Release
In the daylight the mallorn-blossom shone bright and the wood was
indeed golden, as the old tales told. That day Aragorn had walked in
the tall grass beneath the yellow leaves, hour upon hour passing him
by in but the blinking of an eye. He had found himself stopped here
and there, resting against the silver-grey bark of a mallorn tree or
kneeling in the flowers of Cerin Amroth, reliving a time when nothing
had mattered so much as the beauty in the face of his love, of Arwen
Undómiel.
In the night the gold of the wood turned into an unearthly glow of
silver; the Rohirrim in their tongue called this place Dwimordene,
the haunted valley, and in such a time as this the cause was plain to
see. No moonlight ever shone so bright or blue as the nights of the
Golden Wood; no place in the world retained the ethereal beauty of
Elvenhome as did this place.
Yet amidst this tranquillity there was disquiet. It was a disquiet
which Aragorn had longed to still within himself, and had found
release in the most unlikely of places.
Boromir had the strong, callused hands of a warrior, hands that knew
the heat of fresh-spilt blood and arms that yearned to strain with
the bracing weight of a broadsword. Those arms were about Aragorn
now, with once-bloodied hands bent to a far gentler art than that of
the battle plain. Aragorn rested his arm about the warrior's waist
and traced the seam in the heavy leather of Boromir's coat; a few
stray locks of Boromir's blonde hair fell lightly over the curve of
Aragorn's neck as their foreheads rested together.
The hair was still damp and fragrant with the water of the pool in
which they had bathed, in the starlit twilight of the Wood. A stony
bowl carved from the living rock below a shallow fall—Aragorn had
sought out this place to bathe and forget his cares. Tossing aside
his clothing he had waded into the cool waters, the swirl about his
thighs soothing as nothing else he knew. He dipped his head and let
the water run over his chest in coursing rivulets, following their
paths soon after with his tired hands. He was glad then to be in
Lórien. He could think of nothing else which might have rendered the
weight upon his heart more bearable.
Gandalf's fall had preyed on his mind; to come so far and then lose
such a friend, to such a creature, was unthinkable. And now Gandalf's
role as guide had fallen to him. This burden he had accepted because
he knew that it was his to bear, yet it weighed on him. He did not
know what best to do—venture on to Mordor or break their journey in
Minas Tirith? His heart, along with Boromir, would tell him one
thing, and his mind another. Perhaps a few more days to break their
journey would serve to clear his mind.
He had not noticed Boromir who sat by the pool on the grass, in the
shadow of a stout old tree. A smile played at the Man's lips as he
leaned back to watch, the tension still evident in Aragorn's drawn
face despite his best efforts to soothe it all away. Aragorn did not
mark his presence until the water was disturbed and at last he
turned, the water swirling at his waist, to find Boromir approaching.
"You're troubled", said Boromir simply. "It's obvious. Let me help
you".
He slid one arm about his waist and tangled his other fingers in
Aragorn's hair. With a hitched breath and an anxious glance, Boromir
pressed his lips to Aragorn's.
For all his anxiety, the kiss was far from anxious. It was far from
tentative or halting. The press of his lips was firm and sure, hot
against Aragorn's water-cooled mouth. Their bodies moved together as
Aragorn closed the meagre distance between them, wrapping an arm
about Boromir's shoulders, a hand on his neck. The kiss deepened,
heated. Aragorn caught Boromir's lip between his teeth for a second
and bit down; Boromir snarled and pulled him in closer, flesh against
flesh in the tree-shaded water.
It had all been over almost before it had begun. Hands skirted over
taut muscle moving beneath slick, pale skin, over a hip, a buttock, a
thigh. Fingertips grazed a nipple and wrought a gasp. Hands tugged at
hair, at shoulders, nails rasped raw over their spines. They rocked
together, hardness against hardness, clutching, gasping, mouth on
mouth, until their seed mixed with the swirling water.
They had dried roughly afterwards, stealing glances as they dressed,
walking almost shoulder-to-shoulder back to the bower beneath the
mallorn. Boromir spread out his long fur cloak and the two lay down
side by side; it was maybe and hour and maybe a day since and there
they lay still, entwined, unquestioning, the fragrance of trees and
flowers and water, and of something just innately them, lingering on
their skin.
Aragorn did not know if this could be without the bounds of Lórien.
Perhaps it was the enchantment in the air, the silver of the night in
Caras Galadhon that made it possible for two Men to lie together in
peace, to forget their cares. It seemed the weight of the Ring was
lifted from the two, its presence made light by the Elven-magic that
surrounded them. Temptation put aside, guilt and destiny forgotten
just this little while, the one found release with the other.
Boromir smiled, pressing his lips to Aragorn's. Aragorn held him
tighter, the leather of their coats and the fur of Boromir's cloak
keeping them warm pressed against each other. They lived a happy
lifetime together in that single moment.
There was contentment to be had in the touch of a hand and the brush
of a fingertip. There was redemption to be found in the kiss of a
warrior-lover. There was peace to be found in the strength of a brave
king's heart. Even if all they would share was this moment.
End
by Lizzie
ar below the telain of the Galadrim, sheltered by the roots of the
great mellyrn, the Fellowship was at rest. The days seemed both long
and short together in Lothlórien, enchanted days in which the passing
of time dwindled in its consequence and a peace heretofore unknown to
them pervaded all. They could have lived forever in a day and marked
it only in the spread of lines across their faces and the greying in
their hair.
