Gondor was six hundred years at war.

The duty of a man was to fight for his country, the duty of a woman was to guard it, and their shared duty was to continue Gondor’s survival through marriage and the begetting of children. In the Third Age 2583, during the rule of Hallas, son of the great Steward Cirion, all sexual relations between two men or two women were outlawed. All Gondorians known to break such a rule would be exiled. Such a thing was but a matter of duty in the word of law until the days of Orodreth, son of Belecthor, son of Hurin, the second of his name. Then, it was ruled that relations between people of the same sexes were against the very law of nature itself, and not only a dereliction of duty. Thus any sexual acts between any two members of the same sex were made punishable by death, and their relations to the third generation were hence exiled from Gondor. If they were nobility, their names would be struck off from great registry of names stored in the Tower of Ecthelion.

Boromir was not a Man much for histories. His place was in the army as the Captain of the White Tower, and he learned the strategies of war employed by Isildur, by Cirion, great son of his own namesake, and even by the Ranger Captain Thorongil in his battle against the Corsairs two years after Boromir’s birth. Yet he was still the Steward’s son, and it was part of his duty to learn of the history of the laws that he would have to enforce one day. Boromir would much prefer to leave such problems of ruling to his brother who had always taken far more after Denethor, both of them great warriors and even greater diplomats.

He knew his duty. Boromir knew he would have to sentence himself to hang for the very nature of his own desires.

There was only one hope he had: that he would die an honourable death on a battlefield before he was ever caught.

He did not think he could bear the shame.

***

The peace of Rivendell disturbed him.

Its skies were too bright, so much they hurt Boromir’s eyes. The sweet song of the waterfalls, and the rich green of its leaves, the birds and nigh tamed game that ran amongst its woods – they were sights that Boromir had never seen before, and with each image of Rivendell imprinted onto the back of his eyelids, Boromir felt his resentment and anger grow. The Elves were known to be powerful creatures, who lived to be older than any Man even in the times of peace, and yet they had hidden themselves in this secret valley when down south Men had fought, and died.

There was a young boy in Osgiliath. A sweet child, having seen only seventeen summers, with bright eyes and a gleaming sword that was new-forged, never having touched blood even once. There were stars in his eyes as he stood next to his new comrades-in-arms, and Boromir had seen reflected in his eyes all of the tales that bards and minstrels told, of glory and honour in battle, and he had not the heart to tell him of the blood, the gore, and the grief of seeing good Men fall.

That child had died in Osgiliath, fighting to win back Gondor’s old capital with his life itself. His sword was covered in the brackish, thick liquid the orcs called blood, and the light had all gone out in his eyes. Boromir had cleaned and polished the boy's sword with his own hands before he laid him to rest, and now in this peaceful valley, he could not help but wonder, viciously, if the Lord Elrond would care a whit if he knew such tales of Men who died in a blink of an Elf’s eye.

The Council would be tomorrow. It would be another day lost when Boromir should have been back to his city, fighting alongside the Men, instead of searching for some hope so far away from home. It was his duty, Boromir knew, and yet not for the first time he thought Faramir would have been a better choice – that he would have been able to appreciate the beauty of Rivendell instead of looking at it with the bitter, war-weary eyes that Boromir owned. Despite their father’s harshness, Faramir had managed to keep some innocence and wonder in him, little different from the young child who had died. Denethor would scoff at such a thing, calling Faramir a “wizard’s pupil”, but Boromir admired his brother for being able to keep faith.

He had so little left. The battles he had been in were unnumbered and never-ending, and Boromir’s sword needed much care and constant sharpening, for it had pierced through the bodies of so many orcs.

The woods invited only dark thoughts, he knew, and Boromir turned away. The Lord Elrond’s halls were named The Last Homely House, but it was little homely to him. Home was Minas Tirith, a city of white stone gleaming in the night, and it was too far away from Rivendell. He took one more glance towards the woods, and headed inside towards the halls.

Darkness laid upon the halls of Rivendell, for the tall ceilings blocked out the sun. There was stonework here, but the architecture was too different for Boromir to even begin to believe it was Minas Tirith. He walked down the hallways nonetheless, his hands tucked behind his back to resist the urge to run his fingers over the cold stone, trying to find the pockmarks of living. Even the stones of Elves were smooth, without a single flaw. If it were not for the Elves he had seen on his way here, he would have thought Rivendell a beautiful and abandoned city.

His thoughts fled him as his feet took him towards a portrait. It was Elendil. Boromir’s breath caught in his throat, such was the surprise he felt at seeing a portrait of a Man in the house of Elves. He knew not that they honoured Men so, and Boromir’s fingers curved, and he fought the urge to reach out to touch what seemed to be the last sign of Men residing in Rivendell.

The hallway was dark, but Boromir had a warrior’s instinct, and he felt another’s eyes upon him acutely. It was likely to be an Elf, but he held back a sigh before he turned to face those eyes.

That was no Elf. It was a Man, full-bearded and richly dressed. He sat upon a chair with a large book in his hand, his eyes bright blue, piercing through the shadows that shrouded them both. Boromir’s memory tugged at him – he had seen these very eyes before.

“You are no Elf,” said Boromir. It was an invitation, a veiled demand.

“The Men of South are welcome here,” said the stranger, and within his words Boromir heard further more – that he was no Man of the South himself, and to him Boromir was naught more than a stranger.

“Who are you?” persisted Boromir.

“I am a friend of Gandalf the Grey.”

It took a moment for Boromir to place the name. In Minas Tirith they had called the Grey Wizard Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, the Grey Wanderer, for he passed through the city like a ghost, a constant presence to its Stewards and sons of Stewards for centuries. Gandalf was his true name, the name he chose himself, and it was the name Faramir preferred for him, away from Denethor’s sight.

The Man had given him no name, but he was a Man nonetheless. Who was he to trust in this place, surrounded by Elves who knew nothing of the pains and struggles of Men? Even if he was no Man of Gondor, surely this stranger would know of his home, or mayhap even have seen it.

“Then we are here on common purpose,” he hesitated, “friend.”

The eyes were familiar but the mouth was silent, but Boromir’s eyes were caught by a gleam of metal. It was Narsil, the sword of the last great King Elendil, wielded by his son Isildur. Boromir was no Man of history, but these legends he knew, and he thought once more of his brother. How pleased Faramir would have been to look upon this sword! He could already see his brother's face in his mind, Faramir’s grey eyes bright with awe. Even Boromir’s breath was taken away, and at last his hands refused his mind’s commands, and he took the blade. It seemed to glow in these shadows, and Boromir knew not the words he muttered as he ran his finger against the broken blade.

It cut through the calluses on his fingertip, down to the skin. The blood fixed his gaze for a moment.

“Still sharp,” said he, and for a moment he forgot about the Man still sitting a distance away.

A memory stirred. He knew those eyes. He had last seen them by the light of the moon as it pierced through the deep forests that surrounded the Anduin. Those eyes were fixed upon him now, and Boromir’s hands grew nerveless.

“But no more than a broken heirloom.”

The clattering of the great sword rang through the hallowed halls of Rivendell, but Boromir’s steps took him away.

That Man was a Ranger, he knew now. When Boromir had seen him last, his hair was slightly shorter, his beard more unkempt and dirtied by the road, but the face had remained unchanged. The eyes that looked upon him as he hurried out of the hallowed halls in shameful retreat had not changed, though they seemed grey the last he had seen them. Changeable eyes, they were, grey in sunlight and moonlight, as grey as his brother’s, or his father’s.

He was a Ranger with the blood of the Men of Númenor flowing in his veins. The name he had given Boromir so long ago remained engraved in the Steward’s son’s mind.

Strider.

***

When Boromir reached his twenty-fifth year he had been the Captain of the White Tower for seven, and he had seen battles for ten. The decade was short in the numbering of the years that a Man of his heritage could give, but even then he had felt weariness beginning to tug on his bones. But Boromir was a leader of Men, and it was to him that his people and his father looked for hope, and he raised his sword first in the beginning of every battle, and sheathed it last at its end.

There were orcs hiding amidst the forests of Anduin, and though Faramir had begged to take the task himself for he was as much a Ranger as Boromir was a Captain, Denethor had placed the charge of finding the orc pack’s hiding place upon Boromir’s shoulders. He had been hidden in the forests for days, his horse let loose to find its way to the nearest farmhouse, its bridle carrying the three stars of the Stewards’ sigil granting its safety. There were orc tracks found two days back, but that seemed so very long ago. Even as prideful as he was, Boromir had to admit that he was lost amidst these endless trees.

He had made himself a small camp next to a tree, and now he waited for dawn as he searched his pack for the dried meats packed by the Citadel’s kitchens nigh a week ago. His supplies were running low. Boromir knew he would have to hunt soon and he dreaded the thought. At least the moon was full tonight, though the light was still meagre when it managed to fight through the heavy canopies overhead.

A sound. Boromir’s eyes widened, and his hand moved immediately to his hip. His sword would be too clumsy to use in the dark, but he owned a hunting knife. It was given to him by his swordsmaster when he left his tutelage to enter into Gondor’s armies in his fifteenth year. Clenching his hand around the hilt, Boromir held his breath and stopped his chewing, his eyes narrowed as he looked out into the dark.

“These woods are dangerous so deep in the night, stranger,” a voice spoke from beyond the trees. Boromir whirled around, swallowing hard as he held out his hunting knife. This was a poor excuse for a battle, he thought to himself – he much preferred to face an army, whether in the dark or in the light, than one shadowy creature who hid himself. At least an army would make noise.

“Do not step any closer,” barked Boromir. He stood up, his back tight against the tree, brandishing his hunting knife.

“Sheathe your knife, stranger, lest you attract the attention of the orcs. They have come through this path but three hours ago.”

Bewildered, Boromir looked at his feet. There seemed no path whatsoever, only grass and roots of trees. He parted his lips to speak in scorn, but the rest of the stranger’s words sunk into his mind.

“You hunt the orcs, stranger?” His blade wavered slightly.

“Aye,” replied the voice in the dark. “This pack heads towards the North, but I will not let them pass the Argonath.”

“’Tis a long way still to the statues of the Great Kings,” said Boromir, but he could not keep his uncertainty out of his voice.

“Only two days more of hard riding, and they sit upon wargs.”

Perhaps it was a poor decision to let go of his horse, Boromir thought. He had done so for he did not wish to have to erase the marks that a horse would make – a solitary Man was far easier to keep hidden, rather than a Man and his horse. He shook his head hard.

“Come into the light, stranger,” barked the Captain of the White Tower. “I tire of speaking to shadows.”

A pair of blue eyes appeared, as bright as the sea on the shores of Dol Amroth on a clear day, and Boromir started slightly. Unbidden, his hand drew his hunting knife, the rasp of the blade clear in the silence of the forest.

“I come in peace, Man of Gondor,” the stranger said. He had a strong face, easily visible in the moonlight despite the heavy coat of untrimmed beard that covered his jaw. His hair was lank, hanging just below his ears. “I am called Strider, a Ranger of the North.” Boromir had heard of the Rangers, known in the tongue of the Elves as the Dúnedain, and his eyes narrowed immediately. The Lord Steward his father had spoken of them in disdain, calling them cowards who fought only in shadows. Yet now Boromir doubted Denethor’s words, for it took a great deal of courage to appear in front of a warrior with no weapon held in his arm. Strider’s sword hung on his hip, the leather scabbard old and worn, but it only took a single glance for Boromir to judge that the blade within must still be sharp and well cared for.

“You have come far from the North, Ranger,” said Boromir, and he sheathed his hunting knife once more, but he did not stifle the slight scorn in his voice as he continued. “Is the North so empty of enemies that you must search so far South for orcs to hunt?”

“There are many orcs in the North,” replied Strider, and Boromir was irked to hear the calm in his voice. “I head South for news of Mordor, and on my way here I found that many a farmland had been attacked by the foul armies of the Enemy. Their tracks lead here, to these forests. ‘Tis not my intention to interfere with the workings of Gondor, stranger.”

“I am Boromir,” said the proud Steward’s son, jerking his head upwards. He knew ‘Strider’ was not likely to be the Man’s true name, but he would not hide his own. “Take a seat, Strider. I am tired of straining my neck.”

Strider gave him a peculiar, lopsided smile, but he took a seat near Boromir, with his back to a tree. Plants grew wild and thick in these forests, enough that Boromir could reach out at this moment and touch the stranger.

“This is a lowly task for the Steward’s heir to do, Lord Boromir,” murmured Strider. “Have I been gone from the South for so long that the hunting down of orcs near the Anduin is no longer the task of the Ithilien Rangers?” “Orcs threaten all that Gondor holds near, and these are still Gondor’s lands,” Boromir snapped back. “There are few tasks unworthy of a Captain, not if it is for the good of Gondor.”

Brilliant blue eyes widened for but a moment before Strider lowered his eyes, inclining his head. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Boromir waved a hand. What would a Ranger of the North know of Gondor and its needs?

“What news have you travelled so far to hear, Ranger?”

“I seek the Grey Pilgrim, known by some as Gandalf and Mithrandir by others,” replied Strider. “I hear that he was last seen in Gondor.”

“Mithrandir left our city weeks ago,” replied Boromir. His scowl deepened. “You will not find him here, and I know not where he has gone. He wanders through these lands freely, as you know.”

Strider frowned, and a look came into his eyes that startled the young Steward’s son. The Man sitting before him could not be more than ten years Boromir’s senior, and yet at this moment he looked as if he had lived for far longer, with the weight of all of his years weighing upon his shoulders. Distantly, Boromir remembered that the Elves were strange, ageless creature, for they might live a thousand years and not look older than the youngest, newest recruit of Gondor’s armies. Surely Strider had too much the look of a Man to have so much Elven blood, and Boromir dismissed the thought.

“You have saved me a journey, Lord Boromir,” said Strider. He lifted his head, his eyes piercing as they fixed upon Boromir’s. “I thank you.”

There was a retort on Boromir’s tongue, but all breath had been knocked out of his lungs at the look that seemed to scorch his insides. His hand ached, and he tore his eyes away from Strider’s to stare at the ground. There was a pebble stuck underneath his nail, and Boromir rubbed his fingers together, dislodging it. He continued to stare at his hands as if he could find the answers he sought in the pattern of dirt encrusted underneath his nails. Or more aptly, his thoughts turned bitter, if he could find a way to rid himself of these errant thoughts and desires. Even now, his heart beat loud in his ears, and Boromir’s skin burned to cross the short distance that separate him from Strider, the Ranger of the North.

“’Tis but a small favour,” muttered Boromir, his words directed to Strider though he kept his eyes on his hands. “The information costs nothing to give.”

Strider stood, taking two steps forward before he bent his knees and knelt in front of Boromir. Boromir tilted his head up, and his gasp was loud in the silence of the forest as a pair of lips touched his. It was a brief kiss, the most fleeting of things, and if Boromir was not so aware of Strider’s heat so close to his skin, he would have thought it a dream.

“What are you--” His eyes were wide and all thoughts were chased out of his mind. Boromir was left speechless, and he licked his lips unconsciously, trying to chase the taste.

“’Tis long since I have visited Gondor,” said Strider, and his eyes were fierce, boring into Boromir’s as if he was attempting to strip him down to his very core. “Yet I do not think the minds of Men can be changed so quickly.” “No,” whispered the Steward’s son, and he felt the burdens of his rank press down on his shoulders even further. “No, naught has changed ‘bout this. This is unclean.”

