Salve
"The cows were lying on the ground?" Aragorn has both eyebrows stretched high
into his forehead—to keep himself from smiling, Boromir suspects.
"Faramir claims that we tipped them over."
Crossing his arms, Aragorn regards Boromir skeptically. "And you claim not to
remember a thing about it."
"I said I was drunk. Very drunk."
"Yet not so drunk that you could not ride." Finally Boromir cannot maintain the
pretense of innocence, and he laughs, joined by Aragorn. Yet after a moment, the
Ranger sobers. "You miss him, don't you."
"There is very little in this world that is more important to me than my
brother," Boromir nods, glancing away from Aragorn's eyes. He is not ready to
share all of his feelings about Faramir with Aragorn, just as Aragorn has shown
little inclination to tell Boromir of his past with Arwen or any of the Elves or
Men he has known in his long life.
Aragorn leans forward, resting his crossed arms on his knees with a thoughtful
expression. His chin rests on one of his hands. "You said that your brother
first had the dream that sent you to Rivendell. Why did he not accompany you on
the journey?"
"Someone had to stay behind to defend Gondor," Boromir says evasively. He does
not wish to explain that he persuaded his father and Faramir both that as
Captain of the White Tower, he should be the one to go. His father had suspected
that Boromir craved glory, and in truth has been prouder of that ambition than
of Faramir's desire to seek out the meaning of the riddle for its own sake.
Boromir had allowed his father to believe that he cared only for the strength of
Gondor, and had told his brother that he wanted only to explore, to learn of the
past, though he wondered now if either fully believed him or if they both had
understood that his motives were puzzling, even to himself. He knows only that
he was driven to take on the journey, not least because he longed to leave Minas
Tirith, where he could see his father's rule faltering yet could not defend him.
When first he had first seen the Ring, he had thought he understood his purpose
in coming. Then he had discovered the identity of this Ranger, and committed to
this quest...and now he is not certain that he understands at all.
"You have said that your father is not kind to your brother," begins Aragorn. As
Boromir lifts his head, condemning himself for having said such a thing, Aragorn
seems to notice his displeasure, for he quickly amends, "I'm sorry. That is not
for me to question."
"No, it is not." Glancing away, Boromir finds himself grateful for the sympathy.
"But he does not treat Faramir well. I would not be surprised to learn that
Faramir returns to Minas Tirith only long enough to make any reports that he
feels are necessary to present in person, and then leaves again shortly
thereafter."
"I am surprised your father was willing to spare you for so long."
Boromir speaks softly. "I think he wanted to be certain that the situation
was...handled properly. I believe that he hoped I would find in Imladris a means
to defend Gondor."
"Will he be very disappointed in you when you tell him that you have sent the
Ring into Mordor to be destroyed?" Boromir does not reply; he does not think he
needs to. After a moment Aragorn asks, "Does it upset you?"
"My father's disappointment, or sending the Ring into Mordor?"
"I thought we were agreed." In an instant Aragorn's tone and bearing have both
changed: he sits straight, with the bearing of a King, and he speaks to Boromir
like a ruler facing a shifty ally. Boromir meets his glare, as if daring Aragorn
to question his loyalty to their quest, until Aragorn finally turns his head
away and nods, almost apologetic. "You have not often disappointed him, I
imagine." Then he smiles suddenly. "What did he say when you and Faramir
returned from this...expedition among the cows?"
"We never told him what we had done, though he was angry with us for 'running
away' as we did." Boromir pauses for a moment, plucking at a blade of grass. "He
was angry with Faramir for convincing me to go. He did not believe me when I
said it was my idea that we should leave. I was bored."
"Curious that he blamed your younger brother. I would think that as the older
sibling he would expect you to set the example. Would he have given you leave,
had you asked?"
"No. Which is why we had to skulk away. He thinks that Faramir...influences me."
Boromir waits for Aragorn to ask the obvious question, and, when Aragorn remains
silent, answers it anyway. "I have nearly always done whatever Faramir has asked
of me."
