . .” He stared at me. “You cannot mean to --”

“I
do.”

“Y-You
cannot be serious!”

“I
am.”

He
breathed a soft, “No. I shall not permit you --”

I
gave him a quiet, knowing grin. “Aye. You shall permit it.
You are a man of good sense, and you see the sense of this, although
you wish you did not. Boromir, I care about you as much as I care
about the halflings, and I plan to do everything possible to see that
no harm comes to you. Aye, this shall be hard, but it shall be done,
now, and as often as is needed.”

He
flinched at that, his gaze becoming even more startled. I continued
casting him a soft grin, and I took hold of his arm right behind the
elbow, saying, “Deny it to yourself if you like, but deep
inside you know that I am right in this, and you know that what I am
about to do is just. So come, my wise little fledgling. Do not give
me trouble. Accept what must be.”

******

“Boromir.”

“Not
much further.”

“You
said that a while ago, young sir.”

“Almost
there.”

“If
I have to ask again we shall stop and attend to matters here in the
middle of this path.”

I
did not care to imagine how he thought to do that.

“Or,
we will return to your chambers and I shall attend to you as I am
beginning to think I should have last night.”

“Please,
Aragorn, not much further. Look! This is where I left the path
yesterday morning.”

He
released the dissatisfied grunt I was coming to know all too well.
“And how long must we now battle through this forest?”

“The
hidden glade I told you of is not far.”

“You
said that a while ago, young sir.”

But
we truly were almost there, and as I led Aragorn through Rivendell’s
now somewhat familiar hinterland I tried to keep from thinking of why
we were headed for the secluded grove I’d spent most of
yesterday pacing.

I
could scarce believe this was happening. I couldn’t fathom
what he was about to do to me, what he’d nearly done to me last
night before I’d shamelessly begged him for quarter --

He
had already taken a firm grip on my arm and was leading me to the bed
when I shook from my daze, panic smacking into me. Not only did he
mean to do this at that very moment, but he was also planning to
position me as he had when I was a boy of four – upended and
over his lap! And would he lower my breeches as well? Probably so!
I went breathless with fear.

I
would sooner have faced all the orcs in Mordor than to submit to
this! I had sought some way to gainsay him, something other than I
was a warrior, an adult, a respected Captain of Gondor and, and, and
. . . I did not want to be spanked!

But
Aragorn’s detestable reasoning was sound, curse his loathsome
Ranger’s hide. He’d masterfully woven me right into the
fabric of his flawless design. I had even provided him some thread
with my little tale of hobbit spankings. Then he’d finished me
off by appealing to my sense of integrity and fairness. I’d
desperately wished I had neither.

Vile,
obstinate, clever man! Nevertheless, Aragorn was right – his
authority must be absolute. I’d shuddered, knowing what my
agreement meant and what he demanded I now face. Worst of all, I
knew that I would indeed submit to it.

But
at that moment when panic hit, my stomach clenched, instinct had
surged forth and I’d yanked my arm from Aragorn’s grasp.

He had paused and
turned to me with raised brows and a look of mild perplexity and I’d
just stood there, gaping at him, too overcome to speak. Of course, I
had no argument to offer him. But I’d seen Faramir in that
spanking position often enough to conjure a fine image of what was
about to take place and, well, panic is panic. That vision was all
that filled my mind, making integrity and fairness costly notions.

Aragorn
gave me a quiet smile full of understanding that fairly murmured, ‘I
know you did not intend to do so foolhardy a thing as pull away from
me, my fledgling, so we shall not speak of it. Now, come.’
And he again took my arm and began hauling me towards the bed.

Again I’d panicked, dug in my heels, and
blurted, “Aragorn, no, please! Not here! Not in my chambers!”

He
seemed less than pleased. “Boromir --”

“Please!
I grant you all of what you are saying! I do! And I shall submit
to-to-to . . . this. Valar help me, I shall! But-But . . . .”
I rasped on in a hushed voice as though all of Rivendell was
listening. “Please, just not here! There are too many others
about, others who may . . . may . . . .”

“Hear
something?” He studied me with interest. “Do you plan
to make a ruckus?”

“No!”

“Pippin
makes a dreadful ruckus.”

“I
do not plan to make a --”

“Two
or three swats and he is already starting to bellow.”

I
huffed an indignant sigh. Bellow indeed! I had resolved to not make
a sound, not one solitary sound. But then, I had no way of knowing
what to expect, and I strongly desired more privacy than my chambers
afforded for whatever this detestable Ranger’s efforts might
enkindle. “I assure you, sir, I certainly do not intend to bel
--”

“I
vow, all of Rivendell knows it when Master Took is over my knee.”

Oh,
he was really having fun now. I groaned and tried to stop listening
with the result that I listened all the more.