He should be angry at Strider’s gall. He should be furious that a mere Ranger would take such liberties with the Man who would eventually rule Gondor. Yet Boromir could only yearn for further touches, and his fingers disobeyed his mind and all senses of decency, reaching out to close around Strider’s wrist.

“There is no honour in this,” said Boromir, and his own voice came to him distantly, as if from an entire ocean away.

Strider lifted his arm, turning his wrist in Boromir’s loose grip until he could place a gentle, beard-roughened kiss on the back. “Such desires are not punished in the North, Lord Boromir.”

“Do not call me by that name!” The words tore out of Boromir suddenly, and he jerked his head away, staring down at the forest floor once more. “If… if ‘tis be the path we will take tonight, I beg you to call me ‘Haradion’.”

“Son of the South,” whispered Strider. He leaned forward, his hand cupping the edge of Boromir’s jaw, rubbing against the short, uneven stubble there. “If ‘tis your wish, then I will call you so.”

“The name will serve,” said Boromir. Meeting Strider’s gaze once more, he found himself surging forward, his hands burying into lank dark hair as he crashed their mouths together. Strider’s lips were too thin to be a woman, his grip strong as fingers bunched Boromir’s tunic and shoved him against the tree. His beard scraped against Boromir’s skin.

In Boromir’s twenty-five years of life, he had tumbled a barmaid or two, and even visited the beautifully-decorated bordellos on the fifth level of Minas Tirith. Yet none of the women, no matter how skilled or wanton, could set him on fire so, until Boromir felt entirely nerveless and gasping for air, burning and drowning both. Strider’s kiss scorched him, and Boromir closed his eyes and knew that he could not turn back from the unclean road, not now that he knew the pleasures it could bring.

There was no honour left for him. He was dirtied, besmirched, his crimes branded on his skin as clear as any common criminal to his own eyes. Yet Boromir opened his mouth to allow Strider’s tongue entrance, his body arching up to fiery fingers that slipped beneath his tunic.

If this was to be his fate, then so be it. So be it.

***

Elrond’s Council had been dismissed, and the Fellowship would set out in a week once the Ringbearer had recovered his strength. There was a bitter gratitude in the base of Boromir’s throat – perhaps the Elves truly knew the desperate nature of the War, even though they were foolish enough to attempt to destroy the Ring instead of using it as the weapon it should be. Boromir attempted to cling onto the thought, but his mind wandered, fixating upon the Ranger.

He was no Ranger. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Isildur’s heir, and heir to the throne of Gondor. Boromir’s fingers might break with how hard he was clenching his hands. His words Boromir remembered well: I am called Strider, and it was no lie at all, for the Hobbits used the name easily for him. Yet it was an omission of truth, and Boromir felt his anger welling up again from the base of his spine, a sick heat that twisted in his chest and shortened his breath.

It was, at least, an omission of truth, and though Boromir knew he was a hypocrite as there were lies he told to his father, his brother, and his whole city, he could not rid himself of the thought that he had been betrayed.

Boromir’s feet led him to the very gardens he hated, with its becalmed streams and sweet scents of budding flowers and newborn leaves. Or it was not his feet but his mother’s blood that tugged at him, sending him strange riddles and stranger sights without answers.

They drew all eyes. If Aragorn was like a silver of the sun as it peeked from underneath the moon, undeniable in his brightness, then the lady with whom he was standing with on the garden’s gently arching bridge to had to be the stars that scattered around the skies. Boromir was no poet – that was Faramir’s predilection, not his own – but he could not help himself. They were beautiful, and Boromir need no introduction to recognise Arwen, daughter of Elrond, the only Lady of Rivendell. She was absent from the Council, but even Boromir’s ears had picked up the voices of the Elves who spoke about her, the most beautiful of her race.

His mind spun with possibilities even as his breath shortened. There was a strange ache in his chest, easy enough to dismiss at his disappointment at Isildur’s heir, a man who was faithless as well as dishonest for having a lady who was beloved to him and whom he loved. Boromir watched as they exchanged a kiss before he could not take the scene any longer. He turned away from the sight and walked towards the tall halls of Rivendell, away from the gardens’ disconcerting beauty and the sight of the lovers.

Fear had lingered in Boromir’s mind, like a worm creeping amongst his thoughts, ever since he recognised the Ranger Strider in the wide room that contained Elendil’s sword, and it had only strengthened when he was told Strider’s true name of ‘Aragorn.' Now even as his heart sickened further, he felt his worries ease slowly.

There was much he would need to do.

*

Two days passed before Boromir sought an audience with Aragorn, and he found the self-proclaimed heir of Isildur in the gardens. Despite his beard and the obvious signs of age writ within the wrinkles around his eyes – ever unseen amongst the Elves except Lord Elrond, who was said to have the blood of Men in his veins – Aragorn in his simple tunic and breeches looked as if he belonged in this ageless land of Elves. He was sharpening his sword, his back against one of the many waterfalls that littered the valley, and Boromir made his steps loud before he took a seat on the rock cropping opposite the Ranger.

Aragorn’s eyes turned up to look at him, the rasp of whetstone on rock loud in the quiet clearing. It seemed nigh unnatural, that such silence could hold even as waters fell behind them, smashing and slowly wearing away at the rocks. Boromir wondered if the Elves had ever noticed the pond beneath the waterfall deepening, or if the waters were like the rest of Rivendell, never-changing.

“You wish to speak to me, son of Gondor?” Aragorn’s voice broke through the tense silence between them, and his eyes were a duller blue now, under the sunlight and away from the strange twilight captured within Elrond’s halls.

Boromir did not answer. He only cocked his head slight to the side, his eyes not leaving Aragorn’s even as he drew his own sword and whetstone.

“’Tis strange indeed, the news the Elves will tell a stranger of a house,” Boromir murmured quietly. His sword was already sharpened and polished from the morning he spent in thought, but he laid the whetstone upon the sword and drew it down, nonetheless. “How fares your Lady this morn, Strider?”

“Arwen fares well indeed,” replied Aragorn, and Boromir could not help but bristle at the assured calm in his voice.

“It pleases me to know your lady beloved is well,” said Boromir, with poison tingeing his words. Aragorn lifted his head, and his eyes were narrowed and darkened under his lashes.

“’Tis unlike you to circle around a subject, Boromir,” began Aragorn.

“Rich now, Strider! You now admit to ‘knowing’ what I am like, when you have refused to acknowledge me days previous,” Boromir cut in. To his great shame, he could not keep his tone as calm as he liked. He took a deep breath, looking down at his broadsword once more and drawing the stone over it. “I have heard much of you in my days here. It seems the tongues of Elves are as loose as those of the fish-wives on Dol Amroth’s shores.” Except for things of true import, like the fate of the Free Peoples, Boromir continued bitterly in his mind, but he kept the words in his throat, for it was not what he wished to say to this Man.

Aragorn was silent, though Boromir noted with satisfaction that his hand was clenched tight around his own whetstone. He fixed his gaze upon those bright, changeable eyes, and his next words came forced through gritted teeth.

“Know the Lady Arwen that you take the unclean road and you dishonour the vows you have made to her? Know her father that you have not kept yourself chaste for his daughter as Elves must, but instead lower yourself like Men do with whores?”

Boromir stood, sheathing his sword. The rasp of metal sliding into the scabbard echoed in the clearing, silencing every other sound, breaking the gentle peace. He could not help but be pleased at it, though it was surely but a childish pleasure.

Aragorn rushed to his feet, and Boromir felt himself being pulled towards him, a piercing gaze staring into his own. “Boromir,” Aragorn tried to begin, but Boromir pushed him away, stepping backwards. His own lips were drawn into a snarl, and he grabbed onto Aragorn’s collar, forcing their faces together until there was but an inch separating them.

“Continue to pretend that you knew me not until the Fellowship's leave-taking, Isildur’s Heir.” The title was twisted into a cold insult. “There is naught I wish more than to not see your face until we set upon the road. ‘Twill be a long journey, Strider; perhaps upon it you might find yourself beset by a Man’s needs once more. If Men of the North walk along the unclean road without shame, perhaps you should plead for one of your fellow Rangers to follow the Company as whores might follow behind an army.”

Boromir’s lips twisted further, and he turned his back, his hand clenching so tight around his whetstone that he felt his bone jar against the unmoveable rock.

“You will not find any further comforts here. The Man named Haradion no longer exists.”

Aragorn’s gaze burned between his shoulderblades as he left the clearing, but Boromir refused to turn back. His fear abated some, but in payment Boromir felt as if his skin had been coated with dirt that he could not erase. Perhaps it was a fool’s path he had taken in speaking to the Man who might be his King so, but Boromir had meant his words at the Council – Gondor had spent near a thousand years without a King, so what need had she to have one now, especially one who had not once fought and bled for her? His words rang through: Aragorn was but a mere Ranger, and how could he rule Gondor better than her Steward, who had given his life and his sons’ lives for her protection? There was naught Boromir had to fear – Aragorn was ill-fitted to be King, and Boromir would not give up the Steward’s guardianship of the throne so easily.

(There was another accusation that he laid upon himself, deep within his own mind: that he behaved dishonourably for the sake of his own fear, and how was his behaviour suited for the Captain of the White Tower, the Steward’s Heir? Not for the first time in his life did Boromir regret his actions in the forest that one night; not for the first time he despised his own desires. Lies and lies he had told, and further lies he must tell, but it was a burden he had to bear, and it was no heavier than the weight of Gondor that was laid upon his shoulders at his birth. It was no heavier than the victory at Osgiliath, or the inevitability of her loss.)

Boromir could find no rest in Rivendell tonight, and he doubted that he could find any rest in this strange Elvish valley where there was no death, not when blood and death had surrounded him ever since his childhood.

The Ring went South. The Ford of Bruinen was passed weeks ago, and it was now at least forty leagues from Rivendell. Not half an hour ago Gandalf had told the Company to make camp for the night – dusk was approaching, and they would be setting out at the first break of day tomorrow as they headed for Hollin Ridge.

Merry and Pippin had asked weeks ago for the reason they did not take the path by Loudwater, the river Bruinen, and Gandalf answered that they were avoiding eyes, and chastised the young hobbits for their question. What eyes, Boromir knew not, and he wondered if the resistance against answering questions in any proper manner was the habit of those of an age greater than Boromir could imagine, for at that moment he was reminded of Elrond and his refusal to give a proper answer as to why the Ring could not be used as a weapon for Men. Was it not held last by Isildur, the last great King of Men?

It seemed that Aragorn had agreed with the wizard, nonetheless, for he gave no objections to Gandalf’s words and had been in quiet counsel with him for most of the road.

Boromir shook his head to clear his dark thoughts. The Company had been of good mood lately, for their stores from Rivendell had held, and the Elf and Men had hunted some fresh meats as well. They had settled in a path hidden by the mountains, and there was firewood aplenty for the mountains were littered with trees. If the weather held, the path towards the Gap of Rohan would be an easy one, but Boromir did not hold out much hope for it. The importance of their task was far too great.

Perhaps Boromir was too used to war, and the bitterness crept back once more – this far North, the armies of the Enemy seemed unable to touch the gentle peace, and once more Boromir wondered what Isildur’s heir knew of war, of Gondor’s six hundred years of constant battles, that he could find himself worthy of the throne. Even the Elf Legolas seemed to know more of constant, relentless battle, for he hailed from Mirkwood and Dol Goldur, and it was from there that the Enemy had conducted his armies until Mordor had risen once more. Perhaps the Misty Mountains guarded the old stronghold of Arnor from invasions of orcs, and at the Gap of Rohan it was the Rohirrim who guarded that road. What had the Rangers done to stop the spread of the Enemy? What armies had they seen and fought against? Boromir knew not, and he had cause to think they had not once seen the Enemy at all.

“Boromir,” called out a soft, young voice, and Boromir chased away his thoughts once more. Pippin tugged on his sleeve as he chewed upon a piece of smoked venison caught but a few days ago, and Boromir could not help the soft upward curl of his lips. “What is it, Pippin?”

“’Tis your turn to tell us a story,” declared the young hobbit. “You have to make it a funny one, so we can laugh before we go to sleep.”

“I don’t know many funny stories,” protested Boromir, chuckling. “You must know many more than I do, little Pippin.”

“Yes, but it’s not fun to hear Pippin’s stories, or mine, because we’ve heard them all already,” Merry piped up, grinning. “We have been on the road for days and you have only listened to us without speaking.” “It’s your turn now,” added the youngest hobbit.

Aragorn, sitting away from Boromir and still near the campfire, chuckled quietly. The smoke on his pipe obscured his eyes, but Boromir averted his gaze nonetheless. He looked at the hobbits and knew the little ones had done what many orcs could not – they defeated him.

There were not many stories he knew that could cause amusement. Many of the jokes shared between soldiers were not fit for the young hobbits’ ears, though Boromir was told after the second day of their journey that Merry had only seen a couple of summers less than he himself had. Yet the hobbits seemed young and childlike to Boromir’s eyes, and children were precious things in Gondor, their innocence treasured and hoarded by all adults, and he did not wish to tarnish it in any way.

Boromir fell silent for some time, half-heartedly hoping his hesitation would dissuade the Company from wishing to hear an amusing story from his lips. But even Gimli had fallen silent, and all eyes were upon him.

“There is one I know,” said Boromir finally, having searched his memory as much as he could. “It is not a tale that I witnessed myself, however, having heard it from the lips of others. It happened to my brother Faramir years ago, when he had not even reached his twentieth year.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Boromir licked his lips nervously as he stared at his hands. “Faramir became a soldier at the age of fifteen, as is the custom for the Men of Gondor. He began as a mere acolyte under the tutelage of the older soldiers, and they were rather surprised when they heard that he had never…” He hesitated for a moment before he forced himself to continue. “That Faramir had not known the touch of a woman, despite his position.

“They decided that a tradition must be followed. On Faramir’s sixteenth birthday, his company brought him to a tavern in Minas Tirith. There was a young maid there, famed for her wit and her beauty, and ‘twas obvious their intention to any who looked when Beregond, his Captain, pointed the girl out to him. Yet Faramir was entirely unaware, for he was not a Man who thought of such things.” Boromir chuckled at the very thought, remembering his brother’s studious nature that had his head embroiled in old tales and legends instead of seeing the world around him. “The maid, however, was not nearly so foolish, and after Faramir had drunk a pint or two of ale, she asked him to help her with some task. Faramir was kind and he knew not her intentions, and he followed her up to the tavern’s rooms even as the hoots and calls of his comrades echoed around them.” Boromir lifted his head and was gratified to see Merry and Pippin already grinning. They leaned forward, clearly eager to hear his clumsily-told tale. Even Legolas was smiling, and the steady sounds of Gimli sharpening his axe had paused. The Ringbearer’s eyes were bright and curious once more, and his gardener’s and the wizard’s gazes had moved from him to Boromir. Boromir did not turn to look at Aragorn – he feared that if he did, he could not continue.

Taking a deep breath, Boromir turned his mind back to the tale. “The young maid led Faramir up into a room. When she closed the door behind her, he was puzzled, but his confusion only increased when she kissed him. He knew not what to do, for it was terribly rude to refuse a maiden’s kiss, but ‘twas something he did not expect at all!” Unbidden, Boromir started to smile as well, remembering his brother’s embarrassed blush when he told Boromir of what happened.

