The seasons were changing and at last the grip of Winter seemed to have been shaken off. There were fat buds showing red on the thorny shrubs in the Queen’s garden and yellow crocuses crowding about the edges of the gravelled paths. In another week or so, small green leaves would be spattered along the dark branches and the blackbird, sat on the stone bench, head to one side, considering the flowerbeds, would be defending his chosen territory against all comers.
Men too felt the earth stir and went to make good on all those plans that had come into being during the long, dark, days when there was little to do but plan and try to stay warm and fed.
The Lord Steward had business on the borders of Rohan and had decided to combine the journey with an outing for Arin to ride as far as the Mill, where he would stay some days with Nan whilst Boromir travelled on. This was the first time that the boy would ride Beornaye all day, across open country and off the lead rein.
The mountain horse had proved an adaptable beast, its neat little hooves pattering as nimbly up Minas Tirith’s winding roads and cobbled lanes as along any boulder strewn path in its native land, but it was a canny, independent, creature too. Most of the stable staff had had at least one sly nip when they had least expected it, to remind them to pay attention to their work.
As they went out through the city gates Boromir led the way, threading through the wagons and strings of pack horses, acknowledging shouted greetings with a wave, occasionally stopping to speak to a sentry or bystander. He was trying hard, all the while, not to look back, in case Arin thought he did not trust him to manage Beornaye. A couple of surreptitious glances told him that the lad was doing well. The little horse was alert, his ears flicking at the hubbub, but Arin was sitting quietly, hands soft on the reins, talking to him about what they were seeing. Boromir knew that the sergeant of his escort would ensure that there was a rider close by Arin at all times in case the pony should spook at some strange sight; however, he was relieved when they finally left the crowds behind, re-formed into a travelling band with a scout riding ahead of them, and Arin could bring Beornaye up alongside Cedar.
The old war horse had a long, easy stride at the walk that meant that Beornaye jogged alongside him to keep up. Boromir smiled to himself as Arin chattered away, thinking how exhausting it would be to sit to that jig-jog for mile after mile. The boy seemed unconcerned, but Boromir thought that Arin might find himself stiff when he finally dismounted – or perhaps, Boromir sighed, he really had forgotten what it felt like to be so young and blessed with boundless energy.
They had left the roadway, rutted by the passage of carts, to ride on the wide grass verge and on reaching a straight place, deserted of traffic, Boromir let Cedar trot on and then break into a canter. He had the big horse held in one hand and the other rested on his thigh ready to lean sideways and make a grab for Arin if necessary.
This was an altogether more serious matter than jogging and after a few minutes Boromir could see the tension growing on the boy’s face. He was silent now, still sitting fairly well, but Beornaye was snatching at the bit, eager to gallop and threatening to pull the child out of the saddle. Boromir could see that Arin had hold of a chunk of mane with one hand, but this broke his feel on Beornaye’s mouth on that side and the little horse was beginning to take charge.
“Both reins even, Arin,” Boromir shouted above the sound of pounding hooves.
“You must speak to him, lad,” Boromir urged. “He needs to know that you’ll look after him.”
Arin began to try to soothe his pony. Boromir could hear his small voice saying “Steady!” breathlessly, but Beornaye shook his head and plunged forward. Boromir thought he might be being stirred up by the other horses, thundering along behind them, so he twisted in his saddle and gestured to their guard to fall back, then he collected up Cedar, shortened and slowed his stride until he felt almost like a rocking horse, all-the-while encouraging Arin to talk to the little horse.
Beside him, the urgency gradually went from Beornaye’s gait. Boromir saw the moment when the pony relaxed his jaw, softened in Arin’s hands and when Boromir brought Cedar back to an easy trot, Beornaye ranged alongside the big horse at a slow canter. Boromir wanted Arin to feel that he had truly come through the challenge, so he did not immediately bring them to a halt, but kept up the pace until a natural break in the way, in a wide drainage ditch, meant that they had to slow to a walk to rejoin the cart track and cross over it on a narrow bridge.
“We’ll wait for the guard to catch up here,” Boromir said, wheeling Cedar around to look back up the road. He could hear Arin breathing heavily as he turned Beornaye, but waited a for a few moments before he looked sideways at his son and said, quietly,
“Well done, lad. How do you think he did?”
