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“What are you carving?”

Boromir did not glance up at Aragorn’s question. “I’m not certain,” he answered, making a long, arching cut on the wood. “I do not usually start with anything specific in mind; I just begin, and it becomes what it will.”

He held it out at arm’s length,, frowning at some flaw Aragorn did not see. “It is an old habit,” Boromir elaborated, correcting the invisible defect with a precise motion of the tip of his knife. “My brother has an entire collection of such figures, soldiers and dragons and the like. And it helped while away those long, dull hours in the field, while we sat idle, waiting for action.”

Aragorn nodded. “Several of my companions passed the time the same way,” he said, “but I myself was never good at whittling anything but toothpicks. It requires too much patience.”

Boromir eyed Aragorn skeptically. “You do not have patience.”

Aragorn’s smile was wry. “There are different kinds of patience, my friend.” He tilted his head, examining the unfinished carving. “It looks a bit like a horse.”

Boromir turned the wood from side to side. “You are right,” he agreed, an inspired gleam stealing into his eyes. “Although I might say it looks more like a pony.”