A Warrior's Lament The first warrior of Gondor had fallen, though his people had never
been in greater need of him before, due to my lack of skill;
My father's eldest son had fallen, though he had pledged to ease the
old man's burden, only for my vanity;
I had fallen, fallen from grace, fallen to the lure of a power I
desired to save my people, only due to my lack of faith.
But worst of all, most painful in loss, the man who had given his
oath to protect my one true love, who had pledged to keep my love
free of sorrow—this one man had fallen, too, failing all his oaths
simply by getting himself slain.
I had failed.
But then, alas, it had been me who caused our little group to split
apart, me who allowed our enemy a chance to attack us singly and
without time to prepare a defence.
I had failed, and maybe the fact that I was dying now would prevent
me from spoiling future events of greater impact than this little
skirmish. Maybe the world was better off without me.
Maybe, except for one.
My Lover knelt next to my bleeding body, holding my head in his arms
gently. He had always had the strength to renew my confidence, always
had the calm to reign in my temper, always had a smile to pierce the
gloom my world seemed to drown in.
He had touched my heart and being with hope and understanding, and
his unconditional love had graced the last days of my life with
unexpected joy.
I could feel his grief, hear his unworded pleas trying to call life
back into my dying body. My love for him filled my being, blazing
away all the doubts I had accumulated, wiping away all weariness, all
sorrow. Feeling his love pure and strong calling out to me, I knew
that the one thing I had done right was to love him.
And how arrogant I had thought him to be at first!
Arrogant, condescending, eyeing me with that calm, silent hint of
disgust that man usually only encounters in the eyes of an elf.
But though his manners and his wisdom clearly showed his elven
upbringing, his body was that of a man, and I am sure that this is
one fact about him that I know better than any other mortal.
Still holding me in his arms, his love was like a beacon to me, still
anchoring my thoughts in this world, bending my thoughts towards him.
And though all other surroundings began to dissolve into the greyness
of utter unimportance, memories of moments shared with him came into
my mind, ephemeral like clouds at first, but then ever more intense,
ever more important.
How we had encountered first in the House of Elrond, how he had
seemed so all-knowing, so elvenly unconcerned about all the troubles
that had brought me to seek the counsel of his foster-father.
Haughty, he had seemed to me, giving me the impression that though he
knew of my sorrows, they were too small to be of concern to him, and
that instead of throwing tantrums like an unwilling child I ought to
grow up to have a look at the greater picture.
He hit my very nerve, with that, I have to admit. Whatever I said, he
just sat there, smiled and nodded or, after some moments of
sophisticated silence, corrected me like a child willing yet unable
to learn.
I cannot say that I looked forward to the day when he, oh mighty
Aragorn son of Arathorn, would ride into the city of my fathers,
claiming the throne my family had struggled to keep standing for so
many generations. I am by no means good at losing a battle, but being
confronted with a man who could take away all that my family had kept
for millennia by his mere existence, without a chance of denial or
even defence was tormenting to my heart.
And yet, he had a way with words. Once he shed that cloak of elven
quiet around him, he spoke like a true King of men, passionately yet
full of wisdom.
His manners and his bearing clearly showed that though maybe rugged
in appearance, he was undeniably of royal blood, superior yet
gracefully taking care of all mere mortals. And on top of all of
this, he was handsome! Be it in a skinny, almost elven fashion,
handsome he was, and that knowing sparkle in his dark eyes brought up
images of the most inappropriate yet pleasant kind to my mind's eye.
It wasn't the first time I laid my eyes on a warrior in such ways,
and I have shared my blankets with quite a few of them. My father had
always frowned on such adventures, but as I chose my 'partners in
crime' not only for their looks but also for their discretion,
nothing worse than my father's frown had ever happened. And so I
couldn't be bothered to consider it a problem, when everybody else
merely shrugged and looked away.
Not that I was not interested in women, by any means, but when your
intent is mostly carnal and you are not in the mood for wooing—
sharing your passions with a man of a likewise narrow mindset
definitely has got its advantages. And until then, falling in love
had never been a weakness of mine.
But in this particular case, the fact that I developed a romantic
inclination towards this supposed heir proved to be quite a
hindrance. For one thing, it is hard to keep focused in a dispute
when a part of your mind keeps constantly undressing your opponent.
And then, when you've already got quite a temper, it starts flaring a
hundred times easier when the one triggering your anger is subject to
unfulfilled desire.
So, as you can imagine, I managed to pretty much ruin
our 'relationship' within the first days. He kept on treating me from
up above, I kept on insulting him, treating him like horse-dung
myself.
Never pretended to be good at things of love, anyway.
And so we set out on our quest, leaving Rivendell on our way to
Mordor, my heart filled both with hate and desire.
And he was there, constantly watching me, trying to see me make any
mistake that would justify his low opinion of me. Constantly offering
oily help when he thought I couldn't manage on my own.
