"I warn you – begone, or you'll taste my steel in your foul gullets."
Eight orcs bellowed brutish laughter. "Hear that?" one crowed. "He's going to scratch us with his little stickpin there! Come on, stripling. Hand over the stickpin and be quick about it, and I promise we'll only have a go at you once each before we slit your throat."
Boromir pressed back against the stone face of the cliff and did his utmost to stifle his terror. "Not another step!" He swung his sword in a wide arc, but the orcs scarcely flinched.
"I like a fighter," another orc laughed. "Bodes well for later, if you take my meaning."
Boromir took the meaning only too well. Eight against one was no contest at all, and as he brandished his sword, he saw with utter dismay the last of the feeble winter sunlight slipping below the horizon. In moments darkness would fall, and his luck, such as it was, would run out. Worse, the orcs knew it, and were simply toying with him. Well, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of shivering like a newborn fawn or pleading for his life. "Come on, then," he snarled. "If you dare."
"Feisty!" the first orc said. "You first, stripling."
"Very well," Boromir whispered, and lunged forward, slicing deeply into the arm of one of the orcs. The creature howled, and the others converged on him. One orc's blade stabbed into his thigh, and he went down beneath a barrage of blows from crude clubs. His sword was wrested from his hand, and his arms were twisted behind his back. They pressed his face into the snow and tore at his clothing. Eru help me, he prayed. Make it quick.
All at once there was a gurgling scream, then another, and a voice raised in a battle cry. The rough hands holding him let go, and Boromir looked up, dazed, to see the figure of a man wielding a sword that flashed in the last of the dying light. The stranger moved with quick grace, dodging blows and slashing mercilessly at limbs, filling the air with the bellows and shrieks of mortally wounded orcs.
Momentarily forgotten, Boromir scrambled to find his own sword in the melee. He brought the blade up in one sharp motion and dealt a severe wound to the orc who had called him feisty. He whirled on another and caught him squarely in the chest. The creature fell forward.
"Behind you!"
Boromir pivoted on his heel to see the orc he'd wounded looming over him, blade raised. He ducked low and drove the point of his sword upward into the creature's gut. The orc howled in pain and fell to his knees. Boromir wasted no time; he jerked the hilt upward, wrenching his shoulder, but dealing a most satisfying death blow. The orc crashed to the ground, twitching.
Silence descended. Trembling, Boromir yanked the blade free and turned to face the stranger, now visible only as a dark shape and an icy plume of breath. "They're all dead?"
"All. Are you wounded?"
"Nothing serious." Boromir looked round in wonder at the corpses that littered the snow. "You killed six of them – and in less time than it takes to tell it."
The stranger took a handful of snow and scrubbed it over his black-stained sword, then carefully wiped the blade with his cloak. "Indeed. And I have no desire to spend the rest of the night in combat. Where there are few, there may be more. We must leave quickly." He stepped closer, examining Boromir closely. "I assume you have a horse."
"She bolted. They frightened her." Boromir squinted in the darkness, returning the man's scrutiny, and saw dark hair, pale skin, and a faint scrub of beard. The stranger's clothes were sturdy, but worn – built for service, not ornament. "Who are you?"
"Call me Strider. My horse will carry two, for a while. Come along, boy." The man stalked off into the woods.
Unaccustomed to being addressed with such casual abruptness, Boromir glared at the man's retreating back. He tried to think of a stinging retort, but the battle had rendered his tongue witless. Resentfully, he scooped up a handful of snow to clean his sword – a clever gesture, that – and followed at a trot. The wound in his thigh protested, but he ignored it. "How do you come to be in the wilderness on your own?" he called.
Strider whirled on him. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Learn some prudence. It would serve you well, especially if you're planning to wander the mountains on your own."
Chastened and angry, Boromir ground his teeth and struggled to keep up with the man's rapid pace. The name 'Strider' was apt; he covered ground with amazing swiftness. Boromir clamped a hand to his thigh and stumbled forward. He felt blood, warm and slippery under his hand. Rivulets of sweat trickled into his eyes. He wiped them away and kept the man in his sights.
They reached a copse of trees where a large, sturdy horse stood tethered to a tree, waiting patiently. The beast nickered and bumped his nose affectionately against Strider's shoulder, and Strider scratched between the horse's eyes, crooning in an unfamiliar language. Strider turned to Boromir. "I know a place where we can spend the night in safety." He freed the animal's tether. "Get on, quickly."
Boromir's sight doubled, then trebled. He held tightly to the saddle and fitted his foot into the stirrup. As he hoisted himself upward, pain exploded in a red haze, and he heard the man's startled exclamation, then a soft, pleasant buzz, then nothing at all.