“Later,
when Pip has recovered, the more sympathetic elves will pat his
little bottom and offer words of solace as he passes.”

“Aragorn
--”

“He
seems comforted.”

“Please,
sir!” He paused. “I beseech you!” I said
hurriedly. “This – this . . . beleaguering . . . .”
I paused to sigh, then: “I shall submit to . . . to your
discipline. I shall. But, please, I beg you, not here. And your
jesting tone, sir, I . . . th-this is difficult enough as it is.”

Immediately
his gaze softened. “Forgive me. I wouldst not make this more
difficult for you, my fledgling. But exactly what do you suggest?”

Panic
shook me again and I thundered, “I do not know!”

He
frowned. Sincerely. “Your tone, Boromir,” he finally
said. “I understand that you are distraught, but this is no
time to test my patience.”

“Nor
do I intend to do so,” I replied with far more composure than I
felt. “And I apologize for my tone. I have no other solution
to this, but surely there must be something . . . .”

He
sighed and glanced outside. “We shall find no privacy in the
dark of night. Torches light the pathways and gardens, and I do not
think you want this to take place under torchlight.”

Torchlight!
Whilst stumbling back to the settlement earlier I had longed for a
torch - I knew of a private place! But, would he . . . . ?

"Aragorn,
must we do this now?" I blurted . "Right now?”

He
looked at me.

“I
know a secluded place where we can go, but we will needs wait until
daylight to find it.”

Aragorn
lifted his chin a bit and narrowed his eyes, contemplating me
closely.

“It's
where I had been all day, a private glade off to the north,
surrounded by trees and bushes, and there is a rock ledge, near the
exact same shape and size of a --” I glanced at the bed, my
face burning, then I shook my head quickly to rid myself of the
image.

“You
are suggesting that we wait until morning to do this?”

“Aye!”

He
looked skeptical. “This plan seems ill-considered. You are
likely to get little sleep tonight, knowing what the dawn will
bring.”

A
fair point. But frankly, any delay was tempting at the moment. “So
be it.”

Again
he turned a thoughtful look outdoors. “Is it far, this place
of seclusion?”

I
swallowed. It was. But he might refuse if he knew that. “No.”
I shrugged. “Not far.”

“If
it is not far --” He turned to me with a shrewd glance. “--
then why go? I thought your goal was to put distance between us and
the curiosity of others.”

Again
my stomach clenched. “It is perhaps . . . a bit . . . far.”

He
shook his head slowly and gave me such a stern frown that I feared he
would yank me across his knee that moment. “You are making a
poor case for yourself, my naughty fledgling. This is an unfortunate
way to begin.”

“I
know,” I muttered on a sigh, ready to suffer the defeat I’d
earned, my hatred of that one detestable word growing hotter.

“However,”
he went on, “I know this is very hard for you. So, I agree to
wait until morning. I shall come for you at dawn. I assume you can
again find this place you speak of?”

I’d
assured him that I could. And last night Aragorn had been proven
right yet again. I’d suffered a sleepless night waiting for
the morn and my horrible fate . . . .

It
made no sense that I should be so drenched with dread. The entire
matter annoyed me. I grew more and more angry with myself. It was
only a spanking. How bad could that be? I tried to talk myself out
of my fear but I hadn’t been able to resolve myself to what
Aragorn was planning. Not all night. As each hour had dragged by
and flown by my fear remained steadfast. Only a spanking? It became
a fearsome word to even contemplate.

Finally,
during the last weary dark hour before pre-dawn, my anger drifted
away and reason again resurfaced and I grasped the simple truth of
why I’d failed to conquer my fear. Of course, I’d known
the answer all along, from the moment Aragorn had told me what he
intended to do to me – I’d dreaded the embarrassment.
Pain wasn’t the factor. The humiliation was. I may still
indeed be Aragorn’s little fledgling, but I was also an adult.
I admired Aragorn. And he was going to turn me over his knee and
spank me. Every time I thought of it I winced.

Little
wonder I was drenched in dread. And although I always loved
awakening just before dawn, this morning when the sky began to
lighten and the birds began their songs I’d sincerely hated
both. When Aragorn's quiet knock came I had near shot through the
ceiling.

Tromping
through Rivendell’s lush grounds, my stomach twisting, each
step bringing us closer to my terrible fate, I’d felt groggy
and ill. Clearly I looked it as well. At one point Aragorn took
hold of my arm and stopped me.

“Boromir,
are you unwell?”
he asked, full of concern. “You are too pale. Perhaps we
should return.”

I’d
immediately brightened. Return? A reprieve? Aye! Indeed! Let us
return! I endeavored to look even more poorly. He knew it at once.

“Aye,
it is all right, my fledgling,” he
said, a glitter of cleverness in his gaze. “We
can do this back in your chambers, or in mine.”

