"Here. Let me, Aragorn."
The voice he had come to rely on, to find comfort in, to love
even, strong in battle, gentle in love, was close behind him.
He felt Boromir come and stand even closer, cold fingers
gently touching his neck, lifting the chain free from his skin.
Aragorn shivered from the rapidly growing cold of the evening
and from the touch he always craved but could not feel nearly
often enough. His hands started to cover the hands of his
lover, pulling him closer, wanting the touch, wanting to warm
those cold fingers, wanting to have Boromir against him.
Boromir could barely feel the thin silver necklace between his
fingers, which had become thick and insensitive from a
lifetime of hardship and war, but it burned through him
nonetheless. A sliver of fire shot to the tips of his fingers,
traveled up through his arms, setting him aflame all over.
Elven magic. There was a time, only months ago, that the
sensation would have been enough for him to spring back and
draw his sword and kill the bearer of such a strange thing
without thought, judging it yet another monstrous work of the
Dark Lord.
Not now. Not today. Not when the man he had come to love
more than life itself wore this gem, this man who had been
raised by Elves and was bound to marry one someday. Elven
magic indeed, for there was no visible catch, and yet the
chain sprang open the moment he touched it. He sighed and
let the chain drop into his hand, the gem a source of light in
his palm. He started to hand the necklace to Aragorn, but a
cruel uncertainty was welling up inside him once again,
forcing his fingers to close around it and feel the gem trying
to burn its way through his hand. He opened his hand and
held it out to Aragorn.
"It is a treasure, Aragorn, as is the one who gave it to
you," he said and started to turn away, hiding his face from
his lover.
Aragorn looked down at the pendant in Boromir's hand and
cupped his lover's hand in his own, not letting go, holding his
lover in his gaze, wanting to show Boromir that a silver chain
could separate but also bind together.
"She is," he said. "But so are you, my Boromir, and just
as dear as life itself to me," Aragorn whispered, a horrible
recognition dawning on him that one day he might have to
choose between the ones he loved once more. He bowed his
head, the glory of the day and the joy in the touch of his
lover's hands suddenly turning into dark despair.
"Do not make me choose, my love," he whispered, "I cannot
choose again. No man should have to make such a choice
more than once in his life."
Aragorn bowed his head in misery but strong fingers lifted up
his chin, forcing him to look up into green eyes that saw
everything, knew everything and forgave everything.
Boromir's hand trailed through Aragorn's hair, his fingers
hitching in the dirty knots and tangles that weeks of hard
traveling had created.
"I will not force you to choose, my love, not ever," Boromir
spoke, his voice gentle and low, his own sorrow and
uncertainties instantly forgotten at the sight of his lover's
misery.
"I do not know what the future holds in store for us and
where we will be at the end of this journey but it is a choice
you will never have to make, I promise you that much. Let
your mind rest and for now, Aragorn, enjoy this, enjoy our
moment, because one of us may fall before the evening
comes."
As Boromir held up the pendant, the silver chain writhed
almost imperceptibly and fastened itself around his lover's
throat, the shining gem lying once again smooth against
Aragorn's warm skin. Boromir smiled and leaned in to kiss
Aragorn, wanting to soothe away the worries and doubts that
haunted his lover's mind with something more than words.
Aragorn sighed as he answered Boromir's kiss, realizing then
with the clairvoyant certainty that was both the curse and gift
of his bloodline that the choice would not be theirs to make,
and that to love was the only thing they could do before the
night would come forever.
The End
Continued in Above the Dimrill Gate (Going South, Day Twenty)
After Images VII: The Long Memory of Trees
by Sasjah Miller
Going South, Day Fourteen
ow his hair had become ensnared in the silver chain that
held the gem close to his heart was a riddle to Aragorn. But
there it was, his long dark locks tangled in the silver ringlets
forming the chain that carried his Lady's gift. Elven magic.
Arwen's magic. The locks tugged at his scalp painfully every
time he moved his head and he reached behind him to try
and untangle the chain.
