The Ring went South. The Ford of Bruinen was passed weeks ago, and it was now at least forty leagues from Rivendell. Not half an hour ago Gandalf had told the Company to make camp for the night – dusk was approaching, and they would be setting out at the first break of day tomorrow as they headed for Hollin Ridge.
Merry and Pippin had asked weeks ago for the reason they did not take the path by Loudwater, the river Bruinen, and Gandalf answered that they were avoiding eyes, and chastised the young hobbits for their question. What eyes, Boromir knew not, and he wondered if the resistance against answering questions in any proper manner was the habit of those of an age greater than Boromir could imagine, for at that moment he was reminded of Elrond and his refusal to give a proper answer as to why the Ring could not be used as a weapon for Men. Was it not held last by Isildur, the last great King of Men?
It seemed that Aragorn had agreed with the wizard, nonetheless, for he gave no objections to Gandalf’s words and had been in quiet counsel with him for most of the road.
Boromir shook his head to clear his dark thoughts. The Company had been of good mood lately, for their stores from Rivendell had held, and the Elf and Men had hunted some fresh meats as well. They had settled in a path hidden by the mountains, and there was firewood aplenty for the mountains were littered with trees. If the weather held, the path towards the Gap of Rohan would be an easy one, but Boromir did not hold out much hope for it. The importance of their task was far too great.
Perhaps Boromir was too used to war, and the bitterness crept back once more – this far North, the armies of the Enemy seemed unable to touch the gentle peace, and once more Boromir wondered what Isildur’s heir knew of war, of Gondor’s six hundred years of constant battles, that he could find himself worthy of the throne. Even the Elf Legolas seemed to know more of constant, relentless battle, for he hailed from Mirkwood and Dol Goldur, and it was from there that the Enemy had conducted his armies until Mordor had risen once more. Perhaps the Misty Mountains guarded the old stronghold of Arnor from invasions of orcs, and at the Gap of Rohan it was the Rohirrim who guarded that road. What had the Rangers done to stop the spread of the Enemy? What armies had they seen and fought against? Boromir knew not, and he had cause to think they had not once seen the Enemy at all.
“Boromir,” called out a soft, young voice, and Boromir chased away his thoughts once more. Pippin tugged on his sleeve as he chewed upon a piece of smoked venison caught but a few days ago, and Boromir could not help the soft upward curl of his lips. “What is it, Pippin?”
“’Tis your turn to tell us a story,” declared the young hobbit. “You have to make it a funny one, so we can laugh before we go to sleep.”
“I don’t know many funny stories,” protested Boromir, chuckling. “You must know many more than I do, little Pippin.”
“Yes, but it’s not fun to hear Pippin’s stories, or mine, because we’ve heard them all already,” Merry piped up, grinning. “We have been on the road for days and you have only listened to us without speaking.” “It’s your turn now,” added the youngest hobbit.
Aragorn, sitting away from Boromir and still near the campfire, chuckled quietly. The smoke on his pipe obscured his eyes, but Boromir averted his gaze nonetheless. He looked at the hobbits and knew the little ones had done what many orcs could not – they defeated him.
There were not many stories he knew that could cause amusement. Many of the jokes shared between soldiers were not fit for the young hobbits’ ears, though Boromir was told after the second day of their journey that Merry had only seen a couple of summers less than he himself had. Yet the hobbits seemed young and childlike to Boromir’s eyes, and children were precious things in Gondor, their innocence treasured and hoarded by all adults, and he did not wish to tarnish it in any way.
Boromir fell silent for some time, half-heartedly hoping his hesitation would dissuade the Company from wishing to hear an amusing story from his lips. But even Gimli had fallen silent, and all eyes were upon him.
“There is one I know,” said Boromir finally, having searched his memory as much as he could. “It is not a tale that I witnessed myself, however, having heard it from the lips of others. It happened to my brother Faramir years ago, when he had not even reached his twentieth year.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Boromir licked his lips nervously as he stared at his hands. “Faramir became a soldier at the age of fifteen, as is the custom for the Men of Gondor. He began as a mere acolyte under the tutelage of the older soldiers, and they were rather surprised when they heard that he had never…” He hesitated for a moment before he forced himself to continue. “That Faramir had not known the touch of a woman, despite his position.
