Heart of Refuge
"Do you like it?" he asks, and Boromir smiles, licks the sugary stain from
Aragorn's chin, sucks the syrupy heat of Aragorn's tongue.
"I have never eaten this fruit in Gondor," he replies.
"Then we must plant it there," murmurs Aragorn, and the words are sweeter than
the berries, warmer than the afternoon light.
Though Boromir is limp with fatigue, sated on pleasure that has lasted most of
the night and half the morning, he pulls Aragorn close and kisses his forehead,
his lips, the hollow of his throat above the glistening pendant he wears. The
salt of his skin contrasts with the taste of the berries, overwhelming Boromir's
senses.
The voices in his head are silent.
Perhaps it is the safety of the woods, or perhaps he is still drunk on Elvish
wine from the night before, but Boromir feels free from fear—fear for their
quest, fear for the future, fear for Gondor. It is like being in another world,
beyond even that of the Elves whose hidden cities barely touch the world of Men.
Here in the forest, the Ranger has taken him far from everything he knows. Here
words like duty and honor have different meanings. Here the touch of fingertips
or the whisper of his name can drive away a bitter wind, summon a hidden
wellspring, even silence the call of the darkness.
Fingers twine through his hair, at once soothing and arousing, and Boromir feels
his exhausted flesh strain toward Aragorn once more. Aragorn chuckles and
shifts, pressing belly to belly, thigh to thigh. He inhales in the same rhythm
as Boromir until they are pulsing against each other, holding one another
tightly, sharing quiet gasps.
Boromir shudders when Aragorn's hands begin to knead him in time with his
breathing, and his voice comes out as a moan. "Did you learn this, too, from the
Elves?"
"You are teaching me this now," comes the hoarse reply, and Boromir cannot speak
again, can only cling to Aragorn as the ripples in his loins become storms,
tilting the ground and the sky, sparking flashes of lightning behind his closed
eyelids, filling his nostrils with the scent of spring rain and grass and seed.
"I am no Elf," Aragorn reminds him with a breathless laugh when he can open his
eyes again. "I am only a Man."
"You are much more than that," contends Boromir.
Rather than arguing, Aragorn presses his palm to Boromir's, reminding him that
their hands are of a like size and shape, that they are equally strong and
scarred. "No more than you are, Boromir," he insists. His eyes cloud suddenly.
"If we were only Men—if we could do as we pleased—"
Then his voice trails off, and though his gaze remains fixed on Boromir, the
younger man can see that Aragorn is far from the woods, perhaps far from his
world. "Yes?" Boromir queries, calling him back to the afternoon light and the
sweet scent of berries mingled with the dampness on their skin, the cool of the
wind and the warmth where they touch.
Aragorn's expression clears, and his brows furrow as he looks at Boromir. "If
you were not the Captain of the White Tower, and I was not Isildur's heir..." he
begins again. "If you did not expect to be a Steward and did not expect me to
become a King...if we could tell our lives as tales of ordinary Men, not as if
we were names inscribed in scrolls in a library...who would you want to be?"
Boromir looks up at the tall, fragrant trees, towering over him so differently
than the spires of Minas Tirith. These woods are not like the borders of Gondor,
either, where Easterlings threaten by day and Orcs by night. This is a place out
of time, where Elves have lived since Ages long past; it is not a place for Men.
Still Boromir wishes that they could stay longer, filled with berries and
sunshine, the joy between them silencing all unanswerable questions, dispelling
doubts like smoke rings.
"We are who we are," he replies. "But I wish that we could be who we are with
one another, outside this place."
"This is how I will always think of you," Aragorn promises, kissing his
forehead. "When we must resume our journey, when the shadows fall over us, I
will not forget."
Aragorn's hair smells of the leaves and grass where they have been lying. His
cooling skin is as damp as the soil where the dew always clings under the trees.
Pressed close to him, Boromir thinks that he will never again rest on the ground
without remembering this day. Even if he falls in battle, he will be able to
summon it in his last moments: the memory of golden light breaking through the
treetops, of Aragorn's eyes and hands moving over him, of love sweeter than
fruit and warmer than the sun.
Soon they must leave Lothlórien, and it may be that their paths will part
forever. Boromir vows that he will never lose this haven—not in anger, not in
terror, not even in death.
by Your Cruise Director
he slant of sunshine looks eerie through the leaves of the mallorn trees, yet
it warms Boromir's blood. And the fruit that Aragorn presses between Boromir's
lips is strange and rough-skinned, yet the taste is sweet. So is Aragorn's mouth
when he brings it down to Boromir's, sticky with berry juice and swollen with
kisses.
