The Company turned away from their path towards the Gap of Rohan at the sight of the Crebain, sent by Saruman the White, and now they headed towards the Pass of Caradhras instead. Boromir did not offer his opinion on their new route for he knew now that it would be unwelcomed, but as they climbed the high mountains and the winds bit more and more into their bones, he feared for the hobbits’ survival in this cold. He was doubtful, too, for it seemed none but Gandalf and Aragorn knew the way, and being made to walk blindly was to his great disliking.
Yet there was no help for it, for though Gimli continued his attempts to convince Gandalf to take the path underground in Moria, the wizard seemed convinced it was unsafe. Not that it would allay Boromir’s doubts any, for he was a Man of the South, and these lonely, Northern lands were not ones that he was familiar with. There were maps that he carried even now in his pack, but they were useless things. Boromir had followed these very maps, but he had still been lost in Dunland, and barely managed to find his way to Rivendell.
These thoughts he kept fiercely in his mind. The Ring’s whispers were getting stronger, a sweet song that refused to abate. He fell asleep with it as a lullaby, and when he woke it came back to him. There was no rest that he could find no matter how exhausted he felt at the end of each day’s trek. The mountains offered little game as well, so few that it was useless to hunt, and the Company’s spirits fell as the air grew colder and their provisions fell lower and lower. Their pack was light on Bill the pony now, but the poor beast could not find ease on this path either, for it was cold as well.
He glanced sideways to where Aragorn was walking next to him, and Boromir turned away once more. The two Men had not spoken ever since that night before the Crebain found the Fellowship, but Aragorn’s words lingered. Boromir had always thought his heart and emotions to be foolish creature, and he found that every glance he took of Isildur’s heir only confirmed those suspicions.
Frodo tumbled. The snowdrifts were uneven, some snowfalls softer than the others. By his side, Aragorn darted forward, and Boromir knew he should go to the Ringbearer’s aid. Yet he was frozen – not by the wind he suddenly could not feel, but by gleam of gold that shone like the sun itself amongst the vast white expanse around them. Boromir felt his feet moving towards it, the song of the Ring resounding in his ears, his mind, so loud and so soothing that his head tilted, as if he could hear it louder, sweeter, with that one motion.
If the Ring had spoken to him in words then Boromir knew he would not be so easily taken in. The Captain of the White Tower was a soldier and warrior, not a scholar like his brother Faramir, yet words came easier to him. They were friends easily found at the tips of his fingertips. The Ring seemed to know this, for it tempted not with words, but with music. It called to him with the sounds of the silver trumpets of Gondor, the clear clarion sound that rang out whenever he passed the gates of his beloved city. It lured him with the sounds of the drums of war until his feet followed that rhythm that only Boromir knew amongst these wild lands.
But most of all, it tempted with pictures, bright and clear in Boromir’s mind, so stark that he no longer saw the mountains that surrounded them.
He saw himself with the white rod of Stewardship in one hand and a sword in another. It showed him on his beloved mare, lost during his journey to Rivendell. He saw himself, decked in fine armour with the White Tree on his chest, now decked with the seven stars of the King. He saw Aragorn with the Winged Crown upon his brow, looking at him with pride. He saw himself, leaning over to press a kiss to Aragorn’s lips while the city smiled around him, and cheered him for the victories he brought to Gondor.
Aragorn called his name. It faded quickly, a voice snatched by the winds.
The Ring was a small thing, weighing near to nothing in Boromir’s hand. Was this the same object that had caused them so much grief? Was this the Ring of Power that Sauron had forged and wielded, and which he had used to kill Elendil, the greatest of all Kings of Men? Boromir could scarce believe in it even as he felt its power and heard it song. His hand ached though he barely felt the chill of the chain as it seeped past his leather glove into his skin. There was naught he wished to do than to pull it off the Elven-wrought chain and place it upon his finger.
Was it not his right, as the Steward’s heir? It was Isildur who last held the Ring, and it was the line of the Stewards who had carried on ruling when Isildur’s line failed. Isildur’s heir refused this treasure, and so it must pass to the Steward. Was it not his right, if the Ring could give him all that he wished for, all that he wanted? It seemed so easy. His mind plotted his movements: he would unhook the chain and pour the Ring onto his hand, and he would slide it into his finger. It was a small thing, but it would fit. Boromir knew it would.
“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing,” whispered Boromir, barely hearing his own voice over the roar of the Ring. In the depths of his mind he could already see Aragorn’s smile. He could taste him on his lips, and it was a sweet reminder of the Ranger Strider. But there was no need for darkness, no need for hiding, for the sun was gentle upon the white stone of Minas Tirith. It was day, and the eyes upon them judged them not, but cheered loud for their love and for Boromir’s accomplishment.
