They had been two days in Lothlorien, resting and repairing themselves. The Hobbits were asleep, snuggled quietly together in a natural burrow at the base of the great mallorn tree. Gimli snored contentedly and stertoriously nearby in his own protective hollow formed by the vast roots of the tree. Aragorn, restless as usual, sat mending a gash in his leather overcoat. Legolas roamed the night alone. Aragorn could not see where Boromir slept, but he knew the Man was near. The Gondorian Captain did not snore, making it more difficult to keep track of him than of Gimli.
Boromir's sleep had been troubled for some time now. Frodo had been uneasy near him since that moment on Caradhras when the Ring had fallen to the snow and Boromir had held it, gleaming and seductive in his hands, standing as if one entranced. Since the terrible time in Moria the hobbit's mistrust seemed to have lessened, but had not vanished entirely. In addition to this, Aragorn knew that Boromir grieved over the increasing frailty of his father, and the continued struggle of Minas Tirith against heavy odds from Mordor. His thoughts wore on him, making the man impatient and distracted.
These days the tall Gondorian spent most of his time with Merry and Pippin. It was odd, the Ranger thought, and strangely endearing, how one so dour, so stiff and prideful should have so easily fallen into the role of teacher and protector for such silly young Hobbits as Merry and Pip. They were an eccentric threesome, the hobbits deceptively appearing small and fragile, while Boromir loomed over them, broad-shouldered and fierce. Yet, the cousins had bested the big Man in a friendly brawl more than once. Of course, they cheated shamelessly. Boromir indulged these two as he would no one else. Something in them, perhaps their cheerful courage, or their simple generosity of spirit had reached the stern warrior from Gondor. They could always make him laugh. That much, at least, Aragorn found encouraging.
"Aragorn."
The ranger turned to find Legolas crouched close to him.
"Is something amiss?"
Legolas rose and motioned for Aragorn to follow. He spoke with quiet urgency. "Something is happening. I do not know whether it will prove for good or ill."
Aragorn followed his friend some distance through the dim moonlight, among heavy tree trunks shadowed by soft lights from winding stairways and drowsy talans cradled high in the massive branches of the mallorns. The elf stopped suddenly and held back behind one of the trees. Aragorn leaned into the trunk behind him, peering intently over his slender shoulder. Legolas pointed, whispering, "Look. There."
Ahead, moving up a long flight of stairs that wound its way upward toward a large talan lit softly from within Aragorn counted six Elves, recognizing Haldir, Warden of the Marches and captain of Lothlorien's border defenses, as the seventh. They carried something, a burden they shared as they ascended toward the talan. As they turned the curve of the great trunk toward him Aragorn realized that what they carried was in fact not a what, but a who. This was Boromir of Gondor.
Clad only in shirt and breeches for sleep, he yet slept, as though spellbound, borne carefully on the shoulders of the six elves, while Haldir followed closely. As they lifted Boromir, unaware, unarmed and barefoot, farther up into the great tree his honey gold hair swung loose, swaying gently in the moonlight with the even movements of the silent elves who carried him. It was mesmerizing, the rhythm of that hair swaying so softly, and Aragorn wondered what it would feel like through his fingers. Boromir's face in the soft light still held that air of sternness about it, though softened in sleep, his head sharply back, soft throat taught... Aragorn shook his head vigorously to clear it, frowning at the nature of his wandering thoughts. This was not the first time he had found himself staring thus at this Man of Gondor, and his new habit was beginning to cause him concern.
"How the devil did they steal him from camp while I was awake, and what do they think they're doing with him up there?"
"You know the last," Legolas reminded him.
The ranger's stomach fluttered. He had feared as much. "But he is a Man, not an Elf!"
"Aye. That is my worry. I am certain Haldir means well, but you know how uncomfortable Boromir has been here. He's not like Sam. Elves make him nervous. He placed his trust in me fully only as recently as Moria. I fear this will overwhelm him."
Aragorn was already moving. "We must see if the Lady Galadriel knows of this. I would not rush to interfere without speaking to her of it." He glanced at the worried elf. "But I share your fear, my friend."