“N-No!”
I had sputtered.
“No, my lord. I’m fi –”

“Boromir!”

I
walked into a tree branch, Aragorn’s bark yanking me back to
the moment. It sounded like his patience had positively expired.
“Just ahead!” I cried. “Here! We’re here!”

Shoving
through the last line of saplings, we entered my secluded glade and I
whirled to face him, a grin on my face. Then I suddenly wondered why
I was grinning.

*************

Another
moment of this endless tramping and I would have hauled him by the
scruff of his neck all the way back to Rivendell and blistered his
deserving backside in front of all and sundry. I would have been
tempted to feel misled if I believed Boromir foolhardy enough to try
it, but he was no fool, so surely this secluded place he had spoken
of was somewhere within Rivendell’s borders. I was, however,
beginning to have my doubts.

Although
it had taken longer than I had hoped it would have to reach his
sheltered glade, it was indeed a good place for Boromir to receive
his first spanking from me. He looked boyishly pleased with himself.
Then he remembered why we were here and his beaming smile vanished.

His
face paled with the same terror he had worn last night. I had
expected no less. He was struggling to be a model of grace in
adversity, but this was a bit much even for a seasoned Gondorian
Captain. Orcs, traitorous wizards, Dark Lords, monstrous vile things
of the night he would face. But this impending lesson over my knee
was splintering the nerve of my mighty fledgling, and I would prolong
his suffering no longer.

I
felt his watchful gaze as I strolled to the large stone ledge he had
described. Indeed, it would serve my purpose well. Sitting down, I
ran a palm over its smooth surface, so perfect and welcoming, as were
all things found within these lands, a living entity. I slid back
enough to leave a space beside me, room enough for his broad chest to
rest upon. Aye, this would suit well.

I
turned and studied him. My poor fledgling looked overwrought,
exhausted from what had no doubt been a sleepless night, yet he was
also still cleverly alert, as proven when he tried to beguile me into
inappropriate sympathy. Little brat. I had nearly laughed.

How
young he suddenly looked, standing there, trying not to sway with
fatigue. He had been dressing when I came to fetch him at first
light, but I bid him wear only what he had already donned – his
shirt, breeches and boots. It would save me burrowing beneath
tedious layers of clothing to find my target.

And
somehow he looked more youthful now without his mail and his
Gondorian finery, my powerful but anxious young warrior, struggling
so hard to be stalwart. How like Legolas he was. How appealingly
like my beloved elfling.

I
crooked a finger at him. He did not move. I gave him a moment.

“Aragorn
--” he began.

“At
once, sir,”

“But
--”

“You
do not want to make me fetch you.”

Eyes
downcast, he released a small shudder and moved towards me on
stiff-looking legs, crossing the small expanse separating us.
Flashes of what he might be feeling fired through me, snatches of
what Legolas had shared after the first time I had spanked him:

“When
my stomach hit your thighs and I fully felt that position over your
knees, ai, Aragorn!”

Boromir
was likely anticipating that right now. It was one thing for him to
imagine a small hobbit stretched across my lap; envisioning himself
there would be fairly devastating. He was quivering within, shaken
by feelings he had not experienced in many long years. And we had
not yet even begun.

When
he was close enough I clasped his arm and yanked. He flinched.

“Shh,”
I murmured. “You have been over my lap before and survived the
experience.”

“Aye,”
he croaked. “But I . . . I fit the experience differently.”

“My
lap is still sufficient for one little boy.”

“But,
my-my lord . . . I am not . . . not a little . . . I may not fit --”

“Hush,”
I said. “Let us see.”

I
gave a firm tug and drew him down, situating us both until he lay
spread across my thighs, his upper body resting along the rock on one
side to make him feel more secure, his legs draping behind him. He
was heavier than my elfling, of course, but he felt good over my lap,
nicely solid, and I was surprised that his weight did not bother me
at all. I smiled. Ah, how satisfying to feel my fledgling back here
where he belonged, safe over my lap.

“You
fit excellently well,” I said eager to share my enthusiasm with
him. He gasped, harsh and low, muttering something I was not meant
to hear and was grateful I had not. “Are you comfortable?”

He
stiffened slightly, then rasped, “Comfortable? Am I
comfortable? You are concerned for my comfort?”

“Of
course,” I said. “And I am being polite.”

Again
he muttered to himself and I grinned anew, lifted his shirt and
grabbed the waist of his breeches, expecting the protest that
instantly followed.

“No!
Ah! Aragorn! Please! Must you . . . must you --”

“Must
I pull down your breeches?”

He
made a grating sound deep in his throat.

“Is
that what you meant?” I went on, allowing him the experience he
had invited with his question. “Must I pull down your breeches
and spank you on your bare bottom?”