“The maid was a wise one for she expected his response. She directed him towards the bed while he was still floundering and stuttering, uncertain of what to say. He did not even know her name! But when she kissed him again, he found the taste of her lips to be sweeter than anything he had ever tasted before.”

At this juncture of the tale, Boromir paused. Faramir had told him, hesitatingly and with more gestures than words, what happened next, but Boromir knew he had told far more of his little brother’s tale than he should. Faramir would already be furious at him, Boromir knew, if he knew that his brother had told this to a group of strangers.

“What happens next?” demanded Pippin, jarring Boromir out of his contemplations.

Boromir lifted his eyes, giving the young hobbit a small, wry smile. “Why, the tavern maid’s name was Finn. This knowledge he gained not from her lips, for she was too busy during their encounter to give it, but from the calls of his brother-in-arms when they returned downstairs later. His comrades congratulated the both of them with great smiles and laughs, but ‘tis true Faramir could not look any of them in the eye for days. He was teased for weeks for that incident, but by his own lips I know that ‘tis not something he regrets.”

He stopped. Pippin leaned forward even more, clearly eager for more, but Boromir only chuckled. “That is the end of the tale.”

“But you have left out the best parts!” cried Pippin in reply immediately. He crossed his arms, pressing his lips into a line.

“Nay, that is my brother’s story, and if you wish to know, you may ask him of it once you have met him.” He placed a heavy hand into Pippin’s curls, gently ruffling through the soft hair.

“Then tell us one of your own stories!” Merry chimed in.

“You have created two little monsters, I see,” murmured Legolas, almost too quietly to be heard. The Elf’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight, almost unreal and certainly inhuman. His fingers had stopped over the wood he was fletching, but now the quiet rasping sound started up again. “They are insatiable for your tales indeed.”

“Boromir tells interesting stories!” reasoned Pippin. “He just doesn’t finish them.”

“As I was saying,” said Merry as he sent an elbow into his young cousin’s ribs. “You should tell us one of your own stories so we can have all the juicy details without asking your brother!” His eyes grew large and pleading. “How was the first time you had a woman, Boromir?”

Boromir nearly swallowed his own tongue. Instead, his breath stuck itself in his throat, and he coughed hard, feeling his eyes burn – better they than his cheeks, Boromir thought, and he felt suddenly that there was piercing eyes on his skin. Aragorn, he could tell, and he ducked his head down and thumped hard on his own chest.

“That is no story for your ears!” he declared when he found his breath again. “Indeed, that is an extremely impolite question, little Pippin.”

“’Tis your own fault,” came the Ringbearer’s soft voice. “You have incited their curiosity, and now you refuse to assuage it.”

Frodo’s eyes were large and amused, and his hand was small as it clutched around a fork. He was chewing , and he swallowed before he gave Boromir a soft smile, and Boromir felt his breath stop in his throat again. Throwing a glance at the fire, he scrambled to his feet.

“Well, ‘tis an urge that I refuse to fulfil,” said Boromir as loftily as he could. “In any case, there are chores to be done. I will seek out more firewood.”

“’Tis dangerous to head out at night, lad,” said Gimli, and Boromir noted there was a curious light in his eyes. He stiffened immediately at both the look and the words.

“Thank you for the warning, Master Dwarf,” replied Boromir, and he tried to keep his tone friendly. “But my sword does not leave my side.”

“Gimli is right,” Aragorn’s voice rang out throughout the camp. “Let me accompany you, Boromir.”

The Men’s eyes met for a long moment. Boromir’s lips curled up slightly, a small smile that carried much disdain on its edges. “’Tis but a small chore,” he said.

“So it might be, but it is necessary, nonetheless,” replied Aragorn coolly, his eyes not once leaving Boromir’s even as he walked around the campfire to his side. When he spoke again, he pitched his voice low, far softer than anyone else – with the unlucky exception of Legolas – could hear. “There are questions I wish to ask of you.”

Boromir looked at the Ranger for a long moment before he nodded sharply. Without speaking another word – he had none to share with Aragorn beyond empty words – he turned away from the camp and headed towards the thick woods that surrounded the campsite and hid it from view.

***

“Haradion,” whispered Strider, and Boromir shivered at the sound of the name that was both his and not his as it crept down his spine. His hand clutched at Aragorn’s shoulder, and he pulled back, panting hard, his eyes wide as he stared at Strider.

“Do you always take so long, Strider?” It was an effort to keep his voice level, and Boromir clenched his hands harder on Strider’s shoulders. The tenderness in the Ranger’s touch was a strange thing, and Boromir did not wish for it. Haradion was a Man who sought his pleasures in the dark alleyways of Minas Tirith, in the places where all was dark and the moon was shielded from view by the tall buildings until naught could be seen. Men had always tasted of only shame and desperation, bitter and biting on his tongue, but Strider's kiss was sweet, and his hands were leisurely.

Was this how it felt to touch a woman whom one truly desired? Boromir knew not. Though he would not fault any of the women who had shared his bed – it was a short list for a short life, despite his position – not once had he felt this honeyed desire that coursed through his blood.

But he would not show a stranger such a thing, a Ranger from the North who would not even give Boromir his true name.

“There is little need to hurry,” replied Strider. His hand caressed Boromir’s jaw, leather smooth against his bearded cheek. “Have you lain with men before, Haradion?”

“Aye, I have,” said Boromir, and he regretted his words immediately. He should have snorted and shown disdain instead, he knew, but his tongue seemed to disobey his head.

“Have you found pleasure with men before, Haradion?” asked Strider, and his thumb moved to Boromir’s lip. Boromir bit upon it, impatiently, and he tugged hard, trying to remove the glove with his teeth alone.

“Plenty,” he replied. “I will find more if you will hurry and stop with such foolish questions.”

Strider’s eyes were gentle, and he leaned forward and gave Boromir a brief kiss. “There is great pleasure to be found in another man’s touch,” murmured the Ranger. “The moon is bright tonight and dawn is far away. Time is on our side, Haradion, and will you not take advantage of it?”

Boromir clasped Strider’s hand in both of his own. He pulled at the fingers of the gloves, and when he spoke, his voice was but a growl. “Save your poetry for women, for I have no need for such pretty words.” He looked at Strider with defiant eyes. “Or do the Rangers of the North lay only with Men, and you do not have wives?”

“Pleasure is not reserved only for a woman’s touch,” replied Strider mildly, and in that moment Boromir hated him for his calm. “There is tenderness that can be found between men as well.”

Strider’s gloves fell onto the forest floor without protest from the Man, and Boromir looked at him. He raised those fingers and pressed a soft, mocking kiss against the callused knuckles.

“Is this the gentleness that you wish for, Strider?” asked the Steward’s son. “Should I treat you as a woman now?”

Bright blue eyes flashed, and Boromir did not have the chance to breathe before Strider’s hand cupped the back of his neck, and a pair of thin lips slammed against his own. The kiss was no longer sweet, but it was nothing like the grasping, wet things he was used to with men. No, Strider’s tongue was in his mouth, stroking against his own, against his teeth, the kiss so deep it seemed that Boromir’s very soul was being dragged out with every touch.

Yearly there were at least two men punished for their obscenities. It had been decades since criminals were executed in the city, in the eyes of the law, but their punishment ended in death nonetheless, for they were sent to perform the hardest of labours, or they became soldiers given the most hopeless of tasks. Boromir had to command such condemned men, and though he had sympathy for them, he knew not why many seemed unrepentant of their sins and undutiful nature.

There was a pair of lovers he knew. Childhood friends they were, both sons of soldiers whose mothers worked hard for Gondor and their families’ bread. They were found together in bed at the eve of their shared birthday, one twenty, the other twenty-two, and Boromir had seen no regret in their eyes even as Denethor ordered for them to die. They were to head towards Mordor itself for the sake of finding information of the Enemy’s movements, and it was known that neither would return. Boromir did not understand the ways their hands had linked nor the looks they had shared. Then, he had dismissed it as pure foolishness, and the selfishness of Men who placed themselves above their country’s needs like no Man should in this time of constant war.

Yet now… now, Boromir thought he could understand. There was no love in this, he knew, but there was passion beyond hollow wants that turned cold in his bones. There was fire in Strider’s touch, in his kiss, and Boromir threw himself forward, pinning the Ranger to the ground. He looked into those eyes, the light in them scattered by strands of dark hair. Boromir brushed Strider’s hair away slowly, his breaths coming fast. He hated his gloves in that moment, and he pulled them off with his teeth, letting the leather lie next to Strider’s before he cupped the Ranger’s jaw with both hands, kissing him once more.

There was fire. Years ago, in the time of Orodreth, Men undutiful would be burned at the stake. Boromir felt a kinship with those Men burned, their names erased by the ravages of time and the disdain of the Stewards. If this was what they felt with each other, then it was no surprise that they did not fear the flames.

***

“Those were unworthy words you said to me in the gardens of Imladris, my Lord Boromir.”

Aragorn’s voice echoed around the woods that now sheltered them. Boromir scowled, hearing the reproach hidden within the use of his title. But as the Ranger held an armful of firewood, his diligence could not be faulted.

“’Twas truth I spoke,” retorted he. “Or do you tell me that your lady beloved knows of your… proclivities? That she knows you walk shamelessly upon the unclean road, dishonouring her as you do with each comfort you give a comrade?”

Perhaps the women of the lower levels in Minas Tirith knew of the dishonourable comforts that men on long campaigns had found with each other, but Boromir knew for a fact that it was something that the noble ladies were never told. The stumbling, desperate hands of men on each other’s bodies in the dark when the campfires were quenched was a shameful thing, and not something fit for the ears of well-bred women. If there was nothing else that the Lady Arwen was, she was a princess.

Aragorn moved closer to him, his piercing eyes turned bright blue once more by the light of the half-moon that shone overhead. If it was not for the dimming light and the sickening knowledge that had wedged itself in his heart, Boromir would think this to be like the night he first met Strider, Ranger of the North.

“Aye,” murmured Aragorn, his voice low. “I do not lie to Arwen, and she knows. I promised her my heart, but though I was raised in the house of her father, I am no Elf, only a Man with a Man’s necessities. The distance of the years that separate us is long, Boromir, and I have waited for her longer than you have lived. She does not deny my seeking pleasure elsewhere, just as I do not deny her the same.”

Boromir swallowed. He picked up a piece of dry wood, but it splintered in his grip as his fingers trembled in the dark. Fear crowded in his mind once more, whispering that there was danger right ahead of him in the shape of Aragorn’s lips, in the words that he would surely loose when the Company reached Minas Tirith.

“And you call yourself Isildur’s Heir,” spat out Boromir, his eyes narrowed upon Aragorn. “Once I had thought you knew at least of duty, for you have given your sword to protect the Ringbearer, but now I know that ‘tis false indeed. You know nothing of duty, not even the most necessary one of all.”

“I know of Gondor’s laws,” said Aragorn, and the firewood in his arms fell to the ground as he grabbed hold of Boromir’s wrist, pulling him close. “Yet they are not what I disagree with. No, Boromir, ‘tis the threats you used without provocation that caused this anger within my heart. I have done nothing to deserve such a thing.”

There was a long moment of silence before Boromir yanked his arm away from Aragorn’s grip. He leaned down and picked up Aragorn’s pile of firewood until he could hold no more. Aragorn’s eyes were a burning flame against his skin, but Boromir ignored him, busied by the effort of keeping his hands from trembling.

“You have led me down the unclean road,” whispered Boromir, poison twining around each word. “If you do not understand the truth of what you have done, Aragorn, and what you continue to do, there is nothing I can say to you.”

There were splinters attempting to break through the leather of his gloves. Boromir looked at his hands for the briefest of moments.

“You disgust me.”

“Nay,” said Aragorn, his voice soft but stopping Boromir in his tracks nonetheless. “I believe ‘tis yourself that you feel disgust towards.”

Boromir froze. He remained immobile as Aragorn picked up the remaining pieces of wood and stormed back to the camp.

***

Strider had pulled Boromir up, pressing him hard against the tree. Their hands roamed all over each other’s skins, and their clothing was rumpled, laces pulled open and lolling from their eyelets, buttons barely avoiding being torn out of their threads. Boromir gasped, surging forward, and his hand spread over Strider’s chest. The drums of Strider’s heart beat strong underneath bones and skins and Boromir felt a strange peace that each beat sped along so quickly, for it meant he was not alone in his desire.

Though he hated admitting it, Strider was stronger, his arms more muscled from the long years he had over Boromir. The Steward’s son allowed himself to be manhandled, pulled away from the tree, but he pushed Strider away and pressed himself down on the ground himself, staring at the dirt and roots and fallen leaves.

Boromir wondered if he had would ever have the chance to slake his desire for men on a proper bed. It was but for the briefest second, and Boromir lost all chance for time and thought as he was turned around, back pressed against the ground. The Ranger’s eyes were bright and his smile sly despite his kneel. Hands spread against Boromir’s breeches, and though Boromir could not feel his skin through the heavy leather, his mind was so fixated upon Strider that he could swear he felt each and every callus that pressed upon his skin.

“I wish to see your face,” rasped Strider. He turned his own up, eyes burning as they met Boromir’s gaze.

“Why?” asked Boromir. “Is it what brings you pleasure?”

Strider did not answer. He only chuckled, tilting his head as he nuzzled against Boromir’s thigh like an overly affectionate puppy. It was no gesture he had ever seen before, and Boromir breathed slightly easier when Strider’s hand moved to his breeches and pulled the waistband down. Now this he was familiar with, though he could not help the trembling of his limbs as he spread his legs apart.

“Do not wake the birds in the trees,” said Strider, and Boromir barely had a single moment to ponder upon his words before Strider bent his head and took Boromir’s arousal into his mouth.

It was only a warrior’s reflexes that allowed him to shove a fist into his own mouth before his loud, surprised moan could escape.

Hands he knew, but a mouth he did not. The Men of Gondor prided themselves on their abilities to speak, for not only did it separate them from the beasts that they hunted and reared, but also raised them above the other races. For was it not Westron, the language of Gondor, that was spoken throughout the land? Was it not the tongue of Men that all other races spoke in order to be understood by each other? This was part of the Steward’s great pride in his land, one shared by most Men of Gondor, and Boromir could not understand why any Man, a Ranger of the North or not, would lower himself so. In Gondor, not even tavern wenches would use their mouths – it was the domain of whores.

Yet he could not deny the pleasure that Strider’s mouth gave him. It was a heat like none he had ever known, scorching him without pain, and Boromir arched into that mouth despite his confusion. His hand trembled as he slid it into the Ranger’s night-dark hair, barely visible underneath the light of the full moon, and he stifled another cry with his fist.

If there was naught else that separated the Men of the North from those of the South, it was in this act, he thought dazedly. Strider’s skill was unmistakeable even to the novice that Boromir was, and his heart ached in his chest for a reason he could not discern.

Boromir felt himself unravelling, falling apart at the seams. His eyes were wide as he stared at the man kneeling between his legs, and he knew that, at this moment, there was naught that he would not give Strider if the Ranger had asked it of him. Not for this act alone, but for the look in Strider’s eyes. That he sought nothing more than to give pleasure, and receive the same in return.

He feared this Man, Boromir realised. He feared him far more than he had when he thought Strider was an orc hidden in the shadows. It was a terror inexplicable and yet refused to be dislodged from his mind, and Boromir knew that if he saw this man in the morning, if he kissed him in the light of day and took pleasure from him, he would not be able to remember the duty that he owed his city and his father, and all the burdens he carried on his shoulders would simply melt away.