The Ranger nods without judgment in his expression. "I have never had a younger
sibling. I envy you. My life might have been very different had my mother had
another child."
Boromir is not certain of Aragorn's age at the time of Arathorn's death; he
knows, however, that Aragorn's mother lived to see him as a man, and envies him
in turn. "I wish my mother had not died so young. I still miss her," he admits
softly. "I think both our lives would have been very different, had she lived.
At least Faramir would have had someone when I could not be there for him."
"Perhaps he is too like your mother for your father to look upon him without
feeling the loss. I think I must resemble my father, for my mother rarely looked
on me without pain in her eyes." Aragorn raises himself up a bit to find his
pipe in a pocket in his vest, sitting closer to Boromir when he comes to rest
again. "We have that in common, having been raised without a parent. Do you
suppose that is why..." Shaking the pipe, the Ranger finds the weed nearly gone.
He toys with it, distracted.
"...why...?"
Aragorn glances sharply at Boromir, then busies himself with cleaning the pipe,
which he has not lit since they left their camp. "Why we are close to one
another," he concludes after a time. "Why we seek out the company of men."
Boromir feels himself tense. For a moment he thinks to feign confusion,
reminding Aragorn that he spends more time among Elves than Men, and then he
thinks to deny the man's words, to dismiss what is between them as a soldier's
relief on a long march without women. Yet Aragorn is being unusually frank with
him, and he does not wish to end the moment. "That could indeed be the reason,"
he begrudges.
Aragorn sighs quietly, laying his pipe in the grass. "I thought that you were
about to disagree. Or to deny that you seek companionship with other men. I am
surprised that your father has not tried to persuade you to marry."
"Oh, he has," Boromir snorts. This year it has been his cousin Lothíriel whom
his father has attempted to convince him would make a perfect bride. Last summer
it had been Éowyn of Rohan, whom Boromir has never met. If he were to marry, he
thinks savagely, it would not be with Éowyn or some other noblewoman homesick
for her childhood home, as his mother had been. He would prefer a wife of
peasant stock tied to Gondor and Minas Tirith, an earthy woman who would not
miss him overmuch when he was on patrol with his men.
"Will your brother marry, do you think?"
"Either he or I will have to, at some point. Though I fear that my father
intends to send him off to wed the daughter of some ally far from my city."
Another sigh escapes Boromir's lips. "At least, perhaps, he will be happier."
"Boromir...was your father violent with him? Or with you?" The question goes too
far, and Boromir pulls away suddenly, angry and humiliated that Aragorn would
think to ask such a thing. "I'm sorry," the Ranger says quickly. "It only
seems...you carry scars that you do not show. Perhaps your brother, as well." In
a flash of movement Aragorn's hand rests on Boromir's forearm, warm and
reassuring. "Do not be ashamed! It is no fault of your own."
"It is one thing for him to have taken his anger out on me. But I should have
done more to protect Faramir."
"You cannot blame yourself for Denethor's temper. Did no one know? Did Gandalf
not realize?"
"I think Gandalf might have known, but did not want to antagonize my father.
There is some quarrel between them, I have never learned what it might be."
Boromir lies back in the grass and stares up at the stars through the trees. He
does not want to weigh his father's judgment against the wizard's, and wishes
not to be angry anymore.
Nodding, Aragorn stretches out in the grass with his head propped up on one arm.
But he is looking at Boromir, not at the sky. "What do you think will happen,
when you go back?" he asks.
Boromir glances at Aragorn. "I imagine I will take my place with my men."
"Your father is not a young man. He must be grooming you to take his place."
Aragorn sounds apologetic to have made Boromir defensive. "I think you have
spent much of your life pleasing others, but I cannot tell if you have been
happy."
"There are times when I have been very happy."
"Tipping cows with your brother?" he smiles.
Boromir smiles in return. "Yes, tipping cows with my brother. Most of my
happiest moments include Faramir." He hesitates. "And talking with you."
