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Warrior Son, Part 7/?
Mar. 22nd, 2015 09:19 pmWarrior Son
Part 7/?
Word Count: 1550 (8731)
"Are there any particular funeral arrangements which you would prefer?" Balin is working at a tablet, stylus incising neat script into the wax as he lays out the clauses of the contract which will be made a clean copy on parchment once they are both satisfied with the wording.
"If I am to die upon this quest, I would have my body set upon the Anduin in a boat, that it may travel south to the Falls of Rauros." Boromir doubts any boat not made by elvish hands will survive Rauros, but he does not worry for that. Only that to be upon the Anduin again will be a fitting end, rather than entombed in stone, be it in Erebor or taken south to Minas Tirith.
Balin nods, making a note in the appropriate place in the tablet. “If that is possible, we shall see it done.” He pauses, turning the leaf of the tablet over to where the clauses on the fee are nearly finished. “Do you have any kin you would name to recieve your fee, should you die of wounds after the Mountain has been reclaimed?”
His father is but a child, and neither his mother nor his brother have yet drawn breath. Boromir snorts softly, shaking his head. “I have no living kin who is of an age to take charge of it. Let it be used for rebuilding Dale, should that happen. I will not need it, nor will my living kin.”
"As you wish." Balin gives him a curious look, though he doesn’t ask any of the questions that might be hiding behind his blandly pleasant expression.
Boromir learned swiftly as a youth to take what sleep he could, when he could, and it’s simple enough to sleep leaning against one of the handful of trees that are close to the outcropping of rock sheltering the camp fire. Howls wake him, and he listens for a moment as Kíli and Fíli try to frighten Bilbo with their claims the howls are orcs - wolves are more likely, and even were they orcs, they would be hard-pressed to get close to camp without waking someone making such a racket.
He opens his eyes when Balin begins to tell a story, one that Boromir did not actually recall, though he expects the tale of Dimrill Dale would have been poor fodder for a child’s ears. Death upon death, a king felled and his heir vanished, leaving only a prince to lead his people. The accounts he read when he was older gave only the barest bones of the tale, which digs beneath his ribs with barbs when told by one who had been there.
He had not heard the name of the orc which had killed Thorin, only that the orc had long been Thorin’s foe, and hearing it now he mouths it to himself, the better to remember it later. Azog is the one he will do what he might to kill when they encounter him - and he remembers that they will, on the far side of the Misty Mountains, if they do not sooner. If they can kill Azog sooner, there will be one less enemy to kill at the end of the journey.
"The pale orc." Bilbo’s voice breaks the silence first, after Balin is done. "What happened to him?"
"He slunk back into the hole whence he came." Thorin comes stalking back into the main camp as he speaks, his expression closed. "That filth died of his wounds long ago."
Boromir frowns, biting back words to refute that, as it is not knowledge he should have. Not now, not as a Man of Gondor, whose life is spent in defending against such as orcs. Not when Azog has yet to reveal himself as still among the living.
He shifts against the tree he’s leaning on, watching the others as they settle back into bedrolls and around the fire to sleep once more.
"I do not like the look of this place." Boromir isn’t entirely certain where the trolls were encountered when first the dwarves took this journey, but the damaged farm house makes him uneasy. It does not have the look of a place that has fallen into disrepair because the inhabitants left of their own accord. "I’ve seen places like this before, and it’s never anything good that drove the farmers or woodsmen from their homes."
"There is no place better to camp tonight, if we are to have a proper camp tonight." Thorin glances over at Boromir as he pulls his pony to a halt. "If it makes you feel any better, you may have the first watch."
"It would make me feel better if we kept the ponies closer than we have been." Boromir lets the reins go slack against Celeg’s neck, the horse standing patiently as he slides off. "I shall gladly take the first watch tonight, though. I do not think I will sleep easy."
Thorin snorts, a wry smile crossing his face. “I do not think you have slept well any night you have not taken watch, Master Boromir.” He dismounts, handing the reins of his pony to Dwalin. “Fíli, Kíli, take care of the ponies, and keep them close. Don’t let the farmhouse out of your sight.”
The two princes acknowledge their uncle with nods, and Thorin turns away, calling for a fire to be started as he hikes over to where Gandalf is standing in the middle of the destroyed structure.
"I think it would be wiser to move on." Gandalf’s voice carries, and Boromir smiles a little, hearing an echo of his own worries in the wizard’s voice.
Moving closer, he listens as Gandalf tries to pursuade Thorin to continue on, closer to Rivendell, and Thorin’s stubborn refusal is little surprise. The sharp words concerning the elves, and then the map make Boromir shake his head, though he does not lend Gandalf his own voice in the argument. It was foolish to try to hold anything over Thorin’s head.
Turning away, he returns to Celeg, smacking Madge on the nose when she tries to sneak up on the horse around one of the other ponies. “I’ll let Master Baggins ride you tomorrow if you keep trying to bite Celeg tonight, Madge.” He gives the pony a long look, though how much she cares - if she understands him - he does not know. Certainly not enough to prevent her from making trouble for his horse.
