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: None

Challenges:

Series: None

Chapters: 4 Completed: Yes

Word count: 27183 Read: 15252

Published: 29 Apr 2013 Updated: 29 Apr 2013

The Lady Galadriel gave Boromir a golden belt that he knew not what to do with. It shone and the white stone in its centre had such brilliance that it caught the sun no matter how much Boromir tried to hide it beneath his tunic. It was impractical, sure to draw all orcs towards them once they saw its light glinting, and Boromir did not know the reason why she had gifted such a thing to him. He was not a Man with great care for riches.

Boromir hid the belt in his pocket as the Fellowship took the Elven boats down the Anduin. He had felt his heart clench at the sight of the Argonath, for though the great Kings of Men carved into stone were magnificent indeed, it reminded him of Gondor. They were now entering the lands of Men, moving close towards Anárion’s city that he had ruled over in his father’s absence, a city that bordered Mordor. Boromir could nearly see the smoke of Mount Doom as it reached towards the skies, and chill set once more into his bones, and the song of the Ring rang louder and louder.

He ignored it the best he could, fixing his eyes on Aragorn as the Company reached the shore. The sun had long set, sinking down to hide behind the tall Misty Mountains. Sometimes Boromir could not believe it had been weeks since they had turned from Caradhras for it was surely too short a time. Sometimes he could still feel the chill of the mountaintop on his skin.

There was a sound; a boat moving through the water. Boromir’s warriors instincts kicked in immediately, and he ducked behind a large boulder, peering out through it to the river.

“Gollum,” said Aragorn quietly from behind him. “He has tracked us since Moria. I had hoped we would lose him on the river but he is too clever a water man.”

Boromir knew the name – Legolas had spoken of how Gollum had escaped the Mirkwood Elves’ capture before the quest. It was for the reason of reporting his escape that he had journeyed to Rivendell, and now Boromir looked at the strange creature lurking atop a floating log, he felt a shiver creep down his spine. Once Gollum had been something else, but now he was a distorted, monstrous creature, made so by his long possession of the Ring, given extra years to live in his current state, which was no life at all.

Close to them, the Ringbearer sat upon a rock near the bank of the Anduin, safely kept out of sight of any who sailed upon the river. The Ring, Boromir knew, hid beneath the small hobbit’s tunic, but he dismissed the thought immediately, turning towards Aragorn.

“If he alerts the enemies to our whereabouts it will make the crossing even more dangerous,” he said. Sam began to chivvy Frodo to eat, to sleep, but Boromir kept his eyes firmly on Aragorn – not merely waiting for his reply, but using the sight of his quietly-admitted King to stifle the Ring’s sweet song.

When Aragorn made no reply, Boromir stepped towards him.

“Minas Tirith is a safer road. From there we can regroup. Strike out for Mordor from a place of strength.”

As he spoke he wondered if his words were driven by his true belief for the need for safety that could be found in Gondor, or if his heart ached so strongly for home, to fight once more alongside the soldiers of Gondor who gave their lives daily for the White City, that his mind could see no better road than to pass through his city towards Gondor.

He had spoken in the Council – there was no way anyone could walk into Mordor, not even with an army. But if there were Men of Gondor as his back and side, and if Aragorn would lead them, the strongest fighting force amongst the race of Men, against Sauron, then perhaps Frodo would have a chance. His hands trembled.

“There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us,” said Aragorn quietly, so calmly that a few heartbeats passed before Boromir could believe his own ears.

“You are quick enough to trust the Elves!” he shouted, stepping forward, all caution about Gollum forgotten as he stood inches from Aragorn. “Have you so little faith in your own people?”

What of the words Aragorn had said to him? Where were they now? Aragorn’s eyes were made grey by the darkness that folded over the Company, and there was a chill in them that made Boromir clench his hands by his side. But he still held onto the silver of hope he had been given, and he took another step forward.

“Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty,” he said, and the irony laced in his tone could not be missed by his own ears. Who knew better than Aragorn how frail and weak a Man could be? “But there is courage also, and honour, to be found in Men.”

Aragorn’s eyes remained cold.

Boromir abandoned his dignity, forcing his eyes to beg for Aragorn to see, to deny his words. Had Aragorn already forgotten the words he had spoken himself? Was the Ranger’s memory so short he now remembered nothing of what had passed between them in Lothlorien, when the Golden Wood was only two days’ journey away?

Aragorn turned away, his back straight, his eyes like ice even they turned from Boromir.

“But you will not see that,” whispered the Steward’s son. He froze in place, his heart slamming hard in his chest.

In Lothlorien, he walked with Aragorn towards the quarters Aragorn had been given by the Lady of the Light. It was carved from the heart of a mallorn tree, its walls were a light colour, brown like burnished, burnt gold, and Boromir let his fingers run down the grain. Smooth, nigh unnaturally so, and he thought once more of Minas Tirith, of the high white stones pockmarked and stained by centuries upon centuries of living and of battle, no matter the efforts of the stonemasons to clean them. Embedded within the city’s walls were the histories of its people, of how they lived and loved and died. Yet in this strange Elvenhome, there was no such thing, and Boromir shivered slightly at the chill that seeped into his very bones at the thought.

“Let me chase the cold,” said Aragorn, his hands sliding into Boromir’s hair to cup his head. “In Moria’s mines you allowed me to sleep beside you. Will you allow me the privilege again, Boromir?”

“Your presence comforts me much,” replied Boromir, his voice soft and tremulous. “But ‘tis not enough for hope, for the cold had seeped into my bones and lodged itself into my heart. In these rooms I feel the winter winds of Caradhras, and the sickly sweet smell of death in Moria haunts

my dreams. I can find no rest here, Aragorn, until the memories have faded away.”

There was the Ring. Though Boromir could not see it and Frodo was far from him, its song lingered in his mind, refusing to be drowned out. However, Boromir himself was far more obstinate, but his spirit tired, and he feared that soon he would not be able to keep it at bay, and he would give in to the Ring’s temptations.

“Then let me comfort you with heat,” said Aragorn as he moved towards the bed, his hands held out towards Boromir. “Lie with me tonight, and take strength from my body.”

Boromir stumbled at those words, his feet catching in the rich carpet that paved the mallorn wood floors. Aragorn’s hands caught him, brought him to the bed, but Boromir barely felt the touch, so wide were his eyes and so great was his shock as he stared at Aragorn.

“Are you not playing the Lord and I the soldier tonight, Aragorn?” he whispered.

“Aye,” answered Aragorn, and his smile was soothing. “Is there shame for a Lord to be taken, Boromir? I remembered a Man once, named Haradion, whose hair shone underneath the moonlight and whose eyes told me the great pleasures he received at the Ranger Strider’s hands. I saw shame in his eyes, but ‘twas not caused by his postion.”

“’Tis shameful indeed,” said Boromir, averting his eyes. “A Lord who allows a mere soldier to take him is a laughingstock in Gondor.”

“Nay,” said Aragorn, his finger pressing light upon Boromir’s lips. “There is no shame in pleasure and desire. ‘Tis much I have learned from the Elves. My body is yours tonight to do as you will, Boromir, and there is no shame in my heart for it.”

There were words on Boromir’s tongue in condemnation, for Aragorn claimed to be a Lord of Gondor and yet here he was, once more behaving like an Elf. But Boromir’s heart could not find the strength to argue, and his blood sang for he looked upon Aragorn and admitted him beautiful in this soft light.

His hand reached out without his mind’s bidding, and as he undressed Aragorn and pushed him down to the bed, Boromir looked deep into the changeable eyes of the Man of the North who claimed to be Gondor’s King. He found no shame there, only desire, and pleasure later as Boromir pushed into him and rode him hard and rough, his hands leaving bruises on Aragorn’s skin. There was no fear in Aragorn’s eyes for reprisal, and Boromir found himself surprised for he could not find it within himself to revile this Man despite his show of weakness and vulnerability.