The hour was awkward and Aragorn fretted that Galadriel would be resting deep within her talan and therefore unavailable, but the elf standing guard at the bottom of the stairway which led to Celeborn and Galadriel's home seemed almost to be expecting visitors.
Galadriel greeted them warmly when Legolas and Aragorn arrived. "You are troubled," she observed mildly.
Aragorn ducked his head respectfully. "My Lady, we seek your counsel. Haldir and six others have taken Boromir of Gondor alone into one of the talans. He has invoked the Seven."
One lovely eyebrow rose. "This brings you distress? Haldir would not harm the Man of Gondor. His intent is benevolent."
"I believe that my Lady, but Boromir is not an Elf. This may prove--"
Galadriel's delicate brows drew together suddenly, her blue eyes closed in a moment's intense concentration. She finished Aragorn's thought. "Too much for him."
"Lady?"
Her expression remained calm, but concerned. "He struggles," she told the ranger, "in a whirlwind of pleasure and terror and outrage." She shook her head with a wry smile. "Mostly outrage. Your fears have been proven correct. He is lost at sea, Aragorn."
Legolas asked her, "What must be done?"
Galadriel smiled at the Ranger. "He calls for you. His speech fails him, but in his heart he calls for you. Only you."
Aragorn nodded decisively. "Then I go to him."
"Shall I follow?" Legolas offered.
Aragorn shook his head. "Somehow I think not this time."
Galadriel nodded, "This is for Aragorn alone."
The two thanked her and bid her a hasty good night, and turned to descend the mallorn, but Galadriel called to the ranger, "How will you save the Steward's son, Aragorn son of Arathorn?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "I know not, my Lady, but I fear I have concerned myself too much with being his captain, while not enough with being his friend. I must answer in friendship now."
Galadriel watched them go and murmured affectionately, "Still so young. But learning."
In their hurry Aragorn and Legolas descended the long stairway to the forest floor by sections rather than by steps. At the bottom they took off at a run, the ranger's flight slowing only enough to let him hand his knife to Legolas. The Lorien elves meant Boromir no injury. Aragorn did not wish to let it appear that he had ever believed otherwise.
He had not intended to rush headlong into the talan, but the nearer he came to it the more he sensed trouble, and he leaped up the stairway as in a panic, lunging at last into the softly lit interior, where he skidded to an awkward halt and met Haldir's eyes as the tall Elf turned to him. Haldir seemed only a little surprised, and not at all offended. Ahead to Aragorn's right lay a great, lush nest of cushions and soft linens, attended by six of Haldir's comrades, and somewhere within the mix one desperately confused Gondorian.
From the corner of his eye Aragorn caught a glimpse of Boromir's shirt and breeches on the floor. He crossed the talan toward Haldir, speaking to him in Quenya.
"Haldir, forgive me, but what have you done?"
One of the Elf captain's eyebrows rose. "You know."
From here Aragorn was able to see Boromir among the elves, his shoulders propped up on cushions, unclothed and deeply flustered. He made no sound, no call to Aragorn for assistance, but his green eyes glittered dangerously through a screen of his own hair fallen across his face. Aragorn noticed with a twinge that all six elves looked unusually ruffled, though still quite determined, in their gentle way. The elves were actively holding Boromir down. Not a good sign.
Tall, willowy and elegant, it was easy to forget that Elves were physically much stronger than they seemed. It had taken six male elves, warriors all, to wrestle Boromir to this stillness. Aragorn reminded himself that the elves were at a disadvantage here, since they wished to cause Boromir not the least harm, not so much as a bruise. Boromir, on the other hand, contended under no such inhibition. He lay among them now panting from the adrenaline in his blood, a sheen of sweat over his body, lean-muscled and broad of shoulder from a lifetime of battles and hard riding. His pale skin was scarred in places through bitter experience. Hands more graceful than one would think to find on such a fearsome fighter, hands that could grip a heavy blade to cleave an orc or gently calm a nervous stallion were now clenched into fists.
