Destiny's Rise
He preferred the company of men, of his soldiers, of his
brothers-in-arms. He found friendship forged in battle more
compelling than any alliance his father would have for his heir. And
in spite of any protests to the contrary, Boromir was no stranger to
passion between men. He had fought in too many campaigns, forged too
many bonds with comrades in war. He had found respite and pleasure in
the arms of a very few men, special friends, had revelled in matching
his strength with another such as himself. But even in those
encounters, love held no place.
All had changed when he came to Imladris and found a ranger in the
chamber housing the sacred Shards of Narsil.
One chance meeting and he at last understood the emotion he'd so long
thought an illusion, an invention of the singers of songs. One look
at the man and he'd felt his breath catch painfully in his throat,
felt a stirring in his groin. But it was no mere lust that took him.
There was a tenderness, a stirring in his heart such as had only
before been roused by his fraternal affection for Faramir.
Here at last, he thought, must be his destiny, the man he was fated
to be bound to, to fight with, to live for. To love. The sense of
fate, of rightness had been strong, irresistible. But then he had
found that the man was no ordinary ranger but Isildur's heir, the
promised king that Gondor had long since ceased to hope for, the man
to whom he would need to bend his knee. The knowledge came like a
betrayal. He'd struck out in reaction, mocking Aragorn's claim to
the throne of his people, denying Gondor's need for a king,
aggression masking the wound he felt.
And yet, when the Council had chosen the destruction of the enemy's
weapon, pride had demanded he lend Gondor's strength to the
Fellowship, binding his destiny to the son of Arathorn in a way
utterly unexpected.
Days of preparation for the journey followed, and Boromir's heart was
further pierced when he realized that Aragorn was bound by love to
the daughter of Elrond, the graceful Arwen Undomiel. This knowledge
brought more bitter disappointment, and he spent his last days in
Imladris subtly avoiding them both, the ranger and his lady.
Then Arwen had sought him out. She found him in the woods where he
had gone to find some peace, a respite from the misgivings in his
heart. Instead, he had found even more disquiet, as Arwen had seen
too clearly into his heart, seen things that he would hide, even from
himself. It seemed she possessed the Elvish witchcraft his father
had long warned him of. But in spite of the discomfort her intuition
had caused him, he was determined to hold true to the promise he had
made her. He would assist Aragorn when he could, as he would assist
all members of the Fellowship.
The early days of the journey passed easily enough. The weather held
and they were able to keep to a pace leisurely enough that even the
Hobbits had no trouble keeping up with their taller companions.
Boromir most often walked with Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took,
finding in their simple natures and good humour welcome reminders of
the younger brother he had left behind. He took to telling them
tales of his city, his men and his brother, and to offering them
lessons in the use of their swords. In return, they would share
their own stories of the Shire, and teach him the best places to find
wild mushrooms and berries. If not for a whispering doubt that
sometimes plagued him as he drifted to sleep, he almost could have
forgotten the deadly quest that drove them toward the lands of the
Enemy.
As for Aragorn, Boromir remained wary around the ranger in those
first days of the Fellowship. He most often hunted for their evening
meal with Legolas or Gimli, fearing to be on his own with a man for
whom he felt such an untamed longing. Eventually, though, wariness
was replaced by familiarity and he began to pass more time in the
company of the strange Elf-raised man who caused him such confusion.
Like recognized like, and they would share experiences of fighting
orcs and goblins and other of Sauron's dark servants, tales not
suited to the gentler nature of his little Hobbits.
More days passed, and Boromir hunted more often with the ranger than
with Elf or Dwarf. He was pleased to see how well their skills
complimented each other. Few were the nights when they returned to
the others empty-handed.
Thus, the friendship between the two men grew, though always haunting
that friendship was the promise of something else, something more.
A promise that was finally fulfilled.
It had been a glorious day. The sun had shone with a brilliance only
possible in winter, the air holding the merest hint of future snow.
They had made good time that day, travelling through forest paths
crossed by golden shafts of sunlight. As the shadows began to
lengthen in the late afternoon, Aragorn disappeared from the path for
a moment, then returned and whispered words to Gandalf. The wizard
nodded, then raised his hand to stop the Fellowship.
"We've made good time today. I think we can afford to stop a bit
early for a change."
The Hobbits sighed with audible relief and began shrugging off their
packs. The rest of the Fellowship began performing the many chores
that went with setting up camp for the night. Boromir frowned,
wondering why they were stopping when there was yet daylight
remaining, but Aragorn took his arm, a smile brightening his face.
"Come, Boromir. We'll hunt tonight's meal." Without waiting for an
answer, the ranger headed into the forests, leaving Boromir to shed
his cape and shield and scramble in his wake.
