Boromir's bed had stood in the same place for as long as he could remember, opposite a window with a view dominated by the White Tower. If he hung out of this window, he could see a little more of the view down over the plains, but given his reckless nature and the distance between the window and the courtyard below, this had been discouraged.
The bed had a heavy, carved wooden headboard, firm mattress and was made up with fresh lavender scented linen every day. Onto this bed he had thrown himself when he was finally left alone after his mother's death. He had sobbed so hard his chest had hurt, adding to the pain of his broken heart. His mother, his golden light, had left him, left them, alone with a father who had shown little affection during their lives.
Later, it was in this bed that he had held Faramir close and rocked him to sleep, when, missing their mother, he would sneak into Boromir's room to seek comfort. Boromir would wait until his brother was asleep, then let his tears fall into golden hair. This was the only time he would let his feelings out, as his Father thought of him as the strong one, his firstborn, who would grow up to take the mantle of Steward from him when the time came. He had no time for the weakness of a child left desolate by death.
It was at the foot of this bed that he had held Faramir close as he prepared to leave Minas Tirith to search for Rivendell, haunted by the feeling he would never again look upon the face of his beloved brother.
The bed that was his while he was in Rivendell also had a carved wooden headboard, but unlike his own bed, it was delicate work, as was everything else that surrounded him in the Elven palace. Even in these troubled times, a feeling of calm hung in the air, and he found the elves with their polite grace to be restrained and guarded. Often he had to fight the urge to scream and rage against the peace and quiet.
He looked forward to the many patrols that took him out of Rivendell and into the wilds beyond. Here, he felt at home, his skills with a blade appreciated when orcs surprised their group as they scouted the hills.
It was in this otherworldly place, and bed, that he had come to know the grey-eyed ranger. Boromir needed to think of him as a ranger, as he had difficulty accepting that a future king of Gondor would be willing to lie with him as they shared pleasures that he had never known before. When he had first woken to find himself wrapped in cool sheets and warm limbs, he had blushed when he remembered how it happened. Memories of soft lips burning his skin, a demanding tongue that tasted of wood smoke and earth and all that was Aragorn, bodies moving rhythmically together, sighs and moans and the sweet rush of pleasure.
Later, when he passed Arwen in the gardens, he had nodded to her in greeting, and she had smiled at him, a secret smile that told him she knew, a smile that brought colour to his cheeks once more and sent him stuttering on his way.
In Boromir's fantasy, he was back in the White City. A large bed stood in the centre of the kings bedchamber, a room that had been unused for many centuries now fresh and bright. In his mind, he could see the vast windows thrown open to let light stream into the room, white curtains billowing in a soft breeze.
Aragorn, his king, lay on the bed, arms stretched over his head, his face buried in pillows. There were beads of sweat on his tense shoulders, so Boromir leaned over and licked them off before burying his face in the dark hair below him, nuzzling soft skin where neck met shoulder and inhaling. If there was one moment he could live in forever, this was it. The fragrance of sweat and skin and sex, he could smell his own scent mingled with that of his lover, and he could loose himself in it.
He imagined the smile on Aragorn's face as he moved lower, heard gasps of pleasure as he licked and kissed his way down the back that was laid out before him and felt tremors as his fingers moved over taut muscle. When he moved a little lower, the body beneath him suddenly turned over, and hands were buried in his hair. The voice that pleaded with him to stop teasing, stop torturing, was husky with need. He lifted his head just enough to look into eyes that begged him for release, and grinned. Seconds later, he took Aragorn's cock into his mouth, straight down his throat, riding the waves of pleasure that coursed through Aragorn's body as he came, Boromir's name echoing round the chamber.
This fantasy kept him warm during many cold nights in the wilderness after the fellowship left Rivendell, and he could no longer lie with his lover every night.
Boromir died on a hillside, surrounded by the stench of orc blood. He knew he was dying, the arrows were buried deep and he could feel his lifeblood flowing from him. Minutes earlier, as the Uruk-hai aimed a final arrow at his heart, he had stared back at it, knowing he was about to die without seeing his lover one more time, without being able to apologise for trying to take the ring, with so many things left unsaid.
Then Aragorn swept into the glade, knocking his executioner away. Boromir had fallen back, and watched, unable to move as he watched the fight to the death unfold before his eyes. Then it was over, and Aragorn was with him, tears in his eyes as he accepted that Boromir was going to leave him. Aragorn promised to save his city, his people, and as he placed his hand over Boromir's and felt it cooling, his tears fell.
As Boromir sank deeper into death, he felt Aragorn's hand touch his face, heard the words he spoke, felt his lips on his skin one last time and then he was lying with him on the large bed in Minas Tirith, Aragorn's smile warming him as white curtains billowed around the room. And as the last embers of his life faded, Boromir was wrapped in his king's arms, his lover's arms, and he was content.
Summary: Beds that Boromir has known, or would like to know.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1095 Read: 752
Published: 16 Aug 2009 Updated: 16 Aug 2009