Omake or ‘How the after-battle of the Pelennor Fields could have gone’ or ‘Aragorn has a death wish and Boromir may have a breakdown’:
“Such beauty does not belong in a battlefield.” He said pressing a gentle kiss to his hand.
“In my defence, he was asking for it.” He said much to his company’s confusion and Boromir’s satisfaction, if his badly hidden smirk was anything to go by.
And then, much to their stunned disbelief, he drew his fist back before punching Prince Éomer on the face, breaking his nose and making him stumble.
“Since, apparently, this is ‘no place for such beauty’, despite said beauty saving the lives of more or less all present people, I’ll take my leave. Have fun with the clean-up I, for one, need a bath.” He declared ignoring the wide-eyed looks before thrusting a white rod at his father. “Here, you can keep this: I do not like being the Steward.”
With that, he whistled for his horse and mounted it before turning to look at the Gondorian.
“Oh, remember to have Anmer give you an appraisal of the strategy and the repairs.” He went to leave and turned again. “And have the boulders on the third level moved. Oh, and tell the First Level ―I think the Captain’s dead, so you’ll have to appoint a new one. Though not Iorlas, please. Or Gerion well, tell them to check there are no orcs left hidden in the lower levels before letting the evacuated civilians go back to them. And you’ll have to talk to Beregond…”
He paused at Boromir’s lost face and sighed before extending a hand and retaking the white rod.
“You know what? Forget it, I’ll keep this for a while longer.”
And then he truly left, leaving the group of warriors totally stumped as to what in the name of the Valar had just happened.
“Well,” Boromir said scratching his head. “I guess I could use this as an excuse to have him fill out the paperwork for all this.”
“I think, my friend, that if you do not want it to end up in the fire of some random fireplace, which would mean even more paperwork, you’d better resign yourself to filling it.” Said Aragorn.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Wait, I’ll have Faramir do it! He’ll be trapped in the- I mean, confined to bed in the Healing Ward, so he shouldn’t mind too much having something so important forced upon, uh, eh… entrusted to him.”
“That sounds like a more plausible possibility.” Snickered Aragorn.
“Just you wait until you’re King: the dreaded paperwork will bury you alive!” he grumbled before suddenly lighting up. “That’s right! Once you’re King, you’ll have paperwork too! Being Steward will be much easier then!”
The Gondorian patted his king’s shoulder in a mock offer of comfort, ignoring the wide-eyed horror-struck look he sent him.
“Is it too late to say I do NOT want the throne?”
“Yes. Now I know your face: I would happily pursue you through the whole of Middle Earth and drag you back kicking and screaming like a little girl if it meant less paperwork.”
“That in itself would mean we wouldn’t have ANY paperwork.” Mused Aragorn.
“True. Hmmm, that’s an option.”
“Hadrian would kick BOTH your asses before you got ten miles from the city, bring you back, tie you to a chair and possibly cut your balls off if you even thought of it as more than a passing joke never to be repeated.” Predicted Captain Anmer with a too straight face.
The men shuddered visibly and blanched before looking at each other and then at the Citadel, which exuded a feeling of foreboding that they swore made them want to run. Right towards it. To wherever Hadrian was. To fall on their knees and swear never to do such a thing.
They resisted.
Barely.
“I guess it’s the paperwork, then.” Said Aragorn, resigned. “By the way, I’m going to marry Hadrian.”
“Like hell” you keep away from my sweet son!”
“No, really, we’re going to marry and he’ll have my babies.” He said totally serious.
HPLOTRHPLOTRHPLOTR
“What makes you think you are worthy of him?” finally asked Boromir in a neutral voice.
Aragorn took a deep breath.
“I could go on and on about the riches I could offer and shower him with, but we all know that, not only wouldn’t he be impressed by such a thing, he would not desire it. But I also know that I can make him happy, I can make him laugh and smile and I can understand better than most his desire for freedom and his need to wander. And that, I believe, is worth more than any jewel I could give him.”
With his piece said, the king just waited for the father’s answer, knowing there was nothing else he could add that would convey his feelings better.
“He’s given the perfect answer, brother.” Said Faramir, always the most reasonable even if he was now frowning.
“I don’t care!”
And then Hadrian’s voice came through the door and looked at them all, as if already blaming them for something:
“Dad, you just sounded like a petulant child. Care to explain what exactly is going on here?