Midwinter
Boromir was seated on the other side of the long table, closer to the
fire than Aragorn. He conversed with those either side of him, his
eyes cast down, the very picture of courtly behaviour. Again and
again through the meal, he would pause as though Aragorn's gaze on
him were tangible. Sometimes he would raise his head, and meet that
gaze as though by chance, and smile; sometimes he would turn away.
It seemed to Aragorn that the Steward's son was torn between choices.
Had he imagined the answering heat in Boromir's kiss? He knew he had
not.
Sometimes, in turn, Aragorn felt Arwen's gaze upon him, brushing his
awareness like a feather over skin. She sat by her father at the head
of the table, and smiled and laughed with her brothers and her
friends.
Of course she would expect fidelity once they were wed: of course,
having her, he would have no other. "Chastity," she had said to him
many years before, "is not a condition that becomes mortal men." She
had been smiling.
And this afternoon, too, she had smiled at him: that same smile, as
they walked through the winter-quiet gardens. "He is coming back
through the wood," she had said, gazing into the empty fountain with
an enigmatic smile that mirrored her grandmother's.
Aragorn had not needed to ask of whom she spoke. He could not imagine
being able to hide his feelings from Arwen, and she seemed amused by
his gradual, unintended fascination with Boromir.
"It will be good to see him returned safely," he had conceded,
smiling back at her.
"Perhaps," had suggested Arwen, "you should go out and meet him."
"He is a warrior, and needs no aid I might give him." He had tried to
keep the regret from his voice.
Amusement had caught in the corner of Arwen's smile, and she
resembled Galadriel more than ever. "It is midwinter, and the night
falls cold and early. All mortal men seek comfort at this time."
That, thought Aragorn now in the warm light of the hall, was the
kernel of it. Whatever Arwen needed—wanted—from him, it was not
comfort. Perhaps, wiser than himself, she saw that he needed comfort
too: and she, whose passions ran in longer tides, could not give it
to him.
He raised his glass and toasted her, and felt Boromir's eyes on him:
when he turned, Boromir was frowning.
Arwen left the Hall once dinner was over. She stopped by his seat and
wished him a pleasant evening, and her guileless smile made him want
to laugh and embrace her. It would not have been seemly, so he must
put his gratitude and love and amusement into a smile to match her
own.
And then she was gone, and Boromir was staring at him over the gold-rimmed edge of a goblet.
The lamplight made his hair glow. For a
moment, as Aragorn looked back at him, there might as well have been
no one else in the Hall.
Then Glorfindel paused to greet him. If he had noticed Aragorn's
distraction, he did not mention it. They exchanged courtesies, and
Glorfindel went on, lengthening his stride to catch up with Legolas
as the Silvan Elf went through the great arched doorway.
Aragorn turned back to the table, still smiling. But Boromir's seat
was empty.
Rivendell had many rooms, and many pleasant diversions to entertain
its Lord's guests. Boromir might have sought solace in the Hall of
Fire, where there was singing and laughter and more wine. He might
have slipped away with some newfound companion. Aragorn chuckled
ruefully. Perhaps, after all, Boromir had not wanted... Or perhaps he
had thought Aragorn's affections indivisible, taken his attentions
for flattery rather than honesty.
If Boromir had trusted him, had believed the unspoken pledge out
there in the dusk beside the sunken tombs, then Aragorn knew where he
would find the other man.
The crescent moon cast a soft, cold light through the high windows of
the gallery. The colours of Isildur's victory were dulled: the shards
of Narsil were leaden: all colour was leached from the clothes, skin,
hair of the man who stood, head bent in thought, before the statue.
Aragorn watched him for a moment, conscious of the irrevocability of
this. If he walked away quietly now, they need never speak of it
again. The need, the response, the mutual fire would still lie there
between them, but they would bury the embers of the afternoon.
"Boromir," he said, voice soft.
The other man's head came up sharply, as though he had not expected
Aragorn to seek him here. But Aragorn remembered their first meeting
back in the autumn, when the afternoon sun was still warm and dusk
came later. He remembered the look that had sparked between them
then: the afterimage of that look had glowed, unexamined, since then,
until this afternoon with the West ablaze and Boromir cold and
comfortless.
Aragorn moved to stand behind Boromir, a decent distance. He would
not force this.
"I thought you were... I thought you would have other calls on your
time." Boromir did not turn to face him. There was a trace of
laughter in his voice, as though he found his own assumptions amusing.
