Brother Mine
But now they stood alone, what prying eyes would regard them left long behind or
fallen so silent as to not be noticed, and in their hands they held bared steel.
It was Aragorn who saw reason first, and looked to the sword in his hand with
some surprise, as if he had not been the one to draw it. "If we have come to
this," he said, grim-faced, "then the quest is certainly doomed to fail. Let us
settle things otherwise, Boromir."
But tersely the man of Gondor replied, "It was your hand on the hilt first, and
you who broke the trust so tenuous between us—if ever you truly allowed it to
exist. For do not think I have not seen the wariness with which you watch me, so
assured that as a Man I must fail. But though you may be loved by elves, and
fostered by them, and sing their songs, it is Men whose blood dominates in your
veins, and among Men you will be counted when you die."
Aragorn did not relent. "It is not the blood of Men that makes me wary of you,
son of Gondor, but the bane of Isildur that makes me fear for your next
misstep."
"Such a piteous pair of men we are, afraid of some small trinket," Boromir
countered. "Soon we shall be cowering at our shadows."
"Nay," Aragorn said, "It is not the Ring I speak of." And he looked to Boromir
darkly, as though he thought the man must know what he intended to say.
Boromir did not withdraw his gaze, nor his offense.
"Then perhaps best that you use your newly reforged blade upon me, Aragorn, and
strike me down before I cause greater harm to your purposes! For surely I cannot
be equal to your noble blood, and surely I still believe that there is no King
to return to Gondor."
Warily they faced off, neither willing to sheathe his weapon, though Aragorn
knew it was unkingly that he did not. He could not shake the fear that what
madness was in Boromir would cause him to strike out when he should not, to
breach that etiquette that kept his hand at bay. And foul though it was to admit
it to himself, it had truly been his sword first drawn, his fear first realized.
That the Ring could drive himself and Boromir both to such extreme was worse
than any fear he had of the man.
But whether it was a trick of the light, or the ill influence of the Ring, or a
mistimed step into a misplaced root, it seemed Boromir stumbled towards him, and
Aragorn suddenly had Andúril brought up in defense, striking the straight and
unforgiving edge of Boromir's own. From there both men found their restraint
broken. Blows rang through the woods, surely noticed by some of the keen-eared
folk who dwelt there, and perhaps even by those not so keen.
On Boromir's face he saw what his own must reflect as well: frustration, anger,
mistrust. Those same sentiments he found repeated in the language of matched
blades. Grace of step and grace of swing, both muscle and force unrelenting,
both driven by a passion to do what was best, and what was right. He thought
that he should cease this quarrel, for they fought for the same goal in the end,
did they not? Yet when he drew Andúril back as if to refrain from defending
himself, another strike came for him and he could not help but answer it. The
man of Gondor had more eloquence in his argument with blade than with tongue;
Aragorn had the advantage of both, but here in this debate of steel, he found
himself evenly matched.
And yet again it was a turn of foot that changed the argument, for he slipped in
a shallow in the ground and struck a blow too close, and nicked Boromir across
the cheek as he stumbled against him. If the man of Gondor might have been given
to anger for injury, he had no chance to realize it, thrown back immediately
into a tree by Aragorn's weight. His blood splashed them both, and the heat of
it ended the duel, so shocked was Boromir to feel himself cut by a man who would
be his ally, and shocked was Aragorn to have cut him. Swords fell from numbed
fingers, and Aragorn tried straighten from his indignity. His one hand he leaned
close to Boromir's head, to support his weight as he found his feet. On his
cheek, the heat of the blood faded, chilling his skin, and he found he shivered.
He could feel the rise and fall of Boromir's chest near to his own, the heat of
the man's body steamed into the chill air. They were close, then, closer than
they had been before; sweat dampened both their brow, and mingled with the
spattering of Boromir's blood on their cheeks. For one moment Aragorn felt true
kinship to the man before him, and he was drawn to this, fascinated.