No, his heart was a foolish creature, for it drew strength with each thrust into Aragorn’s body, each sight of those eyes misted over in pleasure. As Boromir closed his eyes, he knew he was a traitor to the Steward, and a disloyal Captain.

That night, as he laid beside Aragorn on the Lorien bed as the voices of the Elves rose around them in lament for Gandalf, he knew he slept beside the Man his heart called King.

In Lothlorien, Boromir had looked upon Aragorn and pledged his troth in silence. Yet now, barely days since, Aragorn had betrayed himself, betrayed his own name of Estel, and Boromir felt his hopes and heart tear themselves into shreds. He could not stand it. Not this, not despair, for that was the greatest poison of all. No, he could only find it within himself to be angry, and he reached out, his hand tightening around Aragorn’s arm.

“You are afraid,” he accused, His eyes spat fire, but there was a burning in his throat still, and Boromir parted his lips and let the words rush forth: “All your life you have hidden in the shadows! Scared of who you are, what you are!”

He stopped. What use was there in continuing? Aragorn would not listen – his eyes had turned to stone despite Boromir’s impassioned speech, and Gondor’s son cast his eyes down, staring at his feet, at the rocks around him. Strange, that it was along Anduin’s shores that Boromir first found hope from Aragorn, and now it was almost the same place that it was destroyed. There was a poetic irony in this, but Boromir lingered not upon the thought. He would not allow himself to sink into despair.

Yet Aragorn was not finished.

“I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city,” growled Isildur’s heir suddenly, his grey eyes narrowed and sharp like a hundred knives piercing through Boromir’s skin. He walked away, and Boromir let him leave, his fingers nervous and his heart wrenching tight in his chest. Your city, Aragorn had said, and with those two mere words he had severed his ties to Gondor and renounced the title of being one of her Lords.

Boromir had laid his loyalty at Aragorn’s feet without speaking a word of it. It should have been enough, more than enough, that he had sought comfort from Aragorn’s arms and called him Captain. Was not the duty of Gondor’s Lords to give her people comfort? Yet Aragorn had ground Boromir’s loyalty into dust, leaving him behind gaping like a fool, and Boromir’s eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. Boromir’s heart, a broken, brittle thing, shuddered under the impact of the blow, and he turned away to hide his eyes as he felt it crack, and shatter.

Foolish and unwise he truly was, to have trusted the Man who would steal his father’s throne. Boromir berated himself – was he truly so starved for touch that he would take any that came to him, raising the giver to a high place and trusting him, no matter how little it was deserved? Was he truly so desperate that he had lost all clear-sightedness and good judgment? How could he have trusted Aragorn? The young Captain who laid himself bare before the Ranger Strider could be forgiven for his youth, but Boromir had led the armies of Gondor for twenty years, and had fought in Gondor’s battles for five more, and there was no forgiveness that could be found for the Captain-General who had made a grievous mistake that would topple the line of Stewards, and hand Gondor over to an unworthy King.

The Ring sang in his mind. Boromir could hear once more how Sam chivvied Frodo to eat, and there were quiet sounds of metal sounds on wooden plates as Frodo ate. He knew the burdens lifted from Frodo’s shoulders now that the Ring had turned its full attention to him, but Boromir had no more strength to resist that gentle, luring song.

He could feel eyes on him. Legolas’s Elven eyes bore holes into Boromir’s back, and though the Steward’s son knew the Elf might look out of concern, he could not help but turn and give Legolas a sharp glare. He would not take the Ring now, not when Frodo was surrounded by his protectors, with Aragorn coming to his side—

No!