Aragorn made his way through the trees with a purpose that told
Boromir he had already picked up the trail of his quarry. Not
wanting to frighten any game, Boromir held back his questions and
merely kept his eyes open for deer sign, noting that Aragorn's steps
never faltered as they wound their way ever deeper into the wild.
After perhaps ten minutes of picking their way quietly through the
woods, Aragorn at last slowed and stopped, crouching down behind a
wind fallen tree. Boromir joined him in his makeshift hide. At a
gesture from Aragorn, he risked a look over the top of the log. And
found himself staring at a rather large boar, rooting under a shrub.
His eyes gone wide with shock, Boromir looked at Aragorn.
"No spears, no hounds and you want to kill a boar?" he whispered.
"Don't worry. I've hunted larger game with only bow and arrow
before. It only takes a sure aim and a strong swordsman to back you
up."
Boromir ignored the implied compliment and shook his head. "Living
with Elves has addled your mind," he said, even as he drew his sword
and prepared to assist in this insanity. The madman said nothing
more, but only smiled wider and nocked an arrow.
A nod from Aragorn and they both stood. The ranger had let one arrow
fly before their prey even noticed their presence. The beast
bellowed in pain and did exactly what any hunter should have
expected: it charged.
Two more arrows were shot home, and still the boar didn't slow.
Aragorn began to nock a fourth arrow, but Boromir knew he would not
have time to draw and shoot before the boar would be upon them.
Placing a practiced hand, Boromir vaulted over the tree and came face
to face with the massive, charging animal. He only had one chance
before the beast would trample him. Raising his sword with both
hands, he brought its point down hard at the base of the creature's
skull and pushed it home. His aim was as true as his sword arm and
with one last bellow of anger and pain, the boar fell dead at his
feet.
Boromir stood, panting, beside their prey, the sword hanging loose
from a suddenly nerveless hand, his breath gasping harshly in his
throat.
Replacing the arrow in his quiver, Aragorn leaped over the tree and
pulled out his dagger, ready to prepare the boar for the trip back to
camp. Boromir, however, was not willing to let the foolhardiness of
his friend go unremarked.
"You madman. You halfwit. You fool. How dare you put us both in
danger like that? Who would have looked after the little ones if
we'd been injured? If we'd been killed?"
The smile never left Aragorn's face as he moved toward his companion,
but he did not speak in response. Instead, he closed the distance
between them fully and then closed Boromir's mouth with a deep kiss,
full of the unspoken promises between them.
When the ranger pulled back, Boromir found himself speechless.
"What..." he tried to say, but Aragorn's finger on his lips stopped
up his words.
"Tonight," was all he said before setting to work removing his arrows
from the animal. Stunned, Boromir stood frozen for a moment, his
mouth hanging stupidly open like some love struck youth. Finally
rousing himself, he set out to find a sapling strong enough to bear
the weight of the boar.
They returned to the camp as heroes. The Hobbits were ecstatic over
the prospect of roast boar, with Sam breaking out some of his
cherished herbs for the preparation of the food. Even Gimli was
impressed that they'd managed to bring down a boar.
The meal that night was a true feast, the boar accompanied by wild
roots that Merry and Pippin had found and cooked to perfection by
Sam. And yet, Boromir tasted none of it. He shared not in the jokes
and laughter that circled the campfire. He heard none of the
stories of making mischief in the Shire that his dear Merry and
Pippin regaled the company with. All that went through his mind was
one word: tonight.
The meal was finished as twilight turned to true darkness, the stars
glittering faintly through the canopy of trees. The fire was banked
for the night and all members of the company began to ready
themselves for sleep. All, save one. Instead of laying out his
bedroll, Aragorn instead drifted away from the company.
"Aragorn," Gandalf began, a note of warning in his voice.
"I want to scout out the area," Aragorn said, cutting off all
criticism. "Make certain there are no enemies haunting our
progress." Gandalf nodded in response, with only a glimmer of
suspicion in his expression.
Unbidden, Boromir followed in the ranger's footsteps, drawn to the
other man like a dreamer to starlight. Behind him, he could hear the
Hobbits stirring by the fire as they made themselves comfortable for
the night. He could hear Gimli's grumbling and Legolas' soothing
words. He even imagined he could feel Gandalf's gimlet eye upon him
as he trailed the heir to Gondor's throne. But he ignored it all,
ignored everyone but the man in front of him, the man who would
fulfil his promise. Tonight.
