(revised) FIC: Aragorn/Boromir: A King's Promise
It's grey skies outside, and it's raining, and we're under a tornado watch compliments of hurricane Delta, and (almost) all the kitties are sleeping, and the lights are flickering for some unknown reason, so what better time than to get some fannish activities in? I've been (sloooowly) working on posting all my fic over at A03. Lately I've been taken with the need to have it all archived somewhere, if no for no one's enjoyment but my own. God forbid, if there's another incident like last year, at least I'll have it stored somewhere, gah! Anyway, in messing around with this I've realized two things: I wrote more VigBean fic than I remembered, and, I wrote like, a metric ton of drabbles...and I love my drabbles! Why aren't drabbles still a thing!? Anyway, most of the fic I'm moving over maybe slightly edited, but this one, while the form and function are exactly the same, is heavily revised, so I'm posting this revised version. The original still exists in my LJ post, but I like this version better.
~*~
Title: A King’s Promise
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Aragorn visits his ailing Steward.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I did not create them, I only made the ficlet.
Note: this story has been revised a fair bit from the original version, which was originally written for seleneheart’s birthday. This is an AU where Boromir did not die at Parth Galen - (is there any other kind?) - alas, Arwen gets no mention here.
Feedback: is welcomed and appreciated!
Aragorn thrust the cup at Boromir, who eyed the liquid contained within with a wary expression. “Drink this,” Aragorn said, preparing himself for the stubbornness he could already see gathering in the tensing line of Boromir’s jaw.
Predictably, Boromir waved the brew aside. “I’ve no need of it, just now. I feel well enough.”
“I don’t believe you,” Aragorn stated flatly, proffering the cup again. “Drink.”
Boromir leaned away, reclining against a stack of plump pillows with a heavy sigh. “Might a man have some peace in his own bed? Leave it on the table just there; I will drink it later.”
Unmoved, not the least fooled by the innocent tone, nor by the placid look in Boromir’s too bright, green eyes, Aragorn shook his head. “I will not leave you unattended in this, as I’d wager you’re more likely to toss it out the window. Don’t you want to feel better?”
Boromir sat up straighter on the bed, pushing away from the pillows heaped behind him and flipping back the fur-lined coverlet that had been pulled up well over his chest, down over his knees. He lifted his chin. “But I do. I feel better than yesterday.”
Aragorn took in the flushed cheeks, the slight shiver in Boromir’s wide shoulders beneath the heavy robe he wore. Suppressing a sigh, Aragorn reached out and laid the back of his hand against Boromir’s cheek. After a moment turned he turned his hand so his that his palm cupped Boromir’s jaw, stroking his thumb along the close-kept beard.
“Perhaps, but you’re still fevered,” he lifted the cup again. “This recipe will help, why do you deny it, and me?”
Boromir lowered his eyes, his shoulders dropping, seemingly resigned to his fate. Sensing victory, Aragorn dropped his hand and sat down on the edge of the wide bed, leaning in close while mindful to keep the cup balanced between them.
“I know you’re unhappy being confined here while there is much work to be done, but the sooner you are mended the sooner you can return to your duties--and the sooner I can have my Steward sleeping at my side once more, and not in his sick-bed.”
At this Boromir’s gaze lifed, and Aragorn found himself held captive by the reluctance in his Steward’s eyes. Boromir offered softly, “It’s just a bit of cough, I don’t know why everyone is carrying on so.”
Aragorn shook his head in exasperation. “This is more than a bit of cough, and you know this as well as I. And even a bit of cough can quickly become something more serious, and needs be addressed soundly. Your wounds are not completely healed and so your body requires aid in mending itself, more so than usual.”
“This I well know, and better than most,” Boromir mumbled, his gaze falling away once more. Puzzled, as this went beyond simple obstinacy, Aragorn reached out and brushed the fall of blond hair back from Boromir’s face. Boromir leaned into the touch, eyes sliding closed, and so could not see Aragorn's frown.
“The fever is rising,” Aragorn said slowly, his gaze sharpening upon his Steward as he could sense the heat cresting in Boromir’s body by the mere touch of his fingers in Boromir’s hair.
Boromir simply nodded, this time not bothering to deny the truth of Aragorn’s statement, but seemingly content to have his King’s hands upon him. It was partly the fever and partly his impatience at being shut indoors for days on end that loosened the reserve that might have caged his next words.
“The brew makes me dream. I do not care for it.”
At his side Aragorn drew in a sudden breath, but kept his fingers moving in Boromir’s hair. His hand curled tighter around the cup he held as he studied Boromir’s down-turned face, pale under the flush of fever.
“The medicines bring you dark dreams?”
