The rains were pouring down hard, obscuring Aragorn’s vision, but he could see the enemies in front of him, and that was sight enough. He swung his nameless sword, a roar in his throat as he cut down another orc. Behind his eyes he imagined each one to be the orcs that had swarmed Boromir, and each Uruk-hai he slew the one who had shot two arrows into the Man who held his loyalty and affections.
Then the gate exploded outwards, the ground was falling, the walls were collapsing, and Aragorn felt himself drop downwards, crushed against the ground. Darkness took him for a long moment before he shook it off, struggling to stand even though he could not draw breath into his lungs. His breath shook, and he wondered if this was how Boromir felt, the burning in his chest, as if his body threatened to fail him at each moment.
“Aragorn!” he heard Gimli’s cry and the stampeding feet of the orcs, but Aragorn could barely turn. There were enemies and he must stand against them, but he had came to his knees when they were upon him—
There was a sword, a Man in front of him; a man with the White Tree on both arms. There was a shield held in one arm, and Aragorn gasped sharply as the orc that almost killed him fell downwards, its body slit from throat to navel, bleeding black on the stones of Helm’s Deep. He looked up, and it was a familiar face that greeted him.
“Boromir!”
Boromir grinned, and it was a warrior’s grin. His uncrowned Steward pivoted on his heel, thrusting his sword into the throat of another orc and Aragorn threw himself to his feet, uncaring about the pain in his head. His breath cleared and he roared as he guarded Boromir’s back against another orc, cutting it down. At the corner of his eyes, he saw the gleam of Gimli’s axe, wet with rain, and he heard his triumphant cry; above, Legolas and Haldir’s arrows rained down, death itself coming for Saruman’s army. Yet Aragorn’s attentions was near full-held by the Man in front of him.
“’Twas my debt of life repaid!” shouted Boromir, barely audible in the sounds of rain and clashing weapons and stamping feet. He shoved his shield’s edge into the throat of an arc and Aragorn had never seen a Man look as beautiful as he did at the moment, his hair golden and plastered against his face, his green eyes as bright as the stone at his throat. It took Aragorn’s breath away, and he had to turn away to cut down the next wave of enemies before he could speak again.
“I thought you to be underground!”
Boromir whirled around, grabbing Gondor’s uncrowned King by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close until their breaths touched. “I am no maid or child to be protected,” he hissed sharply, his words broken by his pants. “You will not fall here. Gondor needs her King, my Captain, and I will guard your back until we ride through the gates of Minas Tirith! Together!”
Aragorn could not reply, for he had to dart forward, slashing against another enemy. Against his side, he could feel Boromir do the same. For a long moment neither of them spoke except in wordless roars and grunts and pants as they fought, swords and shield flashing in the flickering lightning from the skies.
The tide stilled for a moment and Aragorn took it, turning around and grasping Boromir by the shoulders.
“My Steward,” he said, finding no other words that could suffice. Yet it was enough, more than enough, for Boromir flashed him a blinding grin and darting to the side, his sword flashing bright as he brought it down like the wrath of Oromë taken life in the form of Man. Aragorn could not help but smile, but his attention was drawn away from the Man when he saw Gimli slip and fall. The two Men turned at once to him, but Legolas was swifter than them both. He had laid down an orc’s square shield beneath his feet and rode it down the stairs of the castle like it was a snow-sled. Aragorn could hear Boromir’s shout of laughter beside him, and he turned to him, taking in the sight of his hair like a veiled sun, burning within Aragorn’s heart. There were no hurts on his body that mattered now.
They would survive this battle, Aragorn knew as they dove into the battle together, swords clashing in harmony. They would ride through Minas Tirith’s gates and hear the silver trumpets call. His mother had named him Estel, yet it was in Boromir that Aragorn had found his own hope; one that refused to be dimmed, no matter the odds.
***
“Trouble’s a-brewing, Son of Gondor.”