And then, most annoying of all, he had the unnerving habit of staying
close to me in battle, fighting next to me as if not trusting in my
sword-arm. Especially in the mines of Moria it was annoying, for
whenever the tide of battle turned thick, he was there, shoulder to
shoulder, back to back with me.
How is a man supposed to put his mind to the battle ahead when the
man he desires most starts rubbing bodies with him? I had to swallow
some snide remark about his utterly impractical behaviour, but that
would have only pushed him even further away from me, I feared.
So I just said nothing, tried to focus and to get away from him as
soon as the battle allowed. And each time, he looked at me as if I
were trying something unnecessarily stupid, but even if I did—it
had been he who forced me to! Or at least his most promising body,
anyway.
But then again, things in life often turn out other than expected,
and when our fellowship entered the forests of Lothlórien, I was
about to learn how true the saying about the Lady of the Woods was
indeed.
'For whoever looks into the eyes of Galadriel will never leave her
forest again, as she sees deep into the hearts of men. And whatever
she sees will forever change the one who is facing her gaze, and he
will be someone else upon leaving.'
And I was not to be an exception to that rule.
We were presented to her at dusk, to be greeted by both the queen and
the king of the forest. They welcomed us with words both gentle and
wise, yet as her look crossed mine, her mind tore through my being
like an iron plough through a child's castle made of mud.
Tearing away all and any of the defences I had built up during my
life to prevent me from speaking thoughtlessly, to prevent me from
acting on my rage, she laid bare my innermost fears—not only for
her to see, but for me as well.
I am not good at thinking about myself, and far less talented in
facing my shortcomings. I knew that, and she knew as well.
Yet she didn't seem to care in the slightest, and so she slammed into
my mind, forcing me to face fears I had thought long-conquered as
merely well-hidden, forced me to accept weaknesses long-overcome as
merely ignored, and all in one pretty well managed to convince me
within a single look that a man with my lack of wisdom yet surplus of
temper was more of a burden than a boon in the dark days to come, let
alone fit to govern as the Steward of Gondor.
Needless to say, these cognitions shattered my confidence in almost
everything I had ever believed in, and when we were released and went
down to our camp at the base of the trees, I could hardly find a
single thought, my mind withdrawn into some kind of stunned absence.
But wonders upon wonders, it was mighty Aragorn who broke my mental
stupor—by ordering me to get some sleep.
It was sweet, for sure, and he intended only good—yet in my present
condition sleep was the last thing I could think of.
This time for once, his motherly meddling didn't manage to raise my
hackles, contrary, I was glad to have someone who would be willing to
listen to my worries, and though I expected to be taunted with my
confessions for the next hundred years to come, that evening in
Lórien, I simply couldn't be bothered.
So I started to talk—not about Galadriel, but about my fears. My
fear to lose the war, my fear to fail my father, to fail my people,
to fail my own expectations.
And my fear never to see my home of Minas Tirith again, never again
to see its white walls gleaming in the light of morning.
As I spoke, I surprisingly felt no condescension from Aragorn, only
an affable sharing of heavy thoughts, as it might have happened
between two old friends on battle's eve. He just sat there,
listening, his expression one of grave understanding and gentle
consolation.
It was lovely.
Finally there was something like an understanding between the two of
us—and though my heart was still brittle with shock from the
violating revelations of Galadriel, I wanted to tell him that I
appreciated his concern—and his silence.
Yet, I had already mentioned that I am not a man of words, and though
I sorely tried to say something diplomatically correct, or at least
something un-antagonising, the nonsense I brought out when finally I
had a sentence together was about the 'two Lords of Gondor, returning
to their City'.
As soon as I had spoken I knew that I had just hit him squarely on
the head with the one point that stood between us from the very
beginning, and that quite probably had finally destroyed any chance
of reconciliation between the two of us.
I hate politics.
But no, once more Aragorn proved his amazing ability to see when no
slight had been intended, and instead of turning against me, he
simply stated in a sad voice that there would never be more than one
Lord of Gondor. For the first time, I was grateful for his slight
elven detachment, for it enabled him to think before speaking, to
speak before acting.
I have painfully learned all my life how much trouble the absence of
such an ability can and will bring.
So I confirmed him, my voice more moved by gratitude than I would
have liked.
When he offered to go for a walk with me in the forest, I was
surprised, for I had not expected any kind of care beyond what a good
captain might deem necessary to keep his company whole. And though I
felt not too confident with this whole thing, I agreed, hoping for a
chance to prolong this unexpected change of our captains character.
But my hopes were crushed as soon as our king-to-be opened his mouth
once again.
He had tried to be friends, he said, asking me why I have never shown
any reaction to his efforts, all the while fluffing up like a cock in
the morning.