Eyes remaining closed, Boromir nodded and beside him Aragorn fought not to react to the sudden clench in his chest. He bowed his head. My stubborn Steward, why did you not tell me? He had not known of this particular effect of the herbal brew and Boromir had never complained.
After a moment of silence that spanned several heartbeats, Aragorn lifted his head. “Look at me,” he gently commanded.
Boromir’s eyes opened after a moment, the green gaze weary, but alert. Aragorn’s fingers tightened in Boromir’s hair, gripping lightly at the nape of his neck. He drew close. “Will you believe me if I tell you that, if you drink, I will stay with you and keep the dreams away?”
Boromir fell still, looking steadily into Aragorn’s eyes, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say that a King had no business lingering in sick chambers all hours of the day and night when he had much more important tasks at hand, but as he felt Aragorn’s fingers laced tight in his hair he found himself nodding his acquiescence.
Aragorn’s mouth curled up into a smile as he brought the cup to Boromir’s lips. With only the barest of pauses, Boromir obediently drained it of its herbal medicine. Aragorn set the cup aside, smile widening into a grin as Boromir coughed and pulled a sour face. It was in him to tease his lover, but in the end he kept quiet. Standing, he took a moment to stretch, then pulled a nearby chair close to the side of the bed. He drew forth the coverlet, settling it back over Boromir’s chest, and then settled himself into the wooden chair at Boromir’s bedside.
Aragorn took Boromir’s hand in his and looked into his eyes. “Sleep now. I swear to you no dreams will disturb you.”
Sinking down against the pillows Boromir mumbled about not being a child, and lamented that if Faramir could see him just then, Boromir no had doubt what his brother would have to say, but even mid-grumble his eyes were drifting closed. Yet, true to his nature he fought sleep, if only to look upon his King for a while longer.
Biting back a chuckle, Aragorn brushed his thumb across Boromir’s wrist, tracing the line of vein under soft, vulnerable skin, circling Boromir’s pulse point. He willed the medicines to travel fast and sure, and forbade any dark shadows to enter his beloved Steward’s rest.
“Stop being so stubborn and go to sleep or I will call for Faramir to come and recite his histories.”
“Which ones would that be?” Boromir groused, blinking sleepily.
“All of them,” Aragorn countered flatly.
At this Boromir snorted inelegantly, shut his eyes, and seemingly dropped off to sleep straight away. At his side Aragon let out a long breath, sensing in a way he had no words for that a profound, healing rest was stealing over Boromir.
Outside the window the sun hung low in the cloudless sky, and soon dipped behind the distant, dark mountains. In her wake a cool, purple twilight descended over the lands. Servants entered in the dusk and lit candles, then withdrew wordlessly, and soon after Faramir appeared in the doorway. With a nod and a bow to his King he crossed the room, and for a time, hovered pensively at his brother’s bedside, before finally sitting in a chair at Boromir’s side across from Aragorn.
Together he and Aragorn spoke quietly of Boromir, both men lamenting his blatant stubbornness even as they smiled at one another, and of other matters, and not long after the pale disk of the moon had risen in the black sky did Faramir’s own eyelids began to droop. Aragorn urged him to bed, a notion that Faramir agreed with much easier than his brother, though it was some time more until he actually took his leave.
With a gentle kiss to Boromir’s forehead and a another brief bow Faramir promised to look in on his brother the next day, and then he made his way quietly from of the chamber.
In Faramir’s wake Aragorn found in himself no overriding weariness. As the night wore on there were stretches of moments where he allowed his eyes to close, but ultimately he did not sleep. He kept his touch moving over Boromir with slow, soothing strokes. For a long length of time Aragorn watched the glimmer of candlelight against Boromir’s fair hair; he watched the regular rise and fall of Boromir’s chest, and so the night sky wheeled above them, silent and calm. When dawn at last burnished the edge of the world in gentle brilliance, Aragorn was awake still. He stirred as warm, golden shafts of sunlight filled the chamber with new warmth.
Aragorn blinked, emerging from the near trace he’d drifted into, observing as Boromir sighed and shifted on the bed, his eyes opening and peering about the chamber before his clear, green gaze met Aragorn’s.
The eyes told the story. The fever had broken, and as Boromir smiled unguardedly and drifted back off to sleep with a gentle squeeze of his fingers about Aragorn’s, Aragorn lifted the hand he held to his lips and laid a gentle kiss there, then simply held Boromir’s palm against his cheek for a time.
The fever had receded and Aragorn had kept his promise. His Steward was on the mend. Aragorn could feel the truth of this in the same undeniable way he felt the warmth of the newly risen sun upon his face. At last he felt the first touch of weariness pulling at his mind, and laying his head down on the bed, Aragorn allowed his watch to ease. He slept beside his Steward and dreamed of green eyes, warmed with a fever of a different kind, and of all the nights to come.