Boromir turned, immediately arching an eyebrow when he saw Legolas perched upon the windowsill of his personal apartments like a particular large and graceful bird. His long blond hair shone in the setting sun, and like always when faced with an Elf, Boromir could not help but feel like a particularly large and unwieldy gargoyle.
“Trouble brews daily in Gondor, even after the Enemy has been vanquished,” replied he, running fingers through his hair to loosen the strands. He turned away from the Elf to lock the doors before he spoke again, “Of what trouble do you speak of?”
Light Elf-feet landed on the cool wood of the apartment floors. “Pelendur, son of Aranphir, is plotting treason. He has gathered a small council of Baragil of the Stones, Maldor of the Fields, and Beregond, son of Baranor, to try to convince to oust Elessar King and you from the throne and reinstate Faramir as the Ruling Steward.”
“Faramir?” Boromir whirled around, eyes widening. “How has my brother been implicated in this?”
Legolas shook his head, “His only crime is ignorance.” He hesitated, then exhaled a breath that almost sounded like a sigh, “Pelendur’s case hinges on his accusation that Aragorn has led you down the unclean road, and his Elven ways are ill-suited for Gondor.”
“He takes liberties too great,” growled Boromir underneath his breath. “What has Beregond to say of all this?”
The Elf stepped fully into the apartment, pulling close the heavy curtains that shuttered the Steward and his guests from the world. Then he lit the candles with a flint. Throughout these small chores, he recalled, word for word, the conversation between the three Councillors and the Captain. Boromir listened, and he could not help but marvel at the clear, sharp memory of the Elves. Though a Man, his King was little different, regaling the Fellowship with Elven tales and songs he had learned in his childhood throughout their journey together.
Once the tale came to an end, Boromir asked, “How come you to hear of this?”
“They lingered in the gardens, and forgot that the wind brings speech easily to Elven ears,” answered Legolas, now standing next to the bed, long fingers curling around the carved and painted posts. The Lord Steward’s bed, carried in from the rooms he inhabited when he was still only Heir, told the tragic story of the Elfmaid Nimrodel and her lover Amroth. Boromir had never really noticed the beauty; that he left to Faramir.
“Aragorn knew not of this?”
“No more than what he had heard from Imrahil Elf-kind,” said Legolas, turning around to look at Boromir. “He lingers now with Undómiel, and I believe the Steward’s son knows the manners of court better than the Ranger.”
“Aye,” said Boromir quietly. “Let Elessar be. ‘Tis a matter that does not his attentions just yet.”
“Even though it is he that Pelendur wishes to unseat from the throne?” Thranduil’s son raised a dark eyebrow.
“Pelendur has such ambitions, but he has not the means or intellect to accomplish them. His tongue might be silver, but he has chosen his potential allies unwisely,” Boromir rubbed a hand over his nose and lips. “Such plots of ants need not the attentions of a King.”
“Lest he calls undue attention to them,” murmured Legolas. He watched Boromir for a long moment before he started to slowly smile, as if he had just seen something that pleased him. “What are your plans now, Boromir?”
“I need to speak with Beregond,” replied he promptly, taking his keys out of his coat and unlocking the door. “From your recount he sounds uneasy about the affair, and I will have him do a favour for me.”
“’Tis folly to let this carry on,” warned Legolas.
Boromir only chuckled, “Even now, few have seen Elessar’s valour and strength, and they know him not. The soldiers, thrust so suddenly into a peace they knew not how to embrace, already begin to doubt their memories of Aragorn’s deeds at Pelennor Fields. Pelendur might have done me a boon; the people need a reminder that the King whom they serve is a great warrior.”
Legolas cocked his head slightly to the side, stepping close, “You have grown canny in the short time you have held this post, Boromir.”
“Nay, Legolas,” said Boromir, his back to the Elf. “I dislike politics, and the pressure of rule for this office suits me ill—I prefer a soldier’s work. But make no mistake: Pelendur threatens my King, and there is naught I will not do to keep him safe.”