No. Boromir turned away from the sight of the hobbit, walking towards the river’s bank. He bent and picked up a single stone, feeling its cool smoothness against his palm. No, he would not attack Frodo and take the Ring, no matter how strong the temptation. Months – lifetimes – ago, he had made a promise at the Council of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, that Gondor would see Frodo’s task done. Gondor would see the Ring destroyed, that much he swore, and though Boromir clutched onto his honour with bloodstained and shaking hands, he would not release it. If there were no more honour left for the Men of Gondor, what would be left for them?

The burden of the Ring’s destruction and the protection of the Ringbearer had been laid upon Gondor’s feet by Boromir’s own hands, and he would fulfil that vow. There was none else who would, or could.

Aragorn had ground Boromir’s loyalty into dust, but there was a great deal more lost. He had destroyed the tenuous bond that tied him to Gondor, and that the Captain of the White Tower could not forgive him for.

Gondor would not have her King, Boromir decided. She would have to make do with a Steward’s Heir, worn around the edges and with a single duty he would never be able to truly fulfil. Boromir knew he was willing and he was bred for such a task, and though his heart cried out for him to reach for Aragorn and try to make the Elven-bred Ranger understand, his pride would not stand such a thing.

What use was a heart’s aching, when faced with the necessities of his pride?

***

The Company had settled upon the banks of the Anduin once more to make camp. They had passed long mountains, and though the sun was still high on the skies, Aragorn had signalled that they should stop. The armies of the Enemy were close by, Boromir knew, and they should hurry down the Anduin as quickly as the currents could take them. He wondered, with a bitterness unsuitable for an obedient soldier, if Gollum had indeed led the orcs and Uruk-hai to them.

Parth Galen this was, and Boromir realised with a start that this was where he had lain with Strider so very long ago. The trees were familiar to the touch, and Boromir knew these lands for finally they had reached the South, and Gondor was so very close by. It would be but a week’s journey on foot to Rohan and ten to Minas Tirith, even shorter for a rider. But there was no use in such thoughts, for Aragorn had made his mind clear: they would not head for Gondor, no matter the throne that awaited him there, or the sanctuary of the Citadel where surely the Steward would receive them if Boromir stood surety for the presence of the Fellowship.

There was need for firewood. The lembas bread the Lady Galadriel had given them might be holding up well, though their stores depleted quickly due to the hobbits’ appetite, but at the same time there was still need for warmth in the night.

So Boromir circled around these mundane thoughts, keeping them in his mind as a distraction against the temptation of the Ring. Its song was clearer and sharper than ever, and with each step Boromir took he despaired. Any strength he might have kept in his heart was worn away by Aragorn’s denial of his own city. How could a soldier keep faith when his Captain denied the very source of it? No, Boromir had little strength left, and all he had to keep hold to was his honour, and the vow he had made to Frodo.

It was a mistake to think of the hobbit. Boromir, his hands laden with firewood, could see the Ringbearer out of the corner of his eyes. Surely the hobbit needed protection, and he headed towards him. A part of his mind urged him to turn away, to head back to the Company and tell Aragorn that Frodo was alone so that both Men could keep watch over the Ringbearer. So Aragorn could protect Frodo from Boromir himself.

There was no trust left in his heart for Aragorn.

“None of us should wander alone,” called Boromir as he stopped in front of the little hobbit. So small the creature was, so fragile with his large, begging eyes. “You least of all. So much depends on you.”

Frodo started, staring at him, those eyes growing even bigger as if he pleaded with Boromir to relieve him from his burden. Did Frodo not realise that Boromir was here to protect him? Did he not know that Boromir held his honour and duty above all else?

“Frodo?”

The hobbit turned his eyes away. Boromir approached him, wishing to reassure, wishing to give comfort. He was a Captain, was he not? Though Frodo was not one of his soldiers, he was under Boromir’s safeguarding still.

“I know why you seek solitude,” he continued. “You suffer, I see it day by day. Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly? There are other ways, Frodo, other paths we might take.”

“I know what you would say,” replied Frodo, his eyes frightened but remaining caught in Boromir’s gaze. “And it would seem like wisdom, but for the warning in my heart.”