He could not stop his hand from pressing to the cut on Boromir's fine strong
jaw, nor his fingers from tracing the trail of the blood as it curved downwards,
to end saturating the man's collar. It seemed detached, unreal, that he would
cut his own companion in this quest, when their swords should have been turned
towards the dark enemy and not each other. "We have been fools," he muttered,
and the admission of it was harder than when Galadriel had urged him to face the
doubt in his own heart. Easier to agree when told of an error than to face that
error in reality. "I am sorry, Boromir."
He made to draw back, to step away, but a strong hand gripped his wrist,
clutched deeply into the layered rags he wore. "We have resolved nothing. I am
unsatisfied."
Intense was the gaze of the man of Gondor, flushed were his cheeks, and the
passion of anger seemed in him still. A slow, fresh trickle of blood started
from the cut on his cheek, as if his words had disturbed it. But Aragorn's anger
had cooled now, and the sight of the injury only redoubled his guilt.
"What draws me thus," he asked aloud of himself. "What makes me fear for your
misguidance more deeply than I fear for myself?"
"What misguidance!" Boromir demanded, and he seemed frustrated near to tears.
Yet he let himself be pinned to the tree by the loose cage of Aragorn's arms.
"If you would trust me, only, rather than have your elf watch me as if I am the
enemy, rather than threaten your sword to me when you suspect my motive! What
have I done, Aragorn, to warrant thus, aside from question your right to be
King! All my life, and my father's life, and his father's life before him, there
has been no King for Gondor, only loyal Stewards! How is it that I am expected
to accept that some wanderer whom I do not know, supported by elves and wizards
I hardly know better, is the rightful man to rule my White City?"
"Faith, man of Gondor," Aragorn said, "in myself and those who advise you, and
in your choice to support this Fellowship."
"Perhaps easier if the leader of this Fellowship were to have faith in me,"
Boromir replied, and again they were at an impasse. And again Aragorn felt
guilt, a guilt that overwhelmed him each time he looked at the man before him
now.
"You may grime your skin and wear rags, but your arrogance betrays you. You ask
my faith, and give none in return, and expect me to—"
And then the smell of the man was too much, the tense of his body against
Aragorn's, the heat of his anger raged up against Aragorn's own. The ranger's
hands clenched the wide, broad shoulders in an iron strong hold, and shook
Boromir, slammed him, twice hard into the tree they were braced against. "I am
here to watch over the Fellowship, not cater to the whimpering of one foolish
Man. If you cause this quest to stumble in any way, man of Gondor, I *will* take
what action is necessary."
"Whimpering!" Boromir's fists found hold in Aragorn's collar. "Strike at me with
weapons if you would strike at me with words, coward!" But there was a fey light
in Boromir's eye, or so it seemed to Aragorn, and a flush still lingered in his
cheeks.
Aragorn shook his head. "I will not allow your madness to infect me also..."
But Boromir's fists sought to shove him away, and in reaction Aragorn pulled
them together, fingers bitten by the mail cloaking the man's shoulders. The
action caused them both to slip and stumble; they ended colliding lip to jaw,
red wetness streaming down Aragorn's chin. He cursed, and turned, and his mouth
slid over Boromir's, rough and framed by abrasive beard. His blood, already
heated, quickened further; and suddenly he found he was pressing their mouths
together harder, and prisoning Boromir against the trunk of the mallorn with
more conviction.
Teeth, he expected, or fists or hands to shove him away; but the man beneath him
did nothing, and though he knew not why he did what he did he held to him for
many moments longer.
"I am not some disobedient green recruit," Boromir said breathlessly when he was
released, "to be cowed by sex to bow to his superior." But his breathing was as
quick as Aragorn's, his hands still clutching the other man's clothing fiercely.
"We have no such practice among the Dúnedain." Aragorn wiped the blood from his
mouth, and found his lips stung from more than the injury, a pleasant burn that
made the heat of him worse. "I meant no such thing..."