Haldir, appearing as disheveled in his shirtsleeves as the other six elves, heaved a resigned sigh and admitted, "This is not proceeding as well as we had hoped. Is the Gondorian a virgin, that he struggles so?"
Aragorn yawped briefly. "I... how would I know such a thing? No, I do not believe so, though to this particular sort of situation, yes, I rather expect he is! Please explain why you brought him up here in sleep?"
The elf captain scratched behind one pointed ear. "Ah. Yes, well, we had thought this might be achieved more easily if he remained on the edge of sleep throughout the ritual. You know how very pleasant certain activities can be on the edge of sleep... but unfortunately he awakened. Suddenly, and completely. He was, alas, very little pleased."
The ranger groaned. "Sweet Eru, Haldir!"
"He is troubled, Aragorn! We have all felt it since his arrival." Haldir shook his fine head sympathetically, pale blonde hair reflecting the soft lights. "His worries lie heavily upon him. There is a great pain within him, somewhere deep, difficult to reach. We had hoped to find it and bring it out of him."
He glanced back at the nest and its tense occupants, and grimaced in chagrin at Aragorn, an unusual expression for such a dignified Elf. "You know as well I do that we would cause him further damage by simply stopping right here, right now, and sending him on his way in confusion and anger."
Aragorn ran a quick hand through his hair. "I understand that you meant to help him, but what works for Elves does not always work for Men."
Haldir regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before pointing out, "This has done you good, in the past. You are not an Elf."
"Yes, but..." Aragorn stopped mid-thought and looked over at the scowling Gondorian and his six patient keepers.
So beautiful, Aragorn thought. In spirit as well as form, in spite of Boromir's sometimes churlish behavior. His patience and concern for the hobbits were proof enough that there was more to him than his rough exterior. He had been thrown alone amongst races and cultures strange to him, folk who seemed not to recognize the suffering and the sacrifices of Boromir's people. His grim demeanor was a form of self-defense. Taciturn, given to glowering and snarling, he was like some great, restless wolf, too far from his own territory, separated from the comfort and strength of his own pack.
As well, the essential reason Haldir had invoked the Seven had been correct. Something wounded inside Boromir needed mending, not only for Boromir's sake, but for the sake of the Fellowship. There was an unbidden darkness in him somewhere, feeding on Boromir's doubts and his fears for his people. Caradhras had shown Aragorn that.
Yet, beautiful still.
Suddenly it all appeared obvious to Aragorn, and he was not sure whether to laugh or to kick himself for not having seen it earlier. He should have known. Really, he should have seen it long ago, except that the Fellowship had been very busy avoiding being slaughtered.
He met Haldir's eyes, and the March Warden smiled and nodded, as if reading Aragorn's heart. They both understood that in the choice the Ranger made now lay a great risk. If this worked as they hoped, then all would be well. If not, Boromir would likely detest Aragorn and curse all Elves forever.
Held fast on the great nest beneath a heap of quietly adamant elves Boromir watched Aragorn and Haldir as they spoke, wishing to hell and back that he could understand elvish. His heart pounded, his mind reeled, lost in a situation he could never have imagined for himself. But Aragorn was here. Aragorn had somehow known of his predicament and now he was here, and he would make it right. In his mind often Boromir had doubted this elf-raised would-be-king Ranger from the northern wilderness, chafed at his command, but in his honest warrior's heart Boromir had been drawn to him from the very beginning, and Boromir had always been one to trust his instincts. Now he put his faith in Aragorn son of Arathorn, and waited...
...and watched in surprise as Haldir began to unlace Aragorn's shirt slowly, calmly, slipping it off over the ranger's head, then silently and with care helping him out of his boots, trousers, all, until Aragorn stood unashamedly naked in the gentle light of the talan. Tall and well-framed, lean ropes of muscle from many years of a half-wild existence shifted beneath a litany of warrior's scars, old and new.