The words make Aragorn flush, as Boromir had hoped they might. "You are happy
now, then?"
"Very," Boromir says, his smile broadening. It is impossible not to touch
Aragorn then. His fingers encircle the other's shoulder, squeezing, his thumb
barely brushing Aragorn's chin.
"Then I am glad." Aragorn's hand comes up, covering Boromir's and lifting it in
his own. He lowers his head to kiss Boromir's knuckles.
Boromir's other hand comes up and rests on Aragorn's side as he turns his head,
brushing his lips over Aragorn's ear. "And I am happy when we are...together."
"So am I," murmurs Aragorn fervently, turning to find Boromir's lips with his
own, flattening himself against the grass.
Boromir pulls Aragorn against him, sighing against the other man's lips. "Why
does everything feel so different in Imladris and here in the wild than in
Gondor? Time seems to stand still. I feel as though we have eternity before us."
Boromir pauses a moment, and runs his fingers through Aragorn's hair. "Though I
am always happiest when we are able to bathe."
For a moment Aragorn seems to believe the comment to be earnest; then he
realizes that he is being teased, leans in and laughs against Boromir's skin,
sliding a hand beneath his collar. "Was it so terrible, before?"
"Well, perhaps the way you smelled..."
"You hardly smelled like a spring garden, yet did I complain?"
"Of course not. And neither did I. Though I was afraid that if I touched your
hair, I would not be able to retrieve my hand."
"So your long reticence was from fear of my hair?" Aragorn is tasting skin,
sinking his fingers into Boromir's hair. "It is not so fair as Legolas', but it
is Gimli's beard that should make you cower."
Boromir moans softly. His fingers tug at Aragorn's tunic, pulling it from the
waist of his breeches. Then his fingertips slide along Aragorn's back. "Gimli
takes surprisingly good care of his beard."
"As do you," whispers Aragorn, licking Boromir's jawline beneath the scratchy
hair, his hands pushing Boromir's vest and tunic up and out of the way. There is
a small scar just beneath his chin that few have ever discovered; Aragorn
presses his tongue against it, rocking his lower body against the swelling in
his breeches.
"I do what—I can," Boromir replies with a gasp, pressing against Aragorn. He
jerks hard on Aragorn's tunic, and when Aragorn pulls away briefly to remove it,
Boromir reaches up and smoothes his hands down Aragorn's chest. The Ranger
shivers, though the night air is warm. Twisting, he tries to get Boromir to
touch his nipples, all the while wrestling with his clothes—it would not do
to tear them in haste.
Boromir rubs his thumbs over Aragorn's nipples, looking up intently to watch his
reaction. The way his eyes close briefly, the way his lips part, make Boromir's
heart beat faster. "You are..." he whispers, hesitating as he seeks the right
phrase. Not beautiful, not magnificent; he cannot say such things to this man.
He sighs again, wishing he had a better way with words. Certainly Faramir could
describe Aragorn perfectly, but Faramir is not here. If he were, in his
stead...Boromir shivers.
Aragorn leans close and tightens his arms. "Are you cold?" he asks.
"No, not cold." Boromir focuses his attention on Aragorn again. "And even if I
were, I would not be for long."
The vests and tunics of Minas Tirith have more fastenings than should ever be
necessary, but Aragorn fumbles with all of them, careful not to rip the fabric
around them. He kisses Boromir whenever their hands and clothes are not in the
way, wet hungry kisses that leave Boromir achingly hard and breathless. "Tell me
what you want," Aragorn whispers.
"You," Boromir replies, smiling against Aragorn's neck. He licks the flesh under
his mouth, feeling the surge of Aragorn's heartbeat. It has taken a long time
for him to feel that he can make this request, to be certain that he wanted it,
that the other man would not evade him. "I want you...inside me." His hand finds
its way into Aragorn's hair again. "Take me, Aragorn."