For Strider was unashamed, unafraid, his hands and lips sure on Boromir’s flesh, and there was nothing that Boromir wished for more than to have his strength. Even the smallest fraction of it was good enough, Boromir thought, and in that moment, he could not shield his heart.

***

Memories haunted Boromir despite his best efforts. He had found his way back to the camp with slow steps, Aragorn’s words echoing in his mind. His heart ached like the fires of his desire so many years ago had lingered and soured, turning pleasure and want into pain and shame. Yet those were emotions he was used to, and there was a cold comfort in them.

The Company was preparing to settle themselves down for the night. Boromir did not speak to them, merely walking over to Bill, retrieving a piece of twine from the packs the pony carried and tying the extra wood together. It would serve well for their next night, he knew.

Legolas was preparing to take the watch, as was his wont since the first night. Elves required little sleep, the son of Mirkwood had explained, and he would have the Fellowship rest as much as he could. Boromir knew he could find no sleep tonight.

“Let me take the watch, Legolas,” murmured Boromir, his voice so quiet that it could be heard by none but Elven ears. “You have taken it for the last weeks – take some rest instead this night.”

The Elf’s eyes were a haunting blue as Legolas looked at him, but Boromir stood his ground and met that gaze. Long moments passed, and out of the corner of his vision, Boromir could see Merry’s eyes darting between the two of them, but Legolas nodded. He stood and retrieved his bedroll, walking towards the little circle that surrounded the Ringbearer.

“Boromir shall take the watch tonight,” announced the Elf. He laid down his bedroll, sitting upon it.

Gandalf gave Boromir a long, searching look, but Boromir ignored the wizard, instead taking his place on the outskirts of the camp where he had the best view of the forests where any enemies could emerge. The Company’s noises eventually faded into quiet snores, and Boromir turned his attention towards the forests once more. All was quiet this night, and his thoughts wondered. The passage of time was always strange and nebulous while out in the wilds, away from the timekeeping devices kept by Men, Elves, Dwarves and surely even the halflings and the Maiar. In this wide space, he knew time only by the passing of the moon across the wide dark sky.

It was a night full of memories. Pathetic thought it might be, Boromir could not forget the events of that night. Even though, if he closed his eyes, he could hear the far-off sounds of the river, the quiet rustling of the leaves in the wind, and he saw, clear as the moon that now hung overhead, the sharp, clear blue of the Ranger Strider’s eyes. He looked upon the Man right now and he could see Strider whom he knew on that night, but Aragorn was a different beast from the quiet Ranger, and though Boromir knew he would not ever see Strider again he could not help but grieve for his leaving. It would be the second time he grieved for this, and the pain had not dulled through the passage of years. Instead, it had sharpened.

There was a soft murmur of a voice deep within his head. A low, quiet, reassuring voice, but Boromir knew it well by now, and he immediately pushed it away, refusing to open his mind to the Ring. He knew its temptation well, and though he still believed that the Ring would do well as a weapon again Mordor, he had made his vow to the Fellowship, and he would not break it.

There was a short-lived relief still when he heard rustling and the hastily-muffled sounds of movement from behind him. Boromir did not turn, and when Aragorn settled down on the stone near him, his steps silent upon the dry grasses below them, he was unsurprised. The different footsteps of the Company were well-known to him by now.

“Are you here to insult me further?” said Boromir without turning around. Though his voice was lowered in courtesy, the harshness of the words remained.

“Nay,” replied Aragorn mildly. Insults seemed to slide off this Man’s skin so easily, and though Boromir knew it was truly a good thing for the journey that lay ahead of them was a long one, he felt irritated nonetheless. “’Tis simply that sleep eludes me this night.”

Boromir turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you not trust me to keep the watch?” “No, Boromir,” denied Isildur’s heir immediately. “I know you to keep us safe.”

Perhaps Aragorn’s trust was won not by Boromir himself, but by fact that the Company slept around the Ringbearer, and Boromir could not reach for the Ring without waking the Fellowship. He stared at his hands, letting the silence, full of tension and unspoken words, grow between them.

The clouds had moved over the moon, shielding its light, when Aragorn spoke again. “Have you ever soothed a comrade on the long nights before battle, Boromir?”

Perhaps it would be a wiser choice to ignore the question, but Boromir looked up to meet Aragorn’s eyes again. “Aye, I have,” murmured Boromir, nodding.

Aragorn looked at him, urging him to continue, but Boromir held the rest of his words within his throat. He looked away before he stood, drawing his sword and his whetstone. He laid the blade across his lap, feeling the edge. It had not dulled much since last night.

“There is a comrade whom I love well,” said Aragorn, breaking through the repetitive sounds of stone drawn over blade. “His name is Halbarad, a Dúnedan like myself. During the long years that I spent away from the Angle, the home of the Rangers of the North, ‘tis he who has led them and guided them through battle.”

Boromir kept his silence. He knew not why Aragorn was telling him of a Man whom Boromir did not know and seemed to have no cause to wish to know, but it was something of Aragorn that he was being given, nonetheless, and Boromir’s heart ached for even the slightest of relief.

“Long nights we have spent together as we hunted the stray orc packs that came up North. Though both of us know well of our skill in battle, there was fear still that we would not return, that we would be overcome. Too many of the Dúnedain had fallen to battle against the orcs since the end of the Watchful Peace, and neither of us wished to be a casualty.”

Aragorn paused in his tale. He looked outwards to the forest, and Boromir watched him, his hand stilling above his sword, his task forgotten.

“’Twas many nights in the wild that we have lain together. Always in silence, never in darkness, for our eyes spoke all the words our tongues dared not to voice. There is love between us, and I refuse to succumb to shame for such a love, for he is my comrade, and there has been too much shared between us for any shame to remain.”

“You have pretty words for an unclean Man,” murmured Boromir. He wished he had made his words stronger, but his anger had fled him so quickly that he could only grasp at the shadows it left behind. Closing his eyes, he took a long breath. “The nights that comrades in war spend with each other are fearful nights, Aragorn. ‘Tis on such nights that the Men of Gondor dwelled in the river of despair, for they could not see the dawn’s approach, and it seemed to take more strength than any Man had to envision a world where there was a no war, with the Enemy defeated. You forget, Aragorn: you fought packs of orcs, but it was the Enemy himself that the armies of Gondor went against, with the Lidless Eye watching our every effort and his orcs unending.”

Boromir shook his head. He drew the whetstone over his sword once more. “You forget too, that ‘tis an unclean thing that Men do when they seek each other’s bodies, may it be for comfort or not.”

“I did not forget, Boromir,” said Aragorn quietly. “You must tell me the reason why you think that way.”

“The Great One did not create two sexes amongst his Children so they could have relations not with each other, but amongst themselves,” replied Boromir, quoting the laws that Orodreth had laid down centuries ago. “There could be no children born between relations between men, or even between women.”

Aragorn looked at him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Boromir met those eyes, but he could not find the strength within himself to be defiant and true to Gondor’s laws. There was only the bone-deep exhaustion that he had known ever since his seventeenth year, when he looked upon a Man of golden hair and emerald eyes and desired him with every fibre of his being. When he had looked upon him with eyes that not once had he wished to turn towards any woman.

“What of love, Boromir?” asked Aragorn. “Would you feel shame towards the love comrades share with each other?”

“Many men of Gondor are already wed,” replied Boromir dully. He drew the stone over his sword once more, turning his attention away from Gondor. “They know their duty. The love between comrades is a paltry thing, when compared to the love men have for their wives, and wives for their husbands.”

Even as Boromir spoke those words, he knew them to be false, deep within his heart. Boromir closed his eyes, and his hand trembled. He did not drop the stone, but drew it over the blade once more.

“No man would tell his wife what happens on the long fearful night before a battle. The comforts they sought are unfit for the light of the day.”

“Then there is nothing to fear from me,” said Aragorn quietly. He reached out and closed his gloved hand over Boromir’s fist, the other gently upon his wrist. Boromir’s breath shook as he lifted his eyes, and there was nothing more he wished for at the moment to be rid for the residual desires he still held towards this Man, this ghost of the Ranger Strider.

“Why do you fear?”

“’Tis a foolish question you ask,” replied Boromir. He wished he could chase his anger, but there was none left in his heart. Shaking his head, he pulled his hand away from Aragorn’s grip. He dropped the stone to the ground, darting his hand forward to slide his fingers underneath the gleaming chain resting on Aragorn’s skin, stroking down the warm metal until he reached the glowing pendant.

“You have the love of a beautiful Elven lady, Aragorn. Let the thoughts of her allow you rest this night, and do not trouble me with such folly.”

“Son of Gondor,” whispered Aragorn, and his hand was leather-smooth once more on Boromir’s bearded cheek. “Will you ever make good use of your threat?”

Boromir chuckled lightly. He did not turn his head towards the touch, no matter what he wished. “We are far from Rivendell now, Aragorn. You have naught to fear from me.” He drew away from Aragorn completely, letting the air rush in between them as he picked up his whetstone. “But no, I would not have. I will not.”

“Thank you.”

This was a thoughtless, rash thing he did now, to swear his intentions so. Yet his fear had dissipated along with his anger, and as he looked upon Aragorn, he knew that he should not have thought this Man would betray the night they had spent in the forest. None of the Company knew, and in this desolate path they took, who else could Aragorn tell?

Perhaps he did not need to regret that night. No, that was no thought he should keep.

“Will you let me take the rest of the watch?”

Boromir shook his head, his eyes fixed upon his sword. “I will not find sleep tonight,” said he, voice rough. “Rest, Aragorn. ‘Tis not my eyes that needs be sharp in the morn.”

Aragorn nodded. He stood, stretching slightly, but his hand was suddenly on Boromir’s shoulder.

“Let your senses be sharp tonight. I will sleep well with you at watch.”

Nodding, Boromir did not turn to look at him, but his ears focused on the soft sounds of Aragorn’s footsteps, of the rustling of his bedroll as he turned back to sleep. He raised his sword, letting the blade catch the light of the moon as he tested the edge. A single hair split as it fell onto the edge, and Boromir stood and sheathed it. Turning around, he looked at Aragorn, his face half-hidden by the ruffled hair that fell across his closed eyes, the deep breaths of sleep he took.

He sat back down on the stone, looking out to the forest. Strange, he thought. The night was quiet now, and so was the Ring.

The Company turned away from their path towards the Gap of Rohan at the sight of the Crebain, sent by Saruman the White, and now they headed towards the Pass of Caradhras instead. Boromir did not offer his opinion on their new route for he knew now that it would be unwelcomed, but as they climbed the high mountains and the winds bit more and more into their bones, he feared for the hobbits’ survival in this cold. He was doubtful, too, for it seemed none but Gandalf and Aragorn knew the way, and being made to walk blindly was to his great disliking.

Yet there was no help for it, for though Gimli continued his attempts to convince Gandalf to take the path underground in Moria, the wizard seemed convinced it was unsafe. Not that it would allay Boromir’s doubts any, for he was a Man of the South, and these lonely, Northern lands were not ones that he was familiar with. There were maps that he carried even now in his pack, but they were useless things. Boromir had followed these very maps, but he had still been lost in Dunland, and barely managed to find his way to Rivendell.

These thoughts he kept fiercely in his mind. The Ring’s whispers were getting stronger, a sweet song that refused to abate. He fell asleep with it as a lullaby, and when he woke it came back to him. There was no rest that he could find no matter how exhausted he felt at the end of each day’s trek. The mountains offered little game as well, so few that it was useless to hunt, and the Company’s spirits fell as the air grew colder and their provisions fell lower and lower. Their pack was light on Bill the pony now, but the poor beast could not find ease on this path either, for it was cold as well.

He glanced sideways to where Aragorn was walking next to him, and Boromir turned away once more. The two Men had not spoken ever since that night before the Crebain found the Fellowship, but Aragorn’s words lingered. Boromir had always thought his heart and emotions to be foolish creature, and he found that every glance he took of Isildur’s heir only confirmed those suspicions.

Frodo tumbled. The snowdrifts were uneven, some snowfalls softer than the others. By his side, Aragorn darted forward, and Boromir knew he should go to the Ringbearer’s aid. Yet he was frozen – not by the wind he suddenly could not feel, but by gleam of gold that shone like the sun itself amongst the vast white expanse around them. Boromir felt his feet moving towards it, the song of the Ring resounding in his ears, his mind, so loud and so soothing that his head tilted, as if he could hear it louder, sweeter, with that one motion.

If the Ring had spoken to him in words then Boromir knew he would not be so easily taken in. The Captain of the White Tower was a soldier and warrior, not a scholar like his brother Faramir, yet words came easier to him. They were friends easily found at the tips of his fingertips. The Ring seemed to know this, for it tempted not with words, but with music. It called to him with the sounds of the silver trumpets of Gondor, the clear clarion sound that rang out whenever he passed the gates of his beloved city. It lured him with the sounds of the drums of war until his feet followed that rhythm that only Boromir knew amongst these wild lands.

But most of all, it tempted with pictures, bright and clear in Boromir’s mind, so stark that he no longer saw the mountains that surrounded them.

He saw himself with the white rod of Stewardship in one hand and a sword in another. It showed him on his beloved mare, lost during his journey to Rivendell. He saw himself, decked in fine armour with the White Tree on his chest, now decked with the seven stars of the King. He saw Aragorn with the Winged Crown upon his brow, looking at him with pride. He saw himself, leaning over to press a kiss to Aragorn’s lips while the city smiled around him, and cheered him for the victories he brought to Gondor.

Aragorn called his name. It faded quickly, a voice snatched by the winds.

The Ring was a small thing, weighing near to nothing in Boromir’s hand. Was this the same object that had caused them so much grief? Was this the Ring of Power that Sauron had forged and wielded, and which he had used to kill Elendil, the greatest of all Kings of Men? Boromir could scarce believe in it even as he felt its power and heard it song. His hand ached though he barely felt the chill of the chain as it seeped past his leather glove into his skin. There was naught he wished to do than to pull it off the Elven-wrought chain and place it upon his finger.

Was it not his right, as the Steward’s heir? It was Isildur who last held the Ring, and it was the line of the Stewards who had carried on ruling when Isildur’s line failed. Isildur’s heir refused this treasure, and so it must pass to the Steward. Was it not his right, if the Ring could give him all that he wished for, all that he wanted? It seemed so easy. His mind plotted his movements: he would unhook the chain and pour the Ring onto his hand, and he would slide it into his finger. It was a small thing, but it would fit. Boromir knew it would.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing,” whispered Boromir, barely hearing his own voice over the roar of the Ring. In the depths of his mind he could already see Aragorn’s smile. He could taste him on his lips, and it was a sweet reminder of the Ranger Strider. But there was no need for darkness, no need for hiding, for the sun was gentle upon the white stone of Minas Tirith. It was day, and the eyes upon them judged them not, but cheered loud for their love and for Boromir’s accomplishment.

“Such a little thing.”

Aragorn called his name. Boromir started, and the image wavered. When he lifted his eyes, he saw first Aragorn’s hand upon his sword, and instantly he knew his own folly. Did he not swear to Frodo? Gondor will see it done, he vowed, and his honour lay within that vow. His honour was already a scattered thing, broken to pieces with every lie he spoke and every truth he kept his father, his brother, and his people. There were promises he had made, and duties he must carry out, and Boromir knew the weight of duty better than any Man.