“Warning?” replied Boromir incredulously. “Against what?”

The Ringbearer does not trust you. He does not give you the respect you deserve. You are a strong, honourable Man, the Captain of Gondor’s armies, so why does he fear you? He fears you for he does not respect you, Boromir. He fears you for he does not understand the duties you hold so dear, and he has no love for Gondor.

Boromir’s hands trembled. He clutched the firewood further, taking another step forward. Frodo stepped back, clearly terrified, and Boromir licked his lips.

“We’re all afraid, Frodo, but to let that fear drive us to destroy what hope we have... don't you see? That is madness!”

He knew what madness was. He knew it well.

“There is no other way!” cried Frodo.

He has no love for Gondor. He will see Gondor destroyed, its high towers burnt, its gleaming white walls turned black from the smokes of Mordor, so he can hold onto the Ring. The Ringbearer has gone mad, son of Gondor. He is filled with greed, with want, and he has succumbed to the Ring.

Frodo was a noble hobbit, braver than the rest of the Company. Boromir wished to stop himself, and he closed his eyes, but he saw his city. He saw it in its great glory, its banners flying high in the wind, the Tower of Ecthelion in front of his eyes, the highest architectural achievement in the whole of Middle Earth. He saw it clearly: his father smiling, his arms around Faramir, and all around him his Men cheered as Mordor fell, destroyed entirely. Sauron was defeated, and the Lidless Eye could no longer turn its malevolent glare towards the Men of Gondor.

Frodo was a noble hobbit, braver than the rest of the Company. Yet he did not know Boromir’s duties. He did not know the strength Gondor needed, the strength she so sorely needed these past years of endless battles, of a War waged against Mordor and its endless troops of orcs.

“I only ask for the strength to defend my people,” Boromir threw the firewood down so he could reach out towards Frodo.

He could see it. A Man beside himself, his torso broad and his arm strong as he wrapped himself around Boromir. He could hear his people’s cheering growing louder, the chants of Gondor, Gondor, Gondor, becoming a call, a sign towards all that the Men of Middle Earth had triumphed against the evil that not even the great Elves with their magicks could destroy. Boromir heard it all, saw it all, and he knew what he must do.

Boromir took another step forward. He forced further words out from a closed throat. “If you will only lend me the Ring…”

“No!”

“Why do you recoil?” Why did Frodo not trust him? Had Boromir not held onto his honour? Had he not protected Frodo for these past months through the long journeys they had taken? “I am no thief!”

“You are not yourself!” cried the hobbit. His begging eyes stared into Boromir, and his hands almost fell back to his side. But no, Boromir would be strong. He had made a vow to bring the Ring to Mordor. Gondor will see it done, he said, and he would.

He would, once he had used the power of the Ring to destroy its master and save Gondor. He would, for there was no other way for him to achieve what he needed so badly. There was no other road for Gondor’s Captain to take, if he was to save his city and change it so the one duty he could not perform would not be the ruin of him. All he needed was the Ring. The Ringbearer was nigh begging for him to take it with his eyes, no matter what his words meant.

“What chance do you think you have?” whispered the Steward’s son, and his footsteps quickened as he moved towards Frodo. “They will find you. They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end!”

Boromir knew what laid ahead for those captured by the orcs. They were cruel, vicious creatures. It was a kindness he was doing for Frodo, that he knew not. The hobbit was too fragile to carry the Ring; only a strong warrior could bear it. Only a strong Man could wield it. Only Boromir should wield it. Its power would solve all of his worries; if Boromir wielded the Ring, then none would ever look at him and not acknowledge that he was a warrior worthy of the station of the Captain of Gondor’s armies. He would not fear again.

He refused to fear again. There was naught he needed but one small thing. A tiny thing with barely any weight without its chain.

“Fool!” he shouted to Frodo. Could he not see? Boromir was his salvation, the release from his burden that he long sought! The Ring was not Frodo’s to give! “It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine. Give it to me!”

