“Pardon me, Lord Gimli, but fer someone as short as yer are, yer is really strong!”
Gimli snorted at the comment, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that these common Men had never seen a dwarf before him, and thus knew not that it was rude to mention that a dwarf’s height in comparison to Men. He had gotten tired of blustering at them two months earlier—for it had been four months since Elessar King’s coronation—now the remarks he just brushed off his shoulders. Besides, he knew that they were good Men. Just… ignorant about dwarves and slow with learning.
“The rocks at the base of mountains are far heavier than this!” he boasted instead, hefting up another piece of white stone and moving to the carts where the pack mules waited patiently. “’Tis nothing!”
“Aye,” the Man said, chuckling. “I can believe that. ‘Tis a good thing we have these mules to help us.”
“Lord Gimli,” a far younger Man—just a boy really, without even the slightest prickling of a beard beginning to grow on his jaw—spoke up suddenly. “Is it true that you travelled long with our King and Lord Steward?”
“’Tis true,” Legolas—who had remained silent and watchful on the wall, wary still of the armies of the Enemy that might try to creep up to them while they were hard at work—replied when he saw that Gimli was too busy arranging the stones on top of the cart to speak. “We travelled long with him, from the valley of Imladris to the Gap of Rohan and the Dimholt Road, and now here we stay with him in Gondor.”
“They are both brave Men?”
“The best that I have ever known!” Gimli declared with a huff, stepping back front the cart and wiping his sweating palms on his breeches. He walked over to the next pile of stones.
The boy chewed on a lip, and silence fell upon the group, broken only by the quiet panting of Men and dwarf hard at work. Gimli had almost forgotten about him when he spoke again.
“… Is it true that our King led Lord Boromir down the unclean road?”
“Ah, boy!” the Man who had first spoke reached over and cuffed the child hard on the ear. Tolman, Gimli suddenly remembered. Tolman was the Man’s name. “Dunnae talk o’ such foolish rumours in front of Lords Gimli and Legolas!”
Gimli blinked, rubbing sweat out of his face. “Let the boy talk, Man! I know not what he means.”
The child rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, “My apologies, milords. I meant… ah… they is…” he made an oblique gesture with his hands, blushing deeply before ducking his head and busying himself with the mules, adjusting harnesses that need not be adjusted.
The dwarf blinked, confused. What was it with these Men and their inability to speak what they meant? First it was Aragorn and Boromir—at least they kept their foolishness to each other—and now this child as well! He was starting to think that despite the common Westron they spoke, Men were born to speak a different language from the dwarves.
Legolas sighed, “He meant if they have pledged troth to each other, Gimli.”
Lifting up another heavy block of stone—though no doubt far lighter than the ones Gimli had just dealt with—Tolman snorted. “Pay nae attention ta the foolish words of a boy, milords,” he said, his voice half-muffled behind his load. “I has seen the Queen herself during the coronation ceremony, may the Valar bless her Ladyship, and Lord Boromir might be named ‘The Fair’, but he ‘olds nae candle ta her. She’s the most beautiful creature I ‘ave ever seen. The King would be a fool ta choose another.”
Gimli opened his mouth to rebuke them, for the love he had seen between Aragorn and Boromir had naught to do with looks, but Legolas’s chuckle cut him off before he could speak.
“Aye, listen to your elder, boy,” the elf said, giving Gimli a look that had the dwarf clamp his mouth shut with a quiet grumble no one took heed of. “He speaks the truth. I have known Arwen Undómiel since my youth, and known Elessar King’s love for her for as long as I have known him. There are no truth to those rumours.”
Those Elves and their strange ways! Legolas knew as well as he did of the love between Boromir and Aragorn, and here he was, denying it with a laugh. Gimli disliked it immensely, for it was not in his nature at all to lie, but he knew that this was not the right place to berate Legolas for it. He would do so later, in the tavern or in the rooms that Aragorn had given them on the third level—for Gimli was a dwarf and disliked the heights of the Citadel—and demand from him the reason for his dishonesty.