“Such a little thing.”
Aragorn called his name. Boromir started, and the image wavered. When he lifted his eyes, he saw first Aragorn’s hand upon his sword, and instantly he knew his own folly. Did he not swear to Frodo? Gondor will see it done, he vowed, and his honour lay within that vow. His honour was already a scattered thing, broken to pieces with every lie he spoke and every truth he kept his father, his brother, and his people. There were promises he had made, and duties he must carry out, and Boromir knew the weight of duty better than any Man.
He closed his eyes. The Ring cried out, urging him with sweet promises, but Boromir knew so little sweetness in his life. There was war, and there was duty, and his feet carried him forward to Frodo. He smiled and he knew not if his pain showed in the curve of his lips, but he reached out his hand and handed the Ring over to Frodo.
With it, he handed over his impossible dreams.
“As you wish,” said the Captain of the White Tower. “I care not.”
Aragorn’s eyes were cold upon his skin, freezing more than the wind that suddenly picked up. Boromir rested his hand on Frodo’s curly head, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest at the sight of the hobbit’s eyes, so frightened and suspicious as they looked upon him. The weak link in the chain, Boromir knew he was, and he ruffled his hand through Frodo’s curls in a half-hearted attempt to ease the hobbit’s fears.
When he turned away and walked towards the Company, his feet did not cross over the slope and the snow. No, with every step the crunching of ice beneath his boots echoed the destruction of his desires, and Boromir knew once more that he was a foolish Man. Yet he increased the force of his every step, pressing down even harder as the snow was crushed beneath him.
There was much he wanted, much more he wished for, but Boromir knew his desires were but specks in the face of Gondor’s need. With every step he tried to stifle the Ring’s song, holding tight with shaking hands the duties that had always weighed upon his shoulders. The images of his city’s sweet smiles lingered in his mind, and the taste of Strider, so long suppressed, rose again until he could almost fool himself into thinking that he was back in the forests, hidden by the high trees that surrounded the river Anduin.
Yet his knowledge of his own folly was even stronger than the Ring’s song. He could not forget the sight of Aragorn’s narrowed eyes, the clenched hand tight around his nameless sword.
Boromir knew all that the Ring had shown him was but a dream. A dream that would not, could not, ever come to pass. It knew it so, and strange though it was, the thought strengthened his steps even as his heart cried out for relief.
***
“Enough.”
Boromir’s hand clenched hard on Strider’s hair, tugging hard at the strands. His touch was a rough one, but he had not the time to regret it, or think further from it, for his nerves thrummed from the heat of Strider’s mouth and he wished him to stop.
“Enough, if you continue, I will -”
Strider’s eyes met his, and the Ranger’s lips curved upwards. It was obscene look, noted Boromir half-deliriously, the way Strider looked now, with his lips wrapped around Boromir’s length as he smiled with the edges of his mouth alone. Boromir trembled, and he could not discern if it was from the tide of pleasure or shame.
His back arched upwards, and though he tried, he could not stop himself from falling over the edge. Strider’s smile branded itself in his mind as his vision whited out, and he heard the cry he could not keep in his throat echoing around the two of them, filling the space of the forest. If there were orcs around, they would have found them easily, so loudly did he cry out, and Boromir’s hand clenched as his control over himself spiralled out of his mind’s grasp, and all he could do was shake in Strider’s arms.
He would not forget this, he knew. No matter how much he tried or wished for it, Boromir knew that this night with a Man whose true name he did not know had already sunk its claws into his heart. If there were cold nights he would spend with desperate men, whether hidden in tents or by the shadows of alleyways, the pleasures of the body they gave him would not compare to this.
There were hands on his thighs and Boromir spread his legs, wanton in his desire. His chest heaved for breath, and when he opened his eyes he saw nothing, for Strider’s mouth pressed on his own. Boromir struggled, trying to push the Ranger off. This was yet another obscenity, another shameful act, for he could taste his own essence upon Strider’s lips. Salt and bitterness, thicker than tears, but there was pleasure there, unasked for and unwanted, a heat that sank deep into his bones from the image of Strider’s lips upon his own.
“There is much pleasure to be found between men,” murmured Strider. The Ranger pulled away, but his lips remained close, his lips muffled against Boromir’s skin. “There is pleasure, and desire that needs not be tainted by shame. I have given you pleasure, Haradion, and need you feel shame?”
“Do not,” gasped Boromir, his hands clawing at Strider’s shoulders. “Do not speak so. The laws of Gondor cannot change, and the duties of each Man who lived in the great city of Minas Tirith will not change, not while Mordor lingers at our doors. You are a Man of the North; you do not know the reasons for our ways.”