“I have never once heard of Aragorn as a Man to be protected but from your lips,” chuckled Legolas. He moved towards the window, a pale hand against the black velvet curtains, his eyes resting on Boromir still.
“He is my King,” replied Boromir, and there could be no other answer at all.
***
Beregond sat in the wide, open gardens of the Citadel, his brows burrowed and thoughts troubled. Pelendur’s words ran through his mind, and he knew that he was chosen by as a potential ally by the Guardian of Coin for his stripped post and his love for Lord Faramir. Though he could not deny that Denethor’s second son would make for a just and honourable ruler of Gondor, he could not bear to think of him coming into power through such treachery.
Despite Pelendur’s pretty words, there was no doubt in Beregond’s mind that it was certainly treason to plot against the King. He knew not what to do—except, perhaps, to speak to Lord Faramir. Yet the newly healed Steward’s son was not in Minas Tirith at the moment, having begged to be sent to Osgiliath with a company of warriors to be rid of the orcs that still lingered in their once-fair city. Eowyn Wraithsbane had followed him, her sword silver and hair golden behind her.
What had possessed Pelendur to raise such an issue when the Lord he sought to raise to the throne was away from the city?
He was disrupted from his thoughts by the sharp knock on his door. Beregond heaved a sigh of relief before he stood, moving to the door and pulling it open—and he blinked upon seeing the Lord Steward’s visage standing but a foot away from him.
“… My lord Boromir?”
“I dislike speaking in hallways,” said Boromir, a corner of his lips curled up into a smile. Faramir’s older brother had always smiled easier, despite the heavier burdens that rested on his shoulders as Captain-General of the White Tower and the Heir of the Steward.
“May I enter, Beregond?”
“Of course, sire,” the former Captain blinked again, stepping back to allow Boromir entrance. He cocked his head slightly to the side, “What is it the matter?”
Boromir did not speak for a long moment, merely stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He left his back to Beregond, walking a circle around his table before he turned around fully and looked straight into the other Man’s eyes.
“You were invited into private council with Lord Pelendur, Guardian of the Coin recently, were you not?”
Beregond parted his lips to protest, but Boromir held up a hand, silencing him before a single word could even escape. “I ask this not to condemn you, Beregond, only to ask this: do you believe Faramir will make a better King than our current Lord? I need your honesty, Beregond: of those in Gondor you know him best, and you cannot be accused of a bias towards blood.”
There was a long silence as Beregond considered his answer, and he could not help but clench his fist at his side. Damn Pelendur for putting him in such a position! Beregond knew not how Lord Boromir had known about the makeshift council, but he was not surprised that he did. Despite his predilections towards being a soldier, the Lord Steward was bred to take his current post, and he was no fool that could be easily taken in.
He took a deep breath, apologising mentally to his wife and children, and hoped he did not choose his next words unwisely.
“I know not, sire,” he said, not daring to raise his eyes. “’Tis barely been three months since the Enemy had fallen and the skies cleared, and though Elessar King is a great commander, I have not seen enough of his reign to judge if he is in truth a great King. However, ‘tis the same charge I raise against Lord Faramir, for the skills that make a great Captain might not make a great King.”
Lord Boromir did not speak for a long moment, and Beregond let his eyes slip shut, preparing for a blow. Then he felt a hand land upon his shoulder, rocking back on his heels as his Lord’s brother pulled him upwards, clasping his arms hard.
“Wise words, Beregond,” said the Lord Steward. “I see that I have not chosen hastily by coming to you.”
Beregond blinked, “I do not understand, milord. You will not punish me?”
“You have done nothing wrong than to doubt a man you know not,” said Boromir. “I travelled with Elessar through the long months during the Quest, and with every step of the way he has proved that he is truly the King Returned. Yet neither I nor he expects those whom he had never once walked with to know his worth. Those who doubt him need not worry, for Elessar is not a Man who punishes those who want for nothing but the best for Gondor.”
“If I may speak, milord,” the former Captain begun.
“Say it.”
