Remembrance
But there
was no time. Frodo was gone across the river and along the path into
Mordor, the One Ring and Samwise with him. Gandalf the Grey had fallen
long behind, to save their lives and their quest in Moria. Merry and
Pippin had been stolen away by orcs and those left—now merely Legolas,
Gimli and Aragorn himself—had an obligation of fellowship to find them.
The sad death Boromir seemed almost incidental, something past and now
best forgotten. The Fellowship was broken yet Aragorn knew he must follow
after their lost companions. Mourning would keep. His mourning must
keep. With Legolas and Gimli by his side he would hunt the orcs. He
would rescue the hobbits. This was his duty.
Yet in
the dark of the night, as in the forest he took his watch over elf and
dwarf, as he leaned back against a tall tree and stared into the shadows,
memory and grief threatened to overcome him. And for all his strength
and all his purpose, he no longer cared to hold them back.
Rivendell.
Home of Elrond, home of Arwen, the elf city of Rivendell felt like coming
home to Aragorn and he knew not why. Standing before the sword, that
sword, the very sword used by Isildur to cut the ring from the dark
lord's hand, he felt almost like he was home. The weight of his birthright
and his bloodline seemed at once unbearable and feather-light in this
place. Anonymous in some ways, at his most conspicuous in others. Rivendell
was both a place of acknowledgement and a place of anonymity. In his
heart he was unsure which he craved more.
Home of
Arwen. Yes, he loved Arwen. He desired Arwen and everything she represented.
He desired the life that her father would have him lead, and he desired
her in it beside him. A part of him knew that it was meant to be, fated,
and the thought was comforting. His very presence there was evidence
of his commitment to her and to that life. He would again be Aragorn,
son of Arathorn, and claim the life that was his. This he knew.
But as
the door swung open and he watched the man enter, a seed of doubt began
to grow in his mind.
He was
a warrior, obvious from his movements if not from his rich attire. A
mortal man amongst the elves, sure of himself in unfamiliar surroundings.
The sword that swung sheathed at his waist seemed almost a natural extension
of his form. And Aragorn knew that this was Boromir, son of the chief
of Gondor, land to whose crown he was heir. And this man was of the
elite of Gondor yet his every action spoke of the horrors of war and
the life of a warrior. He had chosen to fight and not merely remain
safe in his father's land whilst his people suffered and died. A noble
man indeed.
"Strider".
His name on the warrior's lips demanded his attention. He nodded, he
stood, suddenly aware that his huntsman's dress may not be entirely
appropriate to his surroundings or his purpose. All black leathers and
burgundy silks against immaculate blonde hair and over hard muscle,
Boromir far outshone him. Even if he did seem better suited to the battlefield
than the council chambers. "I have need of you, huntsman".
"How can
I be of service?" Aragorn asked, all irony and incredulity in his tone
lost on the warrior who took step after self-assured step toward him
across the stone floor of the hall, boot heels clicking in time with
the thud of Aragorn's heart.
"I have
need of you in my chamber, huntsman", he said with a lascivious quirk
to his lips as he drew up beside Aragorn's ear. "I have need of you
in my bed". The back of one battle-callused hand brushed back the hair
from Aragorn's cheek, thumb brushing over his lips. "I have need of
you now".
The tone
of that ragged voice brooked no refusal. Aragorn nodded. Boromir smiled.
Boromir's
chamber was not far, and nor was his bed. They stood before it, apart,
simply watching each other. Both seemed to recognise something of the
enormity of the moment, the gravity despite the anonymity. This could
be no mere tumble in the hay. There was a desperation in them both,
a need, a longing. For Aragorn, this meant the last night he could call
himself a mere huntsman, the last night before he would step into his
true identity. And for Boromir—perhaps the last night to lie with
another before a return to the battlefields from which he may never
return.
Yet neither
said a word. They just stood silent for a moment in recognition of their
own fates, before they stepped together and let all the need escape.
They tore
at each other's clothing, flung aside leather and steel into a heap
on the stone floor 'til they were simply trembling, flesh against flesh,
breath coming quick and mouths and lips and tongues colliding hungrily.