“Aye, I am of the North,” replied Strider, and his eyes were serious even as he turned his head and pressed a sweet kiss against Boromir’s wrist. “The wild lands are lonely lands, son of the South, and we seek comfort and pleasure where we can find it.”
“Then do not convince me that my ways should be yours!” cried Boromir, his hands clenching around Strider’s collar, pulling him forward. “You have given me great pleasure in a manner that I have never known before, and for that I thank you. But still your tongue, Strider. Still your tongue, and let no more words come forth.”
Despite his best efforts, there was no anger tainting his words. There was only despair and exhaustion, only a deep-seated need that only Strider’s hands seemed to be able to alleviate. The Ranger looked at him, and when he was kissed again, Boromir shut his eyes and rocked upwards, feeling the heat of Strider’s arousal against his own skin. He spread his legs and turned his head away.
“Is this not what you want?”
Strider’s fingers stroked his jaw, calluses harsh against even sharper beard stubble. Boromir closed his eyes and did not meet the Man’s gaze, knowing that he would be defeated the moment he did. There was too much that Strider offered with his hands and mouth and words, and there was naught Boromir wished more than to take all of it, to shed every bit of the burdens he carried upon his own shoulders.
Perhaps they could seek out the orcs together in the morning; perhaps they could find a way to stay in the North and avoid the Men of Gondor who would surely come to seek for their lost heir. Perhaps there was no real solution at all, and there was only this night. Could he find space in his heart to wish that he had been born a Ranger of the North instead of the Steward’s Heir? Could he allow himself to wish for such a thing – a sudden, striking, hopeless wish – even though he knew the heavy duties that he carried as a Man of the South, as the future Captain?
“I want you to look at me,” whispered Strider. “Will you grant me that?”
Boromir kept his eyes closed. “No,” he replied. “I cannot.”
Wishing only hurt his heart. To look into Strider’s eyes would weaken his resolve. Boromir held himself still even as he felt callused hands slide into the insides of his thighs. Fingers curled around his length, making him shudder, before they disappeared. When Boromir could feel them again, they were oiled, sliding into him, and he bit down on his lip to dampen the sound.
“Are all Rangers so wanton to bring oil with them?”
He gritted his teeth hard, wishing to take the words back and leave only silence between them. But it was much too late, the words having been spilled from his lips, and Strider’s hands stopped within him.
“’Tis an oil made for healing,” murmured the Ranger. “It soothes the aches and small wounds that we find on the road.”
Boromir cocked his head to the side. His eyes remained stubbornly closed. “I thought you a Ranger, not a healer.”
“A Ranger has many skills,” returned Strider. One finger had turned into two, curving and crooking inside Boromir’s body, but the Steward’s son swallowed his sounds and focused upon Strider’s words. “I have played a healer’s role, aye, when needs call for it.”
“Do all healers treat men with such soft hands, then?” snorted Boromir. He rocked his hips upwards, hands reaching out blindly to find Strider’s arms. His nails dug into skin as he shoved Strider’s fingers as deep inside him as they could go, jerking in the Ranger’s arms at the lightning shot of pain-pleasure that wrapped itself around his spine.
“There is no need for such gentleness, Strider,” growled Boromir. “I am no maiden waiting to be bedded on her wedding night.”
Strider’s laughter echoed quietly around them, a gentle vibration that thrummed beneath Boromir’s hands.
“Aye,” replied Strider. “As you command, Haradion.”
When Strider pushed inside him there was the burn of the stretch, familiar and unknown at the same time. It was not often that Boromir allowed himself to be taken – not for his dislike for it, but that it was not his place, as the son of the Steward, to let himself be exposed so. Yet in these forests he was not Boromir, only Haradion, and Haradion was a common Man. Boromir clung onto the name, taking the meagre comforts that it offered.
Little though it was, it was what he needed. Just as he needed Strider’s movements within him, the slow, long thrusts that reminded him unerringly that this was no woman in tryst with him. No, it was a man capable of driving every single thought from his head with the smallest movements of his hips, and Boromir felt himself harden once more from the pleasure, the fulfilment of the desires within his heart that he could not admit to as a Captain of Gondor.
***
Moria stank of death and rot.
Gimli’s grief had not faded in the time they had entered the caves, and Boromir did not expect him to calm easily. How could he, when he was surrounded by the corpses of his fellow Dwarves, and every turn they took could only remind Gimli of the glories that should have been in Moria but which had been robbed and murdered by orcs and goblins? No, Boromir could not begrudge Gimli his grief.