“They decided that a tradition must be followed. On Faramir’s sixteenth birthday, his company brought him to a tavern in Minas Tirith. There was a young maid there, famed for her wit and her beauty, and ‘twas obvious their intention to any who looked when Beregond, his Captain, pointed the girl out to him. Yet Faramir was entirely unaware, for he was not a Man who thought of such things.” Boromir chuckled at the very thought, remembering his brother’s studious nature that had his head embroiled in old tales and legends instead of seeing the world around him. “The maid, however, was not nearly so foolish, and after Faramir had drunk a pint or two of ale, she asked him to help her with some task. Faramir was kind and he knew not her intentions, and he followed her up to the tavern’s rooms even as the hoots and calls of his comrades echoed around them.” Boromir lifted his head and was gratified to see Merry and Pippin already grinning. They leaned forward, clearly eager to hear his clumsily-told tale. Even Legolas was smiling, and the steady sounds of Gimli sharpening his axe had paused. The Ringbearer’s eyes were bright and curious once more, and his gardener’s and the wizard’s gazes had moved from him to Boromir. Boromir did not turn to look at Aragorn – he feared that if he did, he could not continue.
Taking a deep breath, Boromir turned his mind back to the tale. “The young maid led Faramir up into a room. When she closed the door behind her, he was puzzled, but his confusion only increased when she kissed him. He knew not what to do, for it was terribly rude to refuse a maiden’s kiss, but ‘twas something he did not expect at all!” Unbidden, Boromir started to smile as well, remembering his brother’s embarrassed blush when he told Boromir of what happened.
“The maid was a wise one for she expected his response. She directed him towards the bed while he was still floundering and stuttering, uncertain of what to say. He did not even know her name! But when she kissed him again, he found the taste of her lips to be sweeter than anything he had ever tasted before.”
At this juncture of the tale, Boromir paused. Faramir had told him, hesitatingly and with more gestures than words, what happened next, but Boromir knew he had told far more of his little brother’s tale than he should. Faramir would already be furious at him, Boromir knew, if he knew that his brother had told this to a group of strangers.
“What happens next?” demanded Pippin, jarring Boromir out of his contemplations.
Boromir lifted his eyes, giving the young hobbit a small, wry smile. “Why, the tavern maid’s name was Finn. This knowledge he gained not from her lips, for she was too busy during their encounter to give it, but from the calls of his brother-in-arms when they returned downstairs later. His comrades congratulated the both of them with great smiles and laughs, but ‘tis true Faramir could not look any of them in the eye for days. He was teased for weeks for that incident, but by his own lips I know that ‘tis not something he regrets.”
He stopped. Pippin leaned forward even more, clearly eager for more, but Boromir only chuckled. “That is the end of the tale.”
“But you have left out the best parts!” cried Pippin in reply immediately. He crossed his arms, pressing his lips into a line.
“Nay, that is my brother’s story, and if you wish to know, you may ask him of it once you have met him.” He placed a heavy hand into Pippin’s curls, gently ruffling through the soft hair.
“Then tell us one of your own stories!” Merry chimed in.
“You have created two little monsters, I see,” murmured Legolas, almost too quietly to be heard. The Elf’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight, almost unreal and certainly inhuman. His fingers had stopped over the wood he was fletching, but now the quiet rasping sound started up again. “They are insatiable for your tales indeed.”
“Boromir tells interesting stories!” reasoned Pippin. “He just doesn’t finish them.”
“As I was saying,” said Merry as he sent an elbow into his young cousin’s ribs. “You should tell us one of your own stories so we can have all the juicy details without asking your brother!” His eyes grew large and pleading. “How was the first time you had a woman, Boromir?”
Boromir nearly swallowed his own tongue. Instead, his breath stuck itself in his throat, and he coughed hard, feeling his eyes burn – better they than his cheeks, Boromir thought, and he felt suddenly that there was piercing eyes on his skin. Aragorn, he could tell, and he ducked his head down and thumped hard on his own chest.
