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Summary: A moment of peace

Rated: PG-13

Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: None

Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes

Word count: 578 Read: 914

Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009

Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."
There was enough warmth in the evening sun that they were laid out on the flat rocks at the side of the stream, letting the stone soak heat into their skins. For all that the harvest had been good and the warmth had lingered even as men made preparations for the coming of winter, the trees knew better. Above them bare branches showed through the tattered remnants of a canopy that flamed red and gold and the first casting of frost on the grass had glittered beneath their feet only that morning. But the day had been soft and warm, a kind day, for all that they had not taken a single fish…

At one point, frustrated by an old and wily trout lurking in the depths of a pool and only surfacing to take a fly when Boromir’s line was elsewhere, he had laid his rod aside and rolled up his sleeves, before lying down on his stomach on the bank.

A rustling footfall behind and Aragorn lay down beside him. Boromir had his arms submerged in the peaty water, when he felt Aragorn’s breath, hot on his ear and the softly breathed request, “Teach me?”

And so, as the shadows began to lengthen, the Steward of Gondor taught his King the Gondorian way of guddling trout, letting his fingers trail quiet along the sides of the fish, lulling it into a stupor so he could then take it from the water in one swift move. When the first fish emerged dripping from the stream, he thought of their well-filled saddle bags and slipped it back into the water.

As he had guided Aragorn’s touch, peering into the stream Boromir had noted their hands showing pale in the depths. When first they had met, fought together, loved, they had been warriors weathered by their service, hands and throats browned by sun and a measure of dirt that needed more than a soldier’s hurried bathing to shift.

Now, they were stretched out on the rocks, shirts discarded to take up a little of the sun. Aragorn lay beside him on his stomach, his head pillowed on his hands and for the first time in an age, Boromir could see him in daylight. Both men would keep something of their old hardiness with practice bouts and daily drill, so that muscles still flexed across Aragorn’s back and sculpted his outstretched arms, but the dark collar of sun-stained skin was gone from his neck.

Boromir let his gaze drift across the broad shoulders that had carried such weight in times past, to find his own private treasure, the spattering of soft brown marks, each a friend to be greeted with licks and gentle kisses. One cluster reminded him of the old and wily trout, speckled to blend in with the stones of his watery home. He had been coaxed out from his deep pool to come and lie quiet in Aragorn’s hands, who had lifted him gently upward so that they might gaze on his glistening colours and then had, as quietly, set him free again.

Dipping his head, Boromir pressed his lips to the freckles, feeling the strong muscle beneath the soft skin, tasting the faint salt and spice of his King. Aragorn sighed, and as the last of the day’s sun glinted through the trees, Boromir laid an arm about his love’s waist and his head against that sun-kissed skin.