"Oh, yes," Aragorn groans into Boromir's mouth, stroking his hands over
Boromir's scarred body. The warrior remembers the Ranger's comments about the
wounds he cannot see. If Aragorn could find them, heal them, then perhaps the
cold fire he feels when he looks at the Ring will be gone forever...
Boromir squirms a little beneath Aragorn's kisses, sweet with berries and smoky
with pipeweed, spreading his legs wider to let Aragorn fit between them. Each
night since the first, they have spent more time talking and less exploring one
another. Part of him does not want to waste these sweet minutes, yet he is
unwilling to give up the friendship they have finally managed to forge.
"Slow, love," Aragorn whispers. But the words have the opposite effect of their
intention. Boromir is startled by how strongly the phrase strikes him, for
Aragorn has never called him by a pet name. His arms find their way around
Aragorn's shoulders, holding him close, and he hooks his leg over one of
Aragorn's, unwilling to let go. Aragorn kisses him with an openness that he has
has never before sensed, while he wonders about his own aching passion. Can he
have felt so deprived of affection that a simple endearment will undo him?
Though not simple, Boromir must admit to himself; nothing about his feeling for
Aragorn is simple. He knows that he must seem desperate, and perhaps he is. One
hand slides down, resting on Aragorn's lower back, and he moves against him.
"There is salve in my vest pocket," the Ranger murmurs. "I took it from
Rivendell, in case one of us received a scratch..." His laugh is breathless.
"Let me give you ease. I will do whatever you want. Just tell me."
Boromir closes his eyes, letting out an embarrassed groan. "Just fuck me," he
says, then, hesitantly: "Love me. Please."
Aragorn kisses him once more, stretching out one arm to find what he needs as
Boromir holds him close. "I will," he says again when he breaks the kiss to open
the small container of balm. Boromir's chest feels tight with emotion that he
cannot put into words. It is not altogether uncomfortable, and Aragorn's weight
above him is like an anchor. He opens his eyes and looks at him, wondering how
he could ever have imagined not wanting this.
"Are you ready?" Aragorn asks, fingers hesitating at the opening to Boromir's
body before one pushes inside. The initial penetration often takes a moment to
become comfortable, even when there is no pain and there is perfect trust, but
Boromir feels no resistance in his body. If anything, he is trying not to push
down too eagerly.
"Yes," Boromir says, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers clutch at the
ground beneath him, and he tries not to squirm, nor to move against Aragorn's
hand. He does not want to seem too submissive. But he cannot stop himself from
saying, "Aragorn. More. Please?"
"So courteous," Aragorn chuckles. He starts to slide his fingers away, then
twists them suddenly and pushes in deep, pressing against the sensitive spot
inside. Boromir's back arches off the ground, his mouth wide open in a silent
cry of pleasure. It seems like an eternity since he has done this, and he can
feel himself trembling. He lifts his hand unsteadily and brushes the hair from
Aragorn's face.
"Too much?" Aragorn whispers.
"No!" Boromir takes a deep breath, lowers his voice. "No. Please, don't stop."
His fingers trail along Aragorn's stubbled jaw. "Please." Aragorn leans forward
to kiss Boromir as he sheathes his fingers deep again, more slowly this time,
curling and stroking until Boromir shakes against him. He lets his mouth slide
over Boromir's chin, in a straight line across his chest and past his navel
until his lips brush the head of Boromir's cock.
All coherent thought flees Boromir's mind. "Oh," he says. "Oh." His fingers
tangle in Aragorn's hair and he lifts his hips a little to encourage more. Just
Aragorn's fingers, stroking, probing, and "Oh!" Aragorn takes him further into
his mouth, applying gentle pressure as his fingers plunge once more deep inside.
A deep shudder wracks Boromir's body. He groans, his hips moving restlessly now,
rocking his cock into Aragorn's mouth, pushing him back against his fingers.
