Billowing
Sometimes Aragorn still managed to forget that Boromir was not a
morning person; or that at least the part above his waist wasn't.
Boromir's mind and temper usually woke up about an hour after his
body did, a fact that continued to unsettle Aragorn, although he had
used it to his own advantage on more than one occasion. But after
breakfast they had set out together, the Lords of Gondor, strolling
through the gates of the castle to explore the narrow winding roads
and alleys of Minas Tirith, in search of the ultimate window drapes.
"But I thought you liked red," Aragorn sighed, as he let the heavy
carmine bale of fabric drop onto the table, the thud reverberating
loudly in what felt like the fiftieth fabric shop they were visiting.
"You wore that bloody red tunic all the time during our quest, not
even once bothering to wash it. You stank like crazy. Everybody
thought so, but they were all too polite to mention it. Why else do
you think Legolas dunked you into that pool right after the Mines of
Moria and offered to wash you right then and there? Not because he
was so fond of you. You were just too offending to his delicate Elven
senses."
Boromir glared at Aragorn, who suddenly feigned a very un-lordlike
interest in the wares lying before them.
"Well, it seems growing up among the Elves isn't what it's cracked up
to be," he answered scathingly, "because you apparently didn't hear
all the things they said about you on the road. And yes, I like
red, but I prefer not to see it as the curtain color of my bedroom in
the White Tower."
"Your bedroom? Since when is it your bedroom? I sleep there as
well!" Aragorn asked indignantly, as Boromir, still a bit peeved
at having been awakened so rudely that morning, picked up a
beautiful, loosely woven, dove grey bale of fabric and shoved it in
Aragorn's direction, hitting him quite firmly in the stomach.
"It has been my bedroom since I was born, you sod," he
hissed. "You, of all people should know how important history and
heirlooms are, you with your bloodlines going back to the First Age.
Who died and made you King of the hill? Wasn't me. So shut up,
will you, and tell me what you think of this color."
"Grey?" Aragorn wheezed, "Grey isn't a color.
It's black and white mixed together. I don't want some 'oh, I can't
decide what I'm going to be color' billowing around me when I wake up
in the morning. I've seen too much grey billowing when Gandalf fell
into that abyss and his robe showed far more than I ever cared to
see", Aragorn answered, shuddering involuntarily.
Even Boromir grinned at the recollection. "I'll concede your
point: I don't want any memories of Gandalf in the bedroom either. And
no, most emphatically no black!" He groaned, closing his eyes in
horror as Aragorn picked up a rather sturdy looking black fabric. "It
reminds me too much of those wretched Orcs and their black
arrows!"
Instead, he reached for the white bale of fabric that lay hidden
under the black one.
"What about white?" he asked, his strong fingers stroking the
shimmering cloth suggestively, as he cast a sideways grin at
Aragorn. "Soft, satiny, innocent white?"
It was now Aragorn's turn to groan. "No, please, no white. It
would remind me too much of Arwen and Éowyn setting up house in
Ithilien together, bickering about where they would plant the
Simbelmine and Elanor, dressed in Galadriel's hand-me-downs to keep
their own clothes from getting dirty. Please don't do that to me."
There was only one bale left on the table, a beautiful, purple,
velvet fabric and Aragorn looked at it with renewed interest. He
picked it up and spread it out over the other bales of fabric,
letting his hands slide appreciatively over the soft cloth.
"This would look nice, a royal color, suited to our station as
the Lords of Gondor and Arnor," Aragorn said approvingly.
But Boromir swallowed nervously and looked at the bale of fabric as
if it was the Balrog re-embodied lying on the table before them.
"I'd rather pass up the purple too, if you don't mind."
"But why?" Aragorn asked curiously. He couldn't see one
single flaw in the fabric or the color and to his knowledge there
weren't any sordid memories attached to purple.
Boromir hemmed and hawed a little, shuffling his feet in
embarrassment, but finally mumbled, "...saw Elrond wearing
Arwen's dress in Rivendell. And it looked better on him too. The
sight still haunts my dreams."
At that point Aragorn laughed out loud and put his arm around
Boromir, pulling him against him.
"It seems we will never be able to settle on a color for our
curtains. What about leaving our windows as bare as they are, and let
the candles in our bedroom shine on the city of Minas Tirith when the
silver trumpets have called from afar for us to return?"
Boromir smiled and nodded. "A good idea, Aragorn, because that
way everyone can see that the Lords of Gondor have come."
Boromir blanched as he realised what he had just implied.
"Home, I mean," he practically squeaked.
"Come home.
The Lords of Gondor have come home. That's what I meant, yes.
The Lords of Gondor have returned..."
Boromir looked beseechingly at Aragorn who was bent over with
laughter while the fabric seller wondered what all the fuss was
about. As if half the city of Minas Tirith wasn't secretly hoping
that those two would change their minds about their sexual
orientation, while the other half was inwardly cheering and nudging
each other, saying 'I told you so', all the while secretly
gauging their own chances.
"So, no fabric for your curtains today, Sires? Would you be
wanting to look at some linen or satin for your bed sheets?"
But both Boromir and Aragorn shook their heads frantically, Aragorn
still wiping the tears from his eyes as they walked out of the door
as quickly as they could. The fabric seller sighingly picked up his
wares and put them back on the shelves where they belonged. It may
have been that the Lords of Gondor had caused him no end of trouble
and had not bought anything, but he was certain that they would be
returning shortly. If the tales of the castle's washing maids
were true, their bed linen would have to be replaced pretty soon. All
that washing would surely make it threadbare in no time.
As he looked at the Lords of Gondor, walking away, their arms around
each other's shoulders, he knew that he, and many others with
him, would be watching the White Tower with more than passing
interest after the sound of the silver trumpets had sounded, to see
if there was more than the flickering of candlelight to be glimpsed
through its bare bedroom windows.
The End
by Sasjah Miller
t had seemed like such a good idea to go curtain shopping together
with Boromir. For the fifth day in a row the spring sun had shone
brightly through the bedroom windows in the Tower of Ecthelion, and
once again Aragorn had awakened far too early for his taste. Decades
he had spent sleeping in the wild, awakening at the earliest morning
light, stiff and sore from the makeshift beds of twigs and leaves he
had to sleep on, and now that he was Lord of Gondor and Arnor at
last, he wanted to sleep in once in a while, damnit! Boromir,
oblivious to the world as usual when he was asleep, had reacted
surprisingly well to the idea, considering the fact that Aragorn had
rudely prodded him awake to tell him about it.