"No," said Aragorn simply. "It is your company that I seek."
Faster than he had expected—fast enough that he had to fight back
the instinct to defend himself—Boromir turned and closed the
distance between them with one soft, determined step. His hands came
up to Aragorn's shoulders. Aragorn let himself be held, but his own
hands stayed at his sides. He would wait for Boromir to crave his
touch.
Boromir leant forward. He kissed Aragorn as though it were a demand.
Give me your body. Give me your kisses, your desire, your need, your
fulfilment. Be mine.
Aragorn kissed him back eagerly, taking the demands, answering them
with his own. It felt... easy, comfortable, as though they had never
needed to circle one another, waiting for a smile or a glance to
reveal the fire inside.
He let Boromir's hands grip his shoulders, move against his
collarbones, press warmly against the velvet and silk of his tunic.
Somehow—Boromir had not pulled at him—they were closer, and the
familiar tingle of nearness began to wash over him. He was making
soft, eager sounds into Boromir's kiss, and Boromir's breathing was
heavier as his hands pressed along Aragorn's ribs, round to his back,
no longer a buffer between them.
Aragorn thought that it would be easy to stay here in the cold
gallery and be warmed by Boromir's heat. Easy, but lazy; and someone
else might come to meditate upon Narsil. "My rooms are comfortable,"
he murmured against Boromir's lips.
"Then let us go to them," said Boromir. Aragorn could see his smile
clearly, even in the dim moonlight.
For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Boromir stepped back,
letting his hands fall away from Aragorn's shoulders. "You must lead
me," he said.
Aragorn inclined his head, smiling to himself, and turned towards the
back staircase. Boromir was close behind him, almost close enough to
touch: close enough to stumble against him deliciously if he halted
on the unlit stair.
Aragorn reminded himself of comfort, and ease, and courtesy. Without
looking back, without any contact, he led the other man through
shadowy, wood-panelled hallways until they reached his door.
Hand on the latch, Aragorn paused. He wanted to reassure Boromir that
his choice was not yet fixed. "You are—"
Boromir's mouth covered his, answering him comprehensively, answering
several of the questions he might have asked. Aragorn held back from
the kiss. He braced himself against the closed door and against
Boromir's embrace. When Boromir drew back uncertainly, he said, "Just
come inside."
The room smelt of scented wood, with a faint underlay of pipe smoke.
The windows were shuttered against the night, and the lamps had not
been lit, but fire flickered in the grate. Aragorn turned and closed
the door behind Boromir, and with the same smooth movement, embraced
him.
Boromir sighed as though he had come home at the end of a long, weary
journey. He leant towards Aragorn and simply rested against him,
forehead to shoulder, for a long moment. Aragorn stood, breathing
slowly, and felt amazement knot and swirl under his skin. He had not
hoped to have this man here, alone with him in his rooms. It had
been... years, yes, since he had invited anyone to his bed in
Rivendell.
Boromir looked up at him, and Aragorn saw his own sudden shyness
reflected. It made him smile, and Boromir's answering smile reminded
him of why he had wanted this. He wrapped his arms more tightly
around Boromir's broad shoulders, feeling the other man's muscles
shift under his hands as Boromir embraced him in return. They were
kissing again, more passionately than before. Aragorn leant into the
kiss hungrily, then gasped against Boromir's open mouth as their
bodies pressed closer and he felt the other man's arousal against his
own. Desperate to get closer, he pushed his hips against Boromir.
Boromir moaned into the kiss, tongue never ceasing its relentless
invasion, and his hands slid down Aragorn's back and pulled him
closer.
Aragorn craved Boromir's touch on his skin as though it would quell
the burning, which he knew it would not. The room seemed summer-warm.
Boromir rocked against him, still kissing him frantically as though
they could melt together. Aragorn's blood roared in his ears like the
sea. He opened his eyes and met Boromir's hot green gaze. There was
no shyness in that look: there was passion to match his own, and some
amusement, too, at their mutual unravelling.
"I want to see you naked," he said to Aragorn, pulling back from the
kiss. His lips were fascinatingly reddened and swollen.
"I want to feel you naked," Aragorn said without thinking. His own
boldness—he was not in the habit of saying such things to his
infrequent lovers—made him smile. He shivered and inhaled sharply
at the feel of Boromir's hands on the lacing of his shirt. His own
hands seemed to be more familiar with the art of undressing another
man than he had expected. Between white-hot flashes of sensation as
Boromir's fingers touched his skin, he found himself unlacing and
unbuttoning, sliding his own calloused fingertips along Boromir's
ribs and making him flinch, feeling the steady furnace-heat of
Boromir's body against his hands.