"Aragorn!" Feeling the tongue stroking along the shaft, Boromir spreads his legs
wider, in invitation, in eagerness. He does not want this to end, but he's
afraid that if Aragorn doesn't stop, it will all be over far too soon. He
thrusts between Aragorn's lips with fluid welling again at the tip of his cock.
Reluctantly Aragorn draws his mouth away, fingers still curled inside Boromir.
"Want you. Aragorn." Boromir trails a finger across the other man's glistening
lips, smiling a smile that he knows is quavering. He thinks that he could not
ever have desired anything with this intensity. "Love me," he whispers, grasping
Aragorn's upper arms, pulling him up. "And kiss me," he adds, sucking on
Aragorn's bottom lip.
These are both demands to which the Ranger surrenders gladly, holding Boromir
close, opening his mouth to Boromir's tongue. "Will you turn over?" Aragorn
whispers when their lips part.
"No," Boromir says, "like this. I want to be able to see you. Touch you."
"But I want to be able to hold you," Aragorn insists. "To have you in my arms."
He does not have the strength to deny Aragorn a second time. Boromir leans up
and kisses him again, then nods. While Aragorn sits back with the salve, Boromir
turns over onto his elbows and knees, shifting his hips. He rests his forehead
against his arm for a moment, taking a deep breath.
Before he touches Boromir's erection again, Aragorn presses close, wrapping
himself around him until his face is buried in Boromir's hair, his cock nestled
in the cleft of his buttocks and his hands splayed possessively across Boromir's
chest, holding on as their ankles rub and twist around each other. "I have
wanted this so much."
Boromir's heart is in his throat, and it is so much easier to speak with Aragorn
folded against him like this: "You have it. Yours. Take me." He presses back
into the delightful warmth of Aragorn's body.
"No, yours," Aragorn whispers as he moves his damp fingers down to grasp
Boromir's cock and positions his own against Boromir's still-slick opening. He
pushes in slowly to avoid causing Boromir pain, though Boromir thinks his
thrusts against Aragorn's palm must reveal that he is not too uncomfortable.
"Aragorn!" Boromir squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm his pounding heart.
His knees are trembling, and his mouth is very dry. Oh, but if Aragorn does not
*move*... He groans helplessly, shoving back against Aragorn's hips. "Please,"
he whispers.
With a groan louder than Boromir's, Aragorn begins to thrust, and Boromir finds
momentary control in the rhythm, feeling the hand moving on him in the same slow
tempo. He silences his burning need to climax for as long as he can, moving with
Aragorn, focusing on the sweet pleasure of being filled. Of having Aragorn
behind him, inside him. "Mine," he gasps. "Oh. Aragorn." He shudders. "So—
good. Please."
"Boromir," Aragorn chokes out. "You're...oh...yours..." With every word his
control frays, until he slams into Boromir with the same urgent need. "Yes," he
whispers, and "yours," and "love," and then only wordless, escalating groans
escape his lips. Boromir is pushed forward with each hard thrust, his knees and
hands rubbing harshly against the grass, but pleasure overrules discomfort. He
rocks, meeting and matching Aragorn, trying to encourage him to move faster,
crying out.
The heat and movement are too much, rhythm disintegrating as Aragorn tries to
slow the inevitable ascent to climax. They are touching nearly everywhere they
can, with Boromir's feet chafing Aragorn's legs, Aragorn's mouth diving to taste
Boromir's shoulder. Pulling his weight back momentarily, he lets his fingers on
the ground hunt for Boromir's, clutching at them. "Yes," Boromir gasps,
"Aragorn!" His head rests back against Aragorn's shoulder, and he trembles.
"Aragorn!" he cries, repeating the name like a litany, an anchor, as he lets go,
jerking helplessly.
"Oh," Aragorn says as if startled when Boromir covers his hand with fluid. He
holds tight through the tremors until the muscles clamping down on him ease up
enough for him to begin to slide within the slick heat again; then one thrust,
two, and Aragorn's climax pours out of him the way sounds pour from his throat,
uncontrolled and joyous.