“I doubt Lord Pelendur’s intentions are so noble.”
“Nay,” Boromir shook his head. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “I know his lot well. In times of war he had much power, as did his father before him, and his father before him, all through to the times of the Watchful Peace. Now that peace has come he feels the power slipping from his grasp, and he wishes to regain it once more. The easiest way is, as he sees it, to unseat the new, untested King.”
Beregond straightened suddenly, his nostrils flaring as he spoke, “He sees my lord Faramir as—”
“But a pawn to be used,” Boromir nodded, interrupting him and gesturing for him to calm. “Worry not; his arrogance oversteps his abilities. He will not succeed.” His hand closed at his side, and his grin was vicious and bright—surely an expression he had turned towards armies of orcs during the new-named War for the Ring.
“I ask a favour of you, Beregond.”
“You have but to ask, milord,” the soldier lifted his eyes, nodding sharply.
Boromir started pacing in front of him, crossing from one end of the room to another. Then he stopped, stilling himself before he turned to look at Beregond once more, “Stay with Pelendur and his ilk. I believe he will soon try to rally up an army—when he does, inform me immediately. Gather as many names as you can, but do not stop them from doing so.”
Beregond blinked once more, “You will give them chance to gather, milord?”
“Aye,” confirmed Boromir, nodding sharply. “I doubt that there will be many. Pelendur has to move quickly, for praise for Elessar King is already making down through the levels of the city. ‘Tis better as well to address all of them at once.”
The former Captain considered that for a long moment before he nodded, “Aye, sire.”
“Good man,” Boromir clapped him hard on the shoulder, hard enough that Beregond, a tall warrior himself, almost stumbled. The Lord Steward turned as if to exit the room and Beregond would have watched him go if he did not find, startled, that he was speaking once more.
“My lord Boromir!”
Boromir half-turned, meeting Beregond’s gaze, “What is it?”
“Lord Pelendur had also made mention that—” he swallowed, tearing his gaze away. “He believes that the King has led you down an unclean road, sire, and some of the Men are starting to believe it. I know not what influence I have with the Men now that I have disgraced my post, but I will do my utmost to quash the rumours.”
“Know this, Beregond,” said Boromir spoke without turning, leaving Beregond to the sight of his straight back and tensed shoulders, his hands clenched tight. “Pelendur seeks to use such ugly rumours as weapons, but he forgets that they dishonour our Queen, who has sacrificed immortality for the love of the King. Caution him, if you have kindness left in your heart, for if the King hears of such words he will have Pelendur’s tongue removed.”
Beregond took a long, dragging breath. The cutting of the tongue was a custom born from the ancient Men, those that came not from Numenor but of Middle Earth. It was an old punishment, rarely used in recent days due to its brutality.
He had no doubts of Boromir’s anger, or his sincerity in the threat.
“Aye, sire,” he said, and bowed deeply.
***
Boromir closed the door behind him, feeling the click of metal against metal as the key turned in the lock. The wood was heavy and cold against his hand, and he exhaled—letting the wind carry away all signs of the Lord Steward, leaving only a Man in his place.
Not a moment too soon, for he felt a hand curl around his throat. The pressure was almost enough to choke; almost, for Aragorn was a careful man. Boromir took in a slow breath and let his head drop backwards, leaning against Aragorn’s shoulder.
“I have known my duties since birth,” murmured he quietly, turning his head to the side to breathe in the Ranger’s scent of leather and steel and sweat. “Yet at times I long for the battlefield and orcs to fight instead of politics and councilmen.”
“There is naught here but I,” said Aragorn, letting go enough to allow Boromir to turn. They faced each other, breaths hot and shallow gusting against lips. Boromir slid his hands into Aragorn’s hair, feeling the clean, rich strands—and he could not help but miss the tangled mess of the Ranger, for at least then they were alone, and this Man belonged only to him.
He felt a thumb against his lips, and he opened his eyes to look into Aragorn’s brilliant blue gaze, “Leave your cares behind that door, Boromir. None are allowed here.”