“That is no story for your ears!” he declared when he found his breath again. “Indeed, that is an extremely impolite question, little Pippin.”
“’Tis your own fault,” came the Ringbearer’s soft voice. “You have incited their curiosity, and now you refuse to assuage it.”
Frodo’s eyes were large and amused, and his hand was small as it clutched around a fork. He was chewing , and he swallowed before he gave Boromir a soft smile, and Boromir felt his breath stop in his throat again. Throwing a glance at the fire, he scrambled to his feet.
“Well, ‘tis an urge that I refuse to fulfil,” said Boromir as loftily as he could. “In any case, there are chores to be done. I will seek out more firewood.”
“’Tis dangerous to head out at night, lad,” said Gimli, and Boromir noted there was a curious light in his eyes. He stiffened immediately at both the look and the words.
“Thank you for the warning, Master Dwarf,” replied Boromir, and he tried to keep his tone friendly. “But my sword does not leave my side.”
“Gimli is right,” Aragorn’s voice rang out throughout the camp. “Let me accompany you, Boromir.”
The Men’s eyes met for a long moment. Boromir’s lips curled up slightly, a small smile that carried much disdain on its edges. “’Tis but a small chore,” he said.
“So it might be, but it is necessary, nonetheless,” replied Aragorn coolly, his eyes not once leaving Boromir’s even as he walked around the campfire to his side. When he spoke again, he pitched his voice low, far softer than anyone else – with the unlucky exception of Legolas – could hear. “There are questions I wish to ask of you.”
Boromir looked at the Ranger for a long moment before he nodded sharply. Without speaking another word – he had none to share with Aragorn beyond empty words – he turned away from the camp and headed towards the thick woods that surrounded the campsite and hid it from view.
***
“Haradion,” whispered Strider, and Boromir shivered at the sound of the name that was both his and not his as it crept down his spine. His hand clutched at Aragorn’s shoulder, and he pulled back, panting hard, his eyes wide as he stared at Strider.
“Do you always take so long, Strider?” It was an effort to keep his voice level, and Boromir clenched his hands harder on Strider’s shoulders. The tenderness in the Ranger’s touch was a strange thing, and Boromir did not wish for it. Haradion was a Man who sought his pleasures in the dark alleyways of Minas Tirith, in the places where all was dark and the moon was shielded from view by the tall buildings until naught could be seen. Men had always tasted of only shame and desperation, bitter and biting on his tongue, but Strider's kiss was sweet, and his hands were leisurely.
Was this how it felt to touch a woman whom one truly desired? Boromir knew not. Though he would not fault any of the women who had shared his bed – it was a short list for a short life, despite his position – not once had he felt this honeyed desire that coursed through his blood.
But he would not show a stranger such a thing, a Ranger from the North who would not even give Boromir his true name.
“There is little need to hurry,” replied Strider. His hand caressed Boromir’s jaw, leather smooth against his bearded cheek. “Have you lain with men before, Haradion?”
“Aye, I have,” said Boromir, and he regretted his words immediately. He should have snorted and shown disdain instead, he knew, but his tongue seemed to disobey his head.
“Have you found pleasure with men before, Haradion?” asked Strider, and his thumb moved to Boromir’s lip. Boromir bit upon it, impatiently, and he tugged hard, trying to remove the glove with his teeth alone.
“Plenty,” he replied. “I will find more if you will hurry and stop with such foolish questions.”
Strider’s eyes were gentle, and he leaned forward and gave Boromir a brief kiss. “There is great pleasure to be found in another man’s touch,” murmured the Ranger. “The moon is bright tonight and dawn is far away. Time is on our side, Haradion, and will you not take advantage of it?”
Boromir clasped Strider’s hand in both of his own. He pulled at the fingers of the gloves, and when he spoke, his voice was but a growl. “Save your poetry for women, for I have no need for such pretty words.” He looked at Strider with defiant eyes. “Or do the Rangers of the North lay only with Men, and you do not have wives?”