The child’s cheeks were red, but there was a determined smile on his face, as he leant forward to pat the little horse on the neck.
“He’s quite strong!” he said proudly.
“Aye, he’s that,” Boromir replied, thinking ruefully of the day that Beornaye had deposited both him and then Aragorn on the dusty ground of the schooling ring. Boromir was sure that if Brego, leaning over his stable door that afternoon, could have laughed, he would have done so heartily. The mountain horses often carried grown men and they had eventually come to an understanding with Beornaye on their own account, but they were entrusting their son, with a fraction of their weight and strength, to the beast and needed to believe that he would respect the child.
“How do you think you did?” Boromir asked.
“I stayed on!” Arin replied, “But I think that sometimes he was listening more to Cedar than to me.”
That was a more acute observation than Boromir had been expecting, but since the guard were almost upon them, he simply leant down to clap Arin on the shoulder, saying ‘Well done’ again and determined that he would talk to the boy more when they had the time.
They had ridden for a few more hours, walking on a loose rein whilst they ate savoury pasties, purchased warm from the oven of a roadside inn, and Arin had had another canter on a smooth, sandy, track. Their escort had hung back without being asked and this time Boromir was glad to see that boy and horse were working together more as a team and that Arin could slow the pony down on his own account.
They would reach the Mill on the morrow and stayed that night in a small inn. Boromir had intended that they should camp in a place that had been a favourite with the brothers, but there was a distinct chill in the air towards sunset and so they had descended on a convenient hostelry, cheering mine host and filling the taproom and stables.
It was Arin, scrambling from his cot the next morning before Boromir was properly awake, who’d open the shutter on the small window and exclaimed,
“Adar! It’s snowing!”
In fact there was a light covering over all and fine snow still falling when Boromir stepped out to check on their horses. It was lying wet on the roofs but barely covering the paths. In the stables, he found the sergeant running his hands down the legs of a pack horse. He was evidently satisfied with what he’d found because he straightened up, smiling, and clapped the beast familiarly on the rump.
“Morning, my lord,” he said, “We’ll be ready to move at your instruction. I’ve checked all the beasts.”
“My thanks,” Boromir said, craning his neck to see Beornaye in his stall pulling at a rack of hay. “Do you think this is going to last, Will?”
“Can’t tell, my lord. This time of year my Sire would call it a Lambing Snow and curse it roundly. The ground’s not frozen hard, which is a blessing.”
The men stood by the stable door peering up at a soft grey sky.
“I smelt bacon frying,” said Boromir seriously, “and if you and I are not to go hungry we’d best go in before the lad finishes all.”
“A healthy appetite the young Master has,” Will replied solemnly, whereupon Boromir snorted with laughter, saying, “He’s part hobbit, I’m sure of it,” as they jogged across the yard.
They were more than half way to the Mill and should have made good time, but the snow lying on the ground meant that the horses were held to walking pace. It was still falling lightly and their cloaks were gradually becoming powdered with the stuff.
As the sergeant had said, the ground was not slippery beneath shod hooves, but they could not see the way clearly, were not minded to risk a beast going down at speed, and so the horses picked their way carefully, occasionally stumbling when they met a hidden rut. Boromir was sitting tight in the saddle, ready to hold Cedar between knee and bit if required.
By contrast, Beornaye seemed at home, head up, snorting occasionally when flakes landed on his whiskers, small hooves swishing through the snow, sometimes hesitating before planting a hoof into a hidden place. Boromir had put a neck-strap on him before Arin mounted and told the lad that today he was to trust in the mountain horse to find his way, to ride with loose reins in one hand and the other tucked through the neck-strap or holding on to the front of the saddle.
They had made slow going of it by the time that Boromir called a halt to allow men and beasts a few minutes’ rest. When he returned to the city, he would be summoning whoever was responsible for the roads, if indeed anyone was looking to them so far from Minas Tirith, to discuss matters.
They formed a closely-packed circle of the horses, heads in, took bread and cheese from their saddle bags and passed a wine-skin briefly from man to man. Arin had a flask of water hanging from his saddle but Boromir allowed him a half cup of the sweet, red wine. He’d leant down to hand it to the child, but found that Beornaye was sidling about, unwilling to rest.