I know my temper took the better part of me, then. For the next thing
I remember was that he flung himself at me, his usually oh so serene
face twisted to a mindless mask of wrath. I had luck to dodge his
first blow, but he was quick as lightning, and soon we both lay on
the ground pounding at each other like drunkards in front of an inn.
Though quick and agile he was, without a sword, he was no match for
me, and before I had had the time to think, I had him lying face-down
in the moss, myself above him, raising my fists like a hammer in a
serious attempt to break his neck.
But luckily, grace to the gods above, as quickly as my anger is
flared, it also vanished without a trace. So I was able to suppress
my intended blow, slowly gathering my wits again.
I was shocked when I realised that I had come close to killing not
only the man who would, by all accounts, become my king in not-so-far-
away a future, but also had physically beaten the one man I desired
to love.
Ashamed for my lack of control over myself, I let go of him, dropping
on the ground like an old hero finally defeated, shocked and full of
loathing for what I had done.
Galadriel had been more than right—I was by no means qualified to
rule, not Gondor, nor anywhere else, for I could not even govern
myself. And like so often, when I realised what I had done in anger,
I felt tears of shame running down my face, hot and burning, each one
adding more to my disgrace.
And once more it was Aragorn who brought me out of the darkness where
I had confined myself, asking me:
"Say, Boromir, if you do hate me so much—why didn't you kill me
when you had a chance to?"
If the situation hadn't been so utterly dreadful, I would have
laughed.
Did he really think I hated him?
Could it be that I had finally witnessed a flaw in his ever cool,
elven thoughts?
It made my heart jump with joy, for not only did he still show
concern for me, but nay, his lack of understanding seemed to make him
so much more human, so much more—loveable.
I shook my head, saying that I did not hate him at all.
And then, my head still light with the mirth of my realisation, I
added:
"But neither are you a man easily liked, Aragorn son of Arathorn. Or
loved, for that."
When I heard myself speak, I could have beaten myself. How could I be
so utterly thoughtless, hinting at my love like a troll throwing
sheep at the peasants to announce his presence!
But he merely coughed politely and asked:
"I'm not easily—what?"
"Liked," I answered.
"Or loved," I heard myself add.
Why, why in all the worlds, did I always have to speak before I
think? I was close to despair.
Why, of all possible situations, why did I have to present my worst
behaviour exactly now, where once in my life more brains than brawn
were needed?
"Loved?" came Aragorn's simple answer, tinged with the sound of
joyful surprise.
Either he was amusing himself about my boorish affections or he
somehow, most wondrously, had acquired a most unbelievable yet most
desirable fondness for me.
"Yes, loved," I heard myself say.
Goddammit!
What was wrong with me? I had intended to be careful, to choose a
secure friendship over the possibility of a passionate night, in
regard for our mutual quest, yet what I actually did looked more like
the crudest attempt at seduction I had ever seen.
Aragorn still sat where I had left him, staring at me in wide-eyed
wonder, his face a calm mask of mild approval, his eyes gazing at me
in an unnerving, unfocused way.
I waited some moments for him to say anything, to give me any sign of
his inclinations, to say ANYTHING.
But he didn't. He just sat there, the hint of a smile frozen on his
face.
It is not really hard to guess that if there is one thing I'm less
apt in than introspection, it's waiting. What little patience I had
was gone within seconds, and as I thought the worst damage already
done, I decided that now was the time to act or for ever abstain.
And as I already had proven to be far better in acting physically
than in talking, I carefully went over to my lover-to-be, knelt next
to him and took away a strand of his hair that had stuck to his ill-
treated face.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped into focus again, staring at me. But it
was neither disgust nor anger I saw in the deep wells of his dark,
glittering eyes, only wonder and something that might be, given a
very small chance, that might be some gentle kind of affection.
When he looked at me like this, I realised for the first time that he
was not only handsome, but beautiful, and not, as I might have
expected, in a skinny, elven way, nay, he was beautiful as men can
be, shining from within with a beauty so radiant it dazzled my mind.
Well, I thought, it's now or never, and before any reasonable thought
had the time to stop me, I carefully bent forward and kissed his lips.
Delicious it was, our first kiss, tender and sweet. I could taste the
salt of his sweat on his lips, the taste of blood mingling in
between. Astoundingly, he smelled good, unlike most men, a faint
fragrance of leather and tree-sap and, most unusual, a gentle note of
wild roses, fresh and sweet, hidden in between. I lavished in the
sensation of him, cherishing the moment as it probably would be the
only one so close to him I would ever experience.
But how great was my surprise when suddenly, with a slow and deep
breath, he slung his arms around mine, returning my kiss with
unexpected passion, leaning onto me like a drowning man in a
desperate attempt to kiss some air from my lips.
Pushing me backwards, still clinging to my lips, he pressed me to the
ground, his hands caressing me, my face, tearing at my shirt as if it
were on fire. I really had never expected such a passionate response
from my captain—but it was all the more gratefully received.