Presently servants came, snuffed out the candles which had burned low during the night, and left the chamber soundlessly. All that day they guarded the doorway to Boromir’s room lest someone dare to disturb the rest of their lords, who slept so soundly beside one another, hand in hand. In the halls the word was spreading throughout the healing house, their Steward was healing, their King was at his side, and all was well.
~*~
Title: A King’s Promise
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Aragorn visits his ailing Steward.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I did not create them, I only made the ficlet.
Note: this story has been revised a fair bit from the original version, which was originally written for seleneheart’s birthday. This is an AU where Boromir did not die at Parth Galen - (is there any other kind?) - alas, Arwen gets no mention here.
Feedback: is welcomed and appreciated!
Aragorn thrust the cup at Boromir, who eyed the liquid contained within with a wary expression. “Drink this,” Aragorn said, preparing himself for the stubbornness he could already see gathering in the tensing line of Boromir’s jaw.
Predictably, Boromir waved the brew aside. “I’ve no need of it, just now. I feel well enough.”
“I don’t believe you,” Aragorn stated flatly, proffering the cup again. “Drink.”
Boromir leaned away, reclining against a stack of plump pillows with a heavy sigh. “Might a man have some peace in his own bed? Leave it on the table just there; I will drink it later.”
Unmoved, not the least fooled by the innocent tone, nor by the placid look in Boromir’s too bright, green eyes, Aragorn shook his head. “I will not leave you unattended in this, as I’d wager you’re more likely to toss it out the window. Don’t you want to feel better?”
Boromir sat up straighter on the bed, pushing away from the pillows heaped behind him and flipping back the fur-lined coverlet that had been pulled up well over his chest, down over his knees. He lifted his chin. “But I do. I feel better than yesterday.”
Aragorn took in the flushed cheeks, the slight shiver in Boromir’s wide shoulders beneath the heavy robe he wore. Suppressing a sigh, Aragorn reached out and laid the back of his hand against Boromir’s cheek. After a moment turned he turned his hand so his that his palm cupped Boromir’s jaw, stroking his thumb along the close-kept beard.
“Perhaps, but you’re still fevered,” he lifted the cup again. “This recipe will help, why do you deny it, and me?”
Boromir lowered his eyes, his shoulders dropping, seemingly resigned to his fate. Sensing victory, Aragorn dropped his hand and sat down on the edge of the wide bed, leaning in close while mindful to keep the cup balanced between them.
“I know you’re unhappy being confined here while there is much work to be done, but the sooner you are mended the sooner you can return to your duties--and the sooner I can have my Steward sleeping at my side once more, and not in his sick-bed.”
At this Boromir’s gaze lifed, and Aragorn found himself held captive by the reluctance in his Steward’s eyes. Boromir offered softly, “It’s just a bit of cough, I don’t know why everyone is carrying on so.”
Aragorn shook his head in exasperation. “This is more than a bit of cough, and you know this as well as I. And even a bit of cough can quickly become something more serious, and needs be addressed soundly. Your wounds are not completely healed and so your body requires aid in mending itself, more so than usual.”
“This I well know, and better than most,” Boromir mumbled, his gaze falling away once more. Puzzled, as this went beyond simple obstinacy, Aragorn reached out and brushed the fall of blond hair back from Boromir’s face. Boromir leaned into the touch, eyes sliding closed, and so could not see Aragorn's frown.
“The fever is rising,” Aragorn said slowly, his gaze sharpening upon his Steward as he could sense the heat cresting in Boromir’s body by the mere touch of his fingers in Boromir’s hair.
Boromir simply nodded, this time not bothering to deny the truth of Aragorn’s statement, but seemingly content to have his King’s hands upon him. It was partly the fever and partly his impatience at being shut indoors for days on end that loosened the reserve that might have caged his next words.
“The brew makes me dream. I do not care for it.”
At his side Aragorn drew in a sudden breath, but kept his fingers moving in Boromir’s hair. His hand curled tighter around the cup he held as he studied Boromir’s down-turned face, pale under the flush of fever.
“The medicines bring you dark dreams?”
Eyes remaining closed, Boromir nodded and beside him Aragorn fought not to react to the sudden clench in his chest. He bowed his head. My stubborn Steward, why did you not tell me? He had not known of this particular effect of the herbal brew and Boromir had never complained.
After a moment of silence that spanned several heartbeats, Aragorn lifted his head. “Look at me,” he gently commanded.
Boromir’s eyes opened after a moment, the green gaze weary, but alert. Aragorn’s fingers tightened in Boromir’s hair, gripping lightly at the nape of his neck. He drew close. “Will you believe me if I tell you that, if you drink, I will stay with you and keep the dreams away?”