He
buried his face in his open palms and released a strangled gasp. In
a way I longed to comfort him. But Boromir's embarrassment was part
of this humbling ritual and I intended to make certain he felt his
exquisite squirming to the utmost.

“Answer
me, sir. You would rather I did not pull down your breeches and bare
your bottom, is that right?”

“Aye!”
he shouted. "Aragorn, please!"

I
let his cry hang above us for a long moment, enough to make him
cringe inside, then I lightly scolded him. “Mind your tone,
little one.” He sucked a sharp breath at my term, and I
pressed on: “Allow me to save you the effort of further
protest. I shall never spank you with your breeches up, my
fledgling. I do not spank breeches. I spank naughty backsides. And
there’s an end to it. Do you understand?”

Oh,
indeed he did. And he certainly did not want me to elaborate further
on the topic.

“Aye,”
he quickly said, his tone most polite. “Aye, my lord, I
understand.”

I
continued on, slowly lowering his breeches and when the cool air hit
his backside he groaned once more, softly, as though in anguish. In
a very real way, he was. I was certain that his blood pumped
furiously, his limbs trembled, and he was enduring numerous
sensations against which he had little defense, all painful reminders
that he was not in control here. It was time to add my own painful
reminders.

I
pressed my palm down on the small of his back, stabilizing him, a
gesture of reassurance, not restraint, and rested my hand on his
rounded bottom. How different his backside was than a soft little
hobbit bottom, or a slim, smooth-skinned and perfect elvish bottom.
Mmmm . . . aye, Boromir was indeed very different from my Legolas in
this respect. My fledgling’s backside was much more muscular.
I could not resist giving it a few little fond pats.

But
he was truly shaking now. I made him wait no longer. I raised my
hand and brought it down with a smart crack. He jumped at the first
swat. They always do. That initial whack is shocking, not just the
hot sting upon quivering flesh, but the intense intimacy of it.

I
held nothing back, moving into a steady spanking rhythm, something
that would help him cope. Each spank brought an involuntary flinch,
and as time wore on and his backside began to warm and glow, a small
explosion of breath accompanied each flinch.

Clearly
he had resolved to not cry out. That was all right. Legolas usually
began with the same resolve, stubbornly stoic despite his discomfort,
so unlike the wriggling, kicking halflings. The little ones are
honest about what they are feeling, Pippin in particular. A spanking
stung, and they surrendered to that fact, admitting their discomfort
with charming openness.

Boromir
was struggling inside though, mightily, and despite his determination
to appear unaffected my fledgling would not be released from my lap
until he had surrendered. It took a warrior longer to reach that
point than it did a halfling and I understood that. I understood all
too well.

No
matter. I would wait.

*************

Fury
helped me carry on at the beginning. Thank the Valar something had.
I focused on that and on my resentment of Aragorn, what he had the
audacity to be doing. And I cursed my stupidity, at how easily he’d
led me into this . . . aye, focus on that anger, on that, and on how
humiliating this position was. A jolt shot through me when my
stomach hit his thighs and it had taken a sheer act of will to remain
where I was when he drew down my breeches. Devastating, all of it.

And
now . . . now Isildur's heir was spanking me. He had been spanking
me steadily for some time and I . . . I was running out of fury.
Embarrassment was quickly becoming an unimportant matter. Now all I
longed to do was writhe and squirm and wriggle away from his
relentless spanking hand, pride be cursed!

Yet
I still wouldn’t allow myself to do such humiliating things,
except . . . I-I had inadvertently bucked up a bit, and Aragorn had
held me down more firmly, reminding me that I didn't want to be doing
that anyway, thank you, Isildur's heir. But now . . . now the anger
and the shame were being driven from me with each increasingly biting
swat.

None
of this made sense. A spanking could not hurt this much! It
couldn’t! This was a child’s chastisement! How did the
hobbits withstand it? How could they jest about it and tease each
other about it, this harrowing, endless, fiery experience?

Had
they really suffered this more than once? And how could they be so
foolish as to invite this again after enduring it the first time?
Were their wee bottoms as tough as the bottoms of their furry feet?
Was that possible? No. No of course not. Well, not likely. But
just how did they withstand this? How?

Was
I more delicate than a hobbit?

Aragorn
had to be spanking me harder than he did them. Had to be. He
couldn’t do this to a sweet little halfling! He was a fiend,
but he wasn’t that fiendish. The poor creatures would scarce
be able to walk afterwards, much less ever sit again. For that
matter, would I? So much for my sheer act of will.

I’d
lost track of how long he’d been at this . . . hours now.
Hours. It had to be hours. I tried to blink away my blurred vision
to judge the length of the shadows . . . no. No, impossible that
they looked no shorter now than when we’d arrived here hours
and hours ago! Not possible. Not. I simply couldn’t see well
enough; my vision was too glassy with unshed tears. But I refused to
reach up and wipe them away. I would not. I clenched my fists. No!
I would not.