Boromir had spoken to the little horse, whose ears had flicked back-and-forth even as he stilled, but before long he was shifting from foot-to-foot and then, despite all Arin’s soothing words, Beornaye began to paw at the ground.
Boromir looked about. The horses were generally standing quiet, heads down, as Beornaye fretted and stamped. Then Boromir saw in the distance the sky ahead of them begin to darken. What had been a soft dove grey was now taking on a heavy slate colour and he thought he detected a sulphurous tang to the air that was suddenly filling with fat flakes swirling about on a strengthening breeze.
“We’d best be moving,” he called to the sergeant, who was already issuing orders.
They had barely returned to the road before the heavy snow enveloped them and the wind had risen, blowing it into their faces and making it hard to hear one another, even to see the rider ahead.
Boromir and the sergeant roared at them to keep close, bringing the horses up to walk nose to tail lest anyone lose their way.
The snow was deeper now and starting to blow into small drifts at the side of the road. Suddenly there was a great peal of thunder that almost deafened them and Boromir could hear shouts from behind him as horses took fright.
He called a temporary halt and ordering Arin to grasp hold of the first man’s rein and stay there, he wheeled Cedar round and rode back to consult with the sergeant bringing up the rear. There was a ways yet before they reached the mill if they followed the road, but by cutting across country they could save many miles.
Boromir was returning to the head of the party when another crash of thunder startled Cedar and Boromir felt him shudder and slip sideways. He had to kick the horse on to encourage him to bring his hocks back under him and they plunged forward with an undignified scramble.
Once the party turned off the road and began to cross open land, although the snow was deepening the going had become a little easier. Boromir placed Arin in the middle of the party, so that if they met deep snow the horses would plough a way through for the pony. The thunder was still rolling around them, deafening, and the wind, now driving at their heels, was piling up drifts against any solid obstacle.
Another hour of riding and the thunder-snow stinging their faces had been replaced by a lightly falling powder. Boromir could feel the cold beginning to seep through his clothing. He dropped his reins on Cedar’s neck as the horse plodded on and flexed his hands in his gloves, banging them together to bring some heat to his fingers. Then he turned in the saddle and looked back to find Arin and Beornaye. They’d unpacked a guardsman’s riding cloak for the boy and it covered most of the little horse too. Once they reached the mill, he’d see Arin into a hot tub. Boromir had no doubt that Nan would be watching for them even now.
Up ahead loomed the last low hill that they needed to climb to see the mill in the valley on the other side, although Boromir doubted that they’d see much before they were on top of the mill buildings. Closer to a settlement, they were amidst fields surrounded by ditches and banks topped with low stone walls where they must find the gateways linking each parcel of land to pass through.
It was as they passed through a narrow gateway, where the wall had tumbled into the path so that Boromir had to dismount to find the way, leading Cedar between the snow-covered boulders, that he heard shouts from back in the party and Arin’s voice sharp with anxiety.
Thrusting his reins into the hand of the first man in line. Boromir strode back, ploughing now almost knee deep in snow that clung to the hem of his cloak.
Arin was trying to urge Beornaye on to pass through the gate following the path made by the other horses, but the pony was baulking, digging its toes in and whirling around. As Boromir came up to them the guardsman behind leant down and slapped the pony on the rump and Beornaye jinked sideways, tipping Arin off over his shoulder, and wheeling away so that his hind legs slid into the snow-filled ditch.
The boy was unhurt, scrambling to his feet even as Boromir caught at Beornaye’s bridle. The little horse plunged about in the drift. It was as he heaved himself onto the path again that a rider shouted to Boromir, pointing at the pony’s hind hoof.
A spatter of red was spreading across the snow.
“He’s hurt!” Arin cried and ducked under Beornaye’s neck to clutch at the hind hoof, which Beornaye was lifting and stamping down repeatedly, so that the boy was pushed aside, calling for someone to ‘Help!’
Boromir took a moment to grasp Arin by the shoulders and tell him to hush and speak softly lest he frighten the pony, before he leant down, stripping off his glove to run his hand down the leg.
Boromir felt about with his fingers but he could feel no torn skin, no wound at all, and when he rubbed a handful of snow over the bloody hoof, it came away clear.