Legolas had been silent since they had entered the caves. His eyes, an unearthly shade that shifted from blue to grey, darted from side to side. Boromir was reminded of a bird that was trapped in a cage as it tried to find its way out, and his lips quirked upwards without mirth at the thought. Did Elves not live in the great forests, with high trees above their heads and the sun that shone upon their skins? In Rivendell there were no closed, dark spaces like this one, and Boromir wondered if this difference was the reason behind the divide between the Dwarves and the Elves.
(Not for the first time, he thought Faramir would have made a much better seeker. His brother would have known the history of the Elves well enough to know the answer for Gimli and Legolas’s constant disputes.)
Yet now Legolas sat next to Gimli, offering his comfort by his very presence alone. They did not touch, but merely lingered next to each other, as if the warmth that came from having another body so close was enough. Or perhaps it was heat they sought from each other, for the caves, so far from the sun, were cold, and the hearths and furnaces that once burned in Moria had been long extinguished. Boromir sat alone, drawing his cloak around him. It was wet from the fight with the Watcher in the Lake, and though he knew it would be wiser to place it near the fire so it would dry, he would not part from it.
It was one of the few mementos he had from home, and Boromir wished for home now more than ever. Not simply for his presence at the battles that were surely still waged, but only for the his own room in the quarters set for the Steward’s heir, for the fire that burned and tapestries made by his mother’s hand that hung on his walls and windows. Boromir wished for home with an ache deep within his chest, and now, more than ever, he wished they had taken the route towards Rohan.
The Ring had not ceased its songs. It sang to him about Gondor, about finding his way back swiftly with the power that it would give him. The memories of his own room became brighter in Boromir’s mind, the ache in his chest sharper, but Aragorn’s untrusting eyes still lingered, a stronger reminder than the Ring’s temptations. Boromir knew that even though he fought for the Company and risked his life in these caves to protect the Ringbearer and his other protectors, he was still not trusted. He could not blame Aragorn for such a thing, for had Boromir not made his intentions clear in the Council where the Fellowship was formed? Had he not shown that he thought – and that he still thought – that the Ring was a weapon to be given to Men in their desperate war against the Enemy?
His father awaited the Kingly gift that Boromir would bring, but the promise he made to the Steward seemed less important than that he gave to the Ringbearer. He would have to destroy Frodo if he was to take the Ring now, and though part of Boromir knew that to do so might be necessary to win the war, his honour would not allow him to take that path.
Footsteps resounded in the caves, breaking Boromir from his thoughts, and he lifted his head to watch Aragorn walk over to him. Boromir had isolated himself once more, sitting at the edge of the Company as far away from Frodo as he dared. He would not tempt Fate and the Ring by sitting close, and he thought, bitterly, that surely Aragorn was here to do the same. That this was an attempt to keep an eye on a Man he trusted little.
“The chill will seep into your bones if your clothes are not dry, son of Gondor,” said Isildur’s Heir softly as he took a seat near to Boromir. “We cannot afford sickness on this quest.”
“’Twill not be illness that takes my life,” replied Boromir, turning away. “Do not fear for that, Aragorn. Had I not kept my health at the Path of Caradhras?”
“Aye, you have,” said Aragorn. His feet made soft noises on the stone floors of Moria. “I merely hold the worries of a healer.”
Boromir looked at him, taking note of the ragged nature of Aragorn’s clothing, the lank, damp strands of his hair, and the untidy stubble that masqueraded poorly for a beard. Not once through their journey had Aragorn looked the part of a King, much less Gondor’s King, but Boromir had seen his nobility and strength plenty, and now he casted his eyes to the floor.
“You did not approach me for worthless talk of my health, Aragorn,” said he. “What do you want?”
Silence reigned between them before Aragorn sighed, “I wish only to invite you to sleep close to me tonight. I do not have your heavy cloak to shield myself from the cold.”
Throwing a sceptical glance towards the other Man, Boromir could not keep the venom from his voice when he replied, “Are you not afraid of my knife in the darkness? If to take the Ring from Frodo is my wish, then ‘tis good strategy to rid myself of his staunchest protector.”
“You have sworn to protect Frodo in his journey as well,” replied Aragorn, his voice frustratingly calm. “I trust your honour to remain true.”
Strange it was for a Man who looked at Boromir with suspecting eyes and a hand on his sword to claim that he trusted Boromir’s honour. Lips parting to rebuke Aragorn’s claim, Boromir narrowed his eyes and met Aragorn’s gaze. What he saw in them silenced him, and he swallowed, for there was no guile hidden in the darkened grey-blue of Aragorn’s eyes – there was only honesty, and trust, and Boromir felt his hands shake.
“’Tis cold in these caves,” he replied eventually. “’Twill be folly to leave you exposed to the winds, Aragorn. I will share my cloak with you tonight.”
“I thank you greatly,” said Aragorn. He stood once more, reaching a hand out to Boromir who looked at it for a long moment before taking it.