Boromir's hands clutched at Aragorn's hair, Aragorn's at Boromir's lean
waist, as they tumbled backwards in a heap of limbs and lust onto the
bed.
Aragorn
landed on top. He half expected Boromir to protest but when he glanced
down all he saw on his face was a look of pure lust and a wicked smile
before his lips were claimed once more.
Boromir's
thighs parted beneath him, hot hands pulling him in closer. Light eyes
sparkled before him, fingertips pressing into the muscles of his back,
teeth nipping at his throat now, eliciting a low growl as he felt the
rasp of Boromir's beard in the crook of his neck.
Then something
hard and cool was pressed into his hand and he looked down to find a
bottle of something clear and viscous. He frowned at Boromir, leaning
over him on his forearms, chest to chest, between his strong thighs,
who just shrugged, wicked grin still in place. Aragorn smirked and drew
back, up onto his knees, trailing his free hand over his skin as he
went, making Boromir tremble beneath him.
The oil
was thick and coated Aragorn's fingers with ease as Boromir parted his
legs further and leaned up, their eyes locking for a moment as Aragorn
eased a digit inside him. Boromir bucked, all the muscles in his hard
stomach tensing, hardness standing large and proud and begging to be
touched. Which Aragorn did, all too willingly. Tracing the pulsing vein
in the underside with one fingertip, he eased in another finger, smiling
a little as Boromir's hands clasped the sheets tight and a strangled
moan escaped his lips.
"Tell me
what you want", Aragorn said softy, leaning over him slightly, thrusting
gently with his fingers.
Boromir
gazed up, biting down on his bottom lip. "Take me", he gasped, barely
able to catch his breath. "Take me, huntsman. I'm yours".
Aragorn
nodded, withdrew his fingers, coated himself quickly. And as Boromir's
hand slid down between them to grasp himself, Aragorn eased himself
slowly inside. Boromir moaned. Aragorn hissed. Both were past words.
Both were past thought. All they had was feeling, the fulfilment, the
heat and the intensity, the need... gasps and sweat-slick skin, damp
hair, tensed muscles, passion. Bodies fused together as one, coming
together as one, tumbling down into a disarray of hot limbs and sated
desires, sticky with each other and contented. It was right. It was
a passion they had never felt before.
And then
they slept. Side by side in Boromir's bed, they slept.
The anger
over Aragorn's identity had been intense. Aragorn had never thought
to deceive his lover, for that was what they had then become, but had
found no opportunity for explanation. It preyed on his mind that soon
Boromir would find his wild huntsman to be son of Arathorn, heir of
Isildur. He said nothing. After his reaction to the sword, to the line
of Isildur, he could not. Boromir discovered the news from Elrond. And
the anger was born of hurt. Hurt born of a week's deception. And Aragorn
could do nothing to make amends.
They departed
Rivendell for Mount Doom on bad terms, all anonymity vanished, a new
violence between them.
And Arwen—he
left Arwen with an understanding. They would be together again. He could
not leave her. It seemed ridiculous he had even considered doing so.
For a proud, stubborn, misguided fool such as Boromir of Gondor.
Aragorn
believed their passion had died in Rivendell. He believed it more with
every step they took. The Ring's power over Boromir began to assert
itself. He felt an unease gnaw at his insides. The man he thought he
knew he realised he knew not. And he came to realise he would do anything
to keep the Ring from his lover's hands.
One night
in camp, uneasy, tempted, watching as the others slept. The fire necessary
but preying on his mind, he kept watch as he always would. The hobbits
lying close beside the fire, a tangle of limbs and cloaks and contented
faces that would be overcome by burden upon waking. Legolas and Gimli,
already firm friends, side by side under a low-bending tree, under their
blanket one seemingly impossible to distinguish from the other. Gandalf
sleeping deep against the trunk of a tree, twisted old hat pulled down
slanted over his eyes, wrapped tight in his thick cloak. He felt a strange
kinship with these people, beyond anything he had imagined. They were
the Fellowship of the Ring, bound together by something larger than
themselves, fates and lives now irrevocably entwined for good or ill.
This he cherished.
Yet he
was disturbed, preoccupied. He was tempted. He hadn't understood the
allure of the Ring in the beginning but he had come to know it well.