But Boromir pulled him close again, mouth to mouth, hot and eager. It occurred
to Aragorn then that the Dúnedain may have no such practice as in the ranks of
the Gondorian guard, but Boromir would oblige him to follow those rules. And so
he dealt as fiercely as he received, unwilling to surrender even in this. They
grappled with kiss and caress, to draw the first noise of assent, of pleasure,
each from the other, gripping fistfuls of fabric and mail and leather. The
treacherous ground betrayed Aragorn again, and both of them tumbled, and as his
back struck the hard dirt he found burst from his lips a sigh.
"Here is your 'otherwise,'" Boromir growled into his ear, pinning him with his
greater weight. "Is this more pleasant than swords and fists, Dúnadan? Shall we
come to more of a resolution between us?"
"I will not surrender my view."
Boromir's body flexed against him, and he found himself sighing again before he
could stubbornly quiet himself. "You are not in much position to protest."
But Aragorn reached after him, and brought their heads together and their
mouths, his lips singing an aching song to be resumed against the tautness of
the other's. Behind the too-yielding mouth he pressed against the strength of
teeth, pressed until his own blood flowed and Boromir's too, salt-sweet over his
tongue. He heard the man of Gondor gasp, and relent, shuddering to pull away,
but he would not let him.
"This battle has escaped me, my blood runs too hot to reason," Boromir said
against his lips, breath warm and moist. Still Aragorn did not release him, nor
did Boromir make attempt to flee. Teeth scraped over stubble, bit
none-too-gently along the line of Aragorn's jaw; and he seized his advantage and
rolled them over, straddling his opponent.
"Such is the failing of men," he responded.
"Then you—"
But Boromir fell silent as Aragorn's hand found the front of his tunic, and
gripped him hard. He groaned under the clutch, fingers digging into the
unshielded flesh of Aragorn's forearm, struggling to refrain from tilting his
hips into the pleasant pressure.
"Are you greedy for it?" Aragorn said with no compassion, as if he were not
moved as well, as stirred to action.
"I am..." And it was with great labor that Boromir continued, slow with his
words and his body as tense as a drawn bowstring. "I am filled with need of
it."
Roughly Aragorn leaned forth and kissed Boromir deeply, not releasing his firm
grip. Beneath him the warrior of Gondor arched into the touch, shaking with the
effort of resisting further surrender.
"Such... is the failing... of men!" Boromir whispered, his cheeks red with
humility or passion Aragorn did not know.
"Then we are brothers in this failing, for I am greedy for it also."
And with this admittance, he permitted not only his surrender but the surrender
of Boromir also; and they fell to each other like ravenous wolves, clutching and
gnawing and biting and clinging. They snapped at each other for dominance, but
Boromir's hands loosed his own belt first, and Aragorn tugged the other man's
breeches partially down before he could prevent it.
He rose half to his knees, fumbling at the ties on his leggings as he did so,
and the man of Gondor countered, by rising also and leaning him back against a
mallorn tree, running teeth along the curve of his neck. It was a particularly
pleasant spot, and so he let himself be trapped and attended to; a strange
respect was inherent in each caress and kiss that Boromir delivered.
Worshipful, almost, and the thought made him laugh lightly, for it was likely
the closest he would get to the proper obeisance owed to him as heir to
Isildur. The heat of his body surged again, and he wrestled Boromir around, and
tugged harder at the close-fitting breeches, bringing them down to the other
man's knees.
As he pushed the finely made leather tunic up around Boromir's waist, Boromir
pressed his palms against the smooth mallorn-tree bark and braced himself
backwards. The motion failed as escape, but teased the urgency of Aragorn's
blood even greater, so that he carelessly stripped the remaining lacing of his
breeches and pressed his hips forward to meet the back-thrust, smoothly
countering. He claimed the man of Gondor fully, with a great cry from both
their lips as he impaled Boromir, who shuddered just once beneath him.