Despite Aragorn’s claims to being affected by the chill, Boromir could only feel the heat of his hand, barely shielded by the leather gloves. The words to disdain Aragorn’s request were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. He pulled himself upwards instead, stumbling forward slightly. There was a scar on Aragorn’s lip, Boromir saw, and he wondered how he could have not realised it before. Had he truly been avoiding looking at this Man? Or was it that he had never been so close? No, it could not be – they had been closer in the forests, and yet Boromir had seen nothing.
“’Tis a new scar,” he murmured, and he started at the sound of his own voice. He ducked his head down and rubbed the back of his neck, coughing quietly. “My apologies. I overstepped my bounds.”
“No, ‘tis new indeed,” replied Aragorn, chuckling quietly. Boromir turned to glare, but the smile on Aragorn’s lips was a sweet one, and he wondered at how quickly this Man could change. One moment looking at him as though he was an orc, and another wishing for his warmth and smiling at him as if he was a friend.
His heart ached once more, but it was a familiar pain, and Boromir ignored it easily. They walked towards Aragorn’s bedroll and lay down upon it, and Boromir drew his cloak over the two of them. Legolas’s eyes flashed over towards them, but Boromir’s returning glance was defiant, and the Elf said nothing.
“A foolish wound,” continued Aragorn. His smile remained; nay, indeed it within, and Boromir’s breath caught at the sight. Aragorn settled further into the bedroll. The cloak was damp and cold upon their feet, but they had not removed their boots or undressed at all. It would be unwise to do so in Moria, where enemies seemed to lurk in the plentiful shadows and they knew not what might creep upon them in the dead of the night while they were asleep. Legolas would watch tonight, perhaps with Gimli at his side, but warriors found sleep difficult in strange places. Even Rangers, it seemed, felt the same.
“Will you tell me the tale?”
“Aye. It is not a glorious tale, however.”
“I promise to keep my laughter quiet,” replied Boromir wryly. “Unless you mean to tell me that you received the scar when attempting to trim your beard with your sword, then I only promise to stifle myself as much as I can.”
Aragorn chuckled quietly. “I cut myself upon a mallorn’s branch in Lothlorien. ‘Twas a sharp branch, with its leaves new-fallen, and I did not see it. The edge caught my lip in its thrall, and when I attempted to pull away, it tore against my flesh and my blood became its food.”
Boromir pressed a hand against his mouth immediately, muffling the laughter that could not help but bubble out of him. He ducked his head down, pressing his face against the bedroll, and his shoulders shook as he tried to not wake the company. Aragorn’s hand ghosted over his neck, and Boromir lifted his head to meet amused eyes.
“I have not seen a mallorn in my life,” said Boromir. “Yet are they not great things, near reaching the Tower of Ecthelion in their height and magnificence? How could you have missed such a thing?”
“Aye, they are,” replied Aragorn, chuckling. “Yet my attentions were diverted, my eyes focused elsewhere, and I saw naught of the tree until it took its punishment for my rudeness.”
“Was it she?” asked Boromir, voice quiet. “Your lady beloved?”
Aragorn paused for a long moment, his eyes turning upwards. Boromir did not disturb his thoughts, instead only waiting.
“Aye,” said Aragorn finally. “’Twas she.” He closed his eyes, “She stood upon the high dais, carved out from the living mallorn trees as are all living quarters in Caras Galadhon, and her beauty had taken my breath away. I have not seen her in the long years she had been away, and I did not expect to see her there then. I had gone into Lothlorien to seek the wisdom of the Lord Celeborn, but I found Arwen instead, her skin shining in the eternal twilight of the lands of the Lady of the Light, her eyes shining brighter than the golden leaves, and the star that sat upon her breast blinded me.”
His hand closed around the Evenstar that hung upon his neck, and Boromir turned away. His heart ached once more, but he chided it for its folly, for though they shared the same name, the same face, this Man was not Strider. No, he was a Ranger, but he was Isildur’s Heir as well, a Lord betrothed to the Lady of Rivendell.
“What of you, Boromir? Are there sights that took your breath away?”
Boromir started, his eyes flying open, fixing upon Aragorn’s. Yet there was no mockery in those eyes as he had half-expected – there was only curiosity, understanding, and the smidgeon of embarrassment hinted in the soft colours of his cheeks, barely visible under meagre light of Moria.
“Aye,” replied Boromir. “The White City does on each occasion I return to her from the long days away from home.”
Aragorn closed his eyes, shaking his head. “That is not what I asked for.”
He knew that well. Boromir knew what Arragorn asked of him, yet his heart had shielded himself for so long, keeping sights and pleasures deep within his heart. He could not stand the thought of Aragorn’s laughter, or worse still, his pity, if he truly spoke what his heart cried out for him to voice.
