[FIC] Lord of the Rings: A Thousand Years [2/2]
Previous Parts
Reborn as Fortune’s Child
Aragorn/Boromir, NC-17
Prompt: Kneel before the King
Over a century ago, in the midst of a perilous journey that both brought together and sundered forever the Fellowship, Aragorn caught a single glimpse of Boromir’s naked back. It was in Lothlorien, in the beautiful Golden Wood of eternal twilight. The Company followed the Lady of the Light’s bidding and retired for rest, but Aragorn wished to clean the filth of the road from his skin. It was in the bathhouse that he sighted Boromir, looking upon the golden skin bared by Boromir’s own hands. Knowledge startled into Aragorn at that moment, and he knew instinctively the reason for Boromir’s unease in the lands belonging to the Elves.
The unearthly twilight that turned the pale skin of Elves luminous had changed Boromir into a corpse. He looked sickly pale underneath the light, and Aragorn’s heart was filled then with a terrible premonition. On that night he had backed away from the bathhouse, nigh running in the opposite direction while fear clenched its cold fist around his heart.
The memory was as bright as yesterday’s; perhaps even brighter. Yet it could not compete against the sight of Boromir’s back as it was revealed once more to his eyes, this time in the full light of the Sun where Gondor’s Captain belonged. Aragorn marvelled at the sight, his heart stuttering in his chest for a wholly new reason that he could not find words to voice.
Boromir noticed his silence, turning around. A grin curved his thin lips, and his eyes danced as he spoke, “Have you changed your mind, my Lord? Do not forget: ‘twas you who spoke of bathing in the river.”
Aragorn shook his head, brushing away the cobwebs of memories that should be laid to rest along with his mortal body. “No, I have not forgotten.” He tugged at his belt, his fingers nimble even as his eyes fixed on the sight of Boromir’s revealed body. “You are beautiful, Boromir, so much that my mind emptied itself.”
“If you lay the blame upon my shoulders, allow me to make amends,” replied Boromir laughing. He strode forward, large hands laying themselves over Aragorn’s fingers as he tugged the belt out of its loops. Dropping the leather carelessly on the ground, he unlaced Aragorn’s breeches.
“This is your Ranger’s wear, Aragorn,” murmured Boromir as he slid heavy cloth over hips. “Your face has not changed either, though surely it must have in the long years you spent in Middle Earth.”
“Time turned back on itself when I died,” answered Aragorn, barely able to keep his voice from shuddering as Boromir’s sword-roughened fingers brushed his skin. “I found myself in this form when I awoke upon the Lord Lukasarkuva’s back.”
“The Valar see deeply into Men’s hearts,” said Boromir. His hands slid upwards, tugging on the hems of Aragorn’s tunic and undershirt. “You have remained a Ranger.”
“Aye,” replied Aragorn, smiling lopsidedly. His hands curled over Boromir’s hips, relishing in the gentle heat he found against his own skin. “I named my house ‘Telcontar’ for ‘tis as a Ranger I was born, and a Ranger I will always remain.”
“Not merely a Ranger, but a Ranger King,” corrected Boromir. He leaned back slightly, allowing Aragorn to pull the embroidered red cloth of his tunic over his head. “My Ranger King, Aragorn, if you allow it.”
Aragorn did not reply immediately. Instead he tugged the remainder of his clothing over his head, standing naked in front of Boromir. There were only single pair of eyes upon his form, and though Aragorn could feel heat instinctively suffuse the skin of his neck and face, he refused to feel shame. Such a despicable emotion had no place amongst the dead who were freed from the cares of the world.
“Aye,” said Aragorn eventually. He spread his fingers open, laying them on Boromir’s chest, above his beating heart. “I allow it, and far more.”
They walked together with their steps equal towards the lake. The water was chilled, the sun’s warmth blocked by the heavy canopies of the trees that surrounded the lake. In another time Aragorn would come back here and note every plant; he would marvel at the sight of things he thought had been long lost to the world of Men. Yet now the green that caught and held his sight was that of Boromir’s eyes, the edges crinkling into a smile as he drew Aragorn into his arms.
“I have been here for time longer than I knew, but I still marvel at being able to feel after death,” murmured Boromir into his ear.
“This world is a great blessing to us all who are allowed to come,” replied Aragorn. “Yet ‘tis not the world that has me in its thrall.”
“A thrall, Aragorn?” Boromir raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “There is little that you have seen of me just yet.”