Standing behind Aragorn Haldir brushed aside his dark hair, ran long fingers across a broad shoulder. Aragorn closed his eyes in pleasure as Haldir softly kissed the side of his neck, wrapped his arms about the ranger's narrow waist, pulled him in close. Aragorn let his breath out slowly. He recalled now, this feeling of the spirit strengthened by sympathetic hearts, of burdens and doubts falling away in the circle of strong arms and slow pleasure. Such a convocation could go on until dawn greeted them, and they all slept, exhausted, in each other's arms. But this, the Seven, was for Elves. Boromir of Gondor was not an Elf. Neither was Aragorn, but Aragorn understood the Seven. Now he would help Boromir to understand it as well.
Aragorn let his head fall back onto Haldir's shoulder as the elf captain's sure hands reached down low, just so, but no further, curving the caress up from his lean stomach to his chest, and the shadow of soft dark hair spreading lightly across cabled muscle. The Evenstar gleamed gently.
Aragorn opened his eyes, met Boromir's questioning and anxious gaze, said something in Quenya to Haldir.
The elf captain regarded Boromir with a benign conspirator's smile, then turned to the four elves who had earlier firmly, out of necessity, wrapped themselves about Boromir's legs. Haldir told them softly in Westron, "Open him."
Boromir yelped as the elves quickly spread his legs wide, raising them slightly, each knee crooked over the shoulder of a kneeling elf. Aragorn stepped forward to stand looking down at his friend.
Boromir managed a shocked wheeze, "Aragorn??"
The ranger's gaze locked on Boromir's as he moved closer, eyes as deep and grey as a storm brewing. "Do not fear this, my friend. It is meant to do you good."
The Evenstar shone in his shadow.
Borormir stammered, "But Arwen!"
"I love her, also."
Haldir had moved around the great nest to fold his legs beneath Boromir's shoulders, his lean frame solid support behind the cushions. He reached forward to gently brush the strands of Boromir's hair from in front of his face.
Aragorn knelt at the foot of the elf nest, running a contemplative hand along the surface of Boromir's left thigh, softly kissing the inside, moving inward. He felt Boromir begin to tremble, and in the back of his mind braced for violent resistance.
His dark hair fell forward as he leaned further inward, brushing Boromir's most delicate skin as the ranger carefully placed a kiss just inside the hollow of one hip. The Captain General of Gondor's armies gasped at the touch and panicked, "Aragorn, I--"
One of the elves at Boromir's shoulder brushed a finger over the Man's lips, advising silence, nuzzled soft encouragement at his temple. The elf smelled of night jasmine. His hands and arms twining about Boromir's arms and shoulders were slender, strong as young vines.
Aragorn kissed his way deliberately, following the trail of pale gold hairs leading upward from Boromir's taught stomach. His lips were gentle and warm, his short, dark beard pleasantly rough. His long hair trailed small fire everywhere it touched.
Boromir felt his body respond to Aragorn's touch, a rich flush of blood that took his breath from him. He let it go through his teeth. His mind whirled, grasping for clarity, losing ground. Anywhere. Everywhere. Aragorn could touch him wherever and however he pleased as Boromir lay naked, restrained and spread-eagle before him, and Boromir suddenly could hardly breathe or think for the wanting of it. His eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, stop himself from shivering. Utterly and entirely vulnerable. It was terrifying. Wondrous terrifying.
Aragorn took note of the warrior's positive, if still bewildered reaction, smiled inwardly. He would attend to that in due course. Here was a long, slender scar to trace with thoughtful fingers, following the ribs toward Boromir's back, where the scar disappeared. Aragorn counted the echoes of the many stitches necessary to close the wound. His left hand rested on warm skin, his thumb tracing little circles around Boromir's navel, feeling his diaphram rise and fall rapidly.
Haldir pressed the tip of his right forefinger, strong and cool, against the center of Boromir's forehead. Here was the seat and power of spirit, of instinct, of the conscious mind letting go of careful familiarity in order to reach out, and to allow in, ready to embrace and to be embraced. Haldir began to murmur in Quenya, the other six of the Seven then taking up the cadence.