Then Boromir's hand slid beneath the waistband of his breeches, and
he gulped a ragged breath and bent to kiss and lick at Boromir's
collarbone, pushing the unlaced tunic aside and letting it fall to
the floor. Boromir's hand on him was cool and clever—he has done
this before, and more than once, thought Aragorn distantly—and
Aragorn wanted that touch all over his body. He ducked his head
lower, teasing a nipple with his tongue and teeth, exulting in
Boromir's moan.
Boromir's hands were sliding his breeches down over his hips, and he
gasped as cool air washed over his aching erection. His own hands
clenched on the suddenly-unfamiliar fastenings of Boromir's clothes.
Then Boromir was pulling away—Aragorn made a protesting noise—dropping to his knees, acting the perfect valet as he unbooted
Aragorn, left foot then right foot, balancing him as he swayed. The
floor was cold, despite the rugs under his bared feet. Finally he was
naked, breeches kicked away, skin quivering with cold except where
Boromir's hot hands touched him. Boromir, dizzyingly, was looking up
at him from where he knelt, grinning up at him, as his lips closed
over Aragorn's cock.
Everything else stopped being relevant. Aragorn's eyes flickered
closed, and his head tipped back. His fingers combed through
Boromir's thick, straight hair, longing to pull his head closer. He
could hear his own harsh breath. Then Boromir's tongue slid
confidently along the underside of his cock and Aragorn's eyes
snapped open in amazement.
"Never... oh, Boromir..."
He felt the other man laugh around his erection, and it almost undid
him. "Stop!" he gasped, pulling Boromir's head back, pulling away
from that exquisite, dizzying heat.
Boromir looked up at him, lips more swollen than before. Aragorn
wanted to sheathe himself in the other man's mouth and rush towards a
blinding release: but there were things he wanted more.
"Not like... I need you, Boromir." Aragorn paused, breath still
unsteady. He was unaccustomed to asking for such things. But Boromir,
he knew, wanted this—all of this—as much as he did himself. "I
want to feel you inside me."
Boromir flushed. His eyes were very dark in the flickering
firelight. "Oh, yes," he breathed. He rose slowly and gracefully, and
Aragorn's breath caught at the simple play of light on flesh. Boromir
kissed him, and Aragorn tasted the salt of his own flesh on the other
man's tongue: it made him moan and run his hands down the ridges of
Boromir's torso.
"Bed," Boromir whispered, breaking the kiss again. "You do have a
bed?"
Aragorn's laugh was unsteady. "I do," he said, releasing Boromir.
They were still, ridiculously, by the outer door. He took a
candlestick from the mantle and crouched naked to light the candles
at the fireplace, as warmed by Boromir's gaze as by the glowing
coals. At the other doorway he paused, pulling aside the curtain
there, and looked back over his shoulder. Boromir was staring at him
as though... Aragorn shivered. The raw passion in his friend's gaze
scorched him, and he craved that fire more than anything.
"Come, Boromir," he said, and held the curtain aside for Boromir to
precede him.
The bedchamber was somewhat colder than the outer room, but Boromir
did not hesitate to peel off the rest of his clothes. Aragorn set the
candlestick down by the bed, where the flickering light would best
illuminate Boromir as he undressed. He felt as if he had been starved
and were being shown a banquet. Boromir's body was as perfect as a
statue, but far more human. Scars glowed on his ribs and flanks: he
was gloriously erect, and Aragorn swallowed, thinking of how their
bodies would fit together, how it would feel...
Boromir was on the bed beside him, as naked as Aragorn, hands running
across Aragorn's chest and shoulders even as Aragorn reached for him.
They kissed again, messily, mouths sliding away from one another to
taste each other's skin. Aragorn licked firmly at the hollow of
Boromir's neck, tasting the saltiness of his flesh and the unique
tang of his sweat. His hand swept down over Boromir's chest and
abdomen, fingers wrapping firm and confident around Boromir's hard,
hot erection, thumb sliding across the wet head. Boromir made a
choking noise and pulled Aragorn down to lie beside him across the
bed.