I let his caresses wash over me like a tide, reveling in the
sensation of his body so close to mine, feeling his passion and
desire hot and vibrating underneath his very skin.
Playfully, he trapped my head and arms in my upturned shirt, watching
me, then said:
"I love you, too, you brick-headed Gondorian prince, and I will not
let you go, at least not tonight!"
What a joy it was to hear him say those words!
I never really tried to figure out why, if he loved me, he had
treated me like a retarded child all these days, and I still can
hardly be bothered.
He loved me, and although his chiding remarks spiked my anger again,
it was only a firefly's glowing compared to the gleaming joy of long
denied feelings finally requited.
I asked him to give no more titles tonight, no more insults or
anything that might destroy our fragile love. Too much time we had
already lost in useless quarrel, it seemed to me, and I only wished
to keep out all things that might start it again.
How naive we were that everything would turn out well merely by
pretending nothing were wrong in the first place. But Aragorn seemed
to share my wish, for we both promised each other to keep out our
titles and snappy remarks, at least for this one night.
I felt so calm then, so at ease that I could hardly force myself to
do more than just stare at my new-won love. But looks alone never
satisfy a man, and before long I began to free him of his own shirt
in turn.
When he sat there, his chest bare, kneeling on my legs, his skin
shining pure and brazen in the low starlight, I felt both ashamed and
awed that one like him, a man so high born, noble both in body and
mind, a man of such lineage and destiny, would deem me worthy of his
affection, worthy of his love.
Next to him, I felt more than ever like an ox-like farmer's son—the
subtle muscles underneath his skin hinting far more agility and
endurance, far more skill than the raw power I possessed. The touch
of his hands so strong and yet so full of control that I feared
myself to be groping for him like a hungry troll.
And yet—It had been he who had clearly pointed out that tonight
would not stop at kissing, when he started to undress me. I love
being invited, and this surely was an invitation I would never reject.
He must have noticed my hardening desire underneath him, for he
looked at me with the smallest hint of surprise in his face, starting
carefully to move up and down, as if trying to get acquainted with
something new to him. How sweet.
He pulled me into a close embrace, cradling his head against mine,
still moving his buttocks gently in my lap, his firm muscles
caressing my most expectant parts invitingly.
"So this, I suppose," he whispered into my ear teasingly, "is to be
the famous Horn of Gondor you are known to be the bearer of?"
It took me a while to understand what he was talking of.
But when I did, I must have stared at Aragorn in bewilderment. Our oh-
so-sober leader, after all, was capable of pulling stupid, dirty
little jokes. And not very funny ones, besides.
I loved him.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
His answer was but a gentle bite in my earlobe, making my passion
flare, making me crave to see him in my arms, filled with delight.
So I playfully tossed him into the grass, finally getting rid of his
remaining clothing, watching him.
Aragorn lay on the mossy ground, his skin darker than
expected yet shining in its own golden light, his arms behind his
head, his legs wide apart. He was such a beauty—manly, some few
soft dark curls on his chest, some more trailing down below his belly.
Seeing him like this, spread out before me, waiting for me, I could
feel my desire raise like the waves of a flood bashing against a dam
that was about to break. I craved to take him in, to fill myself with
his scent, to absorb as much as I could into myself.
Just for a moment I sat there, delighting in his expectant pose, then
I let myself fall to the desire I had barred for such a long time,
and without thinking, started to caress his body.
Kissing him, caressing him with my mouth I felt my passions slowly
take me over, dulling my worries like a drunkenness willingly
induced. And I delighted in it, as all seemed simple and the thought
of possible pitfalls never even once came to cross my mind.
And then, Aragorn grabbed my head by my hair, his hands unsure with
passion, pulling me up from his loins where I had been busy.
"I want more!" he said softly, his voice controlled yet brimming with
urgent command.
And for once, I did not mind him ordering me, not at all I did. I was
all willing to obey.
So we both stood up in search for a place without all that irksome
stuff on the ground that makes personal encounters in the forest
romantic yet always partially annoying. We found a tree, though,
which would provide a reasonably comfortable support with its mossy
trunk for the next scenes of our first mutual night.
We went over and started again, cuddling, kissing, reveling in each
others body.
He started to sneak down with his hands, passing my belly, entering
my trousers, feeling my body all ready to obey his wishes, caressing
me with delightful expectancy.
So I turned him around, caressing his back, gently taking care to
prepare him for 'more'.
But all of a sudden, that weird man all tensed up, turning all
defiant and rejecting within one single breath.
Bewildered and slightly annoyed that his change of moods had to take
place now of all possible moments, I asked him what his troubles were.
"I will not be taken," he answered flatly.
What!?
"And why should that be, my love?" I managed to ask as politely as
possible, fighting desperately to hold down my dreaded temper at
least once in my life.
I really did not at all understand what had happened to him, and the
fear of all my romantic hopes shattered was enough to make me roar
with aggression inside, yet I managed to harness myself.
