2. Night, Inside the Tent of Aragorn
So Aragorn into his tent
repaired, in truth a tad put out.
His heart was sore, his patience spent
They were, in truth, without a doubt
the most ungrateful and complaining lot;
about the bigger picture cared they not one jot.
Then he bethought him of the note
from Arwen, lovely elf, his dear.
So, sure that what his darling wrote
would lift his heart, depression clear,
he reached into his tunic with a hand
that trembled (but was manly, still, and tanned).
“Elfstone sweet, it’s been a while
since last we spoke. I surely miss
the dimple that my thoughts beguile.
I sigh for your strong and manly kiss.
I hesitate to mention this, but father
still is talking up th’Undying Lands, a bother.”
“He keeps haranguing me about
the drawbacks of your being mortal.
He thinks that he is raising doubt
(although behind my hand I chortle,
thinking of that dimple and your kiss,
which, though somewhat scratchy, is the height of bliss).”
“But Daddy’s putting on the screws
to get me on that elven boat
to leave these shores. This news,
I know, your heart hath smote;
but I just thought I’d better let you know
he’s trying to put his oar in. I’m a little low.”
“So anyway, Estel, he said
that things don’t look so good out there
in Gondor. And he’s kind of mad
(he heard about Haldir. I swear
I don’t know who it was who told him) anyhow.
To put it bluntly, Elrond’s having quite a cow.”
“The sooner you can get this thing
wrapped up, the better, don’t you think?
He’ll be ok when you’re the king.
It’s just that now I’m on the brink
of getting shipped off West. A fond farewell,
your loving Evenstar, Arwen Undómiel.”
“P.S. Oh, yes, I wrote to Gran,
but have not yet heard back from her.
And what is this I hear of “fans”?
Just what is going on out there?
I also heard some gossip that your chin
was being much admired by Lady Éowyn.”
With head sunk in his hands, the tent
was witness to his sighs. Did none
his honour trust? His heart was rent.
Were all his hopes to be undone?
Just then, outside the tent, a voice did hear.
“My Lord! A message from the Steward Faramir.”
“What now?!” thought Estel, goaded much.
“Come in,” he curtly bad the man,
who handed him the note. “In dutch
we are unless I somehow can
defuse this dimple thing.” Then turning to
the note of Faramir, he found yet more to rue.
“My Lord,” it said, (no “gracious” or
“respects”) “I write to you, old sport,
to tell you this, if any more
you flirt or trifle with… in short,
if you don’t lay off Lady Éowyn,
I’ll punch you on your dimpled, manly chin.”
“I know you are the rightful king,
and Gondor do I gladly cede.
But I must draw the line. A fling
with Éowyn you do not need.
And I’ve been thinking on my brother Boromir.
Can’t say that I’m convinced your sorrow’s quite sincere.”
“(P.S. This note was written by
Acacea, the Steward’s scribe,
because Lord Faramir doth lie
sore wounded. I cannot describe
how much the sweet boy suffers. Just ignore
that part concerning Éowyn. She’s such a bore.)”
Part VII – Aragorn’s Dream
He flung the note into the corner,
and then upon his cot did fall.
So much for those he thought his former
friends. May Nazgûl take them all!
Thus did he fall into a fitful, troubled sleep,
and tossed and turned his way into the darkness deep.
Then, lo! A vision clear, or dream,
came to him, in darkness shrouded.
He saw a face, familiar seemed;
at first not clear, his vision clouded.
Then, “Boromir!” Lord Estel gladly cried.
“I’ve thought about you often since you… well, since you died.”
So Aragorn upon the form
of Boromir did gladly look.
Those pesky holes that harmed
him still in evidence, they took
a bit of getting used to. But still fair
of face and form, though just a bit the worse for wear.
“My friend!” cried Aragorn, “in truth
I’m doubly glad to see you now.
That day at Amon Hen, forsooth,
we barely had the time to vow
our fealty, each to each. You did cling
to life to say with dying breath, “My Captain and my King!”
“Forget it!” said the handsome shade.
“I take it back! ‘Twas on the brink
of death; won’t count,” said Gondor’s Blade.
“I had a lot of time to think
whilst floating down the River Anduin
and contemplating all the things that might have been.”
“I’d like to know, at first just where,
Estel, you were at Amon Hen?
You were a trifle late, I dare
to say. I thought you might have been
a bit more johnny on the spot, and not
fooling about while I was taking Lurtz’s shots.”
“If you had gotten off your duff,
I might have been in Towers Two
in more than flashback on that bluff
in Moria. But nooooooo.. trust you
to hog the screen. Then there’s the dimple;
it doth expain, in part, the reason you still live. It’s simple.”
“Besides, some dimples do I have
myself.” So spoke the manly Blade,
as he proceeded to take off
his sword, his leathers then to doff.
“No, no!” said Aragorn, in just the nick
of time. “Alas, we’re not in just that kind of fic.”
“Well, ok, then,” said Boromir,
”but I’ve been thinking. Here’s the thing.
Dad was right, it now is clear.
The realm of Gondor has no king,
and needs no King; already, my fan-girls fewer
are than yours (my dimples being hidden from the viewer.)
With that the shade of Boromir
did soon depart. Lord Aragorn
was in despair. The ghost sincere
had brought much doubt, a thorn
to prick his mind. Mayhap ‘twas true that all
in ruin lay. Then into sleep again Estel did fall.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.