Boromir leaped towards Frodo, his hands outstretched. His mind had never been so clear. The Ring’s song had ceased.

Gondor’s Captain fell.

***

The skies were dark on that day, so dark that Strider’s eyes had appeared like a pair of blue lanterns. Boromir had not forgotten that shade since. Though the memories of that night had been spoiled by his knowledge of who the Ranger truly was, he could not exorcise it from his mind.

Long had Boromir resigned himself to his own desires, knowing they could not be changed no matter how hard he tried. Long had he decided to throw himself fully into the task of commanding, for that he excelled in, and it proved him worthy to be a Captain whom Men would follow gladly; a Captain who knew enough of war to not lead his soldiers into worthless battles and use flawed strategies that ended with the death of his people. Long had Boromir held onto his honour and his duty with clenching hands and fingers, for they were all that mattered to him, all that he had left.

The ground was cold beneath his knees. Was it so cold on that night? Boromir did not think so. There was no cold that he remembered. Strider’s heat had chased it all away then. Now Boromir tried to remember some of it as he turned his head up and looked up into the Uruk-Hai’s eyes. There was defiance still within Boromir, but at the same time – he wished to thank the creature, for surely he would kill him now before anyone else knew of his dishonour, and Boromir would not have to live with the knowledge of his failures for much longer. His only regret remained for his little hobbits, carried away by the Uruk-Hai and the orcs. What fate would befall them, Boromir knew not, and he could not protect them, so far away they were from him.

But perhaps that was a boon in disguise. What would Boromir have done to the little ones if he continued to stay by their side? He did not know. He could not trust himself. He had lost his honour, betrayed the vow he made, and now all he had left was the possibility of a sweet death by an enemy’s hands. He kept his eyes on the Uruk-Hai, staring deep into black sets set deep into a dark face, and steeled himself for oblivion.

At least the pain of breathing would fade, even if he was to be haunted by his failures for the rest of eternity.

There was the sound of battle. A sharp cry. The swinging of a sword. From his lowered lids Boromir could see Aragorn bursting out of the trees, his nameless sword shining brightly underneath the sun. Boromir dragged air painfully into his lungs, placing one hand then two on the ground. He crawled away from the sound of a battle he could not see, and every inch he gained sent the arrows deeper into his flesh, and a sharp piercing pain laced through his mind. Yet Boromir fought to crawl away, the most lowly of battles he had ever fought against himself, for he was a failed warrior but he would not be a hindrance against Aragorn if he still had breath.

When he finally reached a low slope, he turned and allowed himself to slump against the ground. It was dry but cold, but there was no greater chill than that of death. Boromir could feel it approaching and wished it would come to him faster.

“Boromir!” cried Aragorn, his voice sounding as if it came from the opposite bank of the river, so dim it was.

“They took the little ones,” cried Boromir. The words burst out of him, each one a separate flame in his throat. His conscience tugged at him, and though he knew he might keep his honour if he did not tell Aragorn his failure, he was too honest a Man.

“Frodo! Where is Frodo?”

“I let Frodo go,” replied Aragorn, and his voice was choked.

Aye, Aragorn was indeed a better Man than he was, than Boromir could ever be.

“Then you did what I could not.” He swallowed, and forced himself to continue and lay his shame upon Aragorn’s feet. “I tried to take the Ring from him.”

Aragorn’s hands came to cup his cheeks, leather worn and warmed by skin stroking against Boromir’s jaw. “The Ring is beyond our reach now,” he said.

“Forgive me,” said Boromir wildly. “I did not see. I have failed you all.”

“No, Boromir,” replied Aragorn, and his face was so close that Boromir could see his eyes. They were blue, a blue as clear as the waters of Anduin. “You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.”