With those words, Boromir disappeared from his sight, sinking to his knees until only his shoulders and head were above the water. Aragorn’s lips parted to ask of his intentions, but Boromir silenced him with a heated kiss against his hips.
“Steel your knees,” commanded Boromir, and that was the only warning Aragorn was given before Boromir ducked his head into the water. Heat enveloped him as Boromir swallowed him down, and Aragorn’s gasp echoed through the still air as he felt himself harden almost painfully quickly.
Boromir’s name escaped him, a mangled word, and Aragorn’s hand slipped into the water to card into golden hair. He held on tightly like it was his only anchor, his body shuddering as his hips thrust sharply forward. The pleasure was wholly unexpected and almost too overwhelming, and Aragorn trembled from head to toe.
“You are full of surprises,” he managed to say, but the words were for his own sake for he knew Boromir could not hear him. His hand tightened even more on the strands as Boromir took him in even further, and he could feel Boromir’s throat clench around his length. Bubblers floated upwards, bursting against his skin, and he felt Boromir’s laughter thrum against him. Aragorn’s head dropped backwards, moaning loud and shamelessly.
It was too much, too sudden, and Aragorn could not help himself. Pleasure was ripped out of him from the depth of his heart, the gentle warmth of the love he always felt for this Man turned into wrenching lust. His hips thrust forward helplessly, but Boromir held him still with strong hands that anchored him to the ground and the land. Aragorn’s other hand found its way to Boromir’s shoulders, digging into heated flesh with his nails as he fought not to writhe.
His voice spoke Boromir’s name over and over again, a litany that beat like war drums next to his heart. This was beyond any dream he ever had for Boromir, the sound wrapped its chains around him, tying him to reality. The rough, scraping pain of his throat reminded him that this was real and blissfully true, and as Aragorn fell over the edge, it was with a final cry of Boromir’s name on his lips.
His knees could not hold him up any longer and he sank down to the muddied ground. In front of him, Boromir was an absolute vision, his hair plastered down, accentuating the curve of his cheekbones, and Aragorn surged forward, crashing their lips together. The taste of his essence mixed with that of Boromir’s mouth made him groan again, and Aragorn felt as if he was younger than twenty again as his spent length twitched against his thigh in the cool river water.
“You have given me far more than I can ever repay,” rasped Aragorn, his forehead leaning against Boromir’s shoulder. His fingers traced the strong muscles of Boromir’s back, and he would have counted the knobs of his spine if he had the mind for it at the moment.
“Do not speak of such things as payment,” said Boromir, his voice low and rough against Aragorn’s ear. A soft kiss pressed against his temple. “’Tis my greatest pleasure.”
“Then let me--” Aragorn reached downwards.
Boromir caught his wrist, lifting it up to brush his lips over Aragorn’s knuckles. “I need naught more than your presence beside me, Aragorn,” he murmured. “Let us keep some pleasure for the next moments.”
How had he forgotten Boromir’s wilful and stubborn nature in the long years they were apart? Aragorn smiled wryly, turning the hand still on his backwards. His beard rasped against smooth skin as he kissed it. A Boromir who obeyed his every wish was no Boromir at all, only a dream; Aragorn far preferred reality.
He stood slowly, finding himself sudden lethargic. A passing thought struck him: it was strange indeed that the dead would still feel tired during what Men had long thought to be their eternal rest. Yet here, he knew, he was but a Man, nothing more or less, and he wished to lie beside Boromir now on the banks of this stunning river.
Following him only until they reached the banks, Boromir took the lead once more. He dragged his heavy red velvet cloak close, draping it over the two of them as they lay on the grass. Aragorn could feel the heat of his unfulfilled desire against his thigh, but it was alright.
In these lands, there was no need to hurry. Long gone was the urgency that drove each of their steps during the Fellowship’s journey. Here, they had all the time in the world.
Wear This Pilgrim’s Cloak, or be a Common Thief
Aragorn/Boromir, implied Aragorn/Arwen, NC-17
Prompt: On your knees (kind of)
Though clouds suffused the blue skies and Boromir was warm beside him, Aragorn refused to allow his eyes to close. He felt exhaustion tug at the edge of his being but he needed to drink in the sight of Boromir more than he needed rest. Gondor’s truest son was a vision to behold, his hair wet and messy, a smile of pure joy and satisfaction that Aragorn had never seen before lighting up his eyes.
Aragorn reached out, gently pulling golden strands away from Boromir’s face.