"You will not touch me!" he hissed in reply.
What was this? Had he lost his mind? Or was this a joke of elven
humour of the cruelest kind on my expense?
Why'd he reject me after urging me forward all the time?
My irritation and fear of being rejected made my mind corrode with
anger, all my thoughts falling apart one by one, until all that was
left was hate and pain.
And the will to punish him, to hurt him as much as he had hurt me.
And hurt him, I did, obviously. For when I came back to my senses
again, I was tumbling head-over into the moss, my face hot with pain
from a well-placed kick to my head.
Then, Aragorn was there, jumping on top of me, beating me, hammering
his fists into me like mad.
Bewildered I tried to block the worst of his blows, feeling the
dreadful knowledge growing within me that, once again, I must have
lost my temper. As suddenly as his blows had begun falling, they also
stopped, my lover rising to his feet with a single, tear-strangled
sob.
What had I done?
All the gods, what had I done?
Aragorn broke down on his knees, mere feet away from me, while I was
still trying to fight shame and terror of what I might have done in
an attempt to remember what actually had happened.
And I remembered.
My breath failed when I realised that I had cruelly forced the man I
loved to submit to my body. That I had violated any trust he might
have had in me, violated any promise I had given.
I was wordless with shame, my whole mind blanketed in shocked
awareness of the crime I had committed, like a late frost killing all
of springs flowers within a single night.
If I could have run away from myself that very moment, I would have
done so, screaming in fear and loathing all the while.
But a man cannot run away from what he has done, and so I stayed,
frozen in the tremendous effort to face the demon I had been mere
moments ago.
And then, as if I hadn't yet been convinced of my monstrosity,
another thought came to my mind. What if my lover's sudden tension,
the one that had initially sparked my wrath, had not been denial, but
fear? What if his enigmatic expressions had not been sign of secrecy,
but of ignorance? Of the fact that he had never before been touched
by a man?
When I realised that he had intended me to be his first man-lover, I
could have retched in hate of myself.
How could I have been so ignorant not to notice?
How could the fact that he hadn't played that enticing shyness at all
slip my thoughts?
He had honored me with allowing me to be closer with him than any
other man before, had trusted me like no other—and I had betrayed
him.
I was a monster.
Not willingly, no, but that is no excuse. It had been me who had
violated this sacred night, and it was me who was to blame, willingly
or not.
I turned away in shame, my self-loathing so strong that it strangled
every word, the pain within me so great that I could not bear the
silent tears running down my lover's face, glistening in the
starlight. I sat on the ground, holding my knees with my arms,
praying for this horrid moment of awareness to pass, and be it into
death.
I never felt less worthy of anything than this very moment.
And, most prominent of all, unworthy of Aragorn's' love, the love he
had given to me that I so mindlessly had defiled.
And yet, unbelievable as it may sound, it was my lovely Aragorn who
came to me, softly laying his arms around my shoulders, holding me in
silence.
I felt gifted beyond value—not only once, but twice he gave his
love and trust to me that night, and almost more than that, it was
his forgiveness that made my heart want to burst inside my chest, his
forgiveness and his acceptance of my flaws.
"How can you come back to me?" I asked, bewildered by the enormity
of his silent gesture.
Very much himself, in spite of the tears still streaking his face, he
just smiled and shrugged.
"I love you," he simply said after a moment. "As simple as that."
The wise can make the hardest answers simple, it is said, and ample
proof of his wisdom he gave with his words.
I loved him, I admired him and yes, it was that very moment that I
knew that, if there were one man underneath the stars I could proudly
bow to, it was him.
He taught me, in a very personal way, that undying loyalty was not to
be gained by submission, only by a love strong enough to forgive.
We lay together, holding each other, and Aragorn lightened my heart
more than he knew with joking about his stupidity to 'taunt me with
his hands in my pants'.
So whatever hurt I had done to him could not have been so deep as I
had feared, if such a short time later he was able to laugh about it.
So close to each other, emotionally so exhausted, it was near
impossible to ignore the lure of our bare bodies, and soon we began
anew, kissing each other, caressing.
And this time, I would be as careful and gentle as I could ever be. I
lay on my back and placed him on top of me, so that he would never
feel confined and could decide to move away from me whenever he
liked. Slowly, I took my time to make him relax, to make him feel
secure.
I gently and thoroughly prepared him this time, taking care that he
would not tense up to such an unusual sensation. Thus, when I finally
entered his body, I found him surprisingly accepting, more so than
many other men I had lain with before.
Moving slowly, I waited to see if he would be able to acquaint
himself with a part of me moving inside of him, and though his first
reaction was but a harsh and rugged drawing in of breath, he relaxed
more and more, his movements and his breath steadily filling with
delight.
And I delighted in it, as well, very well indeed. To feel my lover's
body on top of mine, to feel him react with every move of mine, feel
him writhe, hear him suppress a moan, it all fuelled my passions
until, once again, they blanketed out all rational though of mine.
But, alas, this time I did no harm, and when I came back to my senses
again, I felt my lover's sweat-covered body still lying on top of
mine, both of us breathing heavily.
My passions had been wild and hardly controllable, yet after they had
passed their peak, they receded to leave a lasting feeling of
contentment, that kind of mellow happiness that slows your wits and
makes you smirk constantly.
So I smirked when Aragorn let himself slide off my body, still
panting, looking at me with eyes wide of wondrous delight. His intent
was clear in his eyes, and I couldn't have thought of anything else
I'd rather have him do.
For usually, I do not prefer to be on the receiving side of an
arrangement like ours, but happy and peaceful as I felt, when he slid
behind me, asking me what to do next, all I did was to smirk and show
him the way.
He needed very little help, as was to be expected, but when I felt
him entering my body, it was less the physical sensation that made me
groan with delight.
Being so close to your lover, hearing him next to you, feeling his
body go tense, feel him inside you as well as next to you is a
feeling that is hard to describe.
I could guess what he felt, for mere moments ago I had enjoyed the
same pleasures—but physically so close to him my mind echoed in
delight with what he sensed, and his joy became mine as well.
Gently he increased his pace, and I felt him move within my body. But
within my mind, I felt his passions rise, felt his mind close to
mine, as in unison, moving like dancers in mirroring steps, joined in
the same dance.
Strangely to me it was that this night I was able to find joy in
offering myself, dignity in submission, whereas before I had only
done so in attempt to return dutifully what had been given to me
before.
I felt his movements gain momentum, his passion ready to burst, but
suddenly, unexpectedly, he retracted, stopping himself, panting
silently.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I—" he began, still breathing hard. "I don't want to finish—like
this..."
I turned around to look at his face, hot and shining with sweat.
And deep within his dark eyes, glinting as ever, I found a feeling, a
sentiment so close to my own thoughts, that it hardly needed any
words between us.
As I reveled now in my lover's feelings, he did in mine. And by lying
behind my back, holding me in his arms, he could feel my body react,
but was unable to see my face.
He wanted to join not only in body, but be close to my mind as well,
and his wish honored me and filled me with joy.
So I turned around on my back, cushioning my head and shoulders on
one of the omnipresent, moss-covered roots. Motioning Aragorn to move
up to me, I placed him between my legs, his face close to mine, the
dark strands of his hair touching my face every now and then.
The light in his eyes clearly showed that I had guessed his
intentions, and that he was glad to find me sharing his wish.
This time, he did not need any help at all, and when he slid into me,
I saw his face split into a thin wolfish grin, full of feral desire,
full of passion, his eyes glinting like steel with intensity and
delight, never for a second leaving mine.
Seeing his face like this made me shudder with desire. Seeing him
move on top of me made my heart race.
And move he did, alas!
Slowly at first, taking in every single sensation, intensely watching
my face, delighting in my every reaction. Then faster, bit by bit,
until drops of sweat began to drip from his glinting body onto my
chest, running down strands of his hair into my face.
And all the while, we held our look, feeling the other's passion
rise, delighting in it, fuelling the other one even more with our
delight. In an ever-increasing circle our minds had locked seemingly,
and though the physical was by no means unpleasant, my world seemed
to shrivel away until all it encompassed was the sensation of our two
bodies entwined, crowned by the sight of my lovers face.
I could see that Aragorn's body tried to make him close his eyes, to
focus inwards in anticipation of the cascading sensations of his
peaking passions, his hands clenched into my shoulders, yet he kept
his eyes open, by sheer force of will. The look in his eyes, burning
with desire yet full of intent and force of will, his lips tight with
concentration, only now and then twitching, giving way to low moans
of pleasure—even remembering his look made me shiver for days
afterwards.
And so, when finally he could not hold on any longer, when the
passion he had held back for so long had become unbearable, he let
himself go all at once, his eyes locked with mine all the time,
willingly sharing his most intense moments with me, taking in my face
all the while in turn.
And I could feel his passion bust like a barrel of wine that had been
corked too early, exploding outwards, releasing so much build-up
pleasure. Aragorn let out a soft cry, mangled by his convulsing
muscles, his hands on my shoulders cramping, tearing my skin.
I felt his sensations as I would have felt mine, so I thought, and
when he finally closed his eyes, worn out, panting and sweat-covered
on top of me, even my own hands trembled in memory of the latest
moments.
Gently, I moved him down next to me into the moss, where he rolled
himself into my arms, his face so serene and open I would have fallen
in love with him again, had I not been utterly lost to him already.
Cuddled in my arms the mighty warrior lay, both our bodies steaming
in the cooling night. I watched him for a long time, watched the face
that now was as peaceful as it had been passionate and demanding only
minutes ago.
