The Lord Steward’s stiff knee had been causing him some pain and, despite the brace he wore for riding, he found it ached if exercised too hard and stiffened when he stayed overlong at his desk. His mood was increasingly governed by how well he slept and his household judged how the day would fare by whether he stood before the fire to eat his oat porridge or joined Master Arin, sat by the long window, to breakfast.
His King had insisted that he visit the Healers for some relief from the pain and Boromir had gone, reluctantly, unwilling to become dependent on their drugs for his comfort once again, but it was the Queen who had heard him curse softly beneath his breath on reaching the top of one of the citadel’s many flights of steps and had sent for word of the Sisters’ whereabouts.
Thus it was that the men found themselves journeying to the Hunting Lodge in the White Mountains and when they led their horses in to the stables, they saw the Sisters’ white jennets already there, stood hock-deep in straw. As he led Cedar into his stall, Boromir saw two white heads turn in their direction and later could not shake the feeling that they had been discussing him.
The women were in the Long Chamber and surrounded by myriad flasks and bottles, scales and spoons of every size. There was a small silver bowl, decorated round with entwined leaves, upon the table and as they swept into a curtsey to the King, the silks of their gowns rustling, Boromir thought he could just discern a faint scent of almonds in the air.
“Lord Boromir!” they exclaimed and escorting the Steward to a high-backed chair they had unlaced his breeches and whisked off his hose before Boromir was quite ready for their ministrations so that he sat down rather suddenly, feeling somewhat exposed. Aragorn, grinning broadly at him from behind their figures, now bent over his knee, prodding and pushing at it, might he thought, have appeared more sympathetic.
“Have you a remedy for Lord Boromir’s plight?” he enquired and Boromir thought his King’s tone betrayed a suspicion of glee.
The oyster cure had been most enjoyable and the chilblain recipe would live long in his memory, but somehow Boromir doubted that the Sisters would be able to cure this as easily and Aragorn should not lay undue expectations on them, for these aches and pains were surely the passing years come to claim him.
Boromir narrowed his eyes, with a warning glare, but Aragorn seemed oblivious to the hint.
A Sister straightened up from her examination and looked on the King disapprovingly.
“Patience, sire,” she said.
“All in good time,” put in the other, tracing Boromir’s knee-cap with one red-tipped nail, “we’ll think on it and in the meantime...
“...a long soak in a warm bath...”
“...a good supper...”
“...and early to bed...”
“...for both of you,” they finished in unison.
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The Long Chamber had been prepared for them; all evidence of the Sisters’ industry had been swept away, fires had been lit to keep the room warm and as the daylight began to fade, Aragorn lit a brace of wicks set in wax-filled goblets that stood at either end of the long table on which Boromir lay.
When first he had submitted himself to the Healers in Minas Tirith, Boromir remembered well the massage that had been done to keep his muscles supple even as his body healed. Celond had gifted one of his most experienced healers with the task, but in no way had his ministrations resembled what was happening to him now.
Aragorn had spent the morning closeted with the Sisters receiving their instructions and had finally met his man as naked as when he was born, his only adornment a slip of hide to keep his hair from falling in his face.
He had undressed Boromir with care, his movements deliberate and so Boromir, his heart thudding in his chest, had come to mirror his calm and when at last they had stood opposite one another, plain men, it had seemed only natural that they embrace, bodies flush, touching at breast and hip, thigh and cock.
Aragorn was holding his gaze, seemingly drawing him down into his heart and Boromir would have grown giddy, except that strong arms encircled him and his own enfolded his love in joy.
Aragorn had told him then of what they would accomplish that day, of how he would work with the muscles in Boromir’s entire body, but especially those on his thighs, calves and back whose strength and easy action supported the knee in its work.
Then he had Boromir lay down on the table, which was covered with soft cloths and pillows for the small of his back and beneath his neck, and taking up a silver ladle he had begun to dip into the goblets and drawing out a golden oil that smelt of jasmine, he had poured it over his own hands, letting the excess drop warm onto Boromir’s stomach and at last had begun to spread it, in slow, firm, strokes all over Boromir’s skin.
The candles had begun to gutter, the fire to die down to ashes, by the time that Aragorn was done with him. Boromir felt boneless, as liquid as the oil film across his flesh, and yet there it was as though some energy crackled about his fingertips and itched to be doing and all at once he felt the walls closing in on him.
It was he who suggested to the Sisters, materialised from the shadows, almost as though they had been there all along, that tomorrow he and Aragorn would take their task into the air. He knew of a place, a small grove of birch trees, not far, where the breeze was gentle, the ground thick with moss, and it would be a good place to essay this...
The women had exchanged knowing smiles but on the morrow Boromir had been at first surprised to see them in travelling cloaks in the courtyard, standing heads together in whispered conference as the grooms tacked up the white jennets and lifted panniers onto the backs of their packhorses.
Would they not stay, he asked.
Was their wise council not needed?
Behind him, he could feel Aragorn stood quietly watching them and all at once a peace came over him, he took in a breath of fresh morning air and stepping back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his Captain, he wished them safe journey.
They smiled at him then and one drew from under her cloak the small silver bowl, wreathed in leaves, and handed it to him.
It was filled with a green oil that shimmered with flecks of gold and a faint perfume of oranges.
“What is in this, ladies,” Aragorn asked softly.
“Oh, this is better suited to the greenwood, Great King,” they replied.
“There is olive oil from Ithilien...” said one.
“...and sweet almond from Gondor...” said the other.
“...oil from peach kernels...”
“...and oranges...”
“...and spices from Khand...”
“...gold from Aglarion...”
“...and a little black pepper...”
“...and the best of it is...”
“...it’s edible,” they chorused.
Their merry laughter had carried them and their mounts away into the distance, whilst Boromir had dipped the tip of one finger into the oil and proffered it to Aragorn who took it into his mouth, licking and nipping at the pad.
......................................................................................................................................
They sat upon the green, facing one another, breast to breast, legs entwined. Boromir held the silver bowl in one upturned hand, laid in their laps and each man had coated the other in the oil that seemed to be warmed by their bodies.
Aragorn thought his love dappled in the morning sun, filtering through the willow leaves, patterning his skin with light.
Boromir was entranced by the scattering of golden flecks that glittered against the dark hair on Aragorn’s breast.
When the bowl was almost empty, Boromir laid it down and let his fingers brush across the mossy ground feeling it as velvet soft as the skin beneath his other hand, where the pulse beat slow and hot.
Aragorn drew in a sharp breath then and Boromir’s hand stilled until he breathed out and Boromir drew in that sigh and Aragorn was dimly aware that the willows seemed to be drawing closer to them and so they traded breath and gazed into one another’s eyes and as the young willows entwined themselves into a living screen about them, the Ranger gave something of his blood in years and the brahmir gave a little of his earthly power and so they grew strong together...
.......................................................................................................................................
Arwen was stood in her garden, watching the workmen on the level below hoisting the great blocks of stone that would be used to replace a worn section of the city wall. She could see the Lord Steward striding forward, a cluster of masons and surveyors about him, could hear, if she concentrated and cared to intrude, his low, measured, tones giving clear instructions as to how the work should proceed.
In the pocket of her robe, Galadriel’s silver bowl weighed no more than a hen’s egg. She would gift it, she had decided, to the Sisters. They had earned it, she thought and more, they could be trusted with its power and on the ramparts Lord Boromir’s rich laughter rang out and she could not resist smiling too.
Summary: The Lord Steward feels himself beleaguered by the passing years
Rated: PG-13
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1598 Read: 760
Published: 01 Dec 2011 Updated: 01 Dec 2011
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."