He closed his eyes. The Ring cried out, urging him with sweet promises, but Boromir knew so little sweetness in his life. There was war, and there was duty, and his feet carried him forward to Frodo. He smiled and he knew not if his pain showed in the curve of his lips, but he reached out his hand and handed the Ring over to Frodo.

With it, he handed over his impossible dreams.

“As you wish,” said the Captain of the White Tower. “I care not.”

Aragorn’s eyes were cold upon his skin, freezing more than the wind that suddenly picked up. Boromir rested his hand on Frodo’s curly head, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest at the sight of the hobbit’s eyes, so frightened and suspicious as they looked upon him. The weak link in the chain, Boromir knew he was, and he ruffled his hand through Frodo’s curls in a half-hearted attempt to ease the hobbit’s fears.

When he turned away and walked towards the Company, his feet did not cross over the slope and the snow. No, with every step the crunching of ice beneath his boots echoed the destruction of his desires, and Boromir knew once more that he was a foolish Man. Yet he increased the force of his every step, pressing down even harder as the snow was crushed beneath him.

There was much he wanted, much more he wished for, but Boromir knew his desires were but specks in the face of Gondor’s need. With every step he tried to stifle the Ring’s song, holding tight with shaking hands the duties that had always weighed upon his shoulders. The images of his city’s sweet smiles lingered in his mind, and the taste of Strider, so long suppressed, rose again until he could almost fool himself into thinking that he was back in the forests, hidden by the high trees that surrounded the river Anduin.

Yet his knowledge of his own folly was even stronger than the Ring’s song. He could not forget the sight of Aragorn’s narrowed eyes, the clenched hand tight around his nameless sword.

Boromir knew all that the Ring had shown him was but a dream. A dream that would not, could not, ever come to pass. It knew it so, and strange though it was, the thought strengthened his steps even as his heart cried out for relief.

***

“Enough.”

Boromir’s hand clenched hard on Strider’s hair, tugging hard at the strands. His touch was a rough one, but he had not the time to regret it, or think further from it, for his nerves thrummed from the heat of Strider’s mouth and he wished him to stop.

“Enough, if you continue, I will -”

Strider’s eyes met his, and the Ranger’s lips curved upwards. It was obscene look, noted Boromir half-deliriously, the way Strider looked now, with his lips wrapped around Boromir’s length as he smiled with the edges of his mouth alone. Boromir trembled, and he could not discern if it was from the tide of pleasure or shame.

His back arched upwards, and though he tried, he could not stop himself from falling over the edge. Strider’s smile branded itself in his mind as his vision whited out, and he heard the cry he could not keep in his throat echoing around the two of them, filling the space of the forest. If there were orcs around, they would have found them easily, so loudly did he cry out, and Boromir’s hand clenched as his control over himself spiralled out of his mind’s grasp, and all he could do was shake in Strider’s arms.

He would not forget this, he knew. No matter how much he tried or wished for it, Boromir knew that this night with a Man whose true name he did not know had already sunk its claws into his heart. If there were cold nights he would spend with desperate men, whether hidden in tents or by the shadows of alleyways, the pleasures of the body they gave him would not compare to this.

There were hands on his thighs and Boromir spread his legs, wanton in his desire. His chest heaved for breath, and when he opened his eyes he saw nothing, for Strider’s mouth pressed on his own. Boromir struggled, trying to push the Ranger off. This was yet another obscenity, another shameful act, for he could taste his own essence upon Strider’s lips. Salt and bitterness, thicker than tears, but there was pleasure there, unasked for and unwanted, a heat that sank deep into his bones from the image of Strider’s lips upon his own.

“There is much pleasure to be found between men,” murmured Strider. The Ranger pulled away, but his lips remained close, his lips muffled against Boromir’s skin. “There is pleasure, and desire that needs not be tainted by shame. I have given you pleasure, Haradion, and need you feel shame?”

“Do not,” gasped Boromir, his hands clawing at Strider’s shoulders. “Do not speak so. The laws of Gondor cannot change, and the duties of each Man who lived in the great city of Minas Tirith will not change, not while Mordor lingers at our doors. You are a Man of the North; you do not know the reasons for our ways.”

“Aye, I am of the North,” replied Strider, and his eyes were serious even as he turned his head and pressed a sweet kiss against Boromir’s wrist. “The wild lands are lonely lands, son of the South, and we seek comfort and pleasure where we can find it.”

“Then do not convince me that my ways should be yours!” cried Boromir, his hands clenching around Strider’s collar, pulling him forward. “You have given me great pleasure in a manner that I have never known before, and for that I thank you. But still your tongue, Strider. Still your tongue, and let no more words come forth.”

Despite his best efforts, there was no anger tainting his words. There was only despair and exhaustion, only a deep-seated need that only Strider’s hands seemed to be able to alleviate. The Ranger looked at him, and when he was kissed again, Boromir shut his eyes and rocked upwards, feeling the heat of Strider’s arousal against his own skin. He spread his legs and turned his head away.

“Is this not what you want?”

Strider’s fingers stroked his jaw, calluses harsh against even sharper beard stubble. Boromir closed his eyes and did not meet the Man’s gaze, knowing that he would be defeated the moment he did. There was too much that Strider offered with his hands and mouth and words, and there was naught Boromir wished more than to take all of it, to shed every bit of the burdens he carried upon his own shoulders.

Perhaps they could seek out the orcs together in the morning; perhaps they could find a way to stay in the North and avoid the Men of Gondor who would surely come to seek for their lost heir. Perhaps there was no real solution at all, and there was only this night. Could he find space in his heart to wish that he had been born a Ranger of the North instead of the Steward’s Heir? Could he allow himself to wish for such a thing – a sudden, striking, hopeless wish – even though he knew the heavy duties that he carried as a Man of the South, as the future Captain?

“I want you to look at me,” whispered Strider. “Will you grant me that?”

Boromir kept his eyes closed. “No,” he replied. “I cannot.”

Wishing only hurt his heart. To look into Strider’s eyes would weaken his resolve. Boromir held himself still even as he felt callused hands slide into the insides of his thighs. Fingers curled around his length, making him shudder, before they disappeared. When Boromir could feel them again, they were oiled, sliding into him, and he bit down on his lip to dampen the sound.

“Are all Rangers so wanton to bring oil with them?”

He gritted his teeth hard, wishing to take the words back and leave only silence between them. But it was much too late, the words having been spilled from his lips, and Strider’s hands stopped within him.

“’Tis an oil made for healing,” murmured the Ranger. “It soothes the aches and small wounds that we find on the road.”

Boromir cocked his head to the side. His eyes remained stubbornly closed. “I thought you a Ranger, not a healer.”

“A Ranger has many skills,” returned Strider. One finger had turned into two, curving and crooking inside Boromir’s body, but the Steward’s son swallowed his sounds and focused upon Strider’s words. “I have played a healer’s role, aye, when needs call for it.”

“Do all healers treat men with such soft hands, then?” snorted Boromir. He rocked his hips upwards, hands reaching out blindly to find Strider’s arms. His nails dug into skin as he shoved Strider’s fingers as deep inside him as they could go, jerking in the Ranger’s arms at the lightning shot of pain-pleasure that wrapped itself around his spine.

“There is no need for such gentleness, Strider,” growled Boromir. “I am no maiden waiting to be bedded on her wedding night.”

Strider’s laughter echoed quietly around them, a gentle vibration that thrummed beneath Boromir’s hands.

“Aye,” replied Strider. “As you command, Haradion.”

When Strider pushed inside him there was the burn of the stretch, familiar and unknown at the same time. It was not often that Boromir allowed himself to be taken – not for his dislike for it, but that it was not his place, as the son of the Steward, to let himself be exposed so. Yet in these forests he was not Boromir, only Haradion, and Haradion was a common Man. Boromir clung onto the name, taking the meagre comforts that it offered.

Little though it was, it was what he needed. Just as he needed Strider’s movements within him, the slow, long thrusts that reminded him unerringly that this was no woman in tryst with him. No, it was a man capable of driving every single thought from his head with the smallest movements of his hips, and Boromir felt himself harden once more from the pleasure, the fulfilment of the desires within his heart that he could not admit to as a Captain of Gondor.

***

Moria stank of death and rot.

Gimli’s grief had not faded in the time they had entered the caves, and Boromir did not expect him to calm easily. How could he, when he was surrounded by the corpses of his fellow Dwarves, and every turn they took could only remind Gimli of the glories that should have been in Moria but which had been robbed and murdered by orcs and goblins? No, Boromir could not begrudge Gimli his grief.

Legolas had been silent since they had entered the caves. His eyes, an unearthly shade that shifted from blue to grey, darted from side to side. Boromir was reminded of a bird that was trapped in a cage as it tried to find its way out, and his lips quirked upwards without mirth at the thought. Did Elves not live in the great forests, with high trees above their heads and the sun that shone upon their skins? In Rivendell there were no closed, dark spaces like this one, and Boromir wondered if this difference was the reason behind the divide between the Dwarves and the Elves.

(Not for the first time, he thought Faramir would have made a much better seeker. His brother would have known the history of the Elves well enough to know the answer for Gimli and Legolas’s constant disputes.)

Yet now Legolas sat next to Gimli, offering his comfort by his very presence alone. They did not touch, but merely lingered next to each other, as if the warmth that came from having another body so close was enough. Or perhaps it was heat they sought from each other, for the caves, so far from the sun, were cold, and the hearths and furnaces that once burned in Moria had been long extinguished. Boromir sat alone, drawing his cloak around him. It was wet from the fight with the Watcher in the Lake, and though he knew it would be wiser to place it near the fire so it would dry, he would not part from it.

It was one of the few mementos he had from home, and Boromir wished for home now more than ever. Not simply for his presence at the battles that were surely still waged, but only for the his own room in the quarters set for the Steward’s heir, for the fire that burned and tapestries made by his mother’s hand that hung on his walls and windows. Boromir wished for home with an ache deep within his chest, and now, more than ever, he wished they had taken the route towards Rohan.

The Ring had not ceased its songs. It sang to him about Gondor, about finding his way back swiftly with the power that it would give him. The memories of his own room became brighter in Boromir’s mind, the ache in his chest sharper, but Aragorn’s untrusting eyes still lingered, a stronger reminder than the Ring’s temptations. Boromir knew that even though he fought for the Company and risked his life in these caves to protect the Ringbearer and his other protectors, he was still not trusted. He could not blame Aragorn for such a thing, for had Boromir not made his intentions clear in the Council where the Fellowship was formed? Had he not shown that he thought – and that he still thought – that the Ring was a weapon to be given to Men in their desperate war against the Enemy?

His father awaited the Kingly gift that Boromir would bring, but the promise he made to the Steward seemed less important than that he gave to the Ringbearer. He would have to destroy Frodo if he was to take the Ring now, and though part of Boromir knew that to do so might be necessary to win the war, his honour would not allow him to take that path.

Footsteps resounded in the caves, breaking Boromir from his thoughts, and he lifted his head to watch Aragorn walk over to him. Boromir had isolated himself once more, sitting at the edge of the Company as far away from Frodo as he dared. He would not tempt Fate and the Ring by sitting close, and he thought, bitterly, that surely Aragorn was here to do the same. That this was an attempt to keep an eye on a Man he trusted little.

“The chill will seep into your bones if your clothes are not dry, son of Gondor,” said Isildur’s Heir softly as he took a seat near to Boromir. “We cannot afford sickness on this quest.”

“’Twill not be illness that takes my life,” replied Boromir, turning away. “Do not fear for that, Aragorn. Had I not kept my health at the Path of Caradhras?”

“Aye, you have,” said Aragorn. His feet made soft noises on the stone floors of Moria. “I merely hold the worries of a healer.”

Boromir looked at him, taking note of the ragged nature of Aragorn’s clothing, the lank, damp strands of his hair, and the untidy stubble that masqueraded poorly for a beard. Not once through their journey had Aragorn looked the part of a King, much less Gondor’s King, but Boromir had seen his nobility and strength plenty, and now he casted his eyes to the floor.

“You did not approach me for worthless talk of my health, Aragorn,” said he. “What do you want?”

Silence reigned between them before Aragorn sighed, “I wish only to invite you to sleep close to me tonight. I do not have your heavy cloak to shield myself from the cold.”

Throwing a sceptical glance towards the other Man, Boromir could not keep the venom from his voice when he replied, “Are you not afraid of my knife in the darkness? If to take the Ring from Frodo is my wish, then ‘tis good strategy to rid myself of his staunchest protector.”

“You have sworn to protect Frodo in his journey as well,” replied Aragorn, his voice frustratingly calm. “I trust your honour to remain true.”

Strange it was for a Man who looked at Boromir with suspecting eyes and a hand on his sword to claim that he trusted Boromir’s honour. Lips parting to rebuke Aragorn’s claim, Boromir narrowed his eyes and met Aragorn’s gaze. What he saw in them silenced him, and he swallowed, for there was no guile hidden in the darkened grey-blue of Aragorn’s eyes – there was only honesty, and trust, and Boromir felt his hands shake.

“’Tis cold in these caves,” he replied eventually. “’Twill be folly to leave you exposed to the winds, Aragorn. I will share my cloak with you tonight.”

“I thank you greatly,” said Aragorn. He stood once more, reaching a hand out to Boromir who looked at it for a long moment before taking it.

Despite Aragorn’s claims to being affected by the chill, Boromir could only feel the heat of his hand, barely shielded by the leather gloves. The words to disdain Aragorn’s request were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. He pulled himself upwards instead, stumbling forward slightly. There was a scar on Aragorn’s lip, Boromir saw, and he wondered how he could have not realised it before. Had he truly been avoiding looking at this Man? Or was it that he had never been so close? No, it could not be – they had been closer in the forests, and yet Boromir had seen nothing.

“’Tis a new scar,” he murmured, and he started at the sound of his own voice. He ducked his head down and rubbed the back of his neck, coughing quietly. “My apologies. I overstepped my bounds.”

“No, ‘tis new indeed,” replied Aragorn, chuckling quietly. Boromir turned to glare, but the smile on Aragorn’s lips was a sweet one, and he wondered at how quickly this Man could change. One moment looking at him as though he was an orc, and another wishing for his warmth and smiling at him as if he was a friend.

His heart ached once more, but it was a familiar pain, and Boromir ignored it easily. They walked towards Aragorn’s bedroll and lay down upon it, and Boromir drew his cloak over the two of them. Legolas’s eyes flashed over towards them, but Boromir’s returning glance was defiant, and the Elf said nothing.

“A foolish wound,” continued Aragorn. His smile remained; nay, indeed it within, and Boromir’s breath caught at the sight. Aragorn settled further into the bedroll. The cloak was damp and cold upon their feet, but they had not removed their boots or undressed at all. It would be unwise to do so in Moria, where enemies seemed to lurk in the plentiful shadows and they knew not what might creep upon them in the dead of the night while they were asleep. Legolas would watch tonight, perhaps with Gimli at his side, but warriors found sleep difficult in strange places. Even Rangers, it seemed, felt the same.

“Will you tell me the tale?”

“Aye. It is not a glorious tale, however.”

“I promise to keep my laughter quiet,” replied Boromir wryly. “Unless you mean to tell me that you received the scar when attempting to trim your beard with your sword, then I only promise to stifle myself as much as I can.”

Aragorn chuckled quietly. “I cut myself upon a mallorn’s branch in Lothlorien. ‘Twas a sharp branch, with its leaves new-fallen, and I did not see it. The edge caught my lip in its thrall, and when I attempted to pull away, it tore against my flesh and my blood became its food.”