“Pleasure is not reserved only for a woman’s touch,” replied Strider mildly, and in that moment Boromir hated him for his calm. “There is tenderness that can be found between men as well.”
Strider’s gloves fell onto the forest floor without protest from the Man, and Boromir looked at him. He raised those fingers and pressed a soft, mocking kiss against the callused knuckles.
“Is this the gentleness that you wish for, Strider?” asked the Steward’s son. “Should I treat you as a woman now?”
Bright blue eyes flashed, and Boromir did not have the chance to breathe before Strider’s hand cupped the back of his neck, and a pair of thin lips slammed against his own. The kiss was no longer sweet, but it was nothing like the grasping, wet things he was used to with men. No, Strider’s tongue was in his mouth, stroking against his own, against his teeth, the kiss so deep it seemed that Boromir’s very soul was being dragged out with every touch.
Yearly there were at least two men punished for their obscenities. It had been decades since criminals were executed in the city, in the eyes of the law, but their punishment ended in death nonetheless, for they were sent to perform the hardest of labours, or they became soldiers given the most hopeless of tasks. Boromir had to command such condemned men, and though he had sympathy for them, he knew not why many seemed unrepentant of their sins and undutiful nature.
There was a pair of lovers he knew. Childhood friends they were, both sons of soldiers whose mothers worked hard for Gondor and their families’ bread. They were found together in bed at the eve of their shared birthday, one twenty, the other twenty-two, and Boromir had seen no regret in their eyes even as Denethor ordered for them to die. They were to head towards Mordor itself for the sake of finding information of the Enemy’s movements, and it was known that neither would return. Boromir did not understand the ways their hands had linked nor the looks they had shared. Then, he had dismissed it as pure foolishness, and the selfishness of Men who placed themselves above their country’s needs like no Man should in this time of constant war.
Yet now… now, Boromir thought he could understand. There was no love in this, he knew, but there was passion beyond hollow wants that turned cold in his bones. There was fire in Strider’s touch, in his kiss, and Boromir threw himself forward, pinning the Ranger to the ground. He looked into those eyes, the light in them scattered by strands of dark hair. Boromir brushed Strider’s hair away slowly, his breaths coming fast. He hated his gloves in that moment, and he pulled them off with his teeth, letting the leather lie next to Strider’s before he cupped the Ranger’s jaw with both hands, kissing him once more.
There was fire. Years ago, in the time of Orodreth, Men undutiful would be burned at the stake. Boromir felt a kinship with those Men burned, their names erased by the ravages of time and the disdain of the Stewards. If this was what they felt with each other, then it was no surprise that they did not fear the flames.
***
“Those were unworthy words you said to me in the gardens of Imladris, my Lord Boromir.”
Aragorn’s voice echoed around the woods that now sheltered them. Boromir scowled, hearing the reproach hidden within the use of his title. But as the Ranger held an armful of firewood, his diligence could not be faulted.
“’Twas truth I spoke,” retorted he. “Or do you tell me that your lady beloved knows of your… proclivities? That she knows you walk shamelessly upon the unclean road, dishonouring her as you do with each comfort you give a comrade?”
Perhaps the women of the lower levels in Minas Tirith knew of the dishonourable comforts that men on long campaigns had found with each other, but Boromir knew for a fact that it was something that the noble ladies were never told. The stumbling, desperate hands of men on each other’s bodies in the dark when the campfires were quenched was a shameful thing, and not something fit for the ears of well-bred women. If there was nothing else that the Lady Arwen was, she was a princess.
Aragorn moved closer to him, his piercing eyes turned bright blue once more by the light of the half-moon that shone overhead. If it was not for the dimming light and the sickening knowledge that had wedged itself in his heart, Boromir would think this to be like the night he first met Strider, Ranger of the North.
“Aye,” murmured Aragorn, his voice low. “I do not lie to Arwen, and she knows. I promised her my heart, but though I was raised in the house of her father, I am no Elf, only a Man with a Man’s necessities. The distance of the years that separate us is long, Boromir, and I have waited for her longer than you have lived. She does not deny my seeking pleasure elsewhere, just as I do not deny her the same.”
