There was an air of urgency around the Castle. Everyone seemed to rush at whatever they were doing. Even the cooks in the kitchens were skinning rabbits like magicians and the swedes had slivers of hard coat flying like dangerous daggers. The well-pullers were exhausted from turning the handles until the palms of their hands grew hot, and the brooms of the yard sweepers flew like autumn leaves in a gale. It was an urgent time. The King was coming!
The King! OUR KING! HE was coming! Orders had been issued weeks before, then altered, adjusted, amended, changed... The Steward seemed to be all at odds with his thoughts, his anticipation and his desire to make everything perfect. He couldn't settle at all to the humdrum pleas for another cord of wood for the furnace, for a new stone to sharpen the razors of the barbers, for permission to move the kine.
Boromir strode round and round his chambers, his office, he stomped up and down corridors biting his knuckles, his nails to ensure they were good and short, and shouting at anyone who broke his trains of thought, although they were heading, all of them, at breakneck speed toward each other on the same tracks. Boromir was, to say the least of it, twitchy. As such, most of the staff, his friends and the Hobbits kept clear. Arwen carefully slid the valerian potion into his nightly beer to ensure at least some sleep. She too awaited the arrival of her King, her husband, her so gentle exciting lover, with the soft eyes, the hard hands, the intaking of his breath as she disrobed for him.
The first of the wagons piled with fragrant flowers and greenery from the forest had drawn up at the gates. This would be strewn in the Halls and public places for feet to tread, releasing the perfumes of herbs. The Court rooms were just tiles, swept, washed and polished by willing hands, and in the private rooms there were soft woven carpets, or rugs on which to stand or lie.
The dark-haired man led the pale sturdy cob into the first courtyard and backed the animal so the wagon could be left beside the shelter. He unhitched the horse, who snuffled into his pockets searching for the carrot he knew he'd find. A soft chuckle and a kiss on the soft nose gained him his reward, the pat on the rump gave permission to galumph inelegantly into the small green paddock. The waggoner waved at the stablehand in farewell and moved quietly to the inner gate. He slipped through the great oak door like a wraith, a shadow wearing leather boots, coarse breeches, a heavy linen tunic over another. His cloak hung badly from a cord around a strong, cloth-wrapped neck.
He moved unnoticed toward the castle doorway, floated up the steps as if they did not cause many to puff and heave their breaths, and pushed on the wicket entry of the great door. He gave the impression he knew where he was going, that he knew this place. His garb suggested that perhaps he should not be mounting the main staircase, then slipping up and into the passage that led to the official working rooms. His feet made no sound, not a scuff or grate of inpressed gravel in the sole of the working boots. He paused, his head cocked, the soft dark curling hair slipping away from a face of carved bone, of straight lines, of fine skin that creased round the mobile mouth in the chuckling smile of his thoughts.
The sound of stomping boots, of grunts, kickings of inanimate objects, then swearings sotto voce. A servant went to pass the listener, and, his duty informing, cocked a head in question with a nod toward the swearing. The smiling man grinned, nodded and made it clear the servant was to proceed and if possible, make no mention of his presence. The servant smiled in response and found himself inexplicably bobbing his head, and passed around the corner.
There was a murmur of voices, then an explosion of anger, gasps of apology, and the sound of feet running away. The listener grinned to himself again pulling himself upright, he stepped forward to be in full view of the irate Steward.
The Steward roared again, then broke off. His face froze, mouth open in mid-roar.
The visitor raised an arm, his hand upheld with one middle finger rigidly pointing at the ceiling. It was a gesture of extreme rudeness, of vigorous challenge. An explicitly sexual challenge with the arm movement.
Then with a wild cackle, and a laugh that clattered the eaves and sent pigeons fluttering feathers, he turned and ran.
Boromir shut his mouth, suddenly, biting his tongue. He wasn't taking that sort of gesture from a sodding damn peasant who shouldn't even be in this part of the castle and bugger me, he'd get that sod and wipe that grin offa his face and shove it where that finger should go. Boromir was on fire.
Throwing his cloak on the windowsill he set off in pursuit. His boots thumping and flomping on the stone, his hands slapping on stone walls as he shoved off from corners, hung on to banisters, rails, and barged past astonished servants.
The runner had disappeared, but Boromir knew where he would be heading. He'd skidded round the corner he'd entered by, then skittered down the corridor, hopped the five steps down to the big room. He'd hung on to the doorframe and flung himself sideways to flex his long legs in the few great strides needed to gain the other doorway to the staircase. Boromir's mind read the runner's.
That person's boots flickered like summer rain as he skipped round and down, round and down the uneven worn stones, his hand barely feeling the cold granite centrepole. Skip, skip, flip flip went the feet down the ninetyfour steps to the doorway into the inner courtyard. The brown calloused hand pulled the door, crashing it back to the wall and knocking the key from the lock. His tall lean form leapt into the sunlight with tunic flapping as though it were from a wind blowing.