*
He came to slowly, with the greatest reluctance, for he was sublimely comfortable. The soothing warmth and light of a well-laid fire flickered nearby, the mingled fragrances of roasting meat and pipeweed drifted past his nose, and he was warm and dry, his head pillowed on something soft. He opened his eyes and saw Strider smoking a long pipe, humming to himself, and turning a joint on an improvised spit.
Boromir watched him surreptitiously, taking his full measure. He was rough and clearly in need of a bath, to be sure, but there was a certain dignity in his sharply angled face, intelligence in his fine grey eyes, and an unexpectedly sweet melancholy in his soft voice. Stripped of his outer garments, he was spare, but strength showed in the width of his shoulders and the muscles of his outstretched legs. He was not at all unpleasant to behold.
"How are you feeling?"
Boromir flinched in consternation and chagrin. Had Strider known he'd been staring? "Much better." He sat up, pushing away two woolen blankets. He was clad in his long shirt; his other clothing had been removed. His wound had been efficiently cleaned and smeared with an odiferous salve strangely reminiscent of childhood. He sat on a pallet seemingly composed of tufts of wool, and the walls that surrounded them were stone. "Where are we?"
"There are hot springs that keep this cave warm," Strider said, pointing over his shoulder. "Many travelers use this place to rest in winter. Hence the comforts."
"I take it the orcs don't know about it."
"I doubt they care. You acquitted yourself well with them. Your courage is admirable."
Boromir scowled and clenched his hands. "How long did you listen to them taunting me before you decided to help?"
Strider's mouth pulled to one side in a wry smile. "Long enough to realize that you weren't going to dispatch them all on your own."
The barb stung. Boromir bit his lip and sank back onto the pallet. "I...yes. You're right. I only killed two. You killed thrice that number and saved my life. I – I apologize for my discourtesy, and my ingratitude."
"I accept your apology," Strider said. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes." Now that they were on better terms, Boromir inspected Strider more carefully. "You're a ranger, aren't you?"
Strider's grey eyes caught his. "Perhaps."
"My father says that you're outlaws."
The grey eyes crinkled in amusement. "Do you believe everything your father tells you?"
Boromir flushed. "My father is very wise."
"How old are you, young man?"
"Seventeen," Boromir said with a lift of his chin.
"And feel the dignity of every one of those years, no doubt," Strider said gravely. "Forgive me. The love between a father and son is not to be taken lightly. To answer you, we are not outlaws. But we do not mingle so easily with gentlefolk like you, young Boromir."
"How do you know me?"
"Boromir, son of Denethor, needs no introduction. You bear the crest of the White Tree – and you have the look of your parents."
Boromir regarded Strider curiously. "You have seen them?"
"Long ago." Strider knocked the dottle of his pipe against a rock and took out his knife. He sliced a chunk of meat from the joint and handed it to Boromir. "Eat."
Obediently, Boromir took the meat and ate hungrily. He drank melted snow-water and a strong tea that Strider brewed over the fire. Presently, he felt stronger and rose to explore the cave. A faint embarrassment at his state of undress prickled at him, but Strider seemed unconcerned, showing him the hot springs, large enough to bathe in. Boromir studied the bubbling, odorous water in fascination. "How hot are they?"
Strider smiled. "Hot. But you won't boil to death in one. Shall we see?" Abruptly, he pulled his shirt over his head and sat on the ground, removing his boots and wriggling out of his trousers.
Boromir watched, feeling warmth suffusing his body and a deeper rising heat in his loins. Strider's body was slim, but beautifully proportioned, leanly muscled. Boromir bit his lip at the sight of the man's organ and averted his eyes. "Are you really going in?"
"Of course." Strider slid into the water and sighed in pleasure. "Join me. They say the waters have healing properties."
Boromir turned his back and shed his shirt. He was in a more excited state than he cared to show. He looked over his shoulder, but Strider was concentrating on scrubbing under one arm with a handful of sand from a shallow pit beside the pool. Cautiously, Boromir lowered himself into the pool. The smell was disagreeable, but the heat and silken texture of the waist-deep water soon supplanted the unpleasantness, and Boromir soon found himself nearly swooning in voluptuous comfort. "Wonderful," he murmured, slipping further down so that only his head was above water.
Strider moved closer to him and grasped his upper arm. "Be careful. That tea will help you sleep, and I doubt your father's estimation of the rangers will improve if he learns that one allowed you to drown."
"Oh, no. It feels marvelous. Come down beside me." Boromir tugged at Strider's hand and laughed. A wave of dizziness washed over him. It felt good. He could drown happily.
"I think you've lost more blood than I suspected." A worried frown creased Strider's brow.
"No, no. Come down. Deeper." He pulled until Strider reluctantly complied, sitting beside him. Their bodies touched. Emboldened, Boromir rested a hand on Strider's thigh and stroked gently, an effective technique with innumerable Minas Tirith maidens. Strider's body tensed, and Boromir allowed his hand to wander until he discovered the incontrovertible proof of Strider's excitement. Boromir leaned closer and lifted Strider's hair from the nape of his neck and kissed clean skin.
