Destiny's Fall
Aragorn recognized the truth in Arwen's words even as they left her lips.
"You love him, too."
Recognized the truth and hid from it. Ignored it. Denied its power.
But fate could not be ignored. Destiny was not to be denied. Fate
had placed him in the company of the Steward's son, and destiny had
forged the bond between them. A bond he could not acknowledge in
Imladris, close to everything, everyone, he held dear, but one that
slowly became possible when the Fellowship left Elrond's realm.
Even so, he passed the first part of their journey resolutely
avoiding the Steward's son. He spent his time consulting with
Gandalf or talking to Legolas or keeping watch over the Hobbits. But
with only eight companions, Boromir was never far from his sight, and
he could not help noticing him.
And once he noticed him, he began to recognize certain truths about
Boromir: that Boromir was always willing to lend his strength to the
others; that he always did so much more than his share; that the grim
soldier had a playful side and an honest affection for the youngest
Hobbits, an affection so at odds with the arrogant pride in which he
had wrapped himself at Elrond's council. He realized that, beyond
being a Captain of Gondor and his father's heir, Boromir was a good
man, loyal and true to his friends and his city both.
He began to lower his guard when Boromir was near, to accompany him
on the hunt, to share with him stories of fighting Orcs and Goblins.
A friendship grew between them as their wariness faded, and as the
bonds of friendship flourished, Aragorn found he could finally
acknowledge Arwen's truth: he did love Boromir, as Boromir loved him.
And with that love acknowledged, it was only a matter of time before
they turned feeling into action, before they let flesh speak of the
bond between them.
In a forest glade at the end of a successful hunt, with the sky as
their only witness, they finally consummated their love. Under the
trees and open sky, they shared their bodies and their hearts.
Aragorn had been astounded at how unguarded Boromir was, how eager.
Even more surprising had been discovering the strength of his own
emotions. He had never sought to find another love, and yet fate had
given him one that he cared for as deeply as Arwen.
Aragorn counted himself lucky to have found two such loves in one
lifetime. Of the two, Arwen was his anchor, the bedrock upon which
his soul rested. She was the Evenstar, a steady light shining with a
clear, pure brilliance that would always call him home.
Boromir's light was a brighter and bolder one. He blazed with a
ferocious, passionate intensity, now waxing, now waning, but always
burning fiercely. And always, Aragorn was aware that a brighter
light would burn out the sooner. If only he had known how little
time that light had left.
At least they had found a measure of happiness in the time given
them: their days were spent travelling toward their goal, sharing the
good company of the Fellowship; their nights were spent discovering
joy in the sharing of their flesh, finding comfort in the ease of
each other's arms.
But that happiness was as brief as it was blessed.
The shadows began to grow as they approached the foot of Caradhras,
where the crebain, Saruman's feathered spies, were the harbingers of
the growing darkness. As the Fellowship drew closer to its master's
domain, the Ring's power grew. On the side of the mountain, Aragorn
heard the call of the Ring for the first time since Frodo had
revealed it in Elrond's hall. He could hear its whispering each night
as he approached the realm of sleep, could hear its promises of
victory and redemption, lies all, but tempting, nonetheless.
He wondered what the others heard, what lures they were offered, what
shimmering treasures the enemy held before them. He hoped against
hope that he was the only one plagued by such temptations. He hoped
the others would be spared.
His hopes came to naught.
On the mountain, Frodo fell, losing the Ring for an instant. And in
the snow, Boromir picked up the golden band, his eyes tormented by
its deceit, his hand trembling from its lure.
Aragorn's own hand had gone immediately to his sword, prepared to
slay Gondor's Captain if he moved to claim the Ring, aware of the
cost to his own heart if he was forced to kill the man who had
claimed his love. But death had not come that day. Boromir had
returned the Ring and Aragorn had not spilled blood on the snow.
Their lovemaking that night had a desperation that was new. It
seemed that Boromir asked for a forgiveness with his body that he
could not with his voice. For his part, Aragorn tried to surround
Boromir with his love, to fill him so completely that there would be
no room for the call of the Ring.
From that day forward, their love had begun to unravel, to fray like
a threadbare cloth that had seen too many winters.
A new wariness grew between them. Aragorn could only watch
helplessly as Boromir pulled away from him, as the light left his
eyes. He despaired as the touches between them became fewer and more
hesitant.
Then came Moria. And darkness. And death.
Gandalf's fall had shaken all the company, even the hardened soldier
of Gondor. Needing rest and shelter and protection from the Orcs who
now pursued them, they sought refuge in Galadriel's domain.