Boromir tensed at the energy filling the air, too strange, this elf magic-- until he realized that this was not some dark elder magic spell meant to ensnare him, but a blessing. In his heart he recognized it, the benediction of the Seven. This was a gift for him, this part of Aragorn. Frantic attempts at logic gave way to reliance on instinct. The warrior let go. He breathed deeply in, felt the soft words like silk on his skin.
The hunt for the Shadow within the Man had well and truly begun. He had let go. He had accepted, and had let go. This was all-important. Haldir closed his eyes, pouring his heart and the many joys over a long life into the blessing words as he rested the callused hand of an experienced hunter across Boromir's forehead.
He had let go. And now, sweet Valar, the wanting, it raced through Boromir's veins like a keen-edged arrow and left his blood singing, part pleasure, part pain. His existence centered on Aragorn and wherever Aragorn touched him. Heart thundering, nostrils flared, his breathing deep and quick. Aragorn was not touching him enough.
The Ranger's kisses moved across Boromir's chest, toward his right side, the top of his head brushing Boromir's chin. Boromir arched toward him. He caressed the Gondorian's sides, running a hand lightly over his ribs, licked briefly at the nipple, savoring the delicacy of the smooth skin there and the way Boromir twitched and leaned into the sensation when he sucked there, just a little, before moving on to trace another old scar, fitting his palm into the slightest curve just where Boromir's waist narrowed into his hips. He stroked a trembling flank, swept along and up to the knee, felt the attendant Elf lightly kiss the crown of his head, while the fingers of his other hand trailed idly down the center of Boromir's body, and down to the hip.
His kisses moved into the inside of Boromir's right thigh, detoured, lingering, warm tongue searching, just… there. Intense warmth, and short, soft curls of honey gold hair. He heard Boromir's teeth clack together, heard the sharp groan. Boromir's fists unclenched, fingers clutching at air, legs straining in the Elven arms that held him. Another slow kiss against the firm flesh and hot, delicate skin, just so, again, again… Boromir's bare shoulders pressed against Haldir, his body writhing, breathing rough with the wanting, his hips arching, yearning for more, a ragged, pleading noise coming from him when he could not form the words.
Now Aragorn felt the deep, pleasant warmth of his own body's response to the fire he had conjured. This, according to his will. No sooner, no later. The Ranger smiled into the firm, low arc of the great muscle at the front of Boromir's thigh. It always felt good this way, this deliberate, unhurried beginning. Even better still awaited, if he were to have his own way.
Aragorn rose, braced a knee between Boromir's legs and leaned his weight onto his arms on either side of Boromir's chest, grey eyes once more meeting green, gleaming with the new, raw fire between them. As Aragorn carefully settled his weight Boromir felt the warmth of him, felt the certain hard heat between them burning together in the tender curve between his hips, and he welcomed it. Then Aragorn was kissing his mouth, gentle, insistent. Boromir opened to him, and Aragorn's tongue was in his mouth, running over his teeth, touching Boromir's tongue, breath to breath, Boromir's eyes closing, yielding, the kiss deepening.
*Also*, he had said.
*I love her... also.*
In the dark, cold, desperate place deep within Boromir a great, scouring light flared. An unnamed, secretive thing was consumed by the rising flames.
Aragorn heard it burning in the sound Boromir made, a sudden, wracking sob into Aragorn's mouth. Aragorn drew away to watch the Man's face. Boromir's eyes shut tightly as he turned away, tears running down the sides of his face. He sobbed deeply, his face contorted by sharp grief.
Hopelessness and despair, and all of their dark, dread kin that had haunted the Man, each razor sharp and brittle as endless ice, now shattered and disintegrated until only the fire remained, hot and clean.
Aragorn recognized the destruction of the Shadow which Haldir and the others had sensed when they had decided to invoke the Seven. This pain had been their goal, this drawing out of poison from a deep wound, a burning away of the grief and fear that had chilled and smothered a bright spirit. The Seven closed their eyes in compassion and relief, softly and happily singing a blessing that sounded like starlight and the moon's embrace.