The boy, however, seemed placated. He wiped sweat away from his face with an arm and sighed, “I shoulda known those soldiers is jest rumouring.”
“Soldiers gossip worse than those fish-wives in Dol Amroth,” Tolman declared, clapping the boy so hard on the back that he almost fell over. “Take no ‘eed of their words, boy, if yer knows what’s good fer yer. Our King’s a great Man.”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, and silence fell once more upon the workmen, and Gimli soon forgot about the conversation. Despite his intentions, he did not even berate Legolas for his lies later on.
It mattered not. Legolas and he knew the truth and they had seen it with their own eyes. What mattered, in the end, the opinions of a couple of Men, Men of Gondor they might be?
***
“The soldiers grow impatient, milords,” murmured Pelendur as he raised his glass of wine to sip at it. A month had passed since their first council in these gardens, and his tone showed his impatience. “The longer Elessar’s reign grows, the greater their unease.”
“’Tis must be a desperate situation for us to take our cues of action from the common classes,” replied Councillor Maldor, Guardian of Fields. He folded his hands in front of him, refusing to take his wine. “Yet I hear the truth of your words. It seems that their mutters have grown so loud that even the tradesmen have heard them, two levels above.”
Councillor Baragil, Guardian of Stones, snorted loudly. He drained his glass. “This is a matter of folly,” declared he. “I will have no part of it. Have a good evening, Beregond, Councillor Maldor. I have matters of greater import to tend to.”
“Is there a matter of greater import than the rightfulness of our King’s reign?” Pelendur’s eyebrow raised, though he kept his tone conciliatory.
“Aye,” replied Baragil grimly. “What use is quarrelling about the King when the walls still remain weakened? Whoever is proven righteous will only rule over a city of ruins. I will deal with the consequences only when they come.”
With that parting remark, Baragil stood, bowed towards his two fellow Councillors and nodded sharply at Beregond, and left.
“Captain Beregond?” Pelendur turned his eyes to the Man who had long remained nigh silent during their unofficial councils.
“I am Captain no longer, my lord Councillor,” replied Beregond. His wine, too, remained untouched. “The men are restless, aye, but Lord Faramir lingers still in Osgiliath.”
“Then we will gift him the city and the kingdom when he returns,” Pelendur countered, placing his glass hard enough on the stone table that the red liquid inside shook. “We cannot delay any longer, milords. We will move in two days.”
“On that dau I will accompany you, but make no mistake, Councillor Pelendur, it takes more than a silver tongue to prove treason right,” the gaze of the Guardian of the Fields were sharp on his two companions. “I am not convinced yet; it will only take proof of Elessar King’s ill-worth to do so.”
“You will have your proof in two days,” Pelendur stood, his long sleeves sweeping against stone as he crossed his arms. “We move on the seventeenth hour. The sun will set upon the end of Elessar’s unjust reign, mark my words.”
“Aye, sire,” replied Beregond. “You will have my sword beside you on that day.”
“Ours is a righteous cause, sires. Do not forget it.”
***
Boromir lifted Aragorn’s hand to his mouth, pressing a dry kiss against the palm. In his other hand he held Beregond’s message. “They move in two days,” he told his King, green eyes shining with the light of the hunter who had sighted his prey. “Only Maldor remains, but his loyalty is uncertain to even Pelendur himself. Beregond believes that he remains with Pelendur so if he succeeds, he will have a share of the victory.”
“A dangerous man indeed,” Aragorn murmured his own words against Boromir’s temple, his hand stroking slowly through strands of dark, burnt gold. “How great is the army he has amassed?”
“Bare less than a thousand,” replied Boromir, turning his head towards the kiss. “Restless soldiers all; those who are unable to fit into the new system of peace now that the War has been won. I understand their grasping need. Do not be too harsh upon them, Aragorn.”