He was a foolish Man, an unwise Man, Boromir knew. He should not trust this usurper, this Man who was named Isildur’s Heir by an Elf, but his heart soared at Aragorn’s words. A hand left his cheek, reaching for an arrow, but Boromir fought through the pain and gripped onto Aragorn’s wrist.

“Leave it,” he rasped. “It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin.”

Aragorn kissed him.

It was a swift kiss, but sweet for it was unexpected and sudden. Why Aragorn had done such a thing, Boromir did not know, and his heart ached not from the pain of the arrows’ poisons, but for the affection he could see in Aragorn’s eyes. The pain they had dealt to each other a day ago was extinguished, and Boromir’s hands shook as he reached up to slide them into Aragorn’s hair. He despised his gloves them, hated them deeply, for there was naught he wished for than to feel Aragorn’s skin against his own.

“Boromir,” whispered Aragorn. “Boromir,” he said again, tipping his head to the side, leaning into Boromir’s touch. “I know not what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

“Our people,” repeated Boromir, foolish Man that he was. “Our people.”

Gondor will see it done.

Boromir’s hands trembled as he reached for his sword. Aragorn wrapped his fingers around it, and he pressed it to his chest. He looked at the Man kneeling over his own body. Since Rivendell he had thought Strider and Aragorn to be separate Men, but now he knew they were the same, and his heart swelled for he saw himself within those clear blue eyes again. He saw a Man who knew his deepest and most undutiful desires; saw a Man who listened to his confessions of his failures and told him he had kept his honour.

The memories of Strider he had kept deep within his heart for fifteen years. In cold nights as he pulled his men into his arms to comfort them, he had kept the thought of the Ranger in his mind so his eyes would not burn with loneliness. There was one man who had seen him as he was, a Man who knew no shame of finding pleasure in another man’s touch, and he judged Boromir not for his frailties and his desires. He judged Boromir not for wanting his touch, his heat, and though he had watched Men be sent to their death for what he indulged in, though he knew himself to be a hypocrite, that night fifteen years ago had allowed him to put one foot in front of another in the darkest of times.

For Aragorn had seen the most shameful part of him, and did not think him less of a warrior.

His breath pained him and darkness near forced him to fade away. But Boromir fought death hard now, his hand clenching tight on his sword.

“I would have followed you,” said Boromir, the words clear in his mind, born from his heart. “My brother, my Captain.” He let his sword go.

“My King.”

As Boromir surged forward, both hands grabbing onto Aragorn’s shoulders as he stole one last kiss from willing lips, he felt death’s scythe strike down upon him. Now he did not fight it, for he felt Aragorn’s rough lips return his kiss.

He felt his shame slip away, and he followed it into the darkness.

Aragorn closed his eyes. He did not speak and could not breathe. Boromir’s last breath, exhaled into his own mouth, was like a brand within his lungs, writing the name of Gondor’s most dutiful son upon the insides. He held it within him as much as he could, but his eyes sparked black spots, and Aragorn knew he had to let it go.

His hand cupped Boromir’s stiff neck, lowering him gently onto the cold ground. He looked at those half-closed eyes, and he slipped the lids closed.

“Be at peace,” whispered Isildur’s Heir, the uncrowned King of Gondor, his voice dark with unshed tears, “son of Gondor.”

In his long life, Aragorn had pondered many times about taking the Golden Throne of Gondor. At his twentieth year Elrond of Imladris had told him his true name, and the burden of Elendil’s abandoned throne had laid itself upon his shoulders. He could not understand Men, and always had he thought them weak, comparing them unfavourably to the Elves even when he was Captain Thorongil, serving under Ecthelion the Steward.

He could barely remember the night when he met Boromir. It was a night like many nights before and after it when the Ranger Strider had hunted the orcs of Mordor that had escaped the swords and arrows of Gondorian soldiers to travel up North. Haradion was a Man like many Men of Gondor before him, fearful and ashamed of his own desires, On that night Aragorn had thought once more that he surely could not rule over Gondor, not over a land that punished men and women for desires that they could not help having; that punished them for the crime of love when stories of such love should be made into songs and glorified to help chase off the eternal darkness of war.