They were beyond the sight and hearing of the company when Aragorn at
last stopped, his back against an ancient tree, a welcoming look on
his face. As Boromir approached, Aragorn held out his hand, their
fingers entwining together as if it were the most natural thing in
the world. Boromir closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of
the other man's hand in his own, the warmth of the skin, the
battle-hardened calluses that matched his own.
With a tug, Aragorn drew him closer until their bodies were almost,
but not quite, touching. Boromir could feel the warm puffs of
Aragorn's breath brushing his face, could feel the heat of the
ranger's body. He hovered for a moment on a precipice, knowing that
to move, to move just a fraction, would change everything. He felt as
he had not since he was a child, poised on a boulder, gathering his
courage to dive into the Anduin while Faramir watched, coils of
pleasure and fear twining 'round him. He held himself at the
threshold of the moment, enjoying the anticipation of what was to
come.
Then the threshold was passed. Bodies and mouths came together in a
rush of motion and heat, and Boromir found that it was he, not
Aragorn, who now had the tree at his back. Clothes were pushed
aside, and Boromir shivered as his skin was exposed to the chill
night air, only to gasp as the heat from Aragorn's mouth traced a
path down throat and chest and belly. The next shiver that wracked
his body had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with
the teeth that nipped at his hip, the tongue that traced a path down
his cock.
His neck arched as Aragorn drew his cock fully into his mouth, the
rough sensation of the tree bark behind him a welcome counterpoint to
the liquid pleasure that exploded from his groin. Boromir's hands
searched for an anchor, settling behind him to grip the tree's trunk
as Aragorn sucked and caressed and brought him to a shattering
climax. And even then, Aragorn's mouth did not release him until the
last of his seed was spent. Only when his knees threatened to buckle
with the weight of the bliss that flooded his limbs, his head, his
heart, did Aragorn at last stand, encircling Boromir in a supporting
embrace and kissing him deeply with a mouth that tasted of sex. And
love.
Briefly, they pulled apart, only to spread Boromir's cloak on the
forest floor before lying together on its rich cloth. The remainder
of their clothes were shed, cold completely disregarded in the heat
of their passion. Their mouths clashed and limbs entangled as they
grappled with each other, as each sought to possess the other, to
hold a piece of the other's soul in his grasp.
It was Boromir who finally surrendered the battle, who gave himself
to his future king. And with the surrender, came a gentleness that
Boromir had not expected, a tenderness that he craved.
Aragorn eased him onto his back and worshipped him with hands and
mouth. He loved him until Boromir thought that he could bear no
more, could feel no more. And only then, did Aragorn enter him.
There was only spit and the fluid from Aragorn's leaking cock to ease
the way, but it was enough. Boromir had made do with less, in the
aftermath of battle when the joy at having survived had turned to a
lust that could not be denied. His need was so much more now.
They thrust together, until Boromir could no longer tell which voice
was his own, could no longer say which limb was Aragorn's, and which
his. Aragorn's hand took his cock in a firm grip, pushing him higher
and higher still. Then, reaching the pinnacle, he fell, his seed
spilling over Aragorn's hand as his body convulsed around the cock
buried within him.
He pulled Aragorn even closer to him, and the other man thrust
deeper, his breath coming in more and more ragged gasps and then
catching in his chest. At last, Aragorn threw his head back, and
came within him.
Rolling onto their sides, Boromir clutched Aragorn close to his
breast. He wanted to remember this time forever, to hold it forever
green in his memory. But all things must end, whether good or ill.
Passion spent, the cold at last intruded upon them. They separated
and donned their clothes, and then Boromir wrapped them both in the
warmth of his cloak while they shared more kisses and caresses. The
setting of the moon was their warning that they must needs return to
the camp and the others, before they lost all but the dimmest
starlight to show their way.
Silently, they made their way through the forest to where the other
members of the Fellowship lay sleeping. They made their bed
together, under the sheltering boughs of an old beech tree. As they
lay together, the only sounds the rustling of trees in the wind and
the occasional sigh from a sleeping Hobbit, Boromir found that his
heart was lighter than it had been since his youth. His concern for
the survival of his city had faded, overcome by his growing
confidence that this ranger from the North would be the leader to
save it. Together, they would see the Fellowship's quest succeed.
Together, they would lay defeat at the Enemy's gate.
For, in the end, who could fight against his destiny.
by P.R. Zed
oromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower,
had never been in love. Oh, he had known other sorts of love: he
loved his brother with the fierceness of a she-wolf guarding her cub;
he had loved the gentle presence of his mother, while she lived. He
even bore a dutiful love for his father. But romantic love had never
held sway over his heart. The charms of the women of his realm were
lost on him, their dark, willowy beauty of no more interest to him
than the passing loveliness of a summer's day.