Boromir swallowed. He picked up a piece of dry wood, but it splintered in his grip as his fingers trembled in the dark. Fear crowded in his mind once more, whispering that there was danger right ahead of him in the shape of Aragorn’s lips, in the words that he would surely loose when the Company reached Minas Tirith.
“And you call yourself Isildur’s Heir,” spat out Boromir, his eyes narrowed upon Aragorn. “Once I had thought you knew at least of duty, for you have given your sword to protect the Ringbearer, but now I know that ‘tis false indeed. You know nothing of duty, not even the most necessary one of all.”
“I know of Gondor’s laws,” said Aragorn, and the firewood in his arms fell to the ground as he grabbed hold of Boromir’s wrist, pulling him close. “Yet they are not what I disagree with. No, Boromir, ‘tis the threats you used without provocation that caused this anger within my heart. I have done nothing to deserve such a thing.”
There was a long moment of silence before Boromir yanked his arm away from Aragorn’s grip. He leaned down and picked up Aragorn’s pile of firewood until he could hold no more. Aragorn’s eyes were a burning flame against his skin, but Boromir ignored him, busied by the effort of keeping his hands from trembling.
“You have led me down the unclean road,” whispered Boromir, poison twining around each word. “If you do not understand the truth of what you have done, Aragorn, and what you continue to do, there is nothing I can say to you.”
There were splinters attempting to break through the leather of his gloves. Boromir looked at his hands for the briefest of moments.
“You disgust me.”
“Nay,” said Aragorn, his voice soft but stopping Boromir in his tracks nonetheless. “I believe ‘tis yourself that you feel disgust towards.”
Boromir froze. He remained immobile as Aragorn picked up the remaining pieces of wood and stormed back to the camp.
***
Strider had pulled Boromir up, pressing him hard against the tree. Their hands roamed all over each other’s skins, and their clothing was rumpled, laces pulled open and lolling from their eyelets, buttons barely avoiding being torn out of their threads. Boromir gasped, surging forward, and his hand spread over Strider’s chest. The drums of Strider’s heart beat strong underneath bones and skins and Boromir felt a strange peace that each beat sped along so quickly, for it meant he was not alone in his desire.
Though he hated admitting it, Strider was stronger, his arms more muscled from the long years he had over Boromir. The Steward’s son allowed himself to be manhandled, pulled away from the tree, but he pushed Strider away and pressed himself down on the ground himself, staring at the dirt and roots and fallen leaves.
Boromir wondered if he had would ever have the chance to slake his desire for men on a proper bed. It was but for the briefest second, and Boromir lost all chance for time and thought as he was turned around, back pressed against the ground. The Ranger’s eyes were bright and his smile sly despite his kneel. Hands spread against Boromir’s breeches, and though Boromir could not feel his skin through the heavy leather, his mind was so fixated upon Strider that he could swear he felt each and every callus that pressed upon his skin.
“I wish to see your face,” rasped Strider. He turned his own up, eyes burning as they met Boromir’s gaze.
“Why?” asked Boromir. “Is it what brings you pleasure?”
Strider did not answer. He only chuckled, tilting his head as he nuzzled against Boromir’s thigh like an overly affectionate puppy. It was no gesture he had ever seen before, and Boromir breathed slightly easier when Strider’s hand moved to his breeches and pulled the waistband down. Now this he was familiar with, though he could not help the trembling of his limbs as he spread his legs apart.
“Do not wake the birds in the trees,” said Strider, and Boromir barely had a single moment to ponder upon his words before Strider bent his head and took Boromir’s arousal into his mouth.
It was only a warrior’s reflexes that allowed him to shove a fist into his own mouth before his loud, surprised moan could escape.