It was then that he looked more closely at the snow-filled ditch and thought he could see blood within. Unclasping his cloak and thrusting it into Arin’s hands, he plunged his arms into the drift.
Barely knee deep, his hands felt the bulk of a body, clad in some rough material. Boromir grasped handfuls of the stuff and heaved upwards. It was as he tipped his burden onto the snow that he realised what they had found. A ewe close to lambing had taken shelter from the storm in the ditch and gradually been smothered. There was foam around the beast’s mouth and nostrils. The lamb was half-born, dead, and Beornaye had trodden in the bloody mess.
The sergeant had dismounted and come forward. He leant down and thrust his hand into the depths of the sodden fleece.
“She’s still warm, my lord,” he said, and then he lifted the lip, “this is a young sheep.”
“Where’s there’s one ewe in snow, there’s usually more, isn’t that true, Will?” Boromir said, swiftly scanning the party.
“Aye, my lord. They’ll often huddle together and finish under a drift,” the sergeant replied, and he began to feel through the snow as Boromir gave orders.
The guard had all dismounted bar one man who held half-a –dozen horses. Beornaye they’d turned loose, reins knotted, as being unlikely to stray and Boromir had put Arin up on Cedar, to hold three other horses and with strict instructions to let them go if he thought he was going to fall.
The men began to dig away at the drift and soon began to retrieve other carcases. Four more ewes were hauled from the ditch, nostrils clogged with snow, and laid beside the first, but it was then that a man shouted that he’d found one alive, beneath the others, and they hauled the dazed animal forth. It lay on the ground gasping, but very much alive.
This cheer re-doubled their efforts and by the time that they reached the bottom of the ditch, there were a half-dozen sheep alive on the bank. Boromir was determined that they should take the beasts down to the Mill. They might be all that remained of a poor man’s livelihood. So one-by-one a guardsman would remount and then have a sheep passed up to be set across his saddle bow. They did not seem to have the strength to object to the treatment, but Boromir was sure that Nan would know what to do to set them to rights.
It was as he went to retrieve Cedar from Arin, and set him back on his pony, that Boromir spotted Beornaye pawing at the ground beside the gateway. In his mind Boromir saw the field in grass. The ditch was more than a defence against straying beasts. It would carry water off the field and for that, there must be a culvert beneath the gateway, or the ditch would overflow.
Jumping back down into the bottom of the ditch Boromir and the sergeant started digging sideways in the snow and quite suddenly broke through to reveal a low brick-lined culvert. There was the body of another dead ewe in the mouth of the dark space, but from within Boromir heard a faint bleating.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………..
There were two lambs, a few hours old, shivering, wrapped in the bundle that proved to be the Lord Steward’s cloak which Boromir delivered into Nan’s startled arms.
For hours she and Redlin had been keeping watch at the gate of the Mill. They’d lit the lamps early, for it was a filthy day, and in their glow she’d seen the ewes lowered gently to the ground where they lay too quiet for Nan’s liking.
“Redlin!” she said briskly, “get some straw down on the Drying Kiln floor for these poor creatures,” and carrying the bundle close to her chest she whisked into the kitchen door with Arin at her heels.
“It’s good and warm, my lord,” Redlin said, as he hung a lantern on a nail in the kiln. “I’ve been drying barley all the day.”
Boromir had already found the broom in its familiar place and was sweeping the boards of dust and any remaining grain, when Redlin returned with armfuls of straw which he spread over the boards.
“Go and fire up the hearth again, lad,” Boromir said, “and we’ll pay for the fuel.”
As he heard Redlin’s nailed boots clatter down the wooden stairs to the undercroft, the first of the ewes arrived, carried by the sergeant, who laid her down on a thick bed of straw and directed his men where they should set the others.
“They’re still to lamb, my lord,” he said, drawing a ewe’s ear quietly through his fingers, “so I’ll perhaps stay with these tonight.”
Leaving the guard to see the horses set fair, Boromir followed Nan and Arin into the kitchen. The boy was seated at the table, with a mug of something that steamed set in front of him, telling Nan about all their adventures, but of the lambs there was no sign.
Seeing him look around, Nan simply nodded towards the hearth. At first Boromir could not find them, but then a rustling at his elbow made him glance sideways to see the lambs, asleep and nestled on an old blanket in the warming oven.