How a single man can have so many faces, each so very different to
all the others, I mused. And how beautiful some of them could be,
though the beautiful ones usually were the ones people hide best.
Especially men.
But this man might be different. My man.
Holding him in my arms, studying his face, I saw that often when I
had thought him condescending he truly had only tried to be of help.
And that the worry that had creased his face whenever we talked had
not been annoyance, but sorrow of love unrequited.
Once more I wondered how stupid and unperceptive I could be, and
wondered all the more how he could still love me after all that I had
done.
Finally, Aragorn opened his eyes again, blinking into my face like a
child into the sun of morning, barely able to hide that insidious
smirk. I kissed him gently on his forehead, and having nothing to
say, I left our embrace to collect some of our wide-strewn clothing
to form some kind of protective cover for us, as the night began to
cool.
We lay together in silence for quite a time, and more than once I
thanked all the powers involved for gifting me with such a love,
repeatedly within a single night.
So I thanked Aragorn, too, for his acceptance and forgiveness, for
his giving tonight had healed my heart in many ways, though I had
deserved nothing so kind.
But he in turn called me sweet, and caring, and valiant; and his
sweet words filled my heart to the brim. We could have stayed like
this, holding each other, exchanging silly praise, hard to believe
yet received and cherished with all our hearts.
We could have, had I not forcefully pursued a subject he squirmingly
had tried to avoid.
I had asked him about the pendant he wore around his neck, for it
seemed so very unfitting around the neck of a ranger, rugged and
manly as he was.
But it had been a parting gift to him by the Lady Arwen, the daughter
of the elf Elrond.
A parting gift by his betrothed.
I had never had any foolish ideas about the two of us staying
together happily ever after—but the thought of him already being
promised to a woman irked me. Especially as I had come to know the
Lady Arwen as beautiful and wise and, worst of all, as a very nice
Lady.
So I pressed on, trying to force him to any kind of commitment, be it
with me or the Lady Arwen. And while I tried to mute the unnecessary
insecurity in my heart, he stayed calm and thoughtful as ever, not
giving promises he could not stand to in the light of dawn, nor
rejecting me as a mere adventure to stop my prodding.
I surely would have never dared to be so bold in my approach if I had
known about his pledge, and I'd never even have thought about
anything like tonight if I had known about the Lady Arwen's relation
to Galadriel.
But it had happened, as surely as I had tried to make him give me
some kind of commitment and as surely as he had given none.
So after a while we both went back to silence. Aragorn, for he
thought the matter settled, me as I had given up attacking his
convictions that seemed as unmovable as a mountain-range.
Our talk had left me unsatisfied, and though I knew that his love was
true, irrationally I thought that his noncommittal way lessened what
had happened between us that night.
And this even irked me more, for I usually do not mind encounters for
a single night that disappear to nothing but pleasant memories in the
light of dawn.
But this time, I had hoped it to be different, hoped that, against
all reason, our love would be mutually lasting.
With a mute sigh of regret, I realised that I had truly, deeply
fallen in love beyond redemption.
Fallen in love the way a man can only fall once.
And of all the men there were, it had to be him.
So I pulled him closer into my arms, holding him tight, so that when
we had to part at dawn I would have at least the memory of one night
with him.
Silence fell, and for a long time, the only sound was the occasional
rustle of a gentle wind in the leaves above us and Aragorn's deep and
regular breathing.
Then, when finally I had banished my somber thoughts deep enough to
find some sleep, Aragorn said softly:
"There is one thing I can promise you, though."
I listened up in astonishment—hadn't he been the one who had been
so adamantly opposed to any promises?
"I can promise you that, whatever happens, I will never hurt you. I
can promise that I will ever try to protect both your body and soul
from harm, and that I will gladly give not only my life, but also my
happiness to see it done."
I blinked in pure bewilderment at his words. What was this?
"I cannot promise you what I will do in days to come, nor can I
promise that all will be well. But I can tell that your life and
happiness are so close to my heart that I will try to protect them at
all costs."
He had turned around to face me by then and I had to bite back my
tears when I heard what he said.
"And that I will always love you, whatever fate has been laid out
before us," he finished, grinning at my flabbergasted expression.
I was speechless for quite some time.
Hadn't he been the one who had intended to wait until all the war was
over, who had thought that one of us might be dead by then anyway?
I repeatedly failed to understand what had brought about his sudden
change of mind.
And what a thorough change it had been! I felt gifted thrice in a
single night, for once more he had proven that his feelings were
true. And he had graced them with the certainty that they were not
spoken thoughtlessly, for he had indeed taken his time to think.
He had graced me with his love thrice, each time by his free will and
each time I had not been deserving of his love.
That he declared himself to me this way, that after all that had
happened he still was willing to commit himself to me in any way made
my heart swell with love for him.
Tears in my eyes, I searched for words befitting my emotions,
expressing all the love and gratitude and undying loyalty I felt
within me—and from my deepest memory came forth a lover's pledge,
as solemn as it was ancient.
