Anyway, I imagine this somewhat down the road. Obviously, someone's had some language lessons. How long will they be gone? Maybe not long enough for Richard's skills in the Common Tongue to be this advanced...
WARNING: Total first cut. Not proofed or spell-checked.
Locked "Slash OK"
Title/Chapter: The Steward's Son
Author: muck_a_luck, posting in brainofck
Pairing: Richard Sharpe/Elessar Telcontar
Rating: PG-13 to NC-17
Summary: Mr. Sharpe has a difficult morning in the fog and
Content/warnings: Crossover. Violence.
Disclaimer: No infringement on anybody's copyright intended. Fan fic worries some authors, because they find that they get a note from a fan or see something posted and it parallels something they were planning to write and their publishers flinch and they lose a whole storyline. Well, my sincere and abject apologies to Mr. Cornwell or any representative or asignee of the Tolkien estate who was considering a Sharpe/Middle Earth crossover novel. I swear by all that's holy that I will not claim any copyright in your publication. Dude.
Archive rights: www.rugbytackling.com only, and my journals muck_a_luck and brainofck
Further Disclaimer: This is an unannounced WIP. Beware bad!fic and rough drafts
Special glaring to: uisgich, who started this with some bath!slut!porn one boring afternoon while I was working, pretended she wanted to write with me, then dropped it in my lap. *glares*
Richard had been in a foul mood all day, and he knew Aragorn had noticed. He regretted it, but Richard was confused. This whole situation was worrying him. When he’d first "arrived" his immediate concern had been how to get back to Spain and his Company. He had convinced Aragorn to help him search the woods, though he had seen how reluctant the man had been. They had started with the clearing where the orcs attacked him, then worked their way outward. There had been nothing. No clue as to how he had gotten here. And Aragorn didn't go to a lot of trouble to hide his relief.
This relationship with Aragorn. He certainly didn't understand it. Richard had been a soldier all his life. He didn't take men to his bed. But this strange, serious man, with his air of wisdom and deep, still eyes. Richard shook his head and glared across the fire at him. Aragorn sighed, and set aside his plate. "Richard, what's wrong? You've been angry with me all day."
Richard couldn't look at him and say it. So he looked away.
"I can't come back with you. To your city. I can't. I won't."
The silence stretched, but Richard refused to look. If he met Aragorn's eyes, he'd waver and give in. He knew how women effected him. He suspected it extended to lovers in general, and he didn't want to give in on this.
Finally. "Why?" It was barely a whisper from across the fire, and Richard nearly flinched at the cracked, tearful sound in Aragorn's voice.
"I'm a soldier, Aragorn. I know how soldiers think. How people think, for that matter. The things that they see and what they say. And once they realize I'm not him – once your men, your city, your people realize I'm not him – they'll want to know who I am. And they'll figure it out pretty quick. I bet it takes less than a week for the entire Tower Guard to know that their king's taken on a bit o' stuff on the side. We always knew." Richard trailed off, finally letting himself look at his lover, who was staring at him, horrified, across the wide gulf of their tiny fire.
"And she'll know, won't she?" Richard plowed on relentlessly, trying to keep his momentum as he crushed Aragorn's hopes. "Your wife might never know, and might not even care about this little dabble in the wilds, but I can't imagine she'd let you carry on like this under her very roof."
"I won't be that," he said, quietly. "In all my life that's the one thing I have never been. No matter what men and officers may have thought about me, I've never been any man's whore, and I'm not going to start with you." He took a deep breath. "So…"
"So, what?" Aragorn sounded broken, and was so close that Richard could reach out and touch his face with his trembling hand.
"So, I won't come with you," he said, with as much finality as he could muster, mortified that he was on the brink of tears himself and infinitely relieved that his voice was firm, if a little harsh, and unaffected by the strangled feeling in his throat. He stood and took their plates to the little stream by their campsite. Rinsed them in the cold water. Dried his hands on his pants and walked over to his bedroll, already spread by the fire and looking very uninviting. He curled himself into the blankets and listened as Aragorn finally stood and left him there, alone. But he didn't go far. A little down the stream, Richard heard the Ranger King singing, in a language Richard now recognized as Quenya. By the banks of the flowing water, with the dying fire at his back, Richard let his tears fall into the soft wool and tried not to hear the grief in the song.
The Aragorn/Sharpe working homepage