The Ranger lay one hand against Boromir's face, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, wiping at salty tears until the warrior opened his eyes to look at him. Aragorn brushed his lips over Boromir's cheekbone and down to kiss the side of his neck. Boromir caught his breath, gulped and muttered, "What just happened?"
How the devil to explain? "Fire against the Dark, my friend. A clearing of clouds. So that you can see the stars burning in the sky."
Boromir searched Aragorn's face, watching him thoughtfully. "So that I can find my way, eh?"
Aragorn smiled, "Aye. Clear sailing, now." He turned serious, his eyes intent. "Boromir..."
Boromir watched him think, waiting patiently. He found that the elves had let go their hold on him, and one hand idly reached to gently twist a lock of dark hair. His gaze did not leave Aragorn's.
"My friend," the Ranger told him, "you have pledged yourself to the Fellowship, into the very jaws of the great Shadow, even unto death. It is past time the Fellowship in turn pledged itself to you. This oath I swear to you now!"
Boromir grinned up at him, an easy smile Aragorn had not seen on his face in too long a while. "Aragorn, you have a remarkable manner of bonding with your warriors!"
Aragorn brushed his thumb across the apple of Boromir's cheek, his words quietly intense. "You are my strong right arm, Boromir of Gondor. I would have you this close to my heart!"
Boromir reached for Aragorn with both hands, the graceful warrior's hands that Aragorn so loved tangling in his hair, and he pulled him down to brush his lips with his own as he spoke. "This close?"
Breath mingled with breath. Aragorn's eyes closed and his heart thundered, heedless of his will. "Aye. Always."
"I'll be your right arm then, Aragorn son of Arathorn. Let us seal this oath between us!"
Boromir pulled the Ranger fully into the kiss, deep and thorough, the sort of kiss that brought a fresh flush of heat and a long, soft moan from the Northman, and then another, deeper than the first. Aragorn's hand brushed down to Boromir's waist, curved beneath to the small of his back and pulled him in tight. Boromir gasped at the sensation and Aragorn felt him shift under him. The arch of a foot hooked over the back of his thigh, warm and willing body parts moved together.
Boromir and Aragorn became the center of delicious fire, of soft sounds and touches, the quiet slither of elvish clothing falling to the floor, hands callused by heavy swords or deadly bows now moving together in long, slow strokes. The center they were of many kisses, and curious tongues, gentle teeth, questing fingers, backs bending and arching, strong arms encircling, and amongst the satin crowns of pale elvish blonde, luminescent in the night, a flash of hair gold as summer mingling with the dark gleam of mahogany. Long legs recently braced for battle now curved in trust and desire about narrow hips.
The Ring whispered to him.
Boromir heard only the sweet rustle of mallorn leaves above in the moonlight, and all around soft, pleasured cries, murmurs of endearment.
The Ring offered him a mighty vision; Minas Tirith made whole and powerful again by a leader strong enough to seize the Ring and wield it on behalf of Gondor.
Boromir saw only Aragorn's eyes, storm grey with the crack of lightning behind them.
The Ring reached for him, reached to touch him in that desolate place where once had reigned his loneliness, his fears, his stubborn pride, and most of all his desperation, but the Ring found now that its favorite wasteland no longer existed.
Boromir felt only delicious breath against his neck, a warm and cherished weight pressing against him, hands made steel by decades of lonely warring now gripping his shoulders from beneath in most tender restraint, dark hair slipping between his fingers, a strong back arching in his arms, sweat-slick skin, muscle and battle scars shifting under his hands.
The Ring called. The Ring cajoled. It shouted, shrieked at him, raged in its frustration, finally admitted utter defeat and sank back muttering to itself at the unexpected failure. It cursed the Man of Gondor. It cursed him thrice. The Man had been the Ring's weak link in the Fellowship. It had been counting on him. What had gone wrong with him?
Summary: Haldir and some of his friends try to help Boromir relax, but Aragorn must intervene in order to avoid an Interspecies Incident.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 4634 Read: 860
Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009
Story Notes:
Non-con