I
had fought so hard to hold back any traitorous weeping. But after a
while my tears listened to my blazing backside instead of my will and
a few wet drops had splashed down onto the stone beneath my face.
Still, he need not know . . . he couldn’t see them. I was
braced up on my elbows, my head hanging down, my hair blessedly
covering my face. Aragorn couldn’t see that wetness beneath my
face, and he wouldn’t! I wouldn't allow him to.

My
jaw ached from gritting my teeth. Throbbing waves radiated up
towards my back and down the tops of my thighs, although he’d
only struck my backside . . . again and again and again, over and
over, tirelessly, over and over. If only I could’ve gone numb.
But, no. Nooo, of course, my behind only became more tender as he
went on, and on, and on, and on . . . untold numbers of swats for
hours and hours and hours now. Made sense it would hurt more . . .
sting upon sting upon sting.

Aragorn
had to tire! How could he be this relentless? How was he able to
sustain such an unwavering, forceful swing when every one of my
muscles now ached and quivered with weariness? How could he not
tire?

I
wasn’t sure I could bear much more. I would not dishonor
myself and stop him by force. I could of course, but I couldn’t.
I really could not. And I wouldn’t. No, no, no, nooooo, I
would not! But surely, oh please, surely this was enough!

I
had to make it stop. I had to do something. This was too awful, too
endless, too smothering, too blinding and big.

He
wanted me to yield. Very well! So be it. I’d yield, and
gladly!

Curse
my weakness and his inflexible need to control! Curse my helpless
position and his power to demand what he wished! Aye, I’d
yield. I’d stop this. I’d force my frenzied mind to
focus, form a dignified plea for leniency, and he’d have my
dratted assurance that I’d accept his authority.

The
sound of his voice hardly seemed real.

“Such
lonely, silent tears . . . ah, my poor, beloved fledgling.”

************

My
words had their predictable effect. Boromir went rigid, even more
rigid than he had been; then he collapsed. He melted down from his
elbows, crossed his arms before him and dropped his head to them with
a gut-wrenching sob.

At
last.

Even
in his submission he struggled for some measure of control, muffling
his first low and desperate sobs into his arms. It was not to be,
though, for his surrender hit him too hard and it was too powerful to
hide or contain.

Within
moments he raised his head and gulped shuddering intakes of air
between raw, bursting cries. I slowed my swats and began rubbing
circles on his lower back.

“Shhhh
. . . easy . . . breathe, little one . . . shhhhh.”

‘Little
one’ befit him now. At this moment Boromir was as defenseless
as the last time he had been over my knee at the age of four, and he
was likely even more fragile. He desperately needed to hear that
endearment, know that it was permissible to be so weakened and
vulnerable. Impossibly hard feelings for one such as my fledgling.
His weeping, once started, grew louder and more frenzied.

But
he was right where he needed to be, where I wanted him to be.

I
stopped spanking entirely and rested my palm over his hot and
fiercely red bottom. He truly had taken a lot but, sensing his
limits, I had brought him right to the edge of them. He trembled
now, nearly depleted, and I began speaking softly to him, simple
words that had oft brought comfort to hobbit and elf alike: “Shhhh
. . . breathe . . . listen to my voice now. Good sweetling, you did
so well, I am so proud of you . . . shhhh . . . .”

I
kept him there, safe over my lap, and I continued murmuring to him,
giving him time to find his breath and simply abandon himself to his
exhausted weeping, his head buried in his arms, his hair shielding
his face. He needed to be calm enough to listen now. Hopefully he
was sufficiently spent in both body and mind and had nothing left to
fight me with, for indeed, what was coming now would be even harder
for him than the mere physical ordeal he had just suffered.

I
usually did my talking during a spanking, but I also saved some of it
for afterwards. I would gather up whoever was over my lap and enfold
him to me, reassuring him with soothing words and gentle touches.
Sometimes I would stretch out with Legolas, stroking and embracing
him, though most often, as with the hobbits, I cuddled him on my lap
as well.

But
whoever was over my knee they never minded staying there until I
decided to let them up, a feeling I understood entirely. And,
comfort issues aside, I had learned long years ago what could happen
if I allowed a warrior too much freedom at this point. Sadly for
Boromir, a certain elfling’s behavior had set the standard for
him as well.

So
my fledgling would remain where he was at present, feeling his
vulnerable position and the ever-present threat that I would begin
spanking him again if need be. Not that I felt Boromir was capable
of more than his current and heartfelt crying. But, though
vanquished for now, my determined fledgling was still himself, that
tenacious spirit lying dormant at the moment, yet still potent. And
that was as it should be. It was never my goal to break the spirit.