“There is a Man I know,” said Boromir. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and there was a part of him that hoped Aragorn would stop him and ask him to repeat himself so he could refuse speaking. He wished, too, that Aragorn could not hear him. But those blue eyes were too sharp and knowing, and Boromir averted his own gaze.
“The first time I saw him, he was atop his mount. Brego is a mighty steed, but my eyes were caught far more by the stallion’s rider. He had golden hair that shone in the sunlight, and he rode with such ease that he seemed to have been born on top of it. Of course,” he chuckled softly. “I expected no less.”
Boromir fell silent after those words, and he bit his lip in vain attempt to stem his blush. Surely Aragorn would think him foolish now, for his speech was no different than a young noble maiden’s as she gushed about a prince she had once saw at her window. Even his admission to Aragorn upon the shores on Anduin had not caused so much embarrassment, for desires ran hot alongside shame, but this was… This was something else entirely, an infatuation that he could not rid himself of. Worse still, though Boromir wryly, he did not have a young maiden’s youth to serve as excuse, for he was of age with the Man he had spoken of so glowingly.
“He has other qualities, of course,” added Boromir hurriedly. “He is a great commander of Men, a leader whose people followed him with clear eyes, knowing his worth. Strong in honour and stronger in pride, he rare doubted himself; but there was little arrogance within him either, for he saw his people’s needs and he tended to them as much as he could. This was the time of war, and there was little he could do, yet he gave them the best he could.”
“What is his name?” asked Aragorn, his voice just as quiet as Boromir’s.
“Théodred,” replied Boromir. He blinked his eyes open, and fixed his gaze upon Aragorn. “Son of Théoden, King of Rohan.”
“Théoden-King must be a lucky Man indeed, to have such a son,” said Aragorn. Boromir stared at him in suspicion, but there was no mockery in Aragorn’s tone or eyes, and though he knew the Man could hide himself well, there seemed little need for it.
Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation caught up to him, and Boromir chuckled. He was suddenly reminded of the long nights he spent with Faramir long years ago, when he and his brother were both just boys and they had not known neither death nor grief. It was from before their mother’s death, and Boromir would stay up with his brother late at night, reading legends and histories from the great tomes that his tutors had assigned him to Faramir. His brother was but a babe and could not read well, but he was already fascinated by these stories. They had spent long hours in the large bed that still resided in Boromir’s chambers now, dwelling in the days long past, and Faramir had wished wistfully for the sight of an Elf, while Boromir only wished he could become as great a warrior as Elendil, as Isildur, or even Anárion.
He missed his home and his brother more than ever. What was Faramir doing now, so late in the night? Was he hidden in his chambers, poring over books as was his wont? Or had he been sent out to war now that Boromir was away, and pored instead over large maps? Boromir did not know, and he wished more than anything for news of Gondor. He wished that the Crebain had not passed over them, and the Company headed for the Gap of Rohan instead of being forced into these dark, damp caves.
But those were foolish thoughts made dangerous by the call of the Ring. The song in his mind grew stronger, and Boromir’s smile faded. He frowned instead and turned away from Aragorn, curling around himself and closing his eyes.
“The hour is late,” he said. “Let us sleep, so we might wake with brightened eyes that can illuminate the path we must take to escape this place.”
Aragorn’s hand was gentle as he laid it upon Boromir’s hip. It was hot, burning upon the Steward’s son’s skin even through the thick, damp layers he wore, but Boromir could not find it within himself to move away.
“Aye, we must,” whispered the Ranger. “But I thank you, Boromir, for the gift of this tale.”
“Do not think much about it,” replied Boromir. His hand clenched around the edge of his own cloak. “’Tis but a story in return for the one you told me. I hope it satisfies your curiosity.”
There were no words given in reply, only the quiet shift of cloth upon cloth as Aragorn crept closer to him until he could feel the other Man’s heat like a furnace behind him. Boromir wished he had the strength to push the Ranger away, but he did not. Théodred’s memory lingered in his mind with the brilliance of the sun and just as untouchable, as far away as Strider’s smile between his own thighs. The caves were dark and Boromir was suddenly glad for the lack of light, for in this darkness he could pretend he did not desire Aragorn’s touch as much as he did. Though the Evenstar that hung upon Isildur’s Heir’s throat severed the tenuous bond Boromir had once made with the Ranger Strider, Aragorn’s touch was still a comfort to him in a way words could not express.
When Boromir finally succumbed to sleep, it was with Aragorn’s warmth next to him. To trust the Man who was destined to steal Denethor’s throne might be an unwise decision, but Boromir slept that night without dreams, without nightmares, and without the Ring’s sweet refrain haunting his mind.