Boromir fell still, looking steadily into Aragorn’s eyes, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say that a King had no business lingering in sick chambers all hours of the day and night when he had much more important tasks at hand, but as he felt Aragorn’s fingers laced tight in his hair he found himself nodding his acquiescence.
Aragorn’s mouth curled up into a smile as he brought the cup to Boromir’s lips. With only the barest of pauses, Boromir obediently drained it of its herbal medicine. Aragorn set the cup aside, smile widening into a grin as Boromir coughed and pulled a sour face. It was in him to tease his lover, but in the end he kept quiet. Standing, he took a moment to stretch, then pulled a nearby chair close to the side of the bed. He drew forth the coverlet, settling it back over Boromir’s chest, and then settled himself into the wooden chair at Boromir’s bedside.
Aragorn took Boromir’s hand in his and looked into his eyes. “Sleep now. I swear to you no dreams will disturb you.”
Sinking down against the pillows Boromir mumbled about not being a child, and lamented that if Faramir could see him just then, Boromir no had doubt what his brother would have to say, but even mid-grumble his eyes were drifting closed. Yet, true to his nature he fought sleep, if only to look upon his King for a while longer.
Biting back a chuckle, Aragorn brushed his thumb across Boromir’s wrist, tracing the line of vein under soft, vulnerable skin, circling Boromir’s pulse point. He willed the medicines to travel fast and sure, and forbade any dark shadows to enter his beloved Steward’s rest.
“Stop being so stubborn and go to sleep or I will call for Faramir to come and recite his histories.”
“Which ones would that be?” Boromir groused, blinking sleepily.
“All of them,” Aragorn countered flatly.
At this Boromir snorted inelegantly, shut his eyes, and seemingly dropped off to sleep straight away. At his side Aragon let out a long breath, sensing in a way he had no words for that a profound, healing rest was stealing over Boromir.
Outside the window the sun hung low in the cloudless sky, and soon dipped behind the distant, dark mountains. In her wake a cool, purple twilight descended over the lands. Servants entered in the dusk and lit candles, then withdrew wordlessly, and soon after Faramir appeared in the doorway. With a nod and a bow to his King he crossed the room, and for a time, hovered pensively at his brother’s bedside, before finally sitting in a chair at Boromir’s side across from Aragorn.
Together he and Aragorn spoke quietly of Boromir, both men lamenting his blatant stubbornness even as they smiled at one another, and of other matters, and not long after the pale disk of the moon had risen in the black sky did Faramir’s own eyelids began to droop. Aragorn urged him to bed, a notion that Faramir agreed with much easier than his brother, though it was some time more until he actually took his leave.
With a gentle kiss to Boromir’s forehead and a another brief bow Faramir promised to look in on his brother the next day, and then he made his way quietly from of the chamber.
In Faramir’s wake Aragorn found in himself no overriding weariness. As the night wore on there were stretches of moments where he allowed his eyes to close, but ultimately he did not sleep. He kept his touch moving over Boromir with slow, soothing strokes. For a long length of time Aragorn watched the glimmer of candlelight against Boromir’s fair hair; he watched the regular rise and fall of Boromir’s chest, and so the night sky wheeled above them, silent and calm. When dawn at last burnished the edge of the world in gentle brilliance, Aragorn was awake still. He stirred as warm, golden shafts of sunlight filled the chamber with new warmth.
Aragorn blinked, emerging from the near trace he’d drifted into, observing as Boromir sighed and shifted on the bed, his eyes opening and peering about the chamber before his clear, green gaze met Aragorn’s.
The eyes told the story. The fever had broken, and as Boromir smiled unguardedly and drifted back off to sleep with a gentle squeeze of his fingers about Aragorn’s, Aragorn lifted the hand he held to his lips and laid a gentle kiss there, then simply held Boromir’s palm against his cheek for a time.
The fever had receded and Aragorn had kept his promise. His Steward was on the mend. Aragorn could feel the truth of this in the same undeniable way he felt the warmth of the newly risen sun upon his face. At last he felt the first touch of weariness pulling at his mind, and laying his head down on the bed, Aragorn allowed his watch to ease. He slept beside his Steward and dreamed of green eyes, warmed with a fever of a different kind, and of all the nights to come.
Presently servants came, snuffed out the candles which had burned low during the night, and left the chamber soundlessly. All that day they guarded the doorway to Boromir’s room lest someone dare to disturb the rest of their lords, who slept so soundly beside one another, hand in hand. In the halls the word was spreading throughout the healing house, their Steward was healing, their King was at his side, and all was well.