"I’d rather I didn’t, she’s rather intent on getting close to Celeg every time." Bilbo is stroking Myrtle’s nose as he holds her for Balin to take the saddle off. "I suppose that’s why you leave her to be led by one of the others most of the time, isn’t it?"
"The less chance she has to attempt to annoy Celeg, the less trouble she causes." Boromir smiles at Bilbo, looking up when Gandalf storms past them, muttering about the stubbornness of dwarves.
"Gandalf? Where are you going?" Bilbo looks over at him, than looks at Boromir. "Why is he leaving?"
"I am going to seek out the company of the only one around here who has any sense!" Gandalf doesn’t even pause to look back as he speaks.
"And who’s that?"
"Myself!" Whatever else Gandalf says is lost as he returns to muttering, but Boromir doubts it’s anything he’d particularly want to hear.
"Will he be back?"
"He will return when he wishes, and no sooner." Boromir shakes his head. "I wouldn’t expect anything from him tonight, though. We’re on our own for now."
Looking back to the farm house, he meets Thorin’s gaze for a long moment, shrugging when Thorin raises his eyebrows in silent question. He doesn’t know what Thorin wants, but he certainly has no intention of following after Gandalf and bringing the wizard’s wrath down on his head instead.
"Come on, Bombur, we’re hungry." Thorin shifts his gaze to glare at the retreating back of Gandalf for a long moment, turning away to further inspect the farmhouse, no doubt.
Setting up camp, and making certain the ponies had adequet shelter and grazing room - Boromir takes care to picket Madge and Celeg as far from one another as possible, though leaving Madge near the trees worries him - does not take terribly long, and Boromir marks out a good place to watch the woods from.
"Worried?" Fíli leans against the rocks Boromir has climbed up on, watching him with a small smile on his face.
"Something drove the farmers out, and they are very stubborn folk. More so here, I imagine, than at home. You’d have a burn farmers out of their homes in Ithilien." Too many homes he’d seen destroyed in that manner when making sorties against the Enemy, and he draws a deep breath, shaking his head. "It may be jumping at shadows, for all I know."
"Maybe." Fíli looks out at the trees Boromir is watching. "I hope so. A little battle might be nice, but I don’t think Thorin would want anything that might force us aside to Rivendell."
Boromir doesn’t have an answer to that, save that it might be unavoidable, and he won’t voice that. Not yet. Not until he knows if the trolls will cause them trouble tonight or not.
Part 7/?
Word Count: 1550 (8731)
"Are there any particular funeral arrangements which you would prefer?" Balin is working at a tablet, stylus incising neat script into the wax as he lays out the clauses of the contract which will be made a clean copy on parchment once they are both satisfied with the wording.
"If I am to die upon this quest, I would have my body set upon the Anduin in a boat, that it may travel south to the Falls of Rauros." Boromir doubts any boat not made by elvish hands will survive Rauros, but he does not worry for that. Only that to be upon the Anduin again will be a fitting end, rather than entombed in stone, be it in Erebor or taken south to Minas Tirith.
Balin nods, making a note in the appropriate place in the tablet. “If that is possible, we shall see it done.” He pauses, turning the leaf of the tablet over to where the clauses on the fee are nearly finished. “Do you have any kin you would name to recieve your fee, should you die of wounds after the Mountain has been reclaimed?”
His father is but a child, and neither his mother nor his brother have yet drawn breath. Boromir snorts softly, shaking his head. “I have no living kin who is of an age to take charge of it. Let it be used for rebuilding Dale, should that happen. I will not need it, nor will my living kin.”
"As you wish." Balin gives him a curious look, though he doesn’t ask any of the questions that might be hiding behind his blandly pleasant expression.
Boromir learned swiftly as a youth to take what sleep he could, when he could, and it’s simple enough to sleep leaning against one of the handful of trees that are close to the outcropping of rock sheltering the camp fire. Howls wake him, and he listens for a moment as Kíli and Fíli try to frighten Bilbo with their claims the howls are orcs - wolves are more likely, and even were they orcs, they would be hard-pressed to get close to camp without waking someone making such a racket.
He opens his eyes when Balin begins to tell a story, one that Boromir did not actually recall, though he expects the tale of Dimrill Dale would have been poor fodder for a child’s ears. Death upon death, a king felled and his heir vanished, leaving only a prince to lead his people. The accounts he read when he was older gave only the barest bones of the tale, which digs beneath his ribs with barbs when told by one who had been there.
He had not heard the name of the orc which had killed Thorin, only that the orc had long been Thorin’s foe, and hearing it now he mouths it to himself, the better to remember it later. Azog is the one he will do what he might to kill when they encounter him - and he remembers that they will, on the far side of the Misty Mountains, if they do not sooner. If they can kill Azog sooner, there will be one less enemy to kill at the end of the journey.