***
“I have forgotten to thank you,” said Aragorn.
The Fellowship had found itself within the woods of Lothlorien, kept supposedly safe. Boromir could find no ease here and he had kept himself to a corner of the camp set up for the travellers. The Hobbits hid themselves within ones, and occasionally Boromir could hear a muffled sob. Around him, the woods echoed with the lament sung for Gandalf, but Boromir’s grief for the old wizard was dwarfed by his concern for his city. Still, he was much immersed in his thoughts, and he started hard at the sound of Aragorn’s voice.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wish to thank you,” said Aragorn as he came forward, taking a seat on a wide stone near Boromir. “If not for your call at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, I might not have gotten out there in time, or have missed the orcs’ arrows.”
Boromir blinked at him, and immediately shook his head. “I would not have left you there,” he said. A part of him whispered that perhaps he should, for if Frodo was left without his greatest protector, then perhaps Boromir could have taken the Ring. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, but it lingered still, like the sour taste of bile on his tongue.
“We would not have found Lothlorien without you,” continued Boromir, and he stared at his hands so he would not show Aragorn the failings of his heart and mind, the continuous temptations of the Ring that pulled at him harder and harder in these woods without the sun.
A silence fell over them, and Boromir sank into it. His thoughts turned within themselves, over and over, and he watched as his hands clench tight without his permission, nails digging into his palms. He had removed his gloves, leaving them behind in the quarters that the Lord and Lady of the Woods had gifted the weary travellers, but now Boromir wished for them again. Perhaps if he could not see his skin, he would not notice the calluses on the tips of his fingers and be reminded once more of the home and battles he left behind.
The grass shifted beneath Aragorn’s feet, a soft noise that broke the silence. “Take some rest,” said Aragorn quietly. “These borders are well protected.”
Of course they were, thought Boromir bitterly. The Elves protected the Lands with the bare few magicks left in Middle Earth, and they left nothing for the race of Men who were given the task of protecting the whole of the world from the borders of Mordor itself. For the briefest of moments, Boromir spared a thought for Minas Ithil, long renamed Minas Morgul and one of Sauron’s strongholds, and he wondered where the Elves had been throughout these long centuries as Gondor had waged their wars.
“I will find no rest here.” Boromir near-started at the sound of his own voice. He swallowed, taking a breath, and forced himself to continue. “I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me: Even now, there is hope left.”
He turned away, ashamed at his own words and his weakness in speaking them. “I cannot see it,” he said, and his voice came as a shaking whisper. “It is long since we had any hope.”
What hope was there for Gondor, while their men died in droves and daily there were funeral rites, great high pyres of fire that reached the skies while the voices of the women cried and sobbed and screamed? What hope was left when the men Boromir had trained with and fought with in his first battles were all dead now, left to be consumed by the flames? What hope was there when mothers began to cry when they give birth to sons, for they knew that one day their children would be sacrificed in the fight against Mordor, against Sauron’s all-consuming anger, until there was no men left to take up arms? What hope was there left for Gondor when a man and a woman marrying was less a matter of love, than a matter of necessity, for there was always the need for more soldiers, more men, and six hundred years had worn all thoughts of love to the bone until it remained a fantasy achievable only by the luckiest few?
Boromir knew himself to be selfish. Long had he lamented his own nature, for his duties to Gondor had told him they were wrong. Long had he held onto the memories of that night under the moon in the forests for the sake of holding onto hope that he would one day be able to find another such Man, and he could know hope, and peace, and perhaps happiness. But what was the Steward’s son’s joys in the face of Gondor’s need? His desires had little importance when he could see the broken eyes of his people whenever he walked the streets, when he had seen with his own eyes the broken, bloodied hands of miners, blacksmiths, tailors – women all – as they struggled to supply Gondor’s armies with armour and swords.
Duty’s clarion call had always rang sharp in Boromir’s heart, and he knew that it was only Denethor’s late marriage that had forestalled his own. Yet he could not bear the thought, and as he glanced down, he realised his hands were once more shaking.
“My father,” he began. He swallowed, and took a shaking breath. “My father is a noble Man, but his rule is failing. And our people lose faith.” He did not blame them. How could he, when his own heart trembled and cried at the sight of the corpses each battle wrought upon Gondor? “He looks towards me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.”
The sights of his beloved, much missed city flashed in his mind. “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The Tower of Ecthelion, gleaming like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”
“I have seen the White City, long ago,” replied Aragorn, but Boromir scarce heard it. He stumbled forward from his seat upon the rock, turning around. His hands clenched tightly around Aragorn’s forearms, his grip near tight enough to bruise.