Boromir pressed a hand against his mouth immediately, muffling the laughter that could not help but bubble out of him. He ducked his head down, pressing his face against the bedroll, and his shoulders shook as he tried to not wake the company. Aragorn’s hand ghosted over his neck, and Boromir lifted his head to meet amused eyes.

“I have not seen a mallorn in my life,” said Boromir. “Yet are they not great things, near reaching the Tower of Ecthelion in their height and magnificence? How could you have missed such a thing?”

“Aye, they are,” replied Aragorn, chuckling. “Yet my attentions were diverted, my eyes focused elsewhere, and I saw naught of the tree until it took its punishment for my rudeness.”

“Was it she?” asked Boromir, voice quiet. “Your lady beloved?”

Aragorn paused for a long moment, his eyes turning upwards. Boromir did not disturb his thoughts, instead only waiting.

“Aye,” said Aragorn finally. “’Twas she.” He closed his eyes, “She stood upon the high dais, carved out from the living mallorn trees as are all living quarters in Caras Galadhon, and her beauty had taken my breath away. I have not seen her in the long years she had been away, and I did not expect to see her there then. I had gone into Lothlorien to seek the wisdom of the Lord Celeborn, but I found Arwen instead, her skin shining in the eternal twilight of the lands of the Lady of the Light, her eyes shining brighter than the golden leaves, and the star that sat upon her breast blinded me.”

His hand closed around the Evenstar that hung upon his neck, and Boromir turned away. His heart ached once more, but he chided it for its folly, for though they shared the same name, the same face, this Man was not Strider. No, he was a Ranger, but he was Isildur’s Heir as well, a Lord betrothed to the Lady of Rivendell.

“What of you, Boromir? Are there sights that took your breath away?”

Boromir started, his eyes flying open, fixing upon Aragorn’s. Yet there was no mockery in those eyes as he had half-expected – there was only curiosity, understanding, and the smidgeon of embarrassment hinted in the soft colours of his cheeks, barely visible under meagre light of Moria.

“Aye,” replied Boromir. “The White City does on each occasion I return to her from the long days away from home.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, shaking his head. “That is not what I asked for.”

He knew that well. Boromir knew what Arragorn asked of him, yet his heart had shielded himself for so long, keeping sights and pleasures deep within his heart. He could not stand the thought of Aragorn’s laughter, or worse still, his pity, if he truly spoke what his heart cried out for him to voice.

“There is a Man I know,” said Boromir. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and there was a part of him that hoped Aragorn would stop him and ask him to repeat himself so he could refuse speaking. He wished, too, that Aragorn could not hear him. But those blue eyes were too sharp and knowing, and Boromir averted his own gaze.

“The first time I saw him, he was atop his mount. Brego is a mighty steed, but my eyes were caught far more by the stallion’s rider. He had golden hair that shone in the sunlight, and he rode with such ease that he seemed to have been born on top of it. Of course,” he chuckled softly. “I expected no less.”

Boromir fell silent after those words, and he bit his lip in vain attempt to stem his blush. Surely Aragorn would think him foolish now, for his speech was no different than a young noble maiden’s as she gushed about a prince she had once saw at her window. Even his admission to Aragorn upon the shores on Anduin had not caused so much embarrassment, for desires ran hot alongside shame, but this was… This was something else entirely, an infatuation that he could not rid himself of. Worse still, though Boromir wryly, he did not have a young maiden’s youth to serve as excuse, for he was of age with the Man he had spoken of so glowingly.

“He has other qualities, of course,” added Boromir hurriedly. “He is a great commander of Men, a leader whose people followed him with clear eyes, knowing his worth. Strong in honour and stronger in pride, he rare doubted himself; but there was little arrogance within him either, for he saw his people’s needs and he tended to them as much as he could. This was the time of war, and there was little he could do, yet he gave them the best he could.”

“What is his name?” asked Aragorn, his voice just as quiet as Boromir’s.

“Théodred,” replied Boromir. He blinked his eyes open, and fixed his gaze upon Aragorn. “Son of Théoden, King of Rohan.”

“Théoden-King must be a lucky Man indeed, to have such a son,” said Aragorn. Boromir stared at him in suspicion, but there was no mockery in Aragorn’s tone or eyes, and though he knew the Man could hide himself well, there seemed little need for it.

Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation caught up to him, and Boromir chuckled. He was suddenly reminded of the long nights he spent with Faramir long years ago, when he and his brother were both just boys and they had not known neither death nor grief. It was from before their mother’s death, and Boromir would stay up with his brother late at night, reading legends and histories from the great tomes that his tutors had assigned him to Faramir. His brother was but a babe and could not read well, but he was already fascinated by these stories. They had spent long hours in the large bed that still resided in Boromir’s chambers now, dwelling in the days long past, and Faramir had wished wistfully for the sight of an Elf, while Boromir only wished he could become as great a warrior as Elendil, as Isildur, or even Anárion.

He missed his home and his brother more than ever. What was Faramir doing now, so late in the night? Was he hidden in his chambers, poring over books as was his wont? Or had he been sent out to war now that Boromir was away, and pored instead over large maps? Boromir did not know, and he wished more than anything for news of Gondor. He wished that the Crebain had not passed over them, and the Company headed for the Gap of Rohan instead of being forced into these dark, damp caves.

But those were foolish thoughts made dangerous by the call of the Ring. The song in his mind grew stronger, and Boromir’s smile faded. He frowned instead and turned away from Aragorn, curling around himself and closing his eyes.

“The hour is late,” he said. “Let us sleep, so we might wake with brightened eyes that can illuminate the path we must take to escape this place.”

Aragorn’s hand was gentle as he laid it upon Boromir’s hip. It was hot, burning upon the Steward’s son’s skin even through the thick, damp layers he wore, but Boromir could not find it within himself to move away.

“Aye, we must,” whispered the Ranger. “But I thank you, Boromir, for the gift of this tale.”

“Do not think much about it,” replied Boromir. His hand clenched around the edge of his own cloak. “’Tis but a story in return for the one you told me. I hope it satisfies your curiosity.”

There were no words given in reply, only the quiet shift of cloth upon cloth as Aragorn crept closer to him until he could feel the other Man’s heat like a furnace behind him. Boromir wished he had the strength to push the Ranger away, but he did not. Théodred’s memory lingered in his mind with the brilliance of the sun and just as untouchable, as far away as Strider’s smile between his own thighs. The caves were dark and Boromir was suddenly glad for the lack of light, for in this darkness he could pretend he did not desire Aragorn’s touch as much as he did. Though the Evenstar that hung upon Isildur’s Heir’s throat severed the tenuous bond Boromir had once made with the Ranger Strider, Aragorn’s touch was still a comfort to him in a way words could not express.

When Boromir finally succumbed to sleep, it was with Aragorn’s warmth next to him. To trust the Man who was destined to steal Denethor’s throne might be an unwise decision, but Boromir slept that night without dreams, without nightmares, and without the Ring’s sweet refrain haunting his mind.

***

“I have forgotten to thank you,” said Aragorn.

The Fellowship had found itself within the woods of Lothlorien, kept supposedly safe. Boromir could find no ease here and he had kept himself to a corner of the camp set up for the travellers. The Hobbits hid themselves within ones, and occasionally Boromir could hear a muffled sob. Around him, the woods echoed with the lament sung for Gandalf, but Boromir’s grief for the old wizard was dwarfed by his concern for his city. Still, he was much immersed in his thoughts, and he started hard at the sound of Aragorn’s voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wish to thank you,” said Aragorn as he came forward, taking a seat on a wide stone near Boromir. “If not for your call at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, I might not have gotten out there in time, or have missed the orcs’ arrows.”

Boromir blinked at him, and immediately shook his head. “I would not have left you there,” he said. A part of him whispered that perhaps he should, for if Frodo was left without his greatest protector, then perhaps Boromir could have taken the Ring. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, but it lingered still, like the sour taste of bile on his tongue.

“We would not have found Lothlorien without you,” continued Boromir, and he stared at his hands so he would not show Aragorn the failings of his heart and mind, the continuous temptations of the Ring that pulled at him harder and harder in these woods without the sun.

A silence fell over them, and Boromir sank into it. His thoughts turned within themselves, over and over, and he watched as his hands clench tight without his permission, nails digging into his palms. He had removed his gloves, leaving them behind in the quarters that the Lord and Lady of the Woods had gifted the weary travellers, but now Boromir wished for them again. Perhaps if he could not see his skin, he would not notice the calluses on the tips of his fingers and be reminded once more of the home and battles he left behind.

The grass shifted beneath Aragorn’s feet, a soft noise that broke the silence. “Take some rest,” said Aragorn quietly. “These borders are well protected.”

Of course they were, thought Boromir bitterly. The Elves protected the Lands with the bare few magicks left in Middle Earth, and they left nothing for the race of Men who were given the task of protecting the whole of the world from the borders of Mordor itself. For the briefest of moments, Boromir spared a thought for Minas Ithil, long renamed Minas Morgul and one of Sauron’s strongholds, and he wondered where the Elves had been throughout these long centuries as Gondor had waged their wars.

“I will find no rest here.” Boromir near-started at the sound of his own voice. He swallowed, taking a breath, and forced himself to continue. “I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me: Even now, there is hope left.”

He turned away, ashamed at his own words and his weakness in speaking them. “I cannot see it,” he said, and his voice came as a shaking whisper. “It is long since we had any hope.”

What hope was there for Gondor, while their men died in droves and daily there were funeral rites, great high pyres of fire that reached the skies while the voices of the women cried and sobbed and screamed? What hope was left when the men Boromir had trained with and fought with in his first battles were all dead now, left to be consumed by the flames? What hope was there when mothers began to cry when they give birth to sons, for they knew that one day their children would be sacrificed in the fight against Mordor, against Sauron’s all-consuming anger, until there was no men left to take up arms? What hope was there left for Gondor when a man and a woman marrying was less a matter of love, than a matter of necessity, for there was always the need for more soldiers, more men, and six hundred years had worn all thoughts of love to the bone until it remained a fantasy achievable only by the luckiest few?

Boromir knew himself to be selfish. Long had he lamented his own nature, for his duties to Gondor had told him they were wrong. Long had he held onto the memories of that night under the moon in the forests for the sake of holding onto hope that he would one day be able to find another such Man, and he could know hope, and peace, and perhaps happiness. But what was the Steward’s son’s joys in the face of Gondor’s need? His desires had little importance when he could see the broken eyes of his people whenever he walked the streets, when he had seen with his own eyes the broken, bloodied hands of miners, blacksmiths, tailors – women all – as they struggled to supply Gondor’s armies with armour and swords.

Duty’s clarion call had always rang sharp in Boromir’s heart, and he knew that it was only Denethor’s late marriage that had forestalled his own. Yet he could not bear the thought, and as he glanced down, he realised his hands were once more shaking.

“My father,” he began. He swallowed, and took a shaking breath. “My father is a noble Man, but his rule is failing. And our people lose faith.” He did not blame them. How could he, when his own heart trembled and cried at the sight of the corpses each battle wrought upon Gondor? “He looks towards me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.”

The sights of his beloved, much missed city flashed in his mind. “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The Tower of Ecthelion, gleaming like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

“I have seen the White City, long ago,” replied Aragorn, but Boromir scarce heard it. He stumbled forward from his seat upon the rock, turning around. His hands clenched tightly around Aragorn’s forearms, his grip near tight enough to bruise.

“One day our paths will lead us there,” said Boromir, and though he wished to infuse his words with hope there was only despair, echoing around his ears in the cold twilight of Lothlorien. “The Tower Guards shall take up the call: The Lords of Gondor have returned!”

Aragorn’s fingers were warm against his neck, and Boromir, foolish and unwise, leaned towards it.

“You have refused me knowledge of your heritage in Rivendell,” whispered Boromir, his voice trembling. “Will you answer my call now, Aragorn, if I call for the Lords of Gondor? Or does Isildur’s Heir keep himself in the North, the lands of the Rangers where Isildur himself had met his end?”

“’Tis a heavy task you have asked of me,” murmured Aragorn, his eyes steady upon Boromir’s. “’Tis not my place to declare myself a Lord.”

“Whose is it, then?” shot back Boromir. “Who has the authority to claim the throne of Gondor for your sake? You are Isildur’s Heir, and though on these long roads you have not once claimed to be Gondor’s King, you are our leader. ‘Tis by your guidance that we have reached Lothlorien, or will you deny that as well?”

“No,” said Aragorn. “I will not. .” His eyes narrowed. “What will you ask of me, Boromir? What will Gondor’s people ask of their Lords?” “Hope,” said Boromir, and as he spoke the word he knew it to be true. The Steward of Gondor and his Captains and sons did not only lead their people, but also bolster their faith, their belief in tomorrow. There was no tomorrow Boromir could see now, in this place of eternal twilight where the sun did not piece through the mallorn trees. Time seemed not to pass, but Boromir counted his heartbeats and breaths still, and he took a deep one of the latter now.

“’Tis the duty of Gondor’s Lords, Aragorn, to give its people hope.”

Aragorn took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them once more, he took Boromir’s hands into his own, engulfing them with his callused, rough fingers. “I arrived in Imladris at the age of two after my father’s death,” murmured Aragorn, and his eyes were piercingly bright even in the dull that blanketed the Golden Wood. “My mother, in hope of protecting me, gave me a new name. As a child in Lord Elrond’s lands, I was not known as Aragorn, but as Estel.”

Boromir knew little of Sindarin, but his eyes widened, for near-forgotten memories of his tutors’ lessons pricked in his mind.

“You were named Hope,” said the son of the Steward of Gondor.

“”nen i-estel edain. Ú-chebin estel anim,” said Aragorn. “My mother’s words, as she gave me as hope to the race of Men, and kept none for herself.”

“’Tis a heavy name to bear,” replied Boromir, and he cast his eyes down. The grass of Lothlorien was rich despite the lack of light, he thought, and he wondered if Elven magicks had reached the soils as well.

“Aye,” said Aragorn, and his voice chased all thoughts of Galadriel and her knowing eyes from Boromir’s mind. “My mother was wise, but ‘tis only now that I know her reasons for the name.” He lifted Boromir’s hands to his lips, and pressed a dry kiss upon the knuckles.

“I know not what strength is in me, and I know not if I deserve the title of King. But if you name me the Lord of Gondor, Boromir, then ‘tis a title I will carry with pride. What little strength remains in me will be your own. Let me be your hope, and your faith, until the day we walk through Minas Tirith’s gates and hear the silver trumpets’ clarion calls. ‘Tis by your acknowledgment that I am made a Lord of Gondor, Steward’s Heir, and that I will not forget.”

Foolish and unwise to trust a Man who would steal rulership from his father’s hands, Boromir knew, but he could not stop his heart from soaring. Long it had been since he had met Strider, the Ranger of the North to whom he had given his body, but now he saw him again, sitting in front of him with his back straight and eyes clear. Fifteen years or more had passed since Boromir had looked into Strider's eyes and saw himself reflected in them, a warrior strong and respected despite all that he admitted to, all that he had done.

“I wish for hope,” said Boromir hoarsely. “The Lady of the Light told me hope still holds within these lands, and perhaps ‘tis you that she refers to. I wish for hope, Aragorn, and for faith, and all that a plain soldier asks of his Captain before a battle in which he knows not if he will survive, or if his beloved city will fall.”

