fileg (fileg) wrote,
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The First Time

Ashinae did me a lovely favor through the auspices of Cruisedirector, and in a moment of joy, I offered a drabble in return, forgetting I might get caught in a slash request and apparently amusing Cruise when I said it might have to be drabbled in secret. The request was relayed to me thus: "In that case she wants Araboro, Faraboro, Faragorn or some combination involving all of the above. Don't feel constrained to stop at 100 words, really." *grin*

It was, as I said, quite a lovely favor, so I went to almost 500 words. It is Faraboro, but I am afraid it really is not my first slash. (Chris, please mark on this with crayons when you get up if you have comments?)


The First Time


The first time I remember kissing him, he was crying - hard wracking sobs that shook his body, his face twisted with nameless pain.

“Hush,” I whispered, and stroked the midnight silk of his hair back from his damp brow. “Hush,” I said again, and I pressed my lips to his forehead. He blinked, and looked up at me, holding back a silent sob. Then his eyes closed and the tears flowed again, as he sucked in a deep breath, a cry already rising in his throat.

I placed my finger on his lips, and he opened his storm grey eyes to watch me shake my head. “Don’t cry,” I crooned. “Don’t cry, tôr nin. I love you. I’m here.” I bent and kissed the salt from his mouth. His lip quivered at the touch, but he did stop, staring into my own face with his peculiar intense questioning look. “Tôr nin.” I smiled, repeating the words my mother had taught me. "My Brother." I kissed him again, and nuzzled his nose until he laughed aloud.


*****

“Boromir!”

I startled awake at the sound of my father’s sharp whisper.

“Father?” I replied sleepily and felt his strong hand close on my arm.

“Let go,” he hissed, gently tugging, but I did not open my arms. “Let go, now, and let Naneth put the baby to bed."

I sat up a little and saw our nurse hovering across the room by the cradle, holding the candle that dimly lit the room. She was trembling a little, as she always did when Father came up to our rooms.

“Please leave him, father. If you move him, he will cry again.”

He sighed, tired and ill-tempered. “Of course he’ll cry! He never stops crying. ”

“He’s not crying now.” I don’t believe I had ever defied him before, and tried to quickly think of some reason that would distract his anger. “Leave him, father. Please. His crying keeps me awake….”

His eyes flickered, and for a moment I thought I had brought his displeasure on us both. Then he straightened up and shook his head.

“Sleep then, the pair of you. But do not make a habit of this – I will not have that squalling infant spoiled any further.”

“No, father,” I whispered, not sure even at that moment what I meant by it.

Then father swept out of the room, followed by Naneth and the light, and I let out my breath in the dark, tickling across his dark eyelashes and felt him stir against my breast.

“Hush,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his dark head, pulling him closer and settling down. "I'm here; don't cry. Mother says that you are mine – Tôr nin, my brother, my own."

I pulled the blankets up around us and settled back to sleep, whispering “mine” against the soft smell of his skin.

Tags: arda, fiction
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  • Shall I shoot?

    I've mentioned before that there are things I understand (or think I understand) in Tolkien that I have just incorporated into myself without ever…

  • howard shaw

    The celebrated composer Howard Shore on the objects he can’t live without—including an imposing piece of armor gifted by director Peter Jackson

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    I just had another facepalm moment My excuse is, although I've been reading LOTR for more than half a century, I read it before I read The Hobbit…