Aragorn kissed at the soft hair at the back of the man of Gondor's neck, hoping
to soothe and tame him as a magnificent stallion; but wild and full of fire was
Boromir, not to be soothed by gentling touches. Aragorn fell to other measures,
a firm grip, a rough hand still gloved in fingerless leather, to clench and
squeeze the reluctant moans from Boromir's lips. Yet even trapped between a
tree and Aragorn's relentless motion, Boromir did not give up easily; he held
his own with great dignity, pressing fiercely back into Aragorn. His body
arched powerfully beneath the ranger, muscles hard as steel evident even under
the layers of leather and velvet and mail-rings. He was iron wrapped in velvet,
and Aragorn did not plunder him with ease, but got as fiercely as he gave.
Their urgency grew greater and Aragorn's focus narrowed down into the small
point where their bodies joined together, cloaked by leathers and rumpled rough
spun fabric pushed just far enough out of the way to allow their intimate
contact. The simple contact of his fist to draw Boromir's pleasure as he drew
his own, urging him on with fevered stroking, madness stronger than Ring-desire
or love. He knew, then, the man's greed, and his fingers wrapped beneath the
leathers on the bared skin of Boromir, and dug in deeply, and could not nor
would not let go. He drove them harder, harder, single-mindedly towards a
single goal, and the eager, hungry cries they made only spurred him on faster.
Finally Boromir relented beneath him, arching beautifully as Aragorn crushed him
against the mallorn-tree, growling his spent passion in the noble tongue. The
feel of his release on Aragorn's palm forced the ranger to bite down on the back
of the man's neck, so as not to lose himself immediately also; he savored for a
moment the exhaustion of Boromir against him, muscles suddenly relaxed and
trembling, his knees so weak he barely stood. But when his opponent had made
fair recovery, Aragorn gripped one hand on the man's hip and one around his
throat, and whispered harshly, "I am greedy still." He gave no opportunity for
assent or protest, but took up the rhythm again with twice the ferocity and
want, so that Boromir clutched the trunk before him blindly for support.
"If you are greedy and a man," Boromir gasped, "then take what you will and make
no apology!"
Aragorn found himself released by those words, spilling over in his passion,
crying out in surprise. His thoughts burned away and he knew only the joy of
attaining what he had desired too long; he pressed his face into the fur-lined
cloak of the man under him and gasped as the world spun beneath him.
Slowly his mind redefined the ridge of leather straps and roughness of the heavy
cloak, slowly his legs grew sturdy beneath him once again. Still he drew apart
from the man Boromir with great reluctance, for it seemed in his heart that this
might be a rare time that they came to some terms of agreement. The thick sound
of Boromir's voice seemed to express this also, and as he released his hold on
the mallorn, they both slipped apart, and sank to sit together on the roots of
the great silver tree. Boromir drew his breeches up silently, and Aragorn
closed up his laces once more.
"Again we are at an impasse," Boromir said finally, "but I have not the strength
for another round."
"Nor I," Aragorn replied, "Though it seems to me that there has been some
agreement between us."
At this Boromir laughed, and he tilted his head back against the silver mallorn,
and ran the back of his hand over his lips. "That we are both men, brothers
bound by it, weaker for it?"
"Nay," Aragorn said, and he was quiet for some time. Finally he continued, "We
are men, but we find our strength in it, if we would fight together for common
cause."
Boromir laughed again, but it was bitterly. "And what more common cause than
greed?"
And to this, Aragorn had no answer.
Website: www.thatdamncat.com
by Pluto
ow they came to a drawing of swords, he did not remember. Only the heat of
voices, both driven by passions they had long waved without apology like
standards on the battlefield. If Aragorn's banner had been less ostentatious,
less offending to the uninvolved, it had been no less bold, raised with no less
strength and resolve behind it. And likewise, the openness with which Boromir
wore his purposes was no mere compensation for personal inadequacies, but a
truth drawn from the fierce certainty of his love for Gondor. If, as their
voices rose and their anger boiled to a roiling fury, they drew dark and curious
looks from the elves of Lothlórien, or worried looks from their companions, they
took no notice. And no note they made as they retreated deeper into less lighted
parts of the enchanted woods.