Aragorn stood, pulling Boromir up with him. There was strength in the Ranger’s arms that steeled Boromir’s spine, and he stood straight before Aragorn, before the Lord of Gondor, before the Man whom he was slowly, reluctantly beginning to accept as his Captain and a Man whom he would follow to the ends of Middle Earth itself, if Aragorn would always look at him with those clear eyes without judgment.

“Then ‘tis hope that I will give you,” whispered Aragorn.

The Lady Galadriel gave Boromir a golden belt that he knew not what to do with. It shone and the white stone in its centre had such brilliance that it caught the sun no matter how much Boromir tried to hide it beneath his tunic. It was impractical, sure to draw all orcs towards them once they saw its light glinting, and Boromir did not know the reason why she had gifted such a thing to him. He was not a Man with great care for riches.

Boromir hid the belt in his pocket as the Fellowship took the Elven boats down the Anduin. He had felt his heart clench at the sight of the Argonath, for though the great Kings of Men carved into stone were magnificent indeed, it reminded him of Gondor. They were now entering the lands of Men, moving close towards Anárion’s city that he had ruled over in his father’s absence, a city that bordered Mordor. Boromir could nearly see the smoke of Mount Doom as it reached towards the skies, and chill set once more into his bones, and the song of the Ring rang louder and louder.

He ignored it the best he could, fixing his eyes on Aragorn as the Company reached the shore. The sun had long set, sinking down to hide behind the tall Misty Mountains. Sometimes Boromir could not believe it had been weeks since they had turned from Caradhras for it was surely too short a time. Sometimes he could still feel the chill of the mountaintop on his skin.

There was a sound; a boat moving through the water. Boromir’s warriors instincts kicked in immediately, and he ducked behind a large boulder, peering out through it to the river.

“Gollum,” said Aragorn quietly from behind him. “He has tracked us since Moria. I had hoped we would lose him on the river but he is too clever a water man.”

Boromir knew the name – Legolas had spoken of how Gollum had escaped the Mirkwood Elves’ capture before the quest. It was for the reason of reporting his escape that he had journeyed to Rivendell, and now Boromir looked at the strange creature lurking atop a floating log, he felt a shiver creep down his spine. Once Gollum had been something else, but now he was a distorted, monstrous creature, made so by his long possession of the Ring, given extra years to live in his current state, which was no life at all.

Close to them, the Ringbearer sat upon a rock near the bank of the Anduin, safely kept out of sight of any who sailed upon the river. The Ring, Boromir knew, hid beneath the small hobbit’s tunic, but he dismissed the thought immediately, turning towards Aragorn.

“If he alerts the enemies to our whereabouts it will make the crossing even more dangerous,” he said. Sam began to chivvy Frodo to eat, to sleep, but Boromir kept his eyes firmly on Aragorn – not merely waiting for his reply, but using the sight of his quietly-admitted King to stifle the Ring’s sweet song.

When Aragorn made no reply, Boromir stepped towards him.

“Minas Tirith is a safer road. From there we can regroup. Strike out for Mordor from a place of strength.”

As he spoke he wondered if his words were driven by his true belief for the need for safety that could be found in Gondor, or if his heart ached so strongly for home, to fight once more alongside the soldiers of Gondor who gave their lives daily for the White City, that his mind could see no better road than to pass through his city towards Gondor.

He had spoken in the Council – there was no way anyone could walk into Mordor, not even with an army. But if there were Men of Gondor as his back and side, and if Aragorn would lead them, the strongest fighting force amongst the race of Men, against Sauron, then perhaps Frodo would have a chance. His hands trembled.

“There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us,” said Aragorn quietly, so calmly that a few heartbeats passed before Boromir could believe his own ears.

“You are quick enough to trust the Elves!” he shouted, stepping forward, all caution about Gollum forgotten as he stood inches from Aragorn. “Have you so little faith in your own people?”

What of the words Aragorn had said to him? Where were they now? Aragorn’s eyes were made grey by the darkness that folded over the Company, and there was a chill in them that made Boromir clench his hands by his side. But he still held onto the silver of hope he had been given, and he took another step forward.

“Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty,” he said, and the irony laced in his tone could not be missed by his own ears. Who knew better than Aragorn how frail and weak a Man could be? “But there is courage also, and honour, to be found in Men.”

Aragorn’s eyes remained cold.

Boromir abandoned his dignity, forcing his eyes to beg for Aragorn to see, to deny his words. Had Aragorn already forgotten the words he had spoken himself? Was the Ranger’s memory so short he now remembered nothing of what had passed between them in Lothlorien, when the Golden Wood was only two days’ journey away?

Aragorn turned away, his back straight, his eyes like ice even they turned from Boromir.

“But you will not see that,” whispered the Steward’s son. He froze in place, his heart slamming hard in his chest.

In Lothlorien, he walked with Aragorn towards the quarters Aragorn had been given by the Lady of the Light. It was carved from the heart of a mallorn tree, its walls were a light colour, brown like burnished, burnt gold, and Boromir let his fingers run down the grain. Smooth, nigh unnaturally so, and he thought once more of Minas Tirith, of the high white stones pockmarked and stained by centuries upon centuries of living and of battle, no matter the efforts of the stonemasons to clean them. Embedded within the city’s walls were the histories of its people, of how they lived and loved and died. Yet in this strange Elvenhome, there was no such thing, and Boromir shivered slightly at the chill that seeped into his very bones at the thought.

“Let me chase the cold,” said Aragorn, his hands sliding into Boromir’s hair to cup his head. “In Moria’s mines you allowed me to sleep beside you. Will you allow me the privilege again, Boromir?”

“Your presence comforts me much,” replied Boromir, his voice soft and tremulous. “But ‘tis not enough for hope, for the cold had seeped into my bones and lodged itself into my heart. In these rooms I feel the winter winds of Caradhras, and the sickly sweet smell of death in Moria haunts

my dreams. I can find no rest here, Aragorn, until the memories have faded away.”

There was the Ring. Though Boromir could not see it and Frodo was far from him, its song lingered in his mind, refusing to be drowned out. However, Boromir himself was far more obstinate, but his spirit tired, and he feared that soon he would not be able to keep it at bay, and he would give in to the Ring’s temptations.

“Then let me comfort you with heat,” said Aragorn as he moved towards the bed, his hands held out towards Boromir. “Lie with me tonight, and take strength from my body.”

Boromir stumbled at those words, his feet catching in the rich carpet that paved the mallorn wood floors. Aragorn’s hands caught him, brought him to the bed, but Boromir barely felt the touch, so wide were his eyes and so great was his shock as he stared at Aragorn.

“Are you not playing the Lord and I the soldier tonight, Aragorn?” he whispered.

“Aye,” answered Aragorn, and his smile was soothing. “Is there shame for a Lord to be taken, Boromir? I remembered a Man once, named Haradion, whose hair shone underneath the moonlight and whose eyes told me the great pleasures he received at the Ranger Strider’s hands. I saw shame in his eyes, but ‘twas not caused by his postion.”

“’Tis shameful indeed,” said Boromir, averting his eyes. “A Lord who allows a mere soldier to take him is a laughingstock in Gondor.”

“Nay,” said Aragorn, his finger pressing light upon Boromir’s lips. “There is no shame in pleasure and desire. ‘Tis much I have learned from the Elves. My body is yours tonight to do as you will, Boromir, and there is no shame in my heart for it.”

There were words on Boromir’s tongue in condemnation, for Aragorn claimed to be a Lord of Gondor and yet here he was, once more behaving like an Elf. But Boromir’s heart could not find the strength to argue, and his blood sang for he looked upon Aragorn and admitted him beautiful in this soft light.

His hand reached out without his mind’s bidding, and as he undressed Aragorn and pushed him down to the bed, Boromir looked deep into the changeable eyes of the Man of the North who claimed to be Gondor’s King. He found no shame there, only desire, and pleasure later as Boromir pushed into him and rode him hard and rough, his hands leaving bruises on Aragorn’s skin. There was no fear in Aragorn’s eyes for reprisal, and Boromir found himself surprised for he could not find it within himself to revile this Man despite his show of weakness and vulnerability.

No, his heart was a foolish creature, for it drew strength with each thrust into Aragorn’s body, each sight of those eyes misted over in pleasure. As Boromir closed his eyes, he knew he was a traitor to the Steward, and a disloyal Captain.

That night, as he laid beside Aragorn on the Lorien bed as the voices of the Elves rose around them in lament for Gandalf, he knew he slept beside the Man his heart called King.

In Lothlorien, Boromir had looked upon Aragorn and pledged his troth in silence. Yet now, barely days since, Aragorn had betrayed himself, betrayed his own name of Estel, and Boromir felt his hopes and heart tear themselves into shreds. He could not stand it. Not this, not despair, for that was the greatest poison of all. No, he could only find it within himself to be angry, and he reached out, his hand tightening around Aragorn’s arm.

“You are afraid,” he accused, His eyes spat fire, but there was a burning in his throat still, and Boromir parted his lips and let the words rush forth: “All your life you have hidden in the shadows! Scared of who you are, what you are!”

He stopped. What use was there in continuing? Aragorn would not listen – his eyes had turned to stone despite Boromir’s impassioned speech, and Gondor’s son cast his eyes down, staring at his feet, at the rocks around him. Strange, that it was along Anduin’s shores that Boromir first found hope from Aragorn, and now it was almost the same place that it was destroyed. There was a poetic irony in this, but Boromir lingered not upon the thought. He would not allow himself to sink into despair.

Yet Aragorn was not finished.

“I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city,” growled Isildur’s heir suddenly, his grey eyes narrowed and sharp like a hundred knives piercing through Boromir’s skin. He walked away, and Boromir let him leave, his fingers nervous and his heart wrenching tight in his chest. Your city, Aragorn had said, and with those two mere words he had severed his ties to Gondor and renounced the title of being one of her Lords.

Boromir had laid his loyalty at Aragorn’s feet without speaking a word of it. It should have been enough, more than enough, that he had sought comfort from Aragorn’s arms and called him Captain. Was not the duty of Gondor’s Lords to give her people comfort? Yet Aragorn had ground Boromir’s loyalty into dust, leaving him behind gaping like a fool, and Boromir’s eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. Boromir’s heart, a broken, brittle thing, shuddered under the impact of the blow, and he turned away to hide his eyes as he felt it crack, and shatter.

Foolish and unwise he truly was, to have trusted the Man who would steal his father’s throne. Boromir berated himself – was he truly so starved for touch that he would take any that came to him, raising the giver to a high place and trusting him, no matter how little it was deserved? Was he truly so desperate that he had lost all clear-sightedness and good judgment? How could he have trusted Aragorn? The young Captain who laid himself bare before the Ranger Strider could be forgiven for his youth, but Boromir had led the armies of Gondor for twenty years, and had fought in Gondor’s battles for five more, and there was no forgiveness that could be found for the Captain-General who had made a grievous mistake that would topple the line of Stewards, and hand Gondor over to an unworthy King.

The Ring sang in his mind. Boromir could hear once more how Sam chivvied Frodo to eat, and there were quiet sounds of metal sounds on wooden plates as Frodo ate. He knew the burdens lifted from Frodo’s shoulders now that the Ring had turned its full attention to him, but Boromir had no more strength to resist that gentle, luring song.

He could feel eyes on him. Legolas’s Elven eyes bore holes into Boromir’s back, and though the Steward’s son knew the Elf might look out of concern, he could not help but turn and give Legolas a sharp glare. He would not take the Ring now, not when Frodo was surrounded by his protectors, with Aragorn coming to his side—

No!

No. Boromir turned away from the sight of the hobbit, walking towards the river’s bank. He bent and picked up a single stone, feeling its cool smoothness against his palm. No, he would not attack Frodo and take the Ring, no matter how strong the temptation. Months – lifetimes – ago, he had made a promise at the Council of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, that Gondor would see Frodo’s task done. Gondor would see the Ring destroyed, that much he swore, and though Boromir clutched onto his honour with bloodstained and shaking hands, he would not release it. If there were no more honour left for the Men of Gondor, what would be left for them?

The burden of the Ring’s destruction and the protection of the Ringbearer had been laid upon Gondor’s feet by Boromir’s own hands, and he would fulfil that vow. There was none else who would, or could.

Aragorn had ground Boromir’s loyalty into dust, but there was a great deal more lost. He had destroyed the tenuous bond that tied him to Gondor, and that the Captain of the White Tower could not forgive him for.

Gondor would not have her King, Boromir decided. She would have to make do with a Steward’s Heir, worn around the edges and with a single duty he would never be able to truly fulfil. Boromir knew he was willing and he was bred for such a task, and though his heart cried out for him to reach for Aragorn and try to make the Elven-bred Ranger understand, his pride would not stand such a thing.

What use was a heart’s aching, when faced with the necessities of his pride?

***

The Company had settled upon the banks of the Anduin once more to make camp. They had passed long mountains, and though the sun was still high on the skies, Aragorn had signalled that they should stop. The armies of the Enemy were close by, Boromir knew, and they should hurry down the Anduin as quickly as the currents could take them. He wondered, with a bitterness unsuitable for an obedient soldier, if Gollum had indeed led the orcs and Uruk-hai to them.

Parth Galen this was, and Boromir realised with a start that this was where he had lain with Strider so very long ago. The trees were familiar to the touch, and Boromir knew these lands for finally they had reached the South, and Gondor was so very close by. It would be but a week’s journey on foot to Rohan and ten to Minas Tirith, even shorter for a rider. But there was no use in such thoughts, for Aragorn had made his mind clear: they would not head for Gondor, no matter the throne that awaited him there, or the sanctuary of the Citadel where surely the Steward would receive them if Boromir stood surety for the presence of the Fellowship.

There was need for firewood. The lembas bread the Lady Galadriel had given them might be holding up well, though their stores depleted quickly due to the hobbits’ appetite, but at the same time there was still need for warmth in the night.

So Boromir circled around these mundane thoughts, keeping them in his mind as a distraction against the temptation of the Ring. Its song was clearer and sharper than ever, and with each step Boromir took he despaired. Any strength he might have kept in his heart was worn away by Aragorn’s denial of his own city. How could a soldier keep faith when his Captain denied the very source of it? No, Boromir had little strength left, and all he had to keep hold to was his honour, and the vow he had made to Frodo.

It was a mistake to think of the hobbit. Boromir, his hands laden with firewood, could see the Ringbearer out of the corner of his eyes. Surely the hobbit needed protection, and he headed towards him. A part of his mind urged him to turn away, to head back to the Company and tell Aragorn that Frodo was alone so that both Men could keep watch over the Ringbearer. So Aragorn could protect Frodo from Boromir himself.

There was no trust left in his heart for Aragorn.

“None of us should wander alone,” called Boromir as he stopped in front of the little hobbit. So small the creature was, so fragile with his large, begging eyes. “You least of all. So much depends on you.”

Frodo started, staring at him, those eyes growing even bigger as if he pleaded with Boromir to relieve him from his burden. Did Frodo not realise that Boromir was here to protect him? Did he not know that Boromir held his honour and duty above all else?

“Frodo?”

The hobbit turned his eyes away. Boromir approached him, wishing to reassure, wishing to give comfort. He was a Captain, was he not? Though Frodo was not one of his soldiers, he was under Boromir’s safeguarding still.

“I know why you seek solitude,” he continued. “You suffer, I see it day by day. Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly? There are other ways, Frodo, other paths we might take.”