Hands he knew, but a mouth he did not. The Men of Gondor prided themselves on their abilities to speak, for not only did it separate them from the beasts that they hunted and reared, but also raised them above the other races. For was it not Westron, the language of Gondor, that was spoken throughout the land? Was it not the tongue of Men that all other races spoke in order to be understood by each other? This was part of the Steward’s great pride in his land, one shared by most Men of Gondor, and Boromir could not understand why any Man, a Ranger of the North or not, would lower himself so. In Gondor, not even tavern wenches would use their mouths – it was the domain of whores.
Yet he could not deny the pleasure that Strider’s mouth gave him. It was a heat like none he had ever known, scorching him without pain, and Boromir arched into that mouth despite his confusion. His hand trembled as he slid it into the Ranger’s night-dark hair, barely visible underneath the light of the full moon, and he stifled another cry with his fist.
If there was naught else that separated the Men of the North from those of the South, it was in this act, he thought dazedly. Strider’s skill was unmistakeable even to the novice that Boromir was, and his heart ached in his chest for a reason he could not discern.
Boromir felt himself unravelling, falling apart at the seams. His eyes were wide as he stared at the man kneeling between his legs, and he knew that, at this moment, there was naught that he would not give Strider if the Ranger had asked it of him. Not for this act alone, but for the look in Strider’s eyes. That he sought nothing more than to give pleasure, and receive the same in return.
He feared this Man, Boromir realised. He feared him far more than he had when he thought Strider was an orc hidden in the shadows. It was a terror inexplicable and yet refused to be dislodged from his mind, and Boromir knew that if he saw this man in the morning, if he kissed him in the light of day and took pleasure from him, he would not be able to remember the duty that he owed his city and his father, and all the burdens he carried on his shoulders would simply melt away.
For Strider was unashamed, unafraid, his hands and lips sure on Boromir’s flesh, and there was nothing that Boromir wished for more than to have his strength. Even the smallest fraction of it was good enough, Boromir thought, and in that moment, he could not shield his heart.
***
Memories haunted Boromir despite his best efforts. He had found his way back to the camp with slow steps, Aragorn’s words echoing in his mind. His heart ached like the fires of his desire so many years ago had lingered and soured, turning pleasure and want into pain and shame. Yet those were emotions he was used to, and there was a cold comfort in them.
The Company was preparing to settle themselves down for the night. Boromir did not speak to them, merely walking over to Bill, retrieving a piece of twine from the packs the pony carried and tying the extra wood together. It would serve well for their next night, he knew.
Legolas was preparing to take the watch, as was his wont since the first night. Elves required little sleep, the son of Mirkwood had explained, and he would have the Fellowship rest as much as he could. Boromir knew he could find no sleep tonight.
“Let me take the watch, Legolas,” murmured Boromir, his voice so quiet that it could be heard by none but Elven ears. “You have taken it for the last weeks – take some rest instead this night.”
The Elf’s eyes were a haunting blue as Legolas looked at him, but Boromir stood his ground and met that gaze. Long moments passed, and out of the corner of his vision, Boromir could see Merry’s eyes darting between the two of them, but Legolas nodded. He stood and retrieved his bedroll, walking towards the little circle that surrounded the Ringbearer.
“Boromir shall take the watch tonight,” announced the Elf. He laid down his bedroll, sitting upon it.
Gandalf gave Boromir a long, searching look, but Boromir ignored the wizard, instead taking his place on the outskirts of the camp where he had the best view of the forests where any enemies could emerge. The Company’s noises eventually faded into quiet snores, and Boromir turned his attention towards the forests once more. All was quiet this night, and his thoughts wondered. The passage of time was always strange and nebulous while out in the wilds, away from the timekeeping devices kept by Men, Elves, Dwarves and surely even the halflings and the Maiar. In this wide space, he knew time only by the passing of the moon across the wide dark sky.
It was a night full of memories. Pathetic thought it might be, Boromir could not forget the events of that night. Even though, if he closed his eyes, he could hear the far-off sounds of the river, the quiet rustling of the leaves in the wind, and he saw, clear as the moon that now hung overhead, the sharp, clear blue of the Ranger Strider’s eyes. He looked upon the Man right now and he could see Strider whom he knew on that night, but Aragorn was a different beast from the quiet Ranger, and though Boromir knew he would not ever see Strider again he could not help but grieve for his leaving. It would be the second time he grieved for this, and the pain had not dulled through the passage of years. Instead, it had sharpened.