In the shelter of the mallorn trees, Aragorn thought that his
companions would find peace. But not all of them found comfort in
the protection of Galadriel. The one member of the company whom he
most hoped would be healed by the magic of the Elves found only more
despair.
Boromir sought solitude in the Elven grove when he should have
favoured the company of his friends. Aragorn found him apart from
the others, tears staining his cheeks, words of hopelessness on his
tongue. Arathorn's heir tried to comfort the son of the Steward with
words, but to no avail. Words could not breach the chasm that had
grown between them, could not calm the fears in Boromir's soul.
If words would not suffice, then actions must.
Aragorn took Boromir's hand in his own and led him well away from the
others, to a place well within the mallorn grove where they were as
shielded from the eyes of others as they had been the first time they
had shared the pleasures of the flesh.
In that place, surrounded by the rustling of trees, with the
whispering wind caressing their faces, Aragorn clutched Boromir to
him in the tightest of embraces. He stroked his back and brushed his
hair back from his face. Boromir looked at him with a desperate
longing, his eyes gone strangely grey in the starlight, then buried
his face in Aragorn's neck. He made no sound, but the shuddering
heaves that wracked Boromir's body told Aragorn all he needed to know.
He waited until the spasms had passed, then gently encouraged them to
lie down together. He held Boromir to him, bestowing kisses on his
brow, his cheeks, his neck, tasting the salt of tears as he did. At
last, when he felt the other man relax in his arms, he laid a tender
kiss on his mouth, rejoicing when the lips opened under his.
He pressed his tongue deeper, feeling a thrill at the coolness of
Boromir's mouth. The bitterness of the words that Boromir had spoken
disappeared in the sweetness of his kisses. Aragorn let his hands
play up and down the body of the man he loved, letting his touch
inflame them both until their breaths were coming in gasping sobs and
they were both struggling to shed their clothing.
Naked, they came together again, and Aragorn revelled at the feeling
of flesh gliding against his own, at the sensation of sure fingers
stroking his nipples, his stomach, his cock. He gasped at the
feeling of blood filling his organ, pounding at his temples, singing
in his veins. Feeling himself approach the precipice, he stayed
Boromir's hand and finally spoke.
"No. Not like that. I would have you take me." As Aragorn said the
words, he knew how true they were. How he wanted to be possessed,
burned, consumed by the passion between them.
Boromir hesitated, and Aragorn encouraged him with his hands, his
mouth, his body, until Boromir was near weeping with need. Aragorn
took Boromir in his mouth, leaving enough spit to ease what they were
about to do, what they needed to do, then he lay back and opened
himself to the man he loved.
Though it had been many days since they had shared their bodies,
since Caradhas, Boromir fully sheathed himself in Aragorn's body with
one thrust. He poised above Aragorn for a moment, mouth open, breath
panting, hanging onto this last moment of control. Then control
shredded. Throwing his head back, he drove his hips back and
forward, driving them both to a frenzy of desire.
Aragorn watched as Boromir was taken by the ecstasy of the flesh.
Watched as he squeezed his eyes shut and climaxed. Watched even as
his own orgasm overcame him, brought on by Boromir's fist stroking
his cock. Watched as Boromir lay on the grass and smiled, the last of
his despair gone, replaced by the shining love in his eyes. Aragorn
leaned over him and kissed him again, thoroughly, imprinting the
moment on his memory and hoping that they would make many more to
join it.
It was not to be.
The river journey saw the rift re-open between them. They argued on
the banks of the Anduin, the call of the Ring and the competing
loyalties of love and duty driving them again apart.
And Amon Hen widened the rift to an unbridgeable chasm. It was there
that Boromir stumbled and was redeemed. It was there that they
suffered their final separation. It was there that Boromir had died
in his arms after a final kiss.
With Boromir's flesh already cooling under his touch and an
unregarded moisture on his cheeks, Aragorn considered what might have
been.
A future where Frodo's mission had been completed and all members of
the Fellowship lived. A time where he ruled the realm of Gondor,
with both Queen and Steward at his side. A time where both his loves
supported and cherished him and each other.
Death had denied him that future. Fate had denied him his happiness.
They could not be together, but Aragorn would not relinquish his
memories of Boromir. Nor would he forget his promises, his vow to
protect the city of Gondor and her people.
He took the vambraces from his fallen love, and strapped them tightly
on his own wrists, enjoying the bite of the buckle in his flesh as
proof that he was still alive, still breathing, in spite of the chill
that had settled over his soul. The White Tree incised on their
surface would spur on his resolve to follow his fate. And their
leather, stained with the sweat of the man who held half his heart,
would remind him of all that destiny could cut away.
by P.R. Zed
e loves you."
