"I do not know what strength is in my blood?'?
"I would have followed you to the end.. my brother.. my captain.. my King."
Aragorn opened the leather jerkin and undershirt, carefully, as though he would not cause Boromir pain.
The first two shafts pulled clear with less violence than he’d expected and he did not use the knife. Some blood followed but was easily stemmed. The third was high up in Boromir’s chest, the killing blow.
Aragorn scraped the gore from his hands for a better grip on the broken shaft and used the flat side of his blade to gently lever apart broken bones. The wicked notched barb slid free. There was a soft hissing and Boromir’s chest fell. A little blood bubbled from the wound and Aragorn wiped it away.
He leant down to lay his cheek against his lover’s. Boromir was still faintly warm and his flesh pliable. Once more Aragorn let his lips drift down Boromir’s neck, where his scent lingered strong enough to mask the smell of blood.
He whispered, anguished, “You called me your King…the first man of Gondor to say it…the hands of the King…I would make all good…” he choked on thick tears, “I promised you I would not fail our people…and I’ve failed the first to call me King!”
Sudden rage filled him and he caught the man up in his arms and howled in despair as Boromir’s head fell back limply. The hands of the rightful King should be known as the hands of a Healer, so why could he not heal this man he loved?
“Try it, laddie,” Gimli said from behind him and when Aragorn had looked to him, Gimli shrugged. “We dwarves read our neighbours’ histories.”
So he laid Boromir gently down, smoothing the hair back from his brow and then the exhausted and bloodied man, crouching over his fallen comrade, placed his hands on that man’s chest, raised his head and called on Elendil, on the line of Kings, on a birthright he had feared to own, till his voice made the surface of mighty Anduin shiver. The dwarf turned away from the sound and the elf covered his ears in pain, as the call was caught up by water and wood and stone and thrown back to wrap around them.
Aragorn felt giddy, as the breath was torn from him in a chill wind that whipped across his face. It seemed his meagre strength was failing him, draining away. He could no longer feel his hands on Boromir’s chest, only a weight pulling him down and still he fought to cry out his claim. He did not beg for Boromir, the blood of Isildur would care little for the blood of the Stewards. This was for Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the High Kings of Gondor and Arnor - and for the right.
Suddenly as the wind had come upon them, it ceased and Aragorn slumped down beside Boromir’s still form as Legolas and Gimli hastened to his side. The veins stood out on his neck as he struggling to take breath in. His throat burned and he choked, heaving bitter gall onto the earth beside them. They lifted him almost to his knees and would have borne him toward the fire, but he was captured.
With a hammering in his chest, so he thought his heart would burst, Aragorn realised that Boromir held his wrist in a vice-like grip. Wrenching away from their grasp, Aragorn knelt beside him and placed his free hand again on Boromir’s chest.
Boromir’s eyelids fluttered. There was foam flecked with blood on his lips and the groan that came up from the depths of his chest, rattled like the dry carcasses of Moria. From over Aragorn’s shoulder Gimli was passing him a cup of water and a slip of linen. Aragorn dipped one end of the cloth in the water and wiped the foam away; then he wetted the clean end and squeezed it over Boromir’s lips. At first the liquid simply ran along the seam of his mouth and trickled down his chin, where Legolas bent to dab it away. But Aragorn could see the tip of his tongue creeping forward so that the next few drops were taken in.
Slowly Aragorn fed him a few drops at a time until half of the cup was gone. Then he laid the cup down and raised his wrist, still in Boromir’s grasp, to his mouth and kissed the tips of each of Boromir’s fingers and then each knuckle working his way up until he could half-turn the hand over and mouth the point where Boromir’s life should throb. Aragorn took in a shaky breath and held it as he waited to feel the pulse of his love’s life. For a long moment in sick fancy he imagined that they had both died and would never need to know the thrum of life again, but how was it that his heart shook in his chest? Then he felt the tiny flutter beneath his lip and when he raised his eyes to Boromir’s face, the man saw him and knew him.
A flicker of some emotion crossed Boromir’s eyes. Aragorn knew it could not be fear, but thought Boromir might share his own wonder. He smiled, pressed a kiss to Boromir’s wrist and with infinite gentleness Aragorn re-laid his other hand over the chest wound. Now it was as though warmth leached from his fingertips into the skin he touched. Legolas had reappeared beside him with a bowl of hot water and some pieces of linen and as he withdrew to the fire again, he took the silent dwarf, down whose ruddy cheeks moisture certainly ran, with him.
It seemed that the wounds bled more freely and Aragorn pressed pads of linen over athelas, to stem the flow. He glanced at Boromir’s face again, at those fathomless eyes and Boromir’s lips moved in some silent speech. Aragorn bent down to hear him whisper “My King,” and as he would have disengaged his other hand to better manage the bandaging, a slight tug guided his fingers to Boromir’s mouth where Boromir laid his lips to the ring, Barahir. His eyelids fluttered closed again, his grip fell away and a sick fear seized Aragorn, but the pulse beat still.
Legolas had returned to their sides carrying Boromir’s fur-lined cloak, and as the man slept, he and Aragorn finished bandaging him and settled him, with Merry’s bedroll as a pillow under his head. All at once, Aragorn was drained. Legolas would have him take some food, but Aragorn needed to sleep, where he was, laid on the ground. He was dazed, barely able to sit upright, so Legolas ungirded him of weapons and harness. Gimli brought over Aragorn’s bedroll and spread it out next to Boromir’s silent form. He dragged himself onto it, his long sword set within reach, they laid Pippin’s blanket below his head and Boromir’s great cloak covered them both. Before sleep finally claimed him, they saw him turn on his side in to Boromir, to rest his forehead against the other man’s arm.
By the fire, Legolas and Gimli smiled and busied themselves for a night on guard. Legolas reasoned that Aragorn, at the least, would need a good meal inside him when he woke, so he was going hunting. The Uruk-hai were gone long enough that the forest creatures were venturing out once more. Gimli would stand guard for the first watch and he’d set a couple of fishing lines to pass the time. They might be lucky. As Legolas went to leave, Aragorn, stirring to better settle his head on Boromir’s shoulder, caught their attention. “Friend elf,” rumbled Gimli, “we have seen a great thing.” Legolas turned back to him with merry eyes and answered, “Friend dwarf, that we have.”
Summary: Aragorn tries his strength. This piece follows on from the drabble "One Last Service"
Rated: PG
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: None
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1351 Read: 862
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."