There was a soft murmur of a voice deep within his head. A low, quiet, reassuring voice, but Boromir knew it well by now, and he immediately pushed it away, refusing to open his mind to the Ring. He knew its temptation well, and though he still believed that the Ring would do well as a weapon again Mordor, he had made his vow to the Fellowship, and he would not break it.
There was a short-lived relief still when he heard rustling and the hastily-muffled sounds of movement from behind him. Boromir did not turn, and when Aragorn settled down on the stone near him, his steps silent upon the dry grasses below them, he was unsurprised. The different footsteps of the Company were well-known to him by now.
“Are you here to insult me further?” said Boromir without turning around. Though his voice was lowered in courtesy, the harshness of the words remained.
“Nay,” replied Aragorn mildly. Insults seemed to slide off this Man’s skin so easily, and though Boromir knew it was truly a good thing for the journey that lay ahead of them was a long one, he felt irritated nonetheless. “’Tis simply that sleep eludes me this night.”
Boromir turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you not trust me to keep the watch?” “No, Boromir,” denied Isildur’s heir immediately. “I know you to keep us safe.”
Perhaps Aragorn’s trust was won not by Boromir himself, but by fact that the Company slept around the Ringbearer, and Boromir could not reach for the Ring without waking the Fellowship. He stared at his hands, letting the silence, full of tension and unspoken words, grow between them.
The clouds had moved over the moon, shielding its light, when Aragorn spoke again. “Have you ever soothed a comrade on the long nights before battle, Boromir?”
Perhaps it would be a wiser choice to ignore the question, but Boromir looked up to meet Aragorn’s eyes again. “Aye, I have,” murmured Boromir, nodding.
Aragorn looked at him, urging him to continue, but Boromir held the rest of his words within his throat. He looked away before he stood, drawing his sword and his whetstone. He laid the blade across his lap, feeling the edge. It had not dulled much since last night.
“There is a comrade whom I love well,” said Aragorn, breaking through the repetitive sounds of stone drawn over blade. “His name is Halbarad, a Dúnedan like myself. During the long years that I spent away from the Angle, the home of the Rangers of the North, ‘tis he who has led them and guided them through battle.”
Boromir kept his silence. He knew not why Aragorn was telling him of a Man whom Boromir did not know and seemed to have no cause to wish to know, but it was something of Aragorn that he was being given, nonetheless, and Boromir’s heart ached for even the slightest of relief.
“Long nights we have spent together as we hunted the stray orc packs that came up North. Though both of us know well of our skill in battle, there was fear still that we would not return, that we would be overcome. Too many of the Dúnedain had fallen to battle against the orcs since the end of the Watchful Peace, and neither of us wished to be a casualty.”
Aragorn paused in his tale. He looked outwards to the forest, and Boromir watched him, his hand stilling above his sword, his task forgotten.
“’Twas many nights in the wild that we have lain together. Always in silence, never in darkness, for our eyes spoke all the words our tongues dared not to voice. There is love between us, and I refuse to succumb to shame for such a love, for he is my comrade, and there has been too much shared between us for any shame to remain.”
“You have pretty words for an unclean Man,” murmured Boromir. He wished he had made his words stronger, but his anger had fled him so quickly that he could only grasp at the shadows it left behind. Closing his eyes, he took a long breath. “The nights that comrades in war spend with each other are fearful nights, Aragorn. ‘Tis on such nights that the Men of Gondor dwelled in the river of despair, for they could not see the dawn’s approach, and it seemed to take more strength than any Man had to envision a world where there was a no war, with the Enemy defeated. You forget, Aragorn: you fought packs of orcs, but it was the Enemy himself that the armies of Gondor went against, with the Lidless Eye watching our every effort and his orcs unending.”
Boromir shook his head. He drew the whetstone over his sword once more. “You forget too, that ‘tis an unclean thing that Men do when they seek each other’s bodies, may it be for comfort or not.”