“Pelendur and his line have taken too many liberties,” was Aragorn’s reply. “They will be punished gravely. For those he has taken as puppets… there are still orcs and Uruk-hai that run unchecked through the lands of the free peoples. Perhaps there is still a use for them.”
He stilled for a moment before he curled his hand around Boromir’s chin, pulling him close to brush their lips together. “Now let us leave these matters for the morrow, my Steward, and enjoy each other.”
Boromir deepened the kiss, and for long moments there were no other sounds, no other thoughts, than of each other.
“Long have I seen your worth, High King,” he said when they finally broke apart to breathe. “Now Gondor will do the same. We will triumph over this, Aragorn. Mark my words.”
“Aye, they are marked indeed,” Aragorn could not help but smile, folding his fingers to trace over the curve of Boromir’s cheek. “There is naught I am gladder of than to have you by my side.”
***
Pelendur was a bold Man indeed, for he had amassed an army of nine hundred and seventy-three men to stand in front of the great Fountain, flanked by the blooming White Tree herself, as he called for the attentions of Elessar King and Boromir, the Lord Steward. The Tower Guard had remained stationary at their posts, though at a closer look one might notice that there were many white knuckles clutching onto their spears, and many more hands that seemed to inch towards their swords.
Beregond, former Captain of the very same Guard, stood with Maldor and Pelendur near the great gates, carved with the visages of former Kings, where four months prior Gandalf the White had placed the crown on Aragorn’s brow and named him King. Many of those currently present—the Guard, the servants, and even the soldiers with their swords drawn in rebellion—remembered the Elven song he had sung for them.
“Elessar!” Pelendur called, raising his voice loud enough to be heard even from the great Tower, high above. “Elessar! We come, soldiers and Captain and Councillors all, to contest your claim as King! I, Pelendur, son of Aranphir, line of the Guardian of Coin of Gondor, come in the name of my great namesake, the Kinstrife Avoider, and ask you to prove your worth to wear the winged crown!”
His voice trailed off into silence. There seemed no answer from the gates, and Pelendur took a breath to shout his claim once more, but he was interrupted before he could begin as the great gates were thrown open. The King and the Lord Steward stood in front of them, and the winged crown so fought over sat calm on Elessar’s brow.
“A great speech!” the Lord Steward’s voice resounded clearly throughout the courtyard, ringing against the stones where he had been born and raised. “You prove your heritage, Pelendur, Guardian of Coin, at the same moment you shame it. To contest the claim of Elessar is treason itself when the White Tree of the Kings blooms right behind you. It should be proof of his worth enough!”
There was a rash of murmurs amongst the soldiers, and Pelendur’s lips paled. He made to speak, but it was Elessar who spoke again.
“I am a stranger to these lands,” said he, and though his voice was soft, it carried to every ear present. “Though I have once served as a soldier here, under the name of Thorongil, there are few who remember the blood I had once shed for Gondor. I acknowledge your doubts, Pelendur, son of Aranphir! I will only remind you that Pelendur of the line of Húrin, Kinstrife Avoider, had chosen the warrior Eärnil. Who is the warrior you champion, Councillor?”
“We fight in the name of the Lord Faramir,” said Maldor, his voice low.
Boromir cocked his head, “You fight in the name of a Lord who is not here; who has rode to Osgiliath in the name of our King and battles the armies of the Enemy that still remain?”
“Aye!” Pelendur raised his voice again. “Lord Faramir had long proven his valour in his long service to Gondor!”
“If ‘tis my valour you doubt, then call the name of the strongest warrior here. I will battle him in combat, in front of your very eyes. If I falter then it proves the ground of your claim steady,” said Elessar, and from his belt he drew the fabled sword Anduril, holding it high until the sun gleamed off the runes-traced blade.
