Title: Fray
Author: Elly
Character: Aragorn, Boromir, Frodo
Rating: PG
Notes: Not my characters, making no money, etc. This was to be a tigatog100 drabble but it turned into a ficlet. It's not slashy unless you squint reeeeeallly hard. Unbeta'ed.
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They spar in the fading light, grateful to have a few moments of relaxation. They do not try and best one another, this time is for practice and joking, learning and trusting. There is no greater display of trust than letting a man hold you at sword-point. Neither notices that Frodo sits watching them; far enough away not to bother them, interest giving tired eyes some spark of life. Boromir's blade finds a gap in Aragorn's defense and takes advantage, sword-tip coming to rest where Aragorn's heart beats. Aragorn laughs, unconcerned about his defeat. Gracious as the king he intends to be. Frodo watches and feels a pull around his neck. He looks down, surprised to see he holds the ring in his hand. There are marks on the skin of his hand. As Boromir smiles and jokes with Aragorn, he relaxed his stance. A flash of gold shines in the corner of his eye, blinding him, and he hears a voice whisper his name. Then another sound, the sound of the fabric of Aragorn's sleeve being torn. It makes him wince; he knows his blade is responsible. Frodo blinks as the sound forces him to look up from the ring. Quickly, driven by an instinct he can't quite place, he tucks the ring inside his shirt and creeps off, the two men still distracted. Aragorn moves quickly out of the way, ranger instincts still finely honed, even when taken by surprise. Holding perfectly still, he looks at Boromir, whose eyes are still caught in a wince. Biting his lip, he slowly and methodically sheathes his sword before looking at Aragorn. "My apologies. I don't know what happened…" he hesitates, unsure of what to say. Aragorn smiles slightly. "No matter, Boromir. I am not hurt, you would have much to fear if I was." "It is embarrassing. I wasn't concentrating." His lips say the words, but a small voice in his mind cries that he was distracted: it wasn't his fault! "It can be mended, Boromir." Aragorn places a hand on his shoulder to reassure him, and very carefully does not mention the small figure that had quietly crept back to the camp. He thinks, as he looks down at his sleeve, that there is a parallel here- nerves and minds and wills and thread, all fraying at the edges. And he wonders if his words are a lie.
Sitting by the fire and watching Sam cook, Frodo still feels the slithers of panic that caused him to run earlier. He does not understand, nor does he feel Aragorn's eyes settle on him whenever he is with Boromir. All nights afterwards he cannot sleep unless the ring is in his hand, red impression marks turning into brands. Boromir does not sleep. In his dreams he hears a voice whispering his name. |