Now he looked on Boromir; on Boromir’s body, which was growing cold beneath him. He took stiff fingers and folded them, bringing them to his lips as he pressed a gentle, shaking kiss. His eyes caught the White Tree embroidered upon Boromir’s vambraces, and he made a vow.

Gondor would find peace, Aragorn swore to himself. She would find peace under his rule, and Aragorn would wrought the changes needed. No matter how long it would take – for surely it would take at least a Rohirrim’s lifetime to change what had been put in place for six hundred years – Aragorn would ensure that a brave, honourable Man like Boromir would never be tormented by what he could not change of himself.

Aragorn had failed to save the first Man who had pledged himself to him and named him King. He would not fail another, not while there was still breath in him. He would not run from his duties again, not when Boromir had spent his life trying to fulfil his.

Slowly, he stood. Looking down to Boromir, Aragorn finally allowed a single tear to break free.

“They will look for his coming from the White Tower,” he whispered.

“But he will not return.”

***

The sun’s dawning light was peeking through the trees as Boromir woke. As a warrior for this long decade, the mists of sleep did not fade gently, but dissipate quickly as he sat up. Strider was no longer by his side as he had been when they had both succumbed to sleep, but that Boromir had expected. He did not expect, however, for Strider to have remained, dressed as he was with his sword strapped back to his hip.

Boromir stood silently without greeting the Ranger. He reached for his clothes and dressed as quickly as he could.

“The orcs have surely turned north,” said Strider quietly. “’Twill be best if you turn back to Gondor, Lord Boromir, and leave their destruction to me.”

“Nay,” replied Boromir immediately, his eyes narrowing. “’Tis the duty I have been given, and I will not rest until I have seen the orcs slain with my own eyes, and by my own hand.”

Strider’s gaze was heavy on him, but Boromir was defiant, tilting his head up and meeting those eyes without flinching. He knew his duty well, and he would not entrust it upon a stranger. His body he would give to Strider, but he would not risk the safety of Gondor in the hands of the same Man.

The silence was long between them, filled sporadically by the quiet chirping of birds in the trees.

“Aye,” said Strider finally. “The road I take will be a harsh one, and we must be swift upon our feet.”

“You insult me, Ranger,” snorted Boromir. He picked up his sword and strapped it back to his hip, and his hunting knife he slung across his back. “I am a warrior and I am used to the urgencies of war. Lead on, and worry not for my ability to follow.”

Strider nodded. Boromir turned away, having considered the discussion finished, but the Ranger had stepped close to him, his now-gloved hand closing around Boromir’s wrist.

“Will Haradion still answer me, if I call upon him on these nights?”

Boromir started, pulling his hand away and stepping back. His lips parted, insults on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. Strider’s eyes were grey, the morning sun having robbed them of their unearthly brightness, but they were still piercing, still cutting Boromir deep to the bone, and he could only take a shuddering breath in response.

“Nay,” he said quietly. He wished more than anything for the ability to give another answer. “Nay, he will not answer. I am but Boromir.”

Strider closed his eyes, turning away. “Then ‘tis my hope that we will find the orcs tonight, and we need not linger too long in these forests.”

Was it just an enchantment cast by the forest and the moon, then? Was what they had shared but a few short hours before something so fleeting that it no longer existed, not even when they looked each other in the eye? Boromir wondered why he had ever expected anything less, for this was little different from the other comforts he had sought amongst the arms of men and the comforts he had given himself.

Even amongst Rangers, it seemed the touches shared between men died with the night, leaving no sign of its presence within the light. No, there was no hope to be found here, and Boromir cursed himself for his folly. He bent and picked up his pack from the ground, tearing his eyes from the Ranger.

Hours had passed since he had stopped tracking the orcs. Who knew where the pack had gone by now? There was much left to be if Gondor was to be kept safe.

Boromir knew his duty.