And so I spoke, naked except for the grime of my unwashed body,
holding my Lover in my arms:
"I will pledge to you that I will always be by your side in love, if
not in body, than in soul, and that I shall always strive to keep you
from harm, be it in body, heart or soul, by acting or abstaining, by
life or death. So I pledge, to be true and binding until my very last
breath, for the gods to bear witness."
Having spoken, I knew that my words, though far too solemn and
ceremonial for the occasion, were exactly saying what I wanted to
express, clothing my thoughts in words far more befitting than any of
my own.
And I knew that I intended to hold up to my oath, whatever it would
take me to do so.
"I thank you, Lover, and in all honor and with great joy I do accept
your oath," Aragorn replied to my great surprise, answering my pledge
with its ceremonial reply.
So we kissed, and my overflowing heart finally found a way to express
itself: by tender love and care and the certainty that it would be
able to continue to do so for a long time to come.
I felt all at ease, at peace with all the world, when he finally
curved up again in my arms, and gently kissing the base of his neck,
I wished him pleasant dreams and finally let sleep come to me, wash
over me like the waves of the returning tide.
And then, I died.
Mere days after I had promised Aragorn to be at his side in love
forever, I left him.
I deserted him, though I had pledged to see him through the trials of
the days yet to come.
We had not had much time to share our thoughts after that night in
the grove, for we had set out from Lórien in boats, each one aboard a
different craft.
At nights we were on guard duty in different turns, unable to share
but a loving smile or a soft brush with the hand.
Though few, these little moments reminded me that that night in the
grove had not been a dream and that there still was a bond between
us.
But it was not enough to lighten my heart, nor could they wipe away
the fact that, on the road to my home again, I worried once more
about the chances of waging a war against Mordor without the aid the
power of the Ring promised in my eyes.
I knew that if I had had the chance to speak to him freely, he would
have merely smiled, shrugged and solved my worries with but a single
phrase.
But he was not there, not there for me in the way I would have needed
him.
At first, I tried to bury my fears, to ignore those nagging thoughts
that constantly demanded that I think first and foremost of the good
of my people—disregarding personal affinities.
But I failed.
I cannot clearly remember what brought me to go after Frodo, trying
to press the Ring from him.
Maybe it was Sauron's dark lure; maybe it was just once more
stupidity and thoughtlessness of mine in historical proportions.
Whatever had been the reason for this encounter, in effect it was
because of this that the attacking orcs found us divided and ill-
prepared, making us easy prey.
I know I fought well, but obviously not well enough.
Neither did I save the two young halflings from being taken by the
orcs, nor did I manage to survive to stay true to the pledge I had
given to my Lover.
I can see him kneeling next to my body now, splattered in blood
himself, some of it his own, much more the one of his foes.
He must have fought and killed the huge one with the bow, for its
body lies nearby, its head missing.
Aragorn has cradled my head in his lap, talking softly, holding my
hand.
I can see the tears in his eyes.
Why isn't he angry?! I have deserted him!
Haven't I failed you most miserably?
Why, oh gods, are you still so sad?
Why does my death cause so much grief for the single one person I
hoped to make happy before all?
I feel his grief, feel the immeasurable depth of his loss. And it
hurts me beyond words.
He loves me; I know that, for he has given himself to me in body,
heart and soul.
I hoped to be worthy of you, my Lover, if only for a short time.
But once more, I have failed the test.
And yet, still you call me with your love, still you do not let me
go.
Still you love me.
Your face, your love is all that is left of the world for me, and yet
it seems that I have not lost anything of great value, for you are
still with me, still loving me.
And it seems to me that your mind is urging me on, not to stay with
you too long, to go where the souls of man go when their bodies die.
The One has given Death as a gift to humanity, as an end to their
suffering—and yet I feel that you will be there, wherever I may
come to when I leave this place.
I am not afraid to leave, for it is you that will wait for me on the
other side.
Perhaps, Death is truly final.
But it might as well be that the One himself cannot make himself part
the ones who truly love.
So if I leave you now, my Lover, I will not abandon you.
I hope that you will pass through the days to come without harm, and
that my death may prove a boon, not a burden.
My Lover, greet all those I have left behind.
Take care of yourself.
I follow the call that I hear, the one that calls me in your voice to
a place far from here, urges me onward.
I love you, and that you deemed me worthy of your love made my life
fulfilled.
I love you, and wherever I go, I will never forget.
I love you.
I love you...
by
Osiris Brackhaus
had failed.
I knew I was lying on the slopes of Amon Hen, where we had prepared
to camp before passing into the Emyn Muil tomorrow.
We had been ambushed by a horde of orcs, unusually huge,
unsuspectedly attacking by daylight—and had our fellowship not been
separated, we might have stood a chance against them.
He asked me in earnest!