"The pale orc." Bilbo’s voice breaks the silence first, after Balin is done. "What happened to him?"
"He slunk back into the hole whence he came." Thorin comes stalking back into the main camp as he speaks, his expression closed. "That filth died of his wounds long ago."
Boromir frowns, biting back words to refute that, as it is not knowledge he should have. Not now, not as a Man of Gondor, whose life is spent in defending against such as orcs. Not when Azog has yet to reveal himself as still among the living.
He shifts against the tree he’s leaning on, watching the others as they settle back into bedrolls and around the fire to sleep once more.
"I do not like the look of this place." Boromir isn’t entirely certain where the trolls were encountered when first the dwarves took this journey, but the damaged farm house makes him uneasy. It does not have the look of a place that has fallen into disrepair because the inhabitants left of their own accord. "I’ve seen places like this before, and it’s never anything good that drove the farmers or woodsmen from their homes."
"There is no place better to camp tonight, if we are to have a proper camp tonight." Thorin glances over at Boromir as he pulls his pony to a halt. "If it makes you feel any better, you may have the first watch."
"It would make me feel better if we kept the ponies closer than we have been." Boromir lets the reins go slack against Celeg’s neck, the horse standing patiently as he slides off. "I shall gladly take the first watch tonight, though. I do not think I will sleep easy."
Thorin snorts, a wry smile crossing his face. “I do not think you have slept well any night you have not taken watch, Master Boromir.” He dismounts, handing the reins of his pony to Dwalin. “Fíli, Kíli, take care of the ponies, and keep them close. Don’t let the farmhouse out of your sight.”
The two princes acknowledge their uncle with nods, and Thorin turns away, calling for a fire to be started as he hikes over to where Gandalf is standing in the middle of the destroyed structure.
"I think it would be wiser to move on." Gandalf’s voice carries, and Boromir smiles a little, hearing an echo of his own worries in the wizard’s voice.
Moving closer, he listens as Gandalf tries to pursuade Thorin to continue on, closer to Rivendell, and Thorin’s stubborn refusal is little surprise. The sharp words concerning the elves, and then the map make Boromir shake his head, though he does not lend Gandalf his own voice in the argument. It was foolish to try to hold anything over Thorin’s head.
Turning away, he returns to Celeg, smacking Madge on the nose when she tries to sneak up on the horse around one of the other ponies. “I’ll let Master Baggins ride you tomorrow if you keep trying to bite Celeg tonight, Madge.” He gives the pony a long look, though how much she cares - if she understands him - he does not know. Certainly not enough to prevent her from making trouble for his horse.
"I’d rather I didn’t, she’s rather intent on getting close to Celeg every time." Bilbo is stroking Myrtle’s nose as he holds her for Balin to take the saddle off. "I suppose that’s why you leave her to be led by one of the others most of the time, isn’t it?"
"The less chance she has to attempt to annoy Celeg, the less trouble she causes." Boromir smiles at Bilbo, looking up when Gandalf storms past them, muttering about the stubbornness of dwarves.
"Gandalf? Where are you going?" Bilbo looks over at him, than looks at Boromir. "Why is he leaving?"
"I am going to seek out the company of the only one around here who has any sense!" Gandalf doesn’t even pause to look back as he speaks.
"And who’s that?"
"Myself!" Whatever else Gandalf says is lost as he returns to muttering, but Boromir doubts it’s anything he’d particularly want to hear.
"Will he be back?"
"He will return when he wishes, and no sooner." Boromir shakes his head. "I wouldn’t expect anything from him tonight, though. We’re on our own for now."
Looking back to the farm house, he meets Thorin’s gaze for a long moment, shrugging when Thorin raises his eyebrows in silent question. He doesn’t know what Thorin wants, but he certainly has no intention of following after Gandalf and bringing the wizard’s wrath down on his head instead.
"Come on, Bombur, we’re hungry." Thorin shifts his gaze to glare at the retreating back of Gandalf for a long moment, turning away to further inspect the farmhouse, no doubt.
Setting up camp, and making certain the ponies had adequet shelter and grazing room - Boromir takes care to picket Madge and Celeg as far from one another as possible, though leaving Madge near the trees worries him - does not take terribly long, and Boromir marks out a good place to watch the woods from.
"Worried?" Fíli leans against the rocks Boromir has climbed up on, watching him with a small smile on his face.
"Something drove the farmers out, and they are very stubborn folk. More so here, I imagine, than at home. You’d have a burn farmers out of their homes in Ithilien." Too many homes he’d seen destroyed in that manner when making sorties against the Enemy, and he draws a deep breath, shaking his head. "It may be jumping at shadows, for all I know."
"Maybe." Fíli looks out at the trees Boromir is watching. "I hope so. A little battle might be nice, but I don’t think Thorin would want anything that might force us aside to Rivendell."
Boromir doesn’t have an answer to that, save that it might be unavoidable, and he won’t voice that. Not yet. Not until he knows if the trolls will cause them trouble tonight or not.