They were standing in the White Tree court watching Arin try his gift; carried by the Steward’s Heir, presented to him on his tenth birthday to hold until the day came he was able to sound the horn across Minas Tirith.
Boromir’s arms were folded, but his palms itched, feeling again the polished ox-horn, its ancient silver mounts worn smooth. He had not thought of it for many years, yet a small part of him mourned the horn that had hung at his side, had succoured Gondor so many times...
It had been another victim of his fall, the pieces going with his father to that fiery end, but now Elessar would see the custom revived.
This one was new-made, the banding engraved with clasped hands winding around it had felt crisp to the touch as he fitted the leather baldric.
“The horn you carried was young once,” Aragorn murmured.
Merry, the Horn of Rohan slung over his shoulder, was trying to teach Arin to manage the mouthpiece. They could see Arin bring his fingers to bruised lips.
Pippin hurried past them, carrying a small clay pot.
“It’s my own salve of honey and beeswax,” he said cheerily, “my beecake.”
Summary: Boromir’s conscience hurts and Pippin has the best medicine…
Rated: G
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 203 Read: 882
Published: 02 Apr 2010 Updated: 02 Apr 2010
Author's Chapter Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."