Precious
He does not think he can ever remember the second, for his mind refuses to
let it happen again, even if only in memory.
He had tried to stop the third with his sword and then, disarmed, with words
and pleas: he had pleaded, yea, hope still burning in his heart.
He remembers Boromir's hand, a hard, unforgiving grip in his hair, lifting
him up from his knees.
"You cannot offer me," Boromir had whispered, and his arm had felt like doom
(inescapable) closing fast around Aragorn's waist, "what already is mine."
Boromir's eyes had been the clear green of the Lothlórien *mellyrn* leaves
in Spring—yet darkness lingered under the boughs, never to fade; and
there had been blood on the ground.
The hall of the thrones in the Citadel, in Minas Tirith, has been as Aragorn
remembered it.
Nothing else has been the way he had dreamed it would be.
He cannot tell what has been the fate of Denethor, who had seen Thorongil in
him and had tried to touch his face; nor can he remember any more of
Faramir, who had risen to his father's aid, than his startled voice.
And it had sounded so strangely young, in the silent, echoing hall, when he
had called for his brother: a shrill cry, a plea—interrupted.
It had been then, Aragorn thinks, that hope had fled him.
Aragorn's eyes are closed, and have been ever since he was brought here, for
he does not wish to see.
Seated on the high throne of the Kings, chained to it, his hands are bound,
and he is naked.
It does not matter, for no one entering this hall ever leaves it again.
"Mine," Boromir whispers from where he kneels between Aragorn's legs, his
voice full of adoration. Boromir's mouth pays homage to Aragorn's flesh, his
hands arouse him even though Aragorn wishes they would bestow death upon
him, not passionate touches.
"My own," Boromir breathes into Aragorn's ear, and the Ring, dangling from a
fine Elven-woven chain around Boromir's neck (that was not Frodo's blood,
that dark stain Aragorn remembers on the stainless mithril, it was not, it
was not) trails cold, burning kisses over Aragorn's chest when Boromir leans
over him, taking what Aragorn has never had the courage to freely offer—what has, to Aragorn's eternal shame, indeed always been his.
"My King."
The Ring burns an angry circle over Aragorn's heart, where long ago a
different token had rested (Aragorn cannot remember what it was, or where it
lies now), pressed into his skin by the rhythm of their coupling. There is a
soft murmur in Aragorn's head, at times urgent, at times no more than a
content hum. It is of no consequence to him; no more than his own heartbeat
is.
And if it is the Ring, calling out to him, Aragorn cannot hear its voice
over Boromir's love pledges and his own broken, mindless cries.
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by
Cinzia
he first deed of Boromir, after he took the Ring from Frodo (after the Ring
took him), Aragorn tries hard to forget.