A
spanking is not meant to diminish. It is meant to nourish. The
unspoken message conveyed to anyone over my knee, hobbit, elf, or man
is, ‘I care about
you. I am not indifferent to your need, your guilt, your loneliness.
I shall not walk away, leaving you to suffer alone. You shall not
be passed over or ignored. I see you, and I care enough to
discipline you.’

For a spanking is a
loving act, a trust, and a bond. Indeed, who does not hurt when our
pain goes unheeded . . . or worse yet, when it is seen, yet
dismissed? And who does not need a little attention sometimes simply
because they do?

That
was what I wanted for my fledgling, the knowledge and the acceptance
that there was nothing wrong with needing the attention he so
deserved. He had lost that knowledge long ago, his yearning to be
noticed ignored until he finally shoved aside any further desire for
it rather than to go on suffering its loss. He had locked away that
need in his little boy heart until it was forgotten.

But
the longing for concern and affection from another never entirely
dies, especially when it was once enjoyed and lost. And so the
appearance of Thorongil had reawakened that longing in Boromir,
rousing not only his hope, but his confusion and fear. Little wonder
he lay here quivering. And little wonder he would struggle mightily
with what I had to say.

“I
am proud of you, Boromir,” I began after a pause. “You
did well. Yet, perhaps you wonder why this was needed. Was it not
enough to simply tell me that you accepted my authority?” I
sighed, listening to his still soft shudders. “Aye, it was
most likely enough, and you are here in part to understand that
acceptance on a deeper level as the hobbits needed to.”

I
pressed my hand more firmly into the small of his back. My more
meaningful reason for this spanking would be the hardest for him to
endure. But he had to hear it, just as the hobbits and Legolas
always had to hear it when they sought this from me. He had to
understand that this was about more than just power.

“But,
more importantly, you are here because you are deserving of this, my
fledgling, and this is where I shall place you again in the future,
as I am certain it will be needed.”

He
sucked a quick breath and paused, then he shook his head in tiny
rapid moves of protest. That was fine. He would need to hear these
same words often before he understood.

“Aye,”
I said. “This shall surely be needed again, sweetling, and you
shall be given it, and you will accept then as you have now, because
you accept my authority over you. You are deserving of my attention,
my fledgling, now, as ever you were. When you hungered for my notice
as a child, I gave it you, and sometimes it came in this form, with
you stretched out over my knee, just as you are now.”

His
honeyed locks tossed with the more insistent shakes of his head, but
aside from a few low gasps, and small gulping sobs, he remained
silent. It was building within him, though, that violent swell of
emotion and denial.

“You
are not here because I disapprove of you, or because you disappoint
me, for indeed you do neither,” I continued. “You
disappoint yourself and punish yourself more than I ever could, or
would ever choose to. I do not judge you, Boromir, any more than I
judge a hobbit or an elf. I am proud of you, of the man you have
become, and I say again, you are here because you deserve to be,
because you needed to be.”

He
did try to move then, his panic exceeding his honor and the threat of
more pain. A greater pain now roared within him, and his only
thought was to escape, run! How well I understood.

The
few swats I quickly delivered would have felt hideous, and he arched
and cried out, doubtless against his will. But my words stung him
more: “There is nowhere for you to run where you shall not
find yourself waiting, my beloved fledgling.”

He
froze, silent, then a few hitching breaths broke free and he slumped
across me once more. He started crying again, haltingly, more
frantically now, hushed and desperate as though he had to hide it.

“I-I
. . . Arag-gor . . . I-I --”

“Shhh
. . . hush now,” I murmured. “Do not try to speak. Not
now. You may speak soon, but not now.”

I
did not want him saying anything yet, and of course he would try to.
He was grasping for any way out of his anguish, even if it was no
more than a choked and broken attempt to utter words.

Not
yet. I would not allow him that distraction yet.

“Listen
to me, sweetling, you made certain Faramir received attention from
you, that he never lacked for the care you knew he needed. But the
care you yourself deserved was ripped from you early.”

I
sighed again. “Would that I had been able to stay with you
longer when you were a child. I am sorry, Boromir. Forgive me,
little one. I owe you those words. And although I cannot amend the
past, I can, and I shall, see to you henceforth.”

“A-Ar-gorn,
plea-plea – sto-stop! I-I canno --”

Another
solid crack on his bottom silenced him.

“Aye,
you can hear me out, sweetling, so hush now. As you see, we shall
still be addressing this matter of obedience from time to time. So
be it. I am content with that, because the little boy I see living
in you still is a good little boy, worthy of my attention. He needs
a loving hand to correct him when he misbehaves, for he is too brutal
with himself if he feels he has done something wrong. My fledgling
shows compassion to others, yet he spares little of it for himself.