“Aragorn,” Boromir breathed out, and the Man named pressed him against the sturdy wooden door, taking his lips in a fierce kiss. Fingers slid into hair the colour of burnished gold, and Boromir arched his neck against the touch. His hands flattened against Aragorn’s shoulders, and his King allowed himself to be pushed backwards until he fell onto the bed, his hair spreading out around his head. Then Aragorn wrapped his arms around Boromir, rocking up his hips as he urged him to kneel between his legs.
It was near an hour later that Aragorn took a long, deep breath and collapsed on his side next to Boromir, leaning over him to take his mouth in a kiss. Boromir tasted him slowly, lazily, breathless with his chest burning from his exertions.
Aragorn’s hand found his heart, and Boromir let himself be pressed back down against the mattress as his King climbed over him, sweat-soaked strands of hair plastered over his eyes. The Lord Steward shuddered quietly under him, feeling comforting heat sinking into his chest, unwinding the stubborn, constant knots of pain wrapped around him with every exercise until he breathed easily once more.
When the warmth faded, Boromir reached out and took the callused hand into his own, bringing it up to kiss against the palm, then against each fingertip. A small smile lingered on his lips, and he felt like a fool for he could not help the happiness that curled within him whenever he looked upon his King.
“Something troubles you,” said Aragorn, his hand dry and smooth as he curled over Boromir’s cheek, tracing the faint lines around his eyes.
“We leave our burdens behind that door, Aragorn,” replied Boromir, and he slid his hands into Aragorn’s hair, pulling him in for another slow, sweet kiss. When he spoke again, his words were murmured against his King’s lips.
“Let us leave them for the morn.”
***
It was dawn, and dawn itself brought hope and the Rohirrim, led by Gandalf the White on Shadowfax, the great horse’s coat like the sun’s light captured into skin and mane. Through the arrival of the horse lords on their noble steeds the warriors of Rohan found hope, but Aragorn sought his own sun, his sword tight in his hand.
They had gotten separated somehow during the battle, and now Haldir’s dying gasp haunted Aragorn’s ears, and behind his lids he could see the Marchwarden’s empty eyes, devoid of all life. There was no pride in Haldir’s carriage during his last moments, only pain, and Aragorn could barely breathe beneath the guilt that threatened to crush him, for it was for the Last Alliance that the Elven army came; it was for the sake of Men that the Elves died. He could only hope that they could find peace in the Halls of Mandor; glory and fame and songs sung of their valour and honour, for they deserved no less.
If naught else, Aragorn knew that the Elves will forever be remembered in the lands of Rohan, without their aid Helm’s Deep would have fallen, and Theoden King dead by orc spear or sword. There would be songs sung of them here, he knew, and for now that was comfort enough.
“Aragorn!”
He turned at the cry and found Boromir leaning against a doorway, smiling wide despite the hand he had pressed to his chest and the blood that specked on his lip. There was black blood coating his armour, but with one glance Aragorn found no new wounds. He reached forward and clasped Boromir by the shoulder, his hand trembling with the need to draw him into a tight embrace.
Boromir took one look at his eyes before he pulled him into a small room—clearly meant for healers from the clean linen in its open shelves and the clear water in jugs—and closed the door behind the two of them. He reached out first but they came together at once, holding onto each other tightly. Aragorn breathed in, inhaling the scent of metal and blood and the sun itself, relieved beyond any possible words—whether in Sindarin or Westron or even Quenya—that could express what he felt at this moment.
Slowly Boromir pulled away, reaching into the collar of his mail to pull out the Elven-wrought chain. “My breath have not died, but I have done as I promised, Aragorn. They are well-protected.”
Aragorn shook his head, urging Boromir towards a low table. “I mind not a broken chain if it meant you safe. Come, sit and allow me to look at your wounds.”