“I know what you would say,” replied Frodo, his eyes frightened but remaining caught in Boromir’s gaze. “And it would seem like wisdom, but for the warning in my heart.”

“Warning?” replied Boromir incredulously. “Against what?”

The Ringbearer does not trust you. He does not give you the respect you deserve. You are a strong, honourable Man, the Captain of Gondor’s armies, so why does he fear you? He fears you for he does not respect you, Boromir. He fears you for he does not understand the duties you hold so dear, and he has no love for Gondor.

Boromir’s hands trembled. He clutched the firewood further, taking another step forward. Frodo stepped back, clearly terrified, and Boromir licked his lips.

“We’re all afraid, Frodo, but to let that fear drive us to destroy what hope we have... don't you see? That is madness!”

He knew what madness was. He knew it well.

“There is no other way!” cried Frodo.

He has no love for Gondor. He will see Gondor destroyed, its high towers burnt, its gleaming white walls turned black from the smokes of Mordor, so he can hold onto the Ring. The Ringbearer has gone mad, son of Gondor. He is filled with greed, with want, and he has succumbed to the Ring.

Frodo was a noble hobbit, braver than the rest of the Company. Boromir wished to stop himself, and he closed his eyes, but he saw his city. He saw it in its great glory, its banners flying high in the wind, the Tower of Ecthelion in front of his eyes, the highest architectural achievement in the whole of Middle Earth. He saw it clearly: his father smiling, his arms around Faramir, and all around him his Men cheered as Mordor fell, destroyed entirely. Sauron was defeated, and the Lidless Eye could no longer turn its malevolent glare towards the Men of Gondor.

Frodo was a noble hobbit, braver than the rest of the Company. Yet he did not know Boromir’s duties. He did not know the strength Gondor needed, the strength she so sorely needed these past years of endless battles, of a War waged against Mordor and its endless troops of orcs.

“I only ask for the strength to defend my people,” Boromir threw the firewood down so he could reach out towards Frodo.

He could see it. A Man beside himself, his torso broad and his arm strong as he wrapped himself around Boromir. He could hear his people’s cheering growing louder, the chants of Gondor, Gondor, Gondor, becoming a call, a sign towards all that the Men of Middle Earth had triumphed against the evil that not even the great Elves with their magicks could destroy. Boromir heard it all, saw it all, and he knew what he must do.

Boromir took another step forward. He forced further words out from a closed throat. “If you will only lend me the Ring…”

“No!”

“Why do you recoil?” Why did Frodo not trust him? Had Boromir not held onto his honour? Had he not protected Frodo for these past months through the long journeys they had taken? “I am no thief!”

“You are not yourself!” cried the hobbit. His begging eyes stared into Boromir, and his hands almost fell back to his side. But no, Boromir would be strong. He had made a vow to bring the Ring to Mordor. Gondor will see it done, he said, and he would.

He would, once he had used the power of the Ring to destroy its master and save Gondor. He would, for there was no other way for him to achieve what he needed so badly. There was no other road for Gondor’s Captain to take, if he was to save his city and change it so the one duty he could not perform would not be the ruin of him. All he needed was the Ring. The Ringbearer was nigh begging for him to take it with his eyes, no matter what his words meant.

“What chance do you think you have?” whispered the Steward’s son, and his footsteps quickened as he moved towards Frodo. “They will find you. They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end!”

Boromir knew what laid ahead for those captured by the orcs. They were cruel, vicious creatures. It was a kindness he was doing for Frodo, that he knew not. The hobbit was too fragile to carry the Ring; only a strong warrior could bear it. Only a strong Man could wield it. Only Boromir should wield it. Its power would solve all of his worries; if Boromir wielded the Ring, then none would ever look at him and not acknowledge that he was a warrior worthy of the station of the Captain of Gondor’s armies. He would not fear again.

He refused to fear again. There was naught he needed but one small thing. A tiny thing with barely any weight without its chain.

“Fool!” he shouted to Frodo. Could he not see? Boromir was his salvation, the release from his burden that he long sought! The Ring was not Frodo’s to give! “It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine. Give it to me!”

Boromir leaped towards Frodo, his hands outstretched. His mind had never been so clear. The Ring’s song had ceased.

Gondor’s Captain fell.

***

The skies were dark on that day, so dark that Strider’s eyes had appeared like a pair of blue lanterns. Boromir had not forgotten that shade since. Though the memories of that night had been spoiled by his knowledge of who the Ranger truly was, he could not exorcise it from his mind.

Long had Boromir resigned himself to his own desires, knowing they could not be changed no matter how hard he tried. Long had he decided to throw himself fully into the task of commanding, for that he excelled in, and it proved him worthy to be a Captain whom Men would follow gladly; a Captain who knew enough of war to not lead his soldiers into worthless battles and use flawed strategies that ended with the death of his people. Long had Boromir held onto his honour and his duty with clenching hands and fingers, for they were all that mattered to him, all that he had left.

The ground was cold beneath his knees. Was it so cold on that night? Boromir did not think so. There was no cold that he remembered. Strider’s heat had chased it all away then. Now Boromir tried to remember some of it as he turned his head up and looked up into the Uruk-Hai’s eyes. There was defiance still within Boromir, but at the same time – he wished to thank the creature, for surely he would kill him now before anyone else knew of his dishonour, and Boromir would not have to live with the knowledge of his failures for much longer. His only regret remained for his little hobbits, carried away by the Uruk-Hai and the orcs. What fate would befall them, Boromir knew not, and he could not protect them, so far away they were from him.

But perhaps that was a boon in disguise. What would Boromir have done to the little ones if he continued to stay by their side? He did not know. He could not trust himself. He had lost his honour, betrayed the vow he made, and now all he had left was the possibility of a sweet death by an enemy’s hands. He kept his eyes on the Uruk-Hai, staring deep into black sets set deep into a dark face, and steeled himself for oblivion.

At least the pain of breathing would fade, even if he was to be haunted by his failures for the rest of eternity.

There was the sound of battle. A sharp cry. The swinging of a sword. From his lowered lids Boromir could see Aragorn bursting out of the trees, his nameless sword shining brightly underneath the sun. Boromir dragged air painfully into his lungs, placing one hand then two on the ground. He crawled away from the sound of a battle he could not see, and every inch he gained sent the arrows deeper into his flesh, and a sharp piercing pain laced through his mind. Yet Boromir fought to crawl away, the most lowly of battles he had ever fought against himself, for he was a failed warrior but he would not be a hindrance against Aragorn if he still had breath.

When he finally reached a low slope, he turned and allowed himself to slump against the ground. It was dry but cold, but there was no greater chill than that of death. Boromir could feel it approaching and wished it would come to him faster.

“Boromir!” cried Aragorn, his voice sounding as if it came from the opposite bank of the river, so dim it was.

“They took the little ones,” cried Boromir. The words burst out of him, each one a separate flame in his throat. His conscience tugged at him, and though he knew he might keep his honour if he did not tell Aragorn his failure, he was too honest a Man.

“Frodo! Where is Frodo?”

“I let Frodo go,” replied Aragorn, and his voice was choked.

Aye, Aragorn was indeed a better Man than he was, than Boromir could ever be.

“Then you did what I could not.” He swallowed, and forced himself to continue and lay his shame upon Aragorn’s feet. “I tried to take the Ring from him.”

Aragorn’s hands came to cup his cheeks, leather worn and warmed by skin stroking against Boromir’s jaw. “The Ring is beyond our reach now,” he said.

“Forgive me,” said Boromir wildly. “I did not see. I have failed you all.”

“No, Boromir,” replied Aragorn, and his face was so close that Boromir could see his eyes. They were blue, a blue as clear as the waters of Anduin. “You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.”

He was a foolish Man, an unwise Man, Boromir knew. He should not trust this usurper, this Man who was named Isildur’s Heir by an Elf, but his heart soared at Aragorn’s words. A hand left his cheek, reaching for an arrow, but Boromir fought through the pain and gripped onto Aragorn’s wrist.

“Leave it,” he rasped. “It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin.”

Aragorn kissed him.

It was a swift kiss, but sweet for it was unexpected and sudden. Why Aragorn had done such a thing, Boromir did not know, and his heart ached not from the pain of the arrows’ poisons, but for the affection he could see in Aragorn’s eyes. The pain they had dealt to each other a day ago was extinguished, and Boromir’s hands shook as he reached up to slide them into Aragorn’s hair. He despised his gloves them, hated them deeply, for there was naught he wished for than to feel Aragorn’s skin against his own.

“Boromir,” whispered Aragorn. “Boromir,” he said again, tipping his head to the side, leaning into Boromir’s touch. “I know not what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

“Our people,” repeated Boromir, foolish Man that he was. “Our people.”

Gondor will see it done.

Boromir’s hands trembled as he reached for his sword. Aragorn wrapped his fingers around it, and he pressed it to his chest. He looked at the Man kneeling over his own body. Since Rivendell he had thought Strider and Aragorn to be separate Men, but now he knew they were the same, and his heart swelled for he saw himself within those clear blue eyes again. He saw a Man who knew his deepest and most undutiful desires; saw a Man who listened to his confessions of his failures and told him he had kept his honour.

The memories of Strider he had kept deep within his heart for fifteen years. In cold nights as he pulled his men into his arms to comfort them, he had kept the thought of the Ranger in his mind so his eyes would not burn with loneliness. There was one man who had seen him as he was, a Man who knew no shame of finding pleasure in another man’s touch, and he judged Boromir not for his frailties and his desires. He judged Boromir not for wanting his touch, his heat, and though he had watched Men be sent to their death for what he indulged in, though he knew himself to be a hypocrite, that night fifteen years ago had allowed him to put one foot in front of another in the darkest of times.

For Aragorn had seen the most shameful part of him, and did not think him less of a warrior.

His breath pained him and darkness near forced him to fade away. But Boromir fought death hard now, his hand clenching tight on his sword.

“I would have followed you,” said Boromir, the words clear in his mind, born from his heart. “My brother, my Captain.” He let his sword go.

“My King.”

As Boromir surged forward, both hands grabbing onto Aragorn’s shoulders as he stole one last kiss from willing lips, he felt death’s scythe strike down upon him. Now he did not fight it, for he felt Aragorn’s rough lips return his kiss.

He felt his shame slip away, and he followed it into the darkness.

Aragorn closed his eyes. He did not speak and could not breathe. Boromir’s last breath, exhaled into his own mouth, was like a brand within his lungs, writing the name of Gondor’s most dutiful son upon the insides. He held it within him as much as he could, but his eyes sparked black spots, and Aragorn knew he had to let it go.

His hand cupped Boromir’s stiff neck, lowering him gently onto the cold ground. He looked at those half-closed eyes, and he slipped the lids closed.

“Be at peace,” whispered Isildur’s Heir, the uncrowned King of Gondor, his voice dark with unshed tears, “son of Gondor.”

In his long life, Aragorn had pondered many times about taking the Golden Throne of Gondor. At his twentieth year Elrond of Imladris had told him his true name, and the burden of Elendil’s abandoned throne had laid itself upon his shoulders. He could not understand Men, and always had he thought them weak, comparing them unfavourably to the Elves even when he was Captain Thorongil, serving under Ecthelion the Steward.

He could barely remember the night when he met Boromir. It was a night like many nights before and after it when the Ranger Strider had hunted the orcs of Mordor that had escaped the swords and arrows of Gondorian soldiers to travel up North. Haradion was a Man like many Men of Gondor before him, fearful and ashamed of his own desires, On that night Aragorn had thought once more that he surely could not rule over Gondor, not over a land that punished men and women for desires that they could not help having; that punished them for the crime of love when stories of such love should be made into songs and glorified to help chase off the eternal darkness of war.

Now he looked on Boromir; on Boromir’s body, which was growing cold beneath him. He took stiff fingers and folded them, bringing them to his lips as he pressed a gentle, shaking kiss. His eyes caught the White Tree embroidered upon Boromir’s vambraces, and he made a vow.

Gondor would find peace, Aragorn swore to himself. She would find peace under his rule, and Aragorn would wrought the changes needed. No matter how long it would take – for surely it would take at least a Rohirrim’s lifetime to change what had been put in place for six hundred years – Aragorn would ensure that a brave, honourable Man like Boromir would never be tormented by what he could not change of himself.

Aragorn had failed to save the first Man who had pledged himself to him and named him King. He would not fail another, not while there was still breath in him. He would not run from his duties again, not when Boromir had spent his life trying to fulfil his.

Slowly, he stood. Looking down to Boromir, Aragorn finally allowed a single tear to break free.

“They will look for his coming from the White Tower,” he whispered.

“But he will not return.”

***

The sun’s dawning light was peeking through the trees as Boromir woke. As a warrior for this long decade, the mists of sleep did not fade gently, but dissipate quickly as he sat up. Strider was no longer by his side as he had been when they had both succumbed to sleep, but that Boromir had expected. He did not expect, however, for Strider to have remained, dressed as he was with his sword strapped back to his hip.

Boromir stood silently without greeting the Ranger. He reached for his clothes and dressed as quickly as he could.

“The orcs have surely turned north,” said Strider quietly. “’Twill be best if you turn back to Gondor, Lord Boromir, and leave their destruction to me.”

“Nay,” replied Boromir immediately, his eyes narrowing. “’Tis the duty I have been given, and I will not rest until I have seen the orcs slain with my own eyes, and by my own hand.”

Strider’s gaze was heavy on him, but Boromir was defiant, tilting his head up and meeting those eyes without flinching. He knew his duty well, and he would not entrust it upon a stranger. His body he would give to Strider, but he would not risk the safety of Gondor in the hands of the same Man.

The silence was long between them, filled sporadically by the quiet chirping of birds in the trees.

“Aye,” said Strider finally. “The road I take will be a harsh one, and we must be swift upon our feet.”

“You insult me, Ranger,” snorted Boromir. He picked up his sword and strapped it back to his hip, and his hunting knife he slung across his back. “I am a warrior and I am used to the urgencies of war. Lead on, and worry not for my ability to follow.”

Strider nodded. Boromir turned away, having considered the discussion finished, but the Ranger had stepped close to him, his now-gloved hand closing around Boromir’s wrist.

“Will Haradion still answer me, if I call upon him on these nights?”

Boromir started, pulling his hand away and stepping back. His lips parted, insults on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. Strider’s eyes were grey, the morning sun having robbed them of their unearthly brightness, but they were still piercing, still cutting Boromir deep to the bone, and he could only take a shuddering breath in response.

“Nay,” he said quietly. He wished more than anything for the ability to give another answer. “Nay, he will not answer. I am but Boromir.”

Strider closed his eyes, turning away. “Then ‘tis my hope that we will find the orcs tonight, and we need not linger too long in these forests.”

Was it just an enchantment cast by the forest and the moon, then? Was what they had shared but a few short hours before something so fleeting that it no longer existed, not even when they looked each other in the eye? Boromir wondered why he had ever expected anything less, for this was little different from the other comforts he had sought amongst the arms of men and the comforts he had given himself.

Even amongst Rangers, it seemed the touches shared between men died with the night, leaving no sign of its presence within the light. No, there was no hope to be found here, and Boromir cursed himself for his folly. He bent and picked up his pack from the ground, tearing his eyes from the Ranger.

Hours had passed since he had stopped tracking the orcs. Who knew where the pack had gone by now? There was much left to be if Gondor was to be kept safe.

Boromir knew his duty.