He fled, laughing, in great leaping strides across the gentle grass that hardly felt his weight. He hurdled the boxbush garden containing the comfrey flowers as if it were a shortl hedge. Then he halted, breathing only slightly more than his usual rate.
He could hear Boromir cursing as he thundered down the stone staircase. He knew when his steward had stumbled and had to catch himself with tearing hand on wall, and cracking thumb on poststone. He waited until the door smashed open again, exposing the growling, grunting, puffing, sturdiness of a Castle Steward overdressed with belts, tunics, over-robes and chains of office. He had time to notice that the last two had somehow become twisted around and the chains of office now bounced on the steward's back, not his chest.
Giving another gesture, equally obscene, the runner dived for the tall yew gateway and disappeared. Boromir slid and fell as he rounded the comfrey bed, and swore very rudely. He scrambled to his feet and tore off the chains and the first overtunic. He did take time to wrap the chains in the tunic and stuff them into the comfrey plants, hiding them. Then he set off in pursuit again.
A figure waited at the end of the terrasse, flitted sideways and was gone. Boromir knew... he may have his figure cornered. That way led to the HaHa - the false moat that prevented domestic animals entering the gardens. It was too wide to leap and far too steep to climb out. If he went into that, he was trapped. Boromir hurled himself round the corner, grunting with the effort.
No, there was the gesture again. Boromir began laughing. He couldn't help himself. Two great grown men chasing like kids in the castle gardens. But he wasn't going to be bested. he'd get that bugger.
He set off, this time without his tunic... just his breeches; and deciding, he hopped and removed his boots tossing them wildly away. Then he was as fleet of foot as the runner. Boromir was the hunter, and the hunted was going to get his just... his just... his...
The hunted felt the change. He'd known there'd be recognition eventually, and the laugh that rang down the yew avenues told him he would be caught, and caught as he wished. Alone, with just the hot breath of his hunter crashing into his face, his neck, seeking to find his nether regions as they would fall, wrapped together and rolling in the shrubbery, the grass, the orchard, where-ever the hunted decided to give himself up.
Making sure he was seen, Aragorn, for it was indeed he, slipped his boots off also; he had bare dirty feet that delighted in the soft grass. His toes he used to grip for turning corners, as his hand pulled at branches, at ornaments to aid his flinging body in its changing trajectories. Boromir was catching up because he'd taken the chance of beating straight through two hedges, leaving large battered holes.
Aragorn fled round another sharp-cut yew corner and bounced from a panting sweating chest.
A loud explosion of air from both men, and a staggering. Before Aragorn could wheel and run again a large hand grabbed his hair. His head tipped back, and then his body followed. The other large hand grasped round his heaving belly, and a voice of huffing creambrown laughter demanded,
"What the fookin' 'ell was the bloody king of sodding Gondor doin' running from his steward..." the voice halted for want of breath, "runnin' from 'is steward like he was wanting a bloody good fookin'?"
Aragorn leant back against the heaving chest, his hands rising to grab the hair of his Steward and pull him closer than seemed possible.
"Because he couldn't wait to be 'fooked' as you so elegantly put it, Steward, he was missing his oats, his exercise with a certain body on a morning."
Aragorn turned his head and licked at the sweaty cheek. He did NOT want to be greeted by pomp and circumstance while his cock was weeping in frustration at the sight of the well-filled breeches of his Steward. He wanted his wants satisfied hard, long and thoroughly, right now, then the King of Gondor could tolerate all the bowing and scraping, the ‘yes-sires’ and ‘nay-sires’ and wearing that so badly fitting crown.
"Come then Steward, we'll have to shed our breeches because mine are sticking to me. Peel them off, man. On your knees!"
Boromir slid his tongue down the back of his King, his hands sliding forward to tweak so accurately at the ends of the ties holding the cloth closed, then his chin pushed the material away from the warm buttocks, the hot damp cleft...
Aragorn stepped from the crumpled material as Boromir threw his to the hedgefoot; then one man stood and one knelt. Then that one stood and the bodies became indistinguishable. Legs folded with weakly crumpling knees and then the two forms lay like moving fallen statues, white-gleaming with moisture imitating polished marble.
The King loved his Steward. The Steward loved his King.
The birds flew away, shocked, to seek a quieter perch.
The following day, a very regally smiling true King rode through the flower-decorated portals of his Castle. His crown had a small sprig of yew poking just behind his left ear making it fit just that little bit better.
Summary: Boromir isn't as slow as he looks....
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1940 Read: 456
Published: 10 Nov 2012 Updated: 10 Nov 2012