“But
you shall never escape my notice, Boromir. When you need my
attention, you shall be given it. When your mutinous air resurfaces,
and rest assured, my unruly brat of a fledgling, it will, I promise
you this: I shall never think less of you for it. Nor shall I think
ill of you for any other headstrong acts. Neither shall I ignore
such matters, nor cast you from my affections, nor make you live with
your guilt. You shall be attended to, just as you have been here,
and then all will be forgiven and forgotten.” I paused and
grinned. “Until the next time.”

This
was more than he could bear. Boromir burst into fresh sobs, loud,
gulping sobs, wrenching, flowing up from a deep place within him.
Good. Excellent. He had managed to hear all I had to say, so I
allowed him his release now. He was feeling too much to separate it
all, but he was certainly no doubt writhing within from his
staggering feeling of exposure. Unconditional acceptance is a
shattering thing, as is compassion from another for what we cannot
bear to look at inside ourselves.

So
I let him weep, and I rubbed his back and I murmured soft words of
endearment to him and I simply loved the man over my lap as I had
loved the child who had once been there. After a while he began to
quiet, his sobs slowing, in part, from sheer exhaustion, and when he
calmed to a soft crying and hiccupping I felt it was a good time to
move him.

Slowly
and with great care, I drew his breeches back up over his crimson
bottom, Boromir groaning and twitching in a rather adorable manner.
I could budge him no further without his help, though, so I said,
“Come, little one. Let me make you more comfortable. I long
to hold my fledgling close.”

He
shook from his stupor, then he shot up too quickly and stumbled when
his feet hit the ground.

“Easy.
Slowly, sweetling,” I told him, rising swiftly to steady him.
He was groggy and wonderfully malleable, just as I had hoped he would
to be. “Come, little one,” I murmured. “Follow my
lead.”

Speaking
to him with simple words and a gentle tone I pulled him down to the
soft grass. Boromir had little will to do anything other than what I
told him to, and within moments we were resting entwined, my
shoulders braced against the rock ledge, Boromir half-lying over me,
with his weight on his side, sparing his sore behind. I wrapped him
up in my embrace, gathering my fledgling close until his upper body
rested on mine, his head on my shoulder.

I
inhaled a deep breath of contentment and he released a few small
involuntary shudders. As he had when I first took him over my knee,
Boromir felt good in my arms, warm and solid and entirely mine. We
lay there in the fragrant morning for some time, Boromir becoming so
still that several times I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But
then he would stir, snuggle closer to me in a way that made my chest
swell gloriously, and perhaps rub his face against my shoulder. I
felt the peace within him, the calm beating of his heart and his
soft, quiet breathing, and it was utterly perfect. I could not help
leaning down to press my lips on his forehead.

“You
can never disappoint me, my beloved fledgling,” I murmured. “I
love you now as I always have, and nothing you can do will ever
change that. And now --” I kissed him again. “Now you
may speak.”

**************

Speak?

Speak
. . . hmmm . . . .

The
word slithered into my mind, finding no foothold.

“You
do not have to speak, though,” Aragorn added. “Lie quiet
if you wish. You feel good in my arms. There is no need for words.”

I
doubted I had any. They were just beginning to form in my own mind,
but to speak? The challenge was beyond me.

And what could I say to
him? I could tell him that I never wanted him to move, never release
me, that his body felt warm and soothing and his arms around me
comforting, and that the light touch of his lips sent a shock of
enjoyment rippling through me.

I
could tell him that I loved all his gentle, sweet words, especially
the ones that made me feel like that four year-old again. I loved
him calling me ‘sweetling’ and ‘my fledgling.’
My fledgling. I was his fledgling! Oh, the warm
jolts that sent through me! How could I love it so? How could just
that endearment from him, that special name for me make my heart
thrum so? How was it that I loved him talking to me in terms that I
might’ve used for Faramir in his youth, or that might now be
better suited to the little ones? How could I love it so?

I
could tell him that nothing in my life came close to what I felt in
this moment, this wondrous, bewildering, sheltered feeling, and that
I could likely shatter again in my next heartbeat, and that I had
never wept so as an adult, and that, even though I should be furious
with him because of my throbbing backside, in truth, I felt so loved,
so safe, so . . . so . . . .

Were
there any words big enough for what I was feeling?

No.
Nothing I could say would be big enough, nor make sense at this
moment. So I heard myself say something fairly senseless:

“Denethor
never did that.”

A
short pause, then: “Did he not?”

“No.”

“Ah.”
Another kiss. “My poor fledgling.”

The
aching knot in my throat threatened to burst again, inviting another
surge of tears.

“But
you wish that he had,” he added.