“I remember your voice during our journey,” whispered Boromir. “You sang the Lay of Leithian one night, the tale of the immortal Elf maiden Lúthien and her mortal lover Beren.”
It was during their times in the mines of Moria. Then, Aragorn sang to keep the shadows away from the Hobbits who were trying so valiantly to keep their spirits. His breath hitched.
“I did not think you heard me,” he said.
“You were making quite a racket, and there were no other voices I could distract myself with,” teased Boromir, his thumb grazing against Aragorn’s lip. “My Sindarin had always been poor - ‘tis Faramir who was the scholar, as you surely know - yet I heard your voice, and I knew the names you sung of.” Boromir’s eyes turned distant for a moment.
“I met them, once.”
Aragorn nearly sat up in his shock, blinking hard. “What?”
“I met them,” repeated Boromir. His hand was heavy on Aragorn’s shoulder, pressing him back to be enveloped by grass and Boromir’s arms. “The Lord Beren and the Lady Lúthien, for whom so many songs were sung - they are here.”
“How-?” Aragorn could not continue.
“This is a land without time, Aragorn,” said Boromir, his smile gentle. “I had the honour and pleasure to meet with the legends I was told of during my youth. I had thought the bards exaggerated Lúthien’s love and courage and Isildur’s leadership, but it seems the stories do them little justice.”
“Ah, I see it now: only legends whose songs are sung for thousands of years are worthy of your admiration, Boromir,” said Aragorn solemnly. “All others are but undeserving and flawed creatures with foibles well-acknowledged. Is that not so?”
“You know that is untrue!” cried Boromir, and for the first time since Aragorn had arrived, he saw once more the harsh passions that so ruled the son of Gondor during their journeys together. “There are plenty of Men deserving of my admiration for their vulnerabilities and failings, for is it not the lot of Men to be imperfect? Figures of legends drew me little in life for I knew them as only that - as figures so pure that they are unbelievable, but here I have met them and knew them to be no more perfect than any soldier of Gondor, and ‘twas their strong wills, not their inherent perfections, that honoured them.”
His voice lowered, “Do you know so little of me, my Lord?”
Aragorn’s heart clenched in his chest, and he sorely regretted his words. Sitting up, he took Boromir’s face in both hands, staring into darkened eyes. “Nay, my love, I only tease,” he whispered. “I have spoken thoughtlessly. I know your heart has always been with the world of Men with their many failings.” He smiled hesitantly.
“How can I not, when you have made your distaste for the One’s firstborn race’s perfections so clearly?”
Boromir turned his head away, and Aragorn feared that these clumsy words were insufficient as recompense. Yet Boromir chuckled, a low, half-hollow sound, and his thumb grazed Aragorn’s jaw once more.
“Forgive me, my Lord. I have been unfair in my judgment of you.”
“Consider it forgiven,” returned Aragorn, smiling. “It seems only right that you stumble as well, for how much I stumbled over my judgment of you the first time we met.”
“Aye, but that was so long ago.”
Aragorn silenced him with a finger against his lips before he could continue. “Hush; do not chide yourself further,” said the Ranger who was once a King. “Tell me of these lands, Boromir. Tell me of the Men of legends you have met.”
“Before I tell you of those tales, let me ease your heart,” said Boromir. “I know our Queen will come, Aragorn. Arwen will come to this place and return to her rightful place by your side. ‘Tis not merely the nightingale Lúthien who is here; the Lady Idril has followed her human Lord Tuor as well.”
Taking in a long, sharp breath, Aragorn wondered if Boromir understood how much of a gift he had given his once-King. He remembered Arwen’s anguished face when he told her of his decision to take the Gift of Men before his faculties begin to fail him; remembered, too, that he had reassured her that their love was beyond the circles of the world, but he had not been sure of those words he had spoken to her until now.
The grief in his heart that lingered despite Boromir’s presence now eased like a knot slowly being pulled apart. Aragorn exhaled slowly, his smile soft and sweet as he looked at Boromir.
There were no other words in the language they shared that could suffice for the gratitude he felt for the knowledge Boromir had given him, but he had to try, nonetheless.
“Thank you.”
Boromir’s lips curved up, his thumb stroking over Aragorn’s lip.
“Isildur is here as well,” he said.