There was a huge roar of sound at the moment as the soldiers burst into whispers, debating amongst themselves of the one who was worthy enough to fight against the King. It was a short debate, however, for with one voice the soldier shouted a name.
“The Captain! Captain Beregond!”
Beregond turned, looking wide-eyed at the gathered soldiers, but before the protests could form on his lips, Elessar spoke.
“Step up, Beregond, son of Baranor, and draw your sword.”
It was an order that the Man could not refused. He stepped forward, pulling his sword from his belt and dropping the scabbard on his feet. Raising his eyes, he met his sworn King’s eyes, speaking lowly so as to not be heard by the Councillor, “I wish not to fight you, milord.”
“Aye, of that I know,” replied Elessar. “Yet I ask you to not hold back, for a warrior’s valour cannot be proven against a self-crippled foe.”
Beregond looked upon his King before he turned towards the White Tree. He took a long breath, as if to lock the memory of the blooms in his mind, before he took a single step forward and raised his sword.
It was a short but brutal battle, the two combatants moving so quickly that it seemed that the eye could hardly see them. The sounds of clashing swords were loud in the courtyard, drawing the attentions of those below, until even the healers and the nobles of the sixth level left their homes, shielding their eyes from the sun as they tried to try to see what was going on above.
The soldiers watched silently, and as one they felt their resentment against the King slowly fade away to be replaced by awe and admiration, for Elessar moved as a warrior born, driving Beregond back with each step and each swing of the sword. Many of them recalled from memories buried the way the King had fought on the Pelennor Fields; the ferocity in his eyes and his every move as he cut through swathes of orcs, moving like unrelenting storm towards Minas Tirith’s gates.
In that single moment, they recognised the foolishness of their quest.
Their chosen champion was driven back further and further, his skill unmistakeable but of no match to Elessar. It was not long before his back was to the White Tree. Beregond lost his footing with a moment’s carelessness, sinking to his knees—and that was when Anduril stopped, its tip grazing the former Captain’s throat.
“This, I believe, is enough proof.”
Elessar’s decree rang throughout the courtyard, and none spoke to deny him. He reached out and grasped onto Beregond’s hand, and with one pull he set the former Captain back onto his feet. Then he turned, catching Pelendur’s eyes with his strong, bright blue gaze.
“Pelendur, Breaker of the Line, had chosen the warrior over the Prince. I have proven myself a warrior, son of Aranphir—your claim holds no ground. Guards,” he turned to the Tower Guards, who stepped forward immediately, as if they had been holding back the movement for a long time. “Arrest these Men.”
“Nay!” Pelendur shouted, raising a hand. He lowered it to point at the King. “Nay, I have a claim more. You are unworthy to rule, Arathornion, for you walk the unclean road, with the Lord Steward by your side. The proof is as clear as the twin jewels he wears on his throat!”
The words faded slowly, and there remained only a cold stillness in the air, as if all had taken in a breath and dared not let it out. Even the animals were silenced—and the Tower Guard took another step forward, and drew their swords. The sound of metal against metal resounded strong throughout the courtyard.
Beregond’s voice was breathless when he spoke, but carried well through the courtyard, “Your accusations betray your ignorance, Pelendur, of soldiers and of loyalty. You know naught of the love between comrades who have fought together and saved each other’s lives; you know naught of the love between a Lord and his subject. I may have stood beside you before, but now I forsake your claim.”
“Your attempt to besmirch the King’s name and my own dirties only yours, Pelendur,” the Lord Steward spoke, and all eyes turned towards him. “I will not deny my love for Elessar King, for to do that is to lie. This chain and its glad burdens I wear is but a mark of a promise he has once made to me upon the fields of Parth Galen, where his healing hands brought me back to life when the orc poisons threatened to consume me. It is then that I swore my lifelong loyalty to him; it is then that he promised to never let our White City fall.”
“I find it strange,” at the gentle voice, the Men turned to watched wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the Queen exited the gates, her pale robes and dark hair trailing behind her. As one, the Men bowed to her, even Pelendur, and the King sheathed Anduril before he took her hand, kissing her fingers in greeting. To all present, the love that shone suddenly from his eyes was clear to see.
“Milady,” Elessar greeted, and his Queen graced him with a smile that near-brought the Men present to their knees.
“I find it strange,” Arwen Undómiel repeated. “’Tis my Evenstar that sits upon the Lord Steward’s throat; ‘tis my lord husband who is accused of betraying both his honour and mine, yet none seems to think to ask me of the matter before deciding to declare a rebellion upon the steps of the Citadel. Your voice has rung the loudest, Councillor Pelendur. Will you not tell me why?”
Perendur Silver-Tongued could find no words. He could only shake his head.
“It proves that his claims are fit only for ridicule,” the Lord Steward said grimly. “Guards! Arrest them!”
“Place those chains on me too, sire,” Beregond said, his voice low as he watched the Tower Guard as they shackled Pelendur and Maldor, and begun to herd the stunned soldiers towards the second level, where the jail was held. “I deserve punishment for having doubted your worth.”
The Lord Steward snorted, “If doubt is a crime, Beregond, I would have lost my head ere long before I have left Rivendell.” He shared a glance with the King, grinning as he shook his head. “On our first meeting, I claimed that Gondor needs no King.”
“Ah, but Lord Boromir,” the Queen broke in before the King could protest, “Estel looked little like the King then. He resembled… hmm…” she tapped on a lip. “Ah! He was like a lost, scruffy Ranger that had somehow stumbled into the Council; one whom no one dared to chase out in fear of his stench.”
“Arwen!” Elessar gaped. “Pray leave me some dignity in the presence of my subjects!”
Beregond could only stare at the Queen, speechless, as she giggled like his youngest daughter against the King’s shoulder. The Lord Steward, standing by his side, only threw his head back and laughed.
***
The royal couple entered their temporary apartments together. The Lord Steward had been called away to deal with the problems of keeping of the prisoners, especially with the soldiers who joined the rebellion less due to their doubts about the King than their wish for battle—their wish to find a place where they could be of some use again.
Lord Elrond lingered at the balcony still, and Aragorn could not help but tense when he saw him. Yet Arwen only placed a gentle hand upon his arm before pulling away, walking towards her father.
“Have you seen all that you need to, Arda?”
Elrond only sighed in reply. He turned around, and reached out towards his daughter, stroking her cheek with a thumb. “I know not to be thankful that I have a daughter Lúthien-wise, or to be angered that my daughter is also Lúthien-stubborn.”
“’Tis possible to be both,” Aragorn pointed out, finding his own lips curving upwards. “I have felt the same myself many a times.”
Elrond’s gaze sat heavily on him for a moment before the Lord of Imladris sighed. “I was wrong for judging you so quickly, Estel. Though I still do not understand how you are able to split your heart so, Boromir is truly a Man worthy of your love, and your affections for Arwen have not changed.” He paused, shaking his head grimly. “I have taught you too little of governance in your year in Rivendell. If not for Boromir’s intervention, the rebellion might have actual ground to stand upon.”
Aragorn blinked, “How know you of his actions?”
“The ears of Legolas Thranduilion are no sharper than mine,” replied Elrond tartly, lifting a brow and looking downwards at Aragorn until the King realised the unsaid implications of his words, and had to turn away lest he blushed like a child.
Arwen laughed, leaving her father’s side to reach for him. He took her hand and kissed it again, half-lifting his eyes to look at her. It had been months, yet he still could not be rid of the idea that if he closed his eyes, she would disappear once he opened them again. The sight of her in the palantir, pale and suffering on her Lorien bed, still haunted his nightmares.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Elrond smile to himself as he left the apartments so they might be alone. Aragorn closed his eyes, leaning in for a sweet kiss, his hands fanning out against Arwen’s cheeks. After a moment, however, his Queen pulled away, and pressed two fingers against his lips.