Boromir did not refuse, letting Aragorn pull away the pieces of his armour until skin was revealed. The bandages wrapped around the wounds showed blood on it, but it was brown rather than red—old blood—and when Aragorn pulled away the linen they came away almost clean. He wiped the wounds down nonetheless, taking more bandages and athelas leaves that he now kept always with him and rewrapping them, his fingers lingering on Boromir’s skin. He found Boromir’s heart with his fingertips, counting the seconds with each steady beat.
They looked at each other, breathing hard still from a night of long battle—and something else. Aragorn’s fingers had their own mind, finding their way into Boromir’s hair, and their faces slanted against each other, drawing closer and closer until each breath was hot on the other’s skin. Boromir’s fingers curled against the back of Aragorn’s neck, beneath hair wet with rain and mud, and crossed the final distance between their lips.
It was but a single touch, but Aragorn deepened the kiss immediately. Boromir’s mouth was hot on his, tasting of blood and rain and mortality, like the battle that was barely left behind; he kissed as if it was the last he would ever taste, with a fire and passion that ignited the flame within Aragorn’s own heart. They grasped at each other, fingers and palms searching for skin. It was a cleansing fire, burning away the grief that bittered Aragorn’s throat until he could taste and remember naught but Boromir, right here in his arms.
Boromir broke the kiss, cold air rushing between their lips, and Aragorn could not help but close his eyes, leaning his head against the strong shoulder, inhaling in his scent once more. His Steward’s hand was warm against his skin, yet Aragorn could not help but notice the light of the Evenstar, casting its light right into his eyes. It was a gentle rebuke, and he took a step back and reached out, curling his fingers around the jewel.
“You are my King,” Boromir said, and Aragorn turned his head, chasing the feel of his battle-roughened knuckles against the stubble of his own jaw. “I cannot have you, for you belong to your future Queen; to the Evenstar whom you love.”
Aragorn shook his head before he could form the words of denial. He took Boromir’s hand, kissing the fingertips, holding it tight against his as if the other Man would disappear the moment he let go.
“I should not,” his voice was hoarse as he spoke, and his eyes burned with tears and love as he looked into Boromir’s eyes. “I will not deny my love for Arwen, yet…” He took a tremulous breath, reaching out to engulf Boromir’s cheeks with his hands. “At Amon Hen I felt my heart split in twain. My heart beats for her, but it beats for you as well. ‘Twas for you that I found my strength to fight today. ‘Twas for you that I carried on fighting, though my grief for the fallen almost overtook me.”
“A King is judged harsher than his subjects,” despite his words, Boromir did not pull away, but leaned forward further, until their foreheads touched. “Gondor will not accept a King with two loves; she will not accept a King who has besmirched his own honour by taking the unclean road.”
“There is naught unclean about this!” Aragorn said fiercely and kissed Boromir fiercer still, trying to make him taste the passionate fire that burned between them, undeniable. “I know Gondor’s ways, but the Elves know that love knows no difference in sex.”
“You rule not an Elven Kingdom, Aragorn,” Boromir said, pulling away and wrapping his arms around his chest, as if protecting his heart. He took a breath and reached for the clasp on the chain. “I will not have you break your promises for my sake. You have my heart, my soul, my loyalty and my love—but naught else, until you meet the Evenstar again.”
Aragorn reached for his hands, folding his own fingers over them to still their movements. “Keep the tokens. Let they be the proof of my love and my new promise to you. I will not let you go, Boromir; not for the sake of crown or Queen. If you have named me King of Gondor, then let this be my first decree.”
Boromir kissed him only once more, their fingers intertwining above his heart.
“I am a selfish and greedy Man,” he murmured. “My duties bid me to beg for you to let me go, yet in Amon Hen ‘twas your healing hands that bid my heart to beat. It beats for you now, and it will beat only for you, Aragorn, until the fading of time.”
Summary: Mordor fell and Elessar was new-crowned, but even peace had its own dangers. Months after the coronation, the King and his Lord Steward faced their first test in the form of one Man’s greed.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 17609 Read: 1461
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012