Boromir seated himself beside Arin. Nan took down another mug from the dresser, filled it with a ladleful from the cauldron over the fire and set it before him. They had fallen into old ways so easily, sat in her kitchen, the man with an arm over the child’s shoulders, twisting a curl behind the boy’s ear around his fingers. He would pat Arin’s far shoulder and the boy would turn towards the tap and then feign outrage, which his father would undermine by tickling him…except that this time Boromir gazed into the child’s face for a moment and then kissed him on the forehead.
“Have you finished your ale, lad?”
Nan thought she had never heard Boromir’s voice so gentle. Arin quickly drained his mug and Boromir said quietly,
“If you’re done, you can go and see Beornaye set fair. One of the guard has un-tacked him, but you should groom him and feed him before you eat yourself.”
Arin grinned at Boromir and then, in a flash, he’d kissed his father on the end of his nose, scrambled past Boromir on the bench and was away.
Boromir lifted his mug to his lips and took a reviving mouthful of the hot ale, his eyes smiling at Nan over the rim of the pot.
“He did well today, Nan.”
“I don’t doubt it, soldier,” Nan said calmly. Boromir smiled at his old name and inclined his head in tribute to her. “What can we do with the lambs, Nan?”
“There’s no milk I can give them, but we’ll wait and see. And now,” she added, gesturing to Boromir to fetch down a stack of wooden bowls from the top of the dresser, “we’d best feed your men.”
The patrol had bedded down in the mill’s outhouses that night. All bar the sergeant, who slept in the straw with the ewes and Boromir, who stirred hourly in the night from his bedroll laid along the kitchen bench to see Nan come in to add fuel to the hearth, then to scoop the lambs from their warm bed and rub their limbs briskly between her hands before returning them to their nest.
It was barely dawn when there came a tapping at the kitchen door. The sergeant was standing there with an old bucket in one hand. Before Boromir had time to say aught, Nan was pushing past him and opening the door to usher the sergeant into the kitchen.
“We lost three lambs and one ewe, mistress,” the sergeant said and Boromir could hear the sorrow in his voice.
Nan patted the man on his arm, saying, “Sit you down, sergeant. We’ll see if we can balance the loss a little.”
As Boromir stirred himself to pour the man some ale, Nan was dragging out a wooden trough from under the table. She tipped the contents of the bucket into the trough, added hot water from the kettle and then stirred the mess around with a wooden stick.
Boromir could smell the sweet reek of blood.
“It’s the afterbirth from a ewe that lost her lambs, “Nan said.
“I’ve seen my Sire do the same many times, my lord,” added the sergeant.
After a few minutes, when the smell was become so cloying that Boromir thought he might gag, Nan had declared the stuff ripe and lifting the first lamb out of the warming oven, she placed the creature in the trough and smeared the stuff all over it, whilst the sergeant lifted down the second lamb and began to do the same.
By the end, they were dark and bloody from nose to tail and Boromir was glad that Arin was sound asleep. This would keep a few years yet in his experience.
When all the liquid was gone from the trough, the sergeant wrapped the lambs in a blanket and went back out into the night. He’d do best alone, he said, not disturb the ewe any more whilst she came to know her new born lambs.
In full daylight the snow was disappeared from the yard. Redlin and a couple of the guard fashioned a pen from willow hurdles in the barn, before carrying each ewe with her lambs down from the drying floor.
Boromir, readying his saddle roll in the yard as Cedar lipped at an unwary blade of spring grass, heard the bleating from the shed, but he did not take up Arin’s wide-eyed invitation to see the lambs, saying that he would save that for his return.
When he did ride once more down the little valley, approaching the Mill from the back, he passed the orchard and could see, foraging beneath apple trees beginning to bud, a group of long-legged ewes, with lambs at their heels.
When Arin challenged Boromir to point out the adopted lambs, he could not, for all looked content and when, as the full party assembled to leave Beornaye would have nipped him in passing, Boromir’s hand shot out to deflect the bite and he leant in to whisper in the pony’s ear, “Peace, little bear! You’ve been heard.”
o0o
Summary: Arin would prove to Boromir that he can manage his pony alone.
Rated: G
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 4555 Read: 753
Published: 05 Apr 2011 Updated: 05 Apr 2011
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."