“The sun sets, Estel,” she murmured, their breaths touching against each other. “Go to him now.”
Aragorn hesitated, his hand stilling against her cheek, “You will have me leave you?”
The Evenstar only laughed, leaning forward to plant a small kiss on his lips, “You will come back to me when the sun rises again in the morn, Estel, but now I have work on the Citadel to tend to and messages to send, and you will only be in the way.”
The King laughed, stroking his hand through her shadow-dark hair, so different from the burnished gold of his other love. “Aye, my love,” he murmured, and kissed the crown of her head. “I will see you once more in the light of the morning sun.”
***
Aragorn closed his eyes as he kneeled in front of Gandalf, feeling the cold of the crown as it settled in his hair. It was heavy, but the responsibilities that he now carried were even heavier. Aragorn felt dragged down, barely supported by his knees, as if here in the courtyard of the White City’s Citadel he was buffeted by the currents of the Anduin.
The Ring of Barahir sat upon his own finger, and the Evenstar was hidden beneath the heavy ceremonial armour of Gondor’s King, a burning brand upon his chest. He knew not if Arwen had survived the darkness, yet Boromir had returned him the chain and its twin burdens last night, clasping them over Aragorn’s throat.
“Lord Elrond rides from Imladris, bringing your Lady with him,” Boromir had said, kissing the knuckles of Aragorn’s hand. “’This I true believe. Claim your Queen tomorrow, my Captain, with all of your treasures against your skin,”
“What of you?”
“You have gifted to me my dreams already, Aragorn—the White City is safe, and the Enemy defeated. The great Tree blooms and the people rejoice, for now they look towards the future with hope instead of fear that one day they and their children will fall prey to orcs and Uruk-hai.” Aragorn remembered Boromir’s smile; remembered that it was tremulous before he kissed him on the lips. “I ask for nothing more.”
“I have sworn to not let you go, Boromir. I will not go back on that promise now.”
Gondor’s Steward—truly the Steward, for Boromir had taken up the White Rod two days after the Battle of Pelennor Fields—only shook his head. “I will not have you break your promises to her to keep mine. ‘Tis Arwen’s permission to give.”
Aragorn reached out and curled his fingers around Boromir’s fists, “If she denies it?”
Boromir’s smile was dimmed but still true as he raised Aragorn’s fingers to press a dry kiss. “Then you shall be the blissful and righteous High King of Gondor and Arnor, my love, and I serve you as Steward loyal and true. My heart will beat for you as much as it does now, and I will always love you—but only from afar.”
The memory faded as he stood, turning around to face his people and they cheered around him. Boromir stood a little distance down, grinning wide as he clapped louder than anyone. Across him stood his brother, hale and whole from the healings from Aragorn’s hands, and beside he was the White Lady of Rohan, her eyes calmed and no longer fevered with infatuation when she gazed upon Gondor’s new King.
Aragorn bare remembered what happened next; he only knew that his heart filled with joy and dread both when Legolas smiled and stepped back, revealing a white banner sewn with the sigils of the King—Gondor’s White Tree, and the Seven Stars of Elendil’s line. His heart ached in his chest and he almost could not breathe, and he had to reach out to her so he would know she was real. Her eyes caught his, a colour that was so familiar and so unfaded by the unreality of dreams that he cared not of propriety and took her into his arms, kissing her with the passion of sixty-seven years of waiting.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Boromir turn his gaze away. In that moment, he knew at once that Arwen followed his gaze, but neither of them spoke of it; not at this moment that belonged only to the two of them. Aragorn only curled his fingers around hers and turned around, presenting Gondor with their Queen—and he knew without seeing that Faramir had in turn held his brother close by his wrist, supporting and staying him even while Boromir averted his eyes.
Not even in Amon Hen had he felt his heart so torn.