He was irresistible. Aragorn twisted free of the embrace and brought
his head down to Boromir's groin, tongue poking out to swirl, ever so
delicately, between his own fingers. Boromir moaned, and his hand
curled around the back of Aragorn's head, not pushing him down or
pulling him away: approving, encouraging, aroused.
"I just wanted... to taste you," Aragorn said between caresses. He
yearned to take Boromir deep in his throat and lick and suck and
stroke him until he could hold back no more. That would not assuage
the ache in his own body, not now. And Boromir, it seemed, craved
more as well: his hand gradually eased Aragorn's head back.
They stared at each other across the length of Boromir's body.
Neither man was hiding anything any more. History and heritage were
irrelevant beside this shared heat. Aragorn's breath caught at the
simplicity of Boromir's smile. He slid back up to lie next to the
other man, capturing his lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss.
"Boromir..."
"Have you anything to... to ease the way?" Boromir asked, eyes fixed
on Aragorn's.
"Here," said Aragorn, reached around to fumble on the dusty shelf
behind the bed until his fingers encountered the smooth glass
jar. "Hmm. It'll be cold."
Boromir laughed silently against his neck. "Then I'll warm it." He
took the jar from Aragorn, opened it, scooped out a palmful of dark
aromatic salve. Its resinous scent filled the room as the heat of his
hand softened it.
"Let me..." Aragorn dipped his fingers in the salve and began to
stroke Boromir's cock, hand sliding more easily as he increased the
speed of his caresses. He inhaled when a single slick finger circled
his entrance and pushed gently into him. The penetration was slow and
inexorable, and he was moaning and twisting by the time Boromir's
finger was fully sheathed in his body. Another hot finger began to
push in beside it, and simultaneously Boromir's other hand came down
on his wrist.
"Enough," Boromir said raggedly, nudging Aragorn back onto the bed
with his shoulder as one leg came across to straddle the other
man. "Or there'll be nothing left for you."
Aragorn was beyond complaint. He lay, panting, and pushed up vainly
against Boromir's tantalising fingers. It had been a long time since
he had lain with another man, longer since he had given himself up
like this: he had forgotten the exhilaration of being readied, though
it seemed his body remembered how to respond.
There was a third finger now, pushing and stretching him, rubbing
ever so gently against a place inside him and eliciting a flare of
desire that would have brought him up off the bed if Boromir's weight
had not been pinning him, firmly and thrillingly, in place. The feel
of the man's body against his own was more exciting than he had ever
imagined: surely, surely it had never been like this before? He
writhed against Boromir's hand, opening himself up, moaning the other
man's name, moaning as the fingers withdrew.
"Aragorn," said Boromir quietly, kneeling between his legs, opening
him even wider with his gaze. Boromir's cock twitched against his
stomach, and Aragorn shivered. He felt completely exposed, utterly at
the other man's mercy, delirious with pleasure.
"Yes... please..."
Then Boromir was holding him and pushing against, pushing in, pausing
as Aragorn's muscles tensed against the unfamiliarity of it: bending
his head to lick slowly against Aragorn's mouth, licking away the
discomfort, whispering Aragorn's name again and again until the
tightness eased and Aragorn helplessly tilted his hips up to meet the
slow, smooth slide inside.
There was a moment when neither of them moved, caught in the novelty
of the sensation. Aragorn gazed up at Boromir: his eyes felt
unnaturally wide open, and the feeling of Boromir surrounding him,
and surrounded by him, was too strange for him to be sure whether or
not it was pleasurable. There was pain, silver-red filaments of it
radiating from the place where they were joined, but there was
something, something else... Then Boromir, still staring down at
him, moved further, and the feeling melted into pleasure.
His own cock, brushing occasionally against Boromir's stomach as the
other man changed the angle of his thrusts, ached for contact.
Aragorn's hands were exploring everything he could reach of his
lover's body: rubbing a nipple, stroking down the white welt of a
scar, caressing and pulling and claiming. He freed one hand to stroke
himself as well: but Boromir was faster, again, and caught his wrist.
For a moment, Aragorn let himself remember that he should not let
this man master him: but that no longer felt relevant, or true.
He had expected Boromir to be rougher, the first time. He had not
expected Boromir to pin his wrists by his side: Aragorn tensed
against that hold, against the red-silver burn as Boromir pushed
further, harder, again, again. He could not touch himself, and
Boromir was touching him deep inside, kissing him with incandescent
kisses, making him burn. Aragorn ached for more. He was begging for
more. He would have promised Boromir anything, anything at all, for a
resolution of this agonising bliss that blazed higher and deeper and
hotter by the moment. Boromir's tongue traced down his chest, teasing
each nipple, catching against the line of hair that began at his
solar plexus.