Strider grasped Boromir's hand and moved it away, holding it tightly. "No."
"What?" Boromir pulled back, confused. He smiled. "But you want to."
"You're far too young."
"I'm not a virgin, if that's what you mean."
Strider smiled wearily. "That's not what I mean, young Boromir."
"You're not that much older than I am. Are you?" Boromir squinted.
"You're very young, and comely, and very tempting," Strider said. "And you're also faint from blood loss and sleeping tea and the heat of these baths. You would regret it."
"But you wouldn't." Boromir lazily cupped his free hand against the bearded cheek.
"I would regret taking advantage of you." Strider took both of Boromir's hands in his and put distance between them. "Please, Boromir. Don't ask this of me."
Boromir stared into Strider's grey eyes. "I don't understand," he said plaintively. "You want to." Strider shook his head and got out of the bath, walking naked into the antechamber. Boromir climbed out of the pool and sat on its edge, huddled in silence, drowning in humiliation. Never before had one of his advances been refused. He did not look up as Strider came back, dressed in clean clothes.
"You should sleep now."
Boromir nodded and got to his feet, wobbly from the heat. He went back to the pallet and lay down. In the other room he heard the sounds of Strider washing his dirty clothes, beating them ferociously with a rock. Tears gathering on his lashes, Boromir fell asleep.
*
"Boromir."
He opened his eyes. The fire was still burning, and a store of food lay ready to eat nearby. He looked up to see Strider, dressed in his traveling cloak, smiling with what looked like tenderness in his eyes.
"You're leaving."
"I have business further east." Strider pulled the blankets up, tucking them securely around Boromir's shoulders. "I have good tidings, though. Your horse is here."
"Lissuin? She's here?"
"And in fine fettle, too. Stay another day and night to regain your strength, and then make for home. You're far too close to Mornan for my comfort. And your father will be worried about you."
"I will." Boromir struggled to sit up, but Strider gently held him down. "Last night I...that is...."
"Hush. You were not yourself."
Boromir bit his lip. That was untrue.
"I do feel some regret, however."
"Why? You didn't do anything." Strider's smile widened, and Boromir blushed fiercely. "Oh."
"Perhaps I might be so bold as to request a kiss before I go."
"Please," Boromir whispered, and put his arms round Strider's neck, drawing him close.
Strider touched his lips to Boromir's. He lingered, letting the kiss wax and wane, then allowed it to deepen until they clung together, tasting and exploring each other. With a shuddering breath, Strider disentangled himself from Boromir's embrace. "Ask me again one day."
"You have my word on it."
Strider bent and tenderly kissed Boromir's forehead. "Farewell, Boromir."
Before Boromir could gather strength and breath to speak again, Strider was gone.
*
"One day, our paths will lead us there and the tower guard will take up the call: The Lords of Gondor have returned." Boromir's smile faltered; he turned away and put his head in his hands.
Aragorn rested a hand on Boromir's shoulder in silent compassion.
"I did not forget," Boromir murmured.
Aragorn froze. He knew well of what Boromir spoke and had hoped against hope for this very moment. "It was so long ago."
"And I was faint from blood loss, and sleeping-tea, and the heat of the baths." Boromir turned to face Aragorn. "If only you had stayed."
"I could not. But I thought of you long after we parted." Aragorn brushed a strand of hair from Boromir's furrowed brow and drew his fingertips down Boromir's cheek.
"Then why did you say nothing? Were you ashamed of it?"
"I thought the night had escaped your memories."
"You thought I had forgotten you?"
Aragorn nodded.
Boromir lowered his gaze and rose to his feet. His hands were clenched into tight fists. "You have an elf maiden who loves you. I have watched you together, I – you are to be congratulated. Fortune smiles upon you both."
"And I shall always love her. But there are so many kinds of love, Boromir." Boromir nodded, then turned on his heel and walked away. Aragorn ran after him and caught his arm, turning him round. "Boromir." He stroked the tears from beneath Boromir's eyes. "My faithful jewel. Do not leave me now."
"Forgive me, I –" Boromir struggled against his tears.
"Hush. Rest with me." Aragorn drew Boromir down to the soft grass. They lay together in silence beneath the great canopy of trees.
"That night," Boromir whispered, "or rather, the next morning, do you remember what you said to me?"
Aragorn smiled. "I have not mislaid a single word."
A hiccoughing laugh escaped from Boromir's chest. "Very well. I'm going to do as you asked. Strider...will you?"
Aragorn rose to one elbow and began to undo the fastenings of Boromir's tunic. "Yes. Yes."
Summary: Boromir is rescued from a terrible fate.
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2756 Read: 827
Published: 13 Nov 2010 Updated: 13 Nov 2010