*
It was dawn when Arwen had leaned over him, brushing his hair out of his eyes as her own spilled around them like a heavy curtain, the heavy black strands curling over the pale blue sheets of their bed. Her eyes captured his own. “Something troubles you,” murmured she, and her fingers trailed down to trace over his eyes.
On her throat laid the Evenstar, and she wore the Ring of Barahir on her second finger.
“You see through me too easily,” Aragorn replied, averting his eyes. He fixed his eyes upon the ceiling, which was a painting that represented the great Kings of Numenor as they sailed over the seas. He took a deep breath and turned back to his wife, tracing his finger over a smooth cheek.
“In Amon Hen, we were ambushed by orcs,” he begun, and slowly as the sun crawled up towards the skies, he told her the whole tale, her heart laid above his own, their fingers entwined.
When he had finished his tale he pushed himself out of bed, stepping towards the window. Their apartments were so high up that none of could them, and they could see all. Even if they could, the King was unashamed of his nakedness, though he was nowhere as beautiful as one of the Elves, his skin marked by time and the wears of battle as the wont of Men. He looked out to his city, feeling the cool wind against his skin, and waited for his Queen’s judgment.
Arwen’s feet were soundlessly light against the floorboards, and when Aragorn turned she had the Evenstar twinned with the Ring of Barahir once more. She placed both in his hand, Elven-wrought chain spilling over his fingers, and kissed him gently on the lips.
“My grandmother keeps the Golden Wood held in perpetual twilight, for she fears the sun and the dominion of Man,” murmured Arwen Undómiel. “Yet I fear no Man, Estel, and I know when you look upon me tonight you love me still.”
“My love has not changed,” said Aragorn, and he fell silent for no other words could suffice. Arwen placed a finger upon his lips.
“Aye, my love, I know, yet your heart is torn into two,” her hand spread against his chest, feeling it beat. “Go to him with the rising sun today, Estel, and come back to me when it sets.”
Aragorn looked at the jewels and chain in his hand for a long moment before he leaned in and kissed Arwen hard, burying his hand into her long hair. They ended the kiss together—at the same moment they felt the sun’s warmth against their skins.
“You have given me a great gift,” said Aragorn, his voice low and hoarse.
“Nay,” Arwen replied, her smile bright. “The gift is Boromir’s still. I have only urged you to not let it escape your hands, for ‘tis a precious boon indeed.”
***
“Do you believe that Beregond knows?”
Boromir’s tone was idle even though his words were not, and he arched back against Aragorn’s hands as they tugged upon his leather belt, pulling it out of its loops. His own hands slid over Aragorn’s shoulders, unpinning the clasps that kept his the shoulders of his ceremonial armour in place, until the shoulder guards clattered noisily on the ground, one after the other. Hands curled around the vambraces, sliding them off of his hands, the old leather like a familiar friend against his skin. Boromir’s eyes landed on the White Tree engraved—though Aragorn wore the ceremonial armour, it was Boromir’s vambraces that clasped his arms in his battle against the Pelendur. Boromir’s own arms were bare.
Aragorn laughed, folding the belt over his hands before he dropped the leather to the ground. His fingers sought the clasps on Boromir’s surcoat, unhooking the silver clasps. Boromir let his arms drop to his side, feeling the strong, thick leather ghosting over his skin before it fell onto the ground. His King nuzzled against the skin of his neck, nipping against the collarbone exposed from his ministrations.
“Aye, I believe so. Though, like Imrahil Prince, I doubt he will deny us this,” said he, and he sighed quietly as the breastplates were loosened from their ties, falling apart into his Steward’s hands. Boromir slid to his knees, placing the silver armour carefully on the carpeted floors of the apartments. His King’s fingers danced against his throat down to his hips, and he raised his arms as Aragorn lifted the red tunic over his head, leaving him clothed in only chainmail and undershirt.