Aragorn blinked. Isildur was less of a Man than a symbol of the weight of the burdens that were laid upon his shoulders on his twentieth year. When Arnor was slowly rebuilt in the times of peace, he kept Isildur in his mind, trying to glean some guidance for the path he knew he had to take to return the broken city into the glory of the world of Men as it had once been. But Isildur the Man had remained ever elusive within the stories that he knew of him, for the legends showed only a fraction of a Man, and such bits and pieces gave so little light for him to find his way.
Closing his eyes, he leaned into Boromir’s touch, seeking comfort.
“Tell me of him,” whispered Aragorn.
“I met no great King, no leader of Men,” said Boromir. “He lives far from the Tower, to the North in a farm hidden within the valleys. He grows his own grain and tames the animals around him. His brother Anárion lives with him.”
“Anárion!” exclaimed Aragorn helplessly. “The legends told of his death but mentioned nothing of Isildur and Elendil’s grief.”
“Aye, they grieved, and they grieved deeply for Anárion’s death was not an easy one,” said Boromir. “Yet this is a place of a new life, a second life, and few here think of death now.”
Aragorn fell silent for a long moment. He looked up to the skies so blue and brilliantly bright that he was reminded once more of Gondor during the beautiful day after Sauron’s defeat. Surely it was the healing space of time that allowed Isildur to stop thinking of the world he had left behind, for Aragorn could not. Once, in the Reunited Kingdoms, it was the dead who haunted his steps. Now in this land of the dead, it was those that still lived.
He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge these dark thoughts. “How strange it is to think of a great King as a mere farmer,” he murmured, turning back to Boromir. “Yet ‘tis surely the path he has taken his true wish?”
“Aye,” replied Boromir. “No longer are the burdens of ruling for Isildur, and he seems far happier in this state.”
“’Tis a strange thing to say, but ‘tis stranger still for me to think of a great King who chooses to become little more than a farmer,” murmured Aragorn softly. “My burdens were once his burdens. ‘Twas the blood that we share that made me more than a Ranger and allowed me to become King.”
“You give yourself too little credit, my Lord,” said Boromir, his tone chiding. “Blood did not make Kings; if that is the only criteria, then surely your line would have been made Kings long ago. No, Aragorn, you are the King that Gondor sorely needed, and though your blood legitimised your claim, ‘twere your deeds that made you worthy of the Winged Crown.”
Strange it was to hear such praise from Boromir’s lips, stranger still for Aragorn had always wished to hear them. There were none else who loved Gondor as much as this Man; none else who represented her more. Long were the nights that Aragorn spent in the Citadel, staring at the statue Faramir had built of his brother, wondering if Boromir was glad of the changes he had wrought upon Gondor.
Aragorn cast his eyes down. “Let us speak no more of kings and kingships,” he said finally. “Tell me of the friends we share instead; are they here?”
“Aye, they are,” smiled Boromir. “Faramir and the White Lady of Rohan his wife arrived on the back of the great hawk at the same time. Éomer is here as well.”
“Come now, Boromir. Do not tease; you know the friends I wish to hear most about.”
Boromir chuckled, his grin wide as he stroked Aragorn’s cheek. “Merry and Pippin are in the Tower. Like you, they have been restored to their looks during their time in the Fellowship.”
“What of Frodo and Sam?” asked Aragorn, who knew that Sam, by the merit of bearing the Ring for a hours when Frodo could not, had followed his master over the seas to Valinor. “What of Legolas and Gimli?”
“I do not know,” frowned Boromir. “Only Elves who have chosen mortality and taken mortal Men as their lovers are here. I know not if…” he hesitated, “If those who have sailed to Undying Lands of the Elves will ever arrive.”
Aragorn leaned over, pinning Boromir hard against the ground. “I will not let sorrow taint this day,” he said, his voice harsher than he wanted it to be. He looked deep into Boromir’s eyes before he kissed him, pressing their mouths together and breathing in Boromir’s heated breath, feeling it settled in his lungs as an affirmation of this Man presence. Aragorn nearly trembled, but he stilled himself, pulling away for the briefest of moments.
“I have long dreamed of this.”
Boromir parted his lips to speak, but Aragorn would not allow him a single word. Instead, he slipped downwards, sword-callused fingers stroking down Boromir’s sides, mapping the lines of his body. There was an insistent heat against his thigh, and Aragorn ducked his head down to attend to it.
The strong warrior’s body, untouched by years, shook beneath him. Boromir arched upwards but Aragorn placed his hands on slim hips, holding them down. He parted his lips - and for the briefest moment he was struck by a horrible sense of insecurity as it as it had been far too long since he had done this - and took Boromir into his mouth.