“One day our paths will lead us there,” said Boromir, and though he wished to infuse his words with hope there was only despair, echoing around his ears in the cold twilight of Lothlorien. “The Tower Guards shall take up the call: The Lords of Gondor have returned!”
Aragorn’s fingers were warm against his neck, and Boromir, foolish and unwise, leaned towards it.
“You have refused me knowledge of your heritage in Rivendell,” whispered Boromir, his voice trembling. “Will you answer my call now, Aragorn, if I call for the Lords of Gondor? Or does Isildur’s Heir keep himself in the North, the lands of the Rangers where Isildur himself had met his end?”
“’Tis a heavy task you have asked of me,” murmured Aragorn, his eyes steady upon Boromir’s. “’Tis not my place to declare myself a Lord.”
“Whose is it, then?” shot back Boromir. “Who has the authority to claim the throne of Gondor for your sake? You are Isildur’s Heir, and though on these long roads you have not once claimed to be Gondor’s King, you are our leader. ‘Tis by your guidance that we have reached Lothlorien, or will you deny that as well?”
“No,” said Aragorn. “I will not. .” His eyes narrowed. “What will you ask of me, Boromir? What will Gondor’s people ask of their Lords?” “Hope,” said Boromir, and as he spoke the word he knew it to be true. The Steward of Gondor and his Captains and sons did not only lead their people, but also bolster their faith, their belief in tomorrow. There was no tomorrow Boromir could see now, in this place of eternal twilight where the sun did not piece through the mallorn trees. Time seemed not to pass, but Boromir counted his heartbeats and breaths still, and he took a deep one of the latter now.
“’Tis the duty of Gondor’s Lords, Aragorn, to give its people hope.”
Aragorn took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them once more, he took Boromir’s hands into his own, engulfing them with his callused, rough fingers. “I arrived in Imladris at the age of two after my father’s death,” murmured Aragorn, and his eyes were piercingly bright even in the dull that blanketed the Golden Wood. “My mother, in hope of protecting me, gave me a new name. As a child in Lord Elrond’s lands, I was not known as Aragorn, but as Estel.”
Boromir knew little of Sindarin, but his eyes widened, for near-forgotten memories of his tutors’ lessons pricked in his mind.
“You were named Hope,” said the son of the Steward of Gondor.
“”nen i-estel edain. Ú-chebin estel anim,” said Aragorn. “My mother’s words, as she gave me as hope to the race of Men, and kept none for herself.”
“’Tis a heavy name to bear,” replied Boromir, and he cast his eyes down. The grass of Lothlorien was rich despite the lack of light, he thought, and he wondered if Elven magicks had reached the soils as well.
“Aye,” said Aragorn, and his voice chased all thoughts of Galadriel and her knowing eyes from Boromir’s mind. “My mother was wise, but ‘tis only now that I know her reasons for the name.” He lifted Boromir’s hands to his lips, and pressed a dry kiss upon the knuckles.
“I know not what strength is in me, and I know not if I deserve the title of King. But if you name me the Lord of Gondor, Boromir, then ‘tis a title I will carry with pride. What little strength remains in me will be your own. Let me be your hope, and your faith, until the day we walk through Minas Tirith’s gates and hear the silver trumpets’ clarion calls. ‘Tis by your acknowledgment that I am made a Lord of Gondor, Steward’s Heir, and that I will not forget.”
Foolish and unwise to trust a Man who would steal rulership from his father’s hands, Boromir knew, but he could not stop his heart from soaring. Long it had been since he had met Strider, the Ranger of the North to whom he had given his body, but now he saw him again, sitting in front of him with his back straight and eyes clear. Fifteen years or more had passed since Boromir had looked into Strider's eyes and saw himself reflected in them, a warrior strong and respected despite all that he admitted to, all that he had done.
“I wish for hope,” said Boromir hoarsely. “The Lady of the Light told me hope still holds within these lands, and perhaps ‘tis you that she refers to. I wish for hope, Aragorn, and for faith, and all that a plain soldier asks of his Captain before a battle in which he knows not if he will survive, or if his beloved city will fall.”
Aragorn stood, pulling Boromir up with him. There was strength in the Ranger’s arms that steeled Boromir’s spine, and he stood straight before Aragorn, before the Lord of Gondor, before the Man whom he was slowly, reluctantly beginning to accept as his Captain and a Man whom he would follow to the ends of Middle Earth itself, if Aragorn would always look at him with those clear eyes without judgment.
“Then ‘tis hope that I will give you,” whispered Aragorn.
Summary: Boromir knows Gondor’s ways. No matter how it might break him to follow, he will, for the Captain knows his duties.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 4 Completed: Yes
Word count: 27183 Read: 15256
Published: 29 Apr 2013 Updated: 29 Apr 2013