Boromir stood up in a long, graceful motion, his fingers finding the clasps of Aragorn’s chainmail unerringly. Slowly, he pulled it apart and let the sheet of metal drop to the ground like a series of glittering droplets of water. Aragorn stepped out of the mass and shrugged off too the heavy velvet shirt that covered his skin. Within the next beat of a heart, he turned slightly until he faced Boromir once more, aiding his Steward out of his own mail, and they nudged away the metal as one.
They were dressed in naught more than shirt, breeches, and boots—and greaves for the King. Aragorn led his Man towards the bed, nudging him to sit down. Boromir did so, his breath catching in his throat as the Ranger King dropped to his knees, his fingers closing around Boromir’s boot and slipped it off.
“None have the power to, my lord,” he finally murmured as he was left barefoot once more. The heavy furs on the ground protected his feet from the cold of the stones, but Boromir’s breeches were poor protection for his knees as he dropped to kneel in front of his King. Aragorn raised his feet for Boromir to unlace his greaves and boots, reaching out with a hand to curl around Boromir’s chin, pulling him close to brush their lips together.
“I am a Man who keeps my promises,” murmured Aragorn against Boromir’s lips, and his fingers were quick to find the laces that held the undershirt together. Slowly he slipped it off Boromir’s shoulders, exposing his skin underneath—and Aragorn’s callused fingers found the round, red scars of the orc arrows, stroking against the ruined skin.
Boromir took the hand into his own, kissing the back of it even as his own hand found Aragorn’s shirt ties. The thin cloth let him skim his fingers against his King’s spine, teasing a pleasured sigh between Aragorn’s lips before he let the undershirt be released to float gently, slowly, onto the ground.
“Of that I have no doubt,” he replied, and their words were meaningless now, said only to keep the pretence of conversation. Boromir chuckled, the laugh changing into a strangled moan as Aragorn’s fingers grazed against the laces tying his breeches together, slowly pulling them apart. The leather crinkled underneath his hands, fighting a valiant but ultimately useless battle before Aragorn pulled them down. The smallclothes were but annoyances and Aragorn was rid of them easily enough, leaving Boromir near-entirely bare for his enjoyment and gaze. Only the Elven-wrought chain remained, the Ring of Barahir and the Evenstar swinging light against his throat.
“You are in truth an unfair King,” Boromir continued, grumbling before he tugged at the ties of Aragorn’s breeches. The heavy silk gave way beneath his strength immediately, sliding off his King’s hips—and he paused, half-laughing as he turned his eyes up to meet his King.
“Ah, if but Pelendur can see you now, my lord, and realise that you wore no smallclothes in your battle against him,” drawled Boromir, his lips curving up into a sharp smirk. His fingers closed around Aragorn’s cock, stroking him slowly, deliberately ignoring the small gasp his King let out.
Aragorn choked back a laugh at the touch, reaching out to cup Boromir by the neck to kiss his Man hard, breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth of his skin against his own. Sunset had passed and night had sunk its claws into Gondor, yet Aragorn felt no chill and saw no darkness—for in front of him stood his sun, brighter than any in the heavens and far more beloved.
***
In the First Day of the Month of Nórui in the Year 3019 of the Third Age under the New Reckoning, Pelendur, Son of Aranphir, raised a small rebellion against Elessar King on the Courtyard of the White Tree. Elessar triumphed, and for his crimes Pelendur and all of his line were stripped of all titles and banished from Gondor and Rohan. Beregond, son of Baranor, was banished from Minas Tirith, but remained in good favour with the King, for he took the post of the Captain of the Guard under Faramir, the First of his Name, Prince of Ithilien. Maldor, another compatriot, continued to serve the King as Guardian of Fields until his corruption and ill-use of farmers was exposed on the Third Day of the Month of Ivanneth in the Year 2 of the Fourth Age. For his crimes, he and his line too were stripped of all titles and banished from Gondor and Rohan.
End
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: 1462
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012