He did not listen. There was no need to when all he wanted to hear
had already been said by the way Aragorn's mouth had closed
around his wounded finger, several days ago in the reeds.
They had said it all. Said it in between the lines of innocent
conversation; whispered it by building a campfire together in perfect
unison; shouted it by invariably ending up guarding the rear
together, walking close, bodies almost touching.
And no one it seemed had heard them, except maybe Legolas. Sharp-
witted, keen-eyed, Legolas, who had looked at them with something
close to regret, but who had also given them unspoken permission by
walking in the lead with Gandalf, engaging Gimli and the Hobbits in
friendly conversation.
No words were needed when they strayed off together in the dusk to
gather wood for tonight's fire and perhaps catch a rabbit or two.
They moved soundlessly through the forest, the soft voices of their
companions slowly dying away until nothing accompanied them but the
soft crunch of twigs breaking underfoot and the slow susurring of the
wind in the darkening treetops.
Wordlessly, they had slowed down their pace until they had stopped
here, where the silver birch trees stood so close together that their
branches made a filigree pattern against the early evening sky. They
looked at each other, waiting, the sound of their breath mingling
with the wind in the treetops. Boromir had dropped the firewood he
had gathered and leaned against the tree trunk closest to him, his
arm wrapped around it, fingers picking at the peeling bark. They
stood there, gazing into each other's eyes until Aragorn broke
the silence that hung between them like silver light.
"She said she'd understand."
It was enough. Those words were all that Boromir needed to be free
forever and he sighed softly as his hand moved up to touch
Aragorn's arm while Aragorn cast down his gaze, wondering now what
tale they would live to tell. But Boromir's hand continued to slide
upwards, over Aragorn's shoulder and neck until he felt the warmth of
Aragorn's face, the stubble on his chin and the line of his jaw
against his palm with a clarity he had never felt in anything else
before.
"Don't. Don't say a word, Aragorn. It will not be true until we say
it is."
He smiled softly, the words caressing the air around them, closing
the two of them in, pulling them together by the strength of his
whisper. Then he leaned in, infinitesimally slow, holding on to the
white tree, gaining his strength from it, until he felt Aragorn's
breath on his face, saw the little pores of his skin, the tiny
creases in his soft lips, the long black lashes obscuring the other
man's gaze and the dark weary smudges under his eyes.
He kissed him then, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what
would happen next. He merely knew that all the roads he could have
taken would eventually lead to this: a silver birch forest in the
dusk, his mouth against lips so soft, oh, so soft and welcoming, the
warmth of Aragorn's body enflaming him, drawing him inexorably
closer to the fire.
A passion rose in Boromir, a passion fanned by guilt and kisses
returned and he knew that this was what he wanted. He wanted it more
than the soft linen sheets in his bedroom in the White Tower, more
than the honor of the throne of Gondor and the ragged cheers of his
men before battle. Perhaps even more than victory against Sauron. And
it was given to him freely, here in the darkening forest where the
silver bark of the birches shone gently in the dying light. He kissed
Aragorn and agonizing thoughts of Kingships, betrothals, and
political intricacies flowed away, drifting from his mind like mist
disappearing before the rising sun. For Aragorn had sealed their fate
without words when his arms reached up and enfolded Boromir, pulling
him close against him and returning his kiss.
The End
After Images IV: Turn
by Sasjah Miller
Going South, Day Eight
e said nothing. How could he speak now when all he wanted to say had
already been said, wordlessly, every time his eyes met Aragorn's?