Its power was terrifying. Its power over Boromir even more so.
He did
not envy Boromir. A proud man, a good man, a warrior of Gondor whose
thoughts lay only with the good of his people. Yet the Ring haunted
him. His thoughts seemed never to stray from it. Aragorn caught the
glances cast on Frodo, felt them chill him to the bone. Boromir was
tempted. And he couldn't see his temptation for all his good intentions,
all his preoccupations. To see a good man haunted thus was a sad sight
indeed. Boromir just could not see that no matter his intentions, the
Ring would use him for evil. It would twist his will. Even in his hands,
in his will to do good, the Ring would be used as it was designed. And
in the end even Boromir's beloved Gondor would fall. Sauron would take
his Ring. All would be lost. He saw it, what Boromir couldn't. He wished
he could make him see.
A hand
on his shoulder jolted him from his reverie, his waking nightmare of
the White City under siege. He wheeled, stopped his dagger as it scraped
at the beard under Boromir's chin. Even seeing the familiar face, gazing
into familiar eyes, he did not lower the blade. But when Boromir's fingers
closed around his wrist and eased his hand away, he didn't resist. He
couldn't.
Familiar
lips curled into a familiar smile. Familiar fingers brushed back a stray
strand of hair from Aragorn's face, brushing his cheek with that same
familiar electricity. But the look in Boromir's eyes was foreign, unfamiliar.
Deep beneath the lust and the need he knew, there was something else.
Something almost unfathomable. Aragorn flinched and stepped away.
"You do
not want me, Strider?" asked Boromir with a swagger which should never
have been. "In Rivendell you wanted me. You want me still".
"Rivendell
is far away, and I find you changed".
"As I find
you, Strider. Remembering your pretty elf girl, perhaps?"
"Remembering
you as you were, Boromir".
"I am as
I ever was".
"Except
now you would have the Ring. You would take the Ring. And you would
take it by force".
Boromir
edged away, backwards, further into darkness. "Never", he said, and
for a second Aragorn saw the man he knew. But then he was gone.
He ran
to his lover's side. He cleaved apart the bodies of orcs to get there,
ran hard and watched in agony as the arrows pierced his chest. And Boromir
fell. The orc fell soon after, at Aragorn's hand.
And then
he was on his knees, beside him on the forest floor, the sight of his
blood and the arrow inside him cutting like steel in his heart. It hurt
to see him that way, hurt to hear him talk, hurt to hear those words
because he knew he was about to die. He could do nothing. Nothing but
watch.
Boromir
spoke of Frodo, of the Ring. He spoke of his land, he spoke of their
fates. And each word told Aragorn that Boromir had not changed in himself.
The Ring had changed him, tempted him, taken his desire to aid his people
and made him blind to its evil. He repented. He grieved for what he
had tried to do to Frodo, for what he'd become, for everything. For
everything. And Aragorn grieved along with him.
"My brother.
My captain. My king".
In that
moment he swore everything he was to Aragorn. He gave himself completely.
He died
a hero's death.
Aragorn
pressed his lips to his forehead. He said goodbye. One last farewell
to his brother of Gondor, to the hero he was at heart, to Boromir, his
lover.
He watched
as the boat took his body over the falls and he wanted to weep for him.
He could not. Now, there, in the clearing where he stood watch over
Gimli and Legolas, he could. Just for a short while. Just until dawn.
Then they would move on, toward Isengard, toward Merry and Pippin.
He just
prayed that Frodo would destroy the Ring. He prayed that the death of
this one good man would not be in vain.
And maybe,
when it was all over, he could sit down and remember. Maybe then he
could mourn.
But for
now, all he had were tears in the dark.
End
by Lizzie
"My brother. My captain. My king".
is
last words, words of allegiance that brought tears to astonished eyes,
struck deep down to Aragorn's very heart. He had no words their like
in power, not then. Not holding this man, whose every breath cost him
a beat of his hero's heart. This man with his every emotion shining
clear in his eyes. He had no words then to match the wretched pain in
his heart. Desperate, stricken, Aragorn could do no better than to hold
him safe as all life fled him. And then he would mourn. 