“I did not forget, Boromir,” said Aragorn quietly. “You must tell me the reason why you think that way.”
“The Great One did not create two sexes amongst his Children so they could have relations not with each other, but amongst themselves,” replied Boromir, quoting the laws that Orodreth had laid down centuries ago. “There could be no children born between relations between men, or even between women.”
Aragorn looked at him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Boromir met those eyes, but he could not find the strength within himself to be defiant and true to Gondor’s laws. There was only the bone-deep exhaustion that he had known ever since his seventeenth year, when he looked upon a Man of golden hair and emerald eyes and desired him with every fibre of his being. When he had looked upon him with eyes that not once had he wished to turn towards any woman.
“What of love, Boromir?” asked Aragorn. “Would you feel shame towards the love comrades share with each other?”
“Many men of Gondor are already wed,” replied Boromir dully. He drew the stone over his sword once more, turning his attention away from Gondor. “They know their duty. The love between comrades is a paltry thing, when compared to the love men have for their wives, and wives for their husbands.”
Even as Boromir spoke those words, he knew them to be false, deep within his heart. Boromir closed his eyes, and his hand trembled. He did not drop the stone, but drew it over the blade once more.
“No man would tell his wife what happens on the long fearful night before a battle. The comforts they sought are unfit for the light of the day.”
“Then there is nothing to fear from me,” said Aragorn quietly. He reached out and closed his gloved hand over Boromir’s fist, the other gently upon his wrist. Boromir’s breath shook as he lifted his eyes, and there was nothing more he wished for at the moment to be rid for the residual desires he still held towards this Man, this ghost of the Ranger Strider.
“Why do you fear?”
“’Tis a foolish question you ask,” replied Boromir. He wished he could chase his anger, but there was none left in his heart. Shaking his head, he pulled his hand away from Aragorn’s grip. He dropped the stone to the ground, darting his hand forward to slide his fingers underneath the gleaming chain resting on Aragorn’s skin, stroking down the warm metal until he reached the glowing pendant.
“You have the love of a beautiful Elven lady, Aragorn. Let the thoughts of her allow you rest this night, and do not trouble me with such folly.”
“Son of Gondor,” whispered Aragorn, and his hand was leather-smooth once more on Boromir’s bearded cheek. “Will you ever make good use of your threat?”
Boromir chuckled lightly. He did not turn his head towards the touch, no matter what he wished. “We are far from Rivendell now, Aragorn. You have naught to fear from me.” He drew away from Aragorn completely, letting the air rush in between them as he picked up his whetstone. “But no, I would not have. I will not.”
“Thank you.”
This was a thoughtless, rash thing he did now, to swear his intentions so. Yet his fear had dissipated along with his anger, and as he looked upon Aragorn, he knew that he should not have thought this Man would betray the night they had spent in the forest. None of the Company knew, and in this desolate path they took, who else could Aragorn tell?
Perhaps he did not need to regret that night. No, that was no thought he should keep.
“Will you let me take the rest of the watch?”
Boromir shook his head, his eyes fixed upon his sword. “I will not find sleep tonight,” said he, voice rough. “Rest, Aragorn. ‘Tis not my eyes that needs be sharp in the morn.”
Aragorn nodded. He stood, stretching slightly, but his hand was suddenly on Boromir’s shoulder.
“Let your senses be sharp tonight. I will sleep well with you at watch.”
Nodding, Boromir did not turn to look at him, but his ears focused on the soft sounds of Aragorn’s footsteps, of the rustling of his bedroll as he turned back to sleep. He raised his sword, letting the blade catch the light of the moon as he tested the edge. A single hair split as it fell onto the edge, and Boromir stood and sheathed it. Turning around, he looked at Aragorn, his face half-hidden by the ruffled hair that fell across his closed eyes, the deep breaths of sleep he took.
He sat back down on the stone, looking out to the forest. Strange, he thought. The night was quiet now, and so was the Ring.
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: 15231
Published: 29 Apr 2013 Updated: 29 Apr 2013