Boromir's arms cannot hold him for long, and even before he thinks Aragorn has
sufficiently recovered, he all but collapses to the ground, hiding his face on
his arms and gasping for breath. The Ranger cannot help falling with him, arms
sliding around his body, slick with sweat. "Aragorn. You—that—oh."
Aragorn turns his face up, nuzzling the moist hair behind Boromir's ear, then
the ear itself, pulling as if he wishes to turn them both onto their sides.
Boromir rolls with him, pressing up against his chest. He takes ahold of
Aragorn's wrist and draws the hand around to his mouth, kissing his palm
tenderly. When Aragorn tries to capture his lips, Boromir wriggles around in his
embrace until he is facing him. He tenderly strokes Aragorn's face before
kissing him with as much tenderness as he can.
And Aragorn speaks with sorrow in his voice. "You should have more than this,"
he murmurs. "You deserve a better fate..."
"A better fate than being with you?" Boromir lets his face rest against
Aragorn's warm shoulder, feeling sheltered and safe. "What more could I possibly
want, or need?"
"Not to lie on the ground. Not to creep away in secret. To be with someone who
will put you before all other things. Boromir, you have known too little
kindness in your life. I can see the scars your father has left in you, and
even, perhaps, your brother. And I do not know how to heal them."
"Aragorn." Boromir tightens his arms around him. "You cannot heal all my wounds.
I do not expect that of you."
"Perhaps not." Something has shifted between them, Boromir realizes, for he is
holding Aragorn now rather than the other way around, though they have not
moved. "Still, I wish you would let me try. Tell me what hurts you; perhaps I
can help."
Boromir kisses him again, before whispering, "There is a small rock digging into
my hip..."
Effortlessly Aragorn rolls beneath Boromir, laughing as Boromir's weight crushes
his breath from him. "Is that better?"
"Yes, much." Boromir braces himself on his arms, looking down. "Aragorn...I have
not felt like that since...I cannot say that I have felt it before."
"I am sorry that I could not make it last," Aragorn whispers. "I tried, but I
cannot stop myself when you say please."
"Do not be sorry. We have many more nights ahead of us on this journey. We will
simply have to try again." Then suddenly he is caught between pleasure and
terror: pleasure at the thought of the time they will remain together for the
journey ahead; terror at the understanding that everything will change, soon,
and at how lost he may be, how lost he is becoming already. He rests his head
against Aragorn's shoulder again, finding it surprisingly yielding. "I think
I—may get used to this."
Sliding up Boromir's back, Aragorn's fingers find their way into his hair and
begin to stroke it. "I do not know if it is wise for us to get used to this.
Have you never become...entangled with someone, knowing from the start that
there might be a high price, thinking that it would be worth it nonetheless, and
understanding only later that the price was higher than you could have
imagined?"
"...yes." A face intrudes on his memories; with guilt Boromir pushes it aside.
"But please, Aragorn, I do not wish to burden myself with such thoughts now."
Aragorn nods after a moment, and Boromir wonders whether it is already too
late—whether the pain that he will feel when this must end, be it at a time
and place of his choosing or not, will be more than he can bear.
"Do you want to sleep?" he asks.
"Yes, I would like to. Should we dress?"
"Probably. In case someone comes looking for us..."
"In that case, you will have to get off of me."
"Oh. I suppose you're right." Boromir pushes himself off of Aragorn, flopping
onto his back beside him in the grass. After a moment Aragorn gets up on shaky
knees to retrieve his clothing.
Still Boromir does not move, resting on his back, his skin mourning the loss of
the other man's warmth. He looks up at the sky, and wonders: how long?
by Your Cruise Director and Ashinae
"...so Faramir and I snuck away from the festivities. We were really quite
drunk. We got some horses...I don't know how long we were riding, but the next
thing I remember, we were on a farm. And there were cows lying on the ground,
and Faramir was laughing like a madman."