I
squeezed my sore eyes shut, but my tears still trickled free. Unable
to respond, I buried my face into his shoulder and barely nodded.
Aragorn sighed deeply, his arms holding me tighter as though to
shelter me from the memories.

We
lay this way for a while, Aragorn slowly petting his fingers through
my hair or kissing my head. I relished his closeness and his scent
and his touch, feeling safe, and finally I murmured, “Denethor
didn’t have to do that, spank me like that, because . . .
because he . . . .” I forced myself to stop and think and to
find what I was struggling to say. “He would . . . all my
father had to do was look at me a certain way, and . . . .”

“Ah,”
he said, his voice flat. “Is that all?”

“Aye.
And seeing that look . . . a pain would strike at my heart, and I
would learn.”

I
felt him tense. “Aye,” he said in a low, grating tone.
“You learned. Indeed. You learned.”

And
I suddenly saw that look, Denethor’s angry look, and a shudder
ripped through me. I pressed closer to him and winced my eyes shut
again, not wanting Denethor there with us. But Aragorn was there, my
Thorongil had me, and he immediately began to rub my back, drawing me
closer . . . cuddling me . . . ahhhhhh.

“Shhh,”
he said. “He is not here, sweetling.”

“How
did you know --”

“You
tensed, my fledgling. And your breathing became rougher. It was not
hard to determine why. You were thinking too much, thinking of your
father, I vow.”

I
nodded.

“Stop
it, little one.”

I
pressed my face against him even more.

"Shhh,
sweetling. 'Tis just the two of us here, no other. I will allow no
other," he went on, his voice deep and strong. "I shall
have my fledgling all to myself."

I
felt a sudden calm, and I had indeed stopped thinking of Denethor.
In an instant I had stopped. I raised my eyes to Aragorn, needing to
see him. He was already looking down at me, watching me with a
strange mixture of sadness and compassion.

“Aragorn,
please, I-I cannot seem to think well just now . . . but what is this
I . . . why do I feel . . . ?”

He
tucked my head back down to his shoulder and kissed my hair and said,
“Shhhh, there is no great mystery to be found here, my
fledgling, but you have been given more than you can fathom at
present. Things will make sense soon, when you are less weary and
overcome. We have much time to sort things out now. Still, I shall
help you if I can at the moment. What do you wish to know?”

“Just
now, you said that I learned . . . ?”

Aragorn
paused, drew a deep breath, then released it on a long sigh. “You
learned that your waywardness did not bring you the attention you
longed for, even in the form of discipline," he said, in a
bitter, sad tone. "It brought shame and humiliation. It left
you with unbearable guilt and no way to relieve that guilt. No
forgiveness. No . . . no peace. Just endless regret. You learned
that affection came at a price and you had best meet that price. You
learned the wrong lessons, my poor fledgling . . . hurtful lessons.
But no more. No more.”

Aragorn's
voice had grown more dark and hollow as he spoke and I realized that
it was because of me. His anguish was for me! All he’d done
was for me. Not to punish or subjugate or shame. But because he
cared about me . . . loved me. He had said so: 'I love you now
as I always have.' Was such a wondrous truth possible? He was
here, holding me, and I felt so safe . . . so entirely his.

And
suddenly it didn’t matter that I couldn’t fathom it all
right now. All that mattered was that love, and the soaring feeling
that I’d found something I’d lost long ago and
desperately missed all my life. A treasure had been returned to me.
My next words left my lips before I even heard them in my mind.

“I
love you, Thorongil.”

“I
love you, too, little fledgling.”

I
feared my chest would burst for swelling! His reply was so instant,
so heartfelt, awarded with a gentle hug and a small kiss to my brow.
A tiny sob of joy burst from me ere I could think and, embarrassed,
I pressed my face against his shoulder again, wrapping my arms around
him more tightly.

After
a moment he said in a tight voice, “Boromir. Your embrace is
wondrous, but I cannot breathe.”

I
gasped, and laughed and quickly loosened my hold, too quickly in
fact, and I accidentally rolled back some onto my scorched bottom.
“AHH!” I cried and fell against him again. Aragorn was
now laughing as well.

“I
think you shall be happy to leave your mount behind in Rivendell.”

I
drew back, trying to keep my weight on my hip. “I do not find
that humorous.”

He
gave me a triumphant smile. “Aye, you do, little one.”

A
sudden shaft of sunlight burst through the trees, shining down into
our glade and spilling around Aragorn, illuminating him in a
shimmering white glow. For a moment I could do nothing but stare,
too overcome by his splendor to speak.

“Come,”
he said. He opened his arms, flashing me his quiet, handsome grin.
"Come my fledgling. This is where you belong now."

“Aye,
my lord.” And I gratefully sank into the embrace of my king.

End
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As the Journey Begins