Somewhere inside, a cold clear fragment of his mind hoped that
Boromir would ask for nothing but this. He would give Boromir this,
and more of it, later. Later... the image of Boromir writhing and
burning under him drove the cold thought out again.
When Boromir began to climax, Aragorn could feel it building. He
arched up into Boromir's thrusts, pushing himself further onto the
other man's cock, back curved and vision blurring and Boromir's name
tangled and disjointed on his tongue.
"Now," said Boromir, and his fingers uncoiled from Aragorn's right
wrist. Aragorn reached urgently for his erection but Boromir's hand
was there before him, fingers coiling back around him, thumb pressing
irresistibly as he stroked once, twice.
Ecstasy swept over Aragorn like a wave of liquid fire. The room went
white. He could hear his own cries, distantly. Boromir was hot inside
him, breath like flame on his neck as he groaned, as Aragorn's body
tightened and fastened itself impossibly around Boromir.
They lay for a while in one another's arms, sticky and sweating, with
the blankets pulled halfway over them. Aragorn could not stop
smiling. He stroked Boromir's sweat-dark hair, rubbed his thumb
against the stubble on Boromir's jaw. Boromir curled around him,
kissing him lazily. Aragorn could think of nothing that needed
saying.
Eventually Boromir rose, unwrapping himself from Aragorn's embrace.
He padded barefoot across the rug to the dresser, and poured water
from the ewer into the basin. He brought the water and a cloth to the
bedside, and washed sweat and semen from them both. The water was icy
cold, but Boromir kissed as he cleaned, exploring Aragorn's body as
though he were charting a conquered land, and Aragorn relaxed and let
himself be claimed. When Boromir had finished, Aragorn held the
covers back for him to come into bed. There was an ordinariness to
the action that made him wistful: he did not think it would ever,
really, be that way between them.
"What are we, now?" Boromir asked at last, his lips vibrating against
Aragorn's neck. "You and I?" He did not raise his head to look at his
lover.
"I would have you be mine," said Aragorn slowly, smoothing Boromir's
skin over his bones and marvelling at the furnace within. "My lover,
as you are mine: my friend, my comrade. I would have the memory of
you like armour, and like a layer of silk, between me and the world."
"We are... we cannot." He was choking on the words. "There is too
much between us. All of Gondor lies between us! We cannot be... none
of that can be." Boromir tried to turn away, but Aragorn tightened
his hold and would not let him go. Earlier, Boromir's strength had
been greater than his, but perhaps he was too exhausted now to free
himself.
"Not here, Boromir." Aragorn's voice was rough and slurred, as though
he had been drinking. "Not here. Here, now, we are equals." Your
blood is finer than mine, he thought. You have escaped Isildur's
taint... But that was not an argument for tonight.
Boromir said nothing.
"Will you be mine, Boromir?" Aragorn asked again, moulding his body
more firmly to Boromir's. "For I think I am yours."
Again, Boromir's speed astonished him: but he lay and let Boromir
press him into the warm linen, covering him, mouth hot on his, knee
nudging its way between his thighs. Aragorn abandoned himself to his
lover's ravishing kiss, delighting in the sensation of being claimed.
"If you are mine," Boromir said huskily, good humour apparently quite
restored, "then I suppose I might equally be yours." His hand moved
lower in an intimate caress. "Now, let me remind—"
"Oh, no, my warrior. Now you are mine..." And so saying, Aragorn
twisted up, letting Boromir's own weight carry him back over until
Aragorn was spread on top of him, stretching out languorously so that
they were touching everywhere, feeling the slide of Boromir's skin
against his.
"It grows late, Aragorn," Boromir said, laughing up at him. "Must we
lie and talk all night, like children afraid of the dark?"
Aragorn grinned, feral, and leant down to lick deliberately along
Boromir's neck until the other man's breath faltered.
"We have all night," said Aragorn at last. "And it is Midwinter. Let
us seek fire where we may."
And let Boromir draw him down.
by Gloria Mundi
he lamps blazed all down the long hall. It was midwinter, the
longest night of the year, and even immortality dreads the dark. So
the wine flowed more freely than was usual, and the lamps were turned
higher, and voices rang brighter. There was a brittleness to it all,
because of the threat in the East.