“Aragorn!” Boromir’s cry resonated around the glade. Aragorn smiled around his mouthful, ducking his head down further as he felt strong fingers slide into his hair, urging him to move faster. But Aragorn had been kept waiting for far too long and he would not be rushed now, not when he so enjoyed the feel of Boromir’s needful struggles caused by naught more than his hands and mouth.
He had not lasted long, and Aragorn was gratified when he realised Boromir could not either. It took only a few moments of having Boromir’s length in his mouth before he felt a rush of heavy and bitter salt landing on his tongue and throat. Aragorn swallowed immediately, compulsively, and Boromir’s soft moan made him shiver to the depths of his bones.
He pushed himself up, pressing his knees against the soft, grass-covered ground. Boromir’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown until the green was but a thin rim. Aragorn grinned at the sight, almost involuntarily proud, and he leaned in to allow Boromir to taste himself.
“’Tis long that I have waited,” murmured Boromir, his words nearly muffled by Aragorn’s lips. His fingers carded through Aragorn’s hair, and he was still panting as he pulled away, looking deep into Aragorn’s eyes.
“I do not begrudge a single moment, for the joy you have brought me has filled up my hollow heart.”
Eternities Still Unsaid
Aragorn/Boromir, Aragorn/Arwen, implied Boromir/Arwen and Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir
Aragorn kept track of the days through making small marks on a laurinquë tree found near the Tower. Its clusters of bright yellow flowers and its sweet scent reminded him somewhat of Arwen, and he kept time for her. Though he had found new joy with Boromir, there was still an ache within him. Even in the gentle peace of death, his heart was still incomplete and he missed the lady with whom he had spent his long years of life.
The first time Boromir had watched him placing those marks, he laughed and told Aragorn that he placed marks on the same tree, and the marks always disappeared the next day he saw them. He tried for days he could not count, making a mark on the same place, but they never remained.
Yet the mark Aragorn made remained; all of them did. He could not help but hope that it was a sign from the invisible One who ruled over this land that Arwen would be with them soon.
Nearly four hundred marks later - a single year in Man’s reckoning, so little for an Eldar’s - Aragorn sat with Boromir near the river. The grass rustled as it often did with the coming of the great hawk Lukasarkuva, and Aragorn found himself standing. Though he had greeted the hawk many a times since his first coming, wishing to express his gratitude to the creature for bringing him here, Lukasarkuva never once replied.
Now he watched as the small speck in the wide skies grew. Boromir was silent next to him, his hand a reassuring weight on Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn knew not the reason for his sudden anxiety, but as the hawk landed on the ground, his claw scraping lines once more on the green grass that never died from such rough traction, his breath caught.
He could recognise the form upon the hawk anywhere. The shadow-dark hair he knew well, and the face, so beautiful and unchanged throughout the years, he knew as well as the face of the Man who now stood next to him.
“Arwen,” Aragorn breathed, and the Ranger stepped forward and took the hands of the Queen to help her steady herself as she half-stumbled from the hawk’s back.
His eyes drank his fill of Arwen. No longer were her eyes darkened with grief as they were since the day he told her of his choice; they were brilliant now, light appearing in them like stars on the night sky as the Sun finally yielded his grip.
“I did not think I would see you again,” said Arwen, her voice trembling slightly. “Such a long time passed in my mind since the day I saw you last, Estel, and I thought I had lost you completely to the sands of time.”
Great wings spread as Lukasarkuva took off, sending gales that whipped through their hair. Aragorn reached out with a trembling hand, tucking stray strands of Arwen’s hair back behind the curve of one finely-tipped ear.
“You are here,” breathed Aragorn. “Though Boromir had tried to reassure me, I feared--” he shook his head hard, clearing it of all unpleasant thoughts. They had no place now, not when his heart was finally full, its last ache dissipating like smoke in the wind.
“Long have I waited for you, my Evenstar, my Undómiel.”
“Scores years ago I arrived in Gondor in a carriage, escorted by my father and brothers; now I come to this land on the back of a great hawk, yet my destination has remained unchanged.” Arwen’s fingers were warm on his cheek, and Aragorn tipped his head, leaning into the tender touch. “I come to you, my King, my beloved, and my heart is at peace.”
Aragorn reached for her, wishing to take her into his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, to renew the memories that were in danger of fading in these days when he was no King, only a Man amongst Men in these lands. But Arwