Lothlórien
Because
of a hobbit, because of Frodo. That the fate of all Middle-Earth should
lie in the hands of one so small, Boromir could see now was folly. How
was this hobbit deemed worthy of the task? How indeed could Elrond,
could Gandalf, could every free creature of Middle-Earth, trust their
very lives to him? How could this Fellowship pledge to him their lives
and their allegiance? For in the end he would fail. He would be overcome;
his will would falter and he would take the One Ring to Sauron. And
all would suffer from it. The answer
seemed so simple, at least to Boromir. Yet to Aragorn he could not utter
the words. And it was not then the time or the place for action. He
must wait. He hoped the fever in his heart would hold 'til then, that
the sorrow and the anger of knowing second by second his own people
suffered and died needlessly would keep. Even then it threatened to
overcome him. Talking
with Aragorn, his eyes welled with tears he could not yet shed. Aragorn,
heir of Isildur, heir to the crown of Gondor—Legolas would say that
as a man of Gondor he owed this man his allegiance. Slowly he was coming
to believe this, day by day. He saw his courage, his great heart, and
he knew this man to be his king though he had long believed his land
had no need of one. The stewards of Gondor had ruled well. Yet he knew
now that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had it in him to restore his kingdom
to strength and glory. And there
was a conflict inside him, running deep and unresolved; he had inside
this belief, this certainty that Gondor would fall and would be lost,
that their quest would fail and Sauron bring their whole world under
his power, and yet... yet there was Aragorn. He believed in Aragorn,
but how could he? Aragorn believed that the One Ring must be destroyed,
was willing to give his life to see it cast into the fires of Mount
Doom. He believed that Frodo would see this happen, and that this was
the way it must be. So Boromir believed him. In his heart, he believed
his king. These two
beliefs could not reconcile one to the other inside him. He could not
live with both together. So there was a choice to be made. A choice
in which there could lie the fate of all. It must be made. But with
Aragorn so near... "The Ring
brings you false hope, Boromir", said Aragorn softly, with eyes cast
to the ground. "It speaks
to me of the glory of our people". Boromir frowned, cocked his head.
"With the One Ring we could protect our people. In the hands of Gondor
the Ring would defeat the Dark Lord and we would be free. How is this
hope false?" Aragorn
glanced upward, the beginnings of a sad smile to match the look in his
eyes tugging at the corners of his mouth. He laid his hand upon Boromir's
gauntlet, looked into his eyes. "Though you would use the Ring in a
desire to aid our people", he said, "you must know it would use you
for its own ends. The ring is evil, Boromir. It serves its master, and
its one master is Sauron. It feeds on your desires, speaks to you of
the great good it would do in your hands. This is false hope. Take the
ring and Gondor will fall". "This you
believe?" "This I
know, Boromir. In my heart I know this. The Ring tempts you. But the
hope it brings you is false". "And you
would give me hope, Aragorn?" Aragorn
smiled. "Yes, I would", he said with a small nod of his head. Boromir
rose, stood before his king, offered his hand. And Aragorn took it,
allowed himself to be aided to his feet. Fingers lingered around wrists
just a heartbeat longer than necessary. Gazes met. "Then pray
show me this hope", murmured Boromir, gazing into clear blue eyes. The
eyes of his king, and perhaps now something more... Aragorn
lifted his hand, reached out, placed it at Boromir's neck. The warm
palm covered his pulse, fingers curling around to brush softly at the
nape, and Boromir shivered. Aragorn stepped closer. Never breaking
the gaze, Boromir reached up and took hold of Aragorn's wrist, pulled
it from its rest atop his collarbone. He took Aragorn's hand, brought
it higher, pressed his lips to the worn palm then after a moment let
it go. Aragorn's
hands were in his hair, their foreheads resting together as Boromir's
arms went about his waist, pulled him in closer 'til the clasps of their
tunics clinked together. And then
they kissed. With a soft rasp of Aragorn's beard against his cheek,
their lips met. Boromir's hands rose, fingers slipped into Aragorn's
long hair as Aragorn's had done with his. And there was warmth. There
was enchantment, heat, there was passion, all in that one moment, in
that one kiss. It was everything they had denied 'til then. Boromir's
hands moved to grasp at Aragorn's shoulders, Aragorn's to cradle the
back of Boromir's neck. And in that moment their hearts beat together.
"Will you
lie with me tonight?" gasped Boromir, pulling back. Aragorn merely nodded
his assent. Boromir
led, mounting the staircase he knew would lead to the chamber lent him
that night. He could not help but look back, over his shoulder, afraid
he would find Aragorn fled or find this was all some kind of waking
dream, of a fantasy. But there Aragorn was each time, three paces behind,
a small smile at his lips that Boromir could only tentatively return.
They undressed
each other, slowly; fingers pulled at leather, at buckles and buttons
and clasps, 'til all their apparel lay discarded at their feet and they
stood together, hardness against hardness, heat against heat. They knelt
together on the bed, all hot touches and kisses, a desire between them
too intense to sate quickly. And then they lay. Aragorn lay between
his thighs, lips and tongue and teeth teasing at Boromir's chest then
his neck then his mouth. All Boromir could do was sigh and claw tight
at Aragorn's back, at his shoulders, his biceps. Until he
felt Aragorn push inside of him, slowly, carefully. He hissed, pulled
in a harsh breath, and as Aragorn moved, he looked up. He looked up
into his eyes, intense blue eyes, clear, passionate, sure. And he could
not look away. They moved
together, as if they had long known each other. Both had longed for
this, yet considered it impossibility. And now it was reality. They
moved together, gasped together... and in the end, they came together.
And tangled
in a mess of sheets and limbs they lay, exhausted. Boromir's hand settled
on the curve of Aragorn's hip, thumb tracing idle circles as their gazes
met once more. Aragorn's hand went to Boromir's cheek, brushed back
stray strands of hair, brushed over his lips. "Hope,
you call this?" asked Boromir with a smile. Aragorn
nodded. "I call this hope". He leant forward, stole a kiss. "I would
not knowingly see you walk the wrong path. I would you would believe
in me. I would not steer you wrong for all the wide world". "I know".
Boromir smiled. "My captain. My king. My love". "My love".
As he looked
into Aragorn's eyes, Boromir saw their fates stood entwined. He saw
the truth of his words. And the choice was made. His own judgement was
impaired and Aragorn's was not. He would follow him, place his trust
in him. His king. "You will
believe in me?" Boromir
nodded. "As long as I have wit in me, yes". Yet he
could not shake the feeling that there may come a time when he would
have not wit left. He wished it were not so, but thoughts of Gondor
preyed on his mind... "You will
see your home again. We will return together. One day, our paths will
lead us there. And the tower guards shall take up the call. The Lords
of Gondor have returned". Boromir
squeezed shut his eyes, remembered his home, shed one single tear. "Together",
he murmured. "For naught would a wish it otherwise". And suddenly
to see the White City, his home, his people, by the side of Aragorn
and in a time of peace, became his dearest wish. He would give to him
his allegiance. He would follow him. He could only hope his will would
hold. He feared what could happen if it did not. He feared what he may
become. End
by Lizzie
othlórien.
A place of enchantment and of magic, a place of safety... yet Boromir
of Gondor would not find a moment's peace within its bounds. The words
of Galadriel, Lady of the Wood, pierced him to his very heart. He knew
their quest would fail, felt it as sure and steady as the ground beneath
his feet. And he could near see the fall of the White City, the fall
of his home, of his people, to the Dark Lord of Mordor. This pained
him above all else; his dearest wish was to see his home safe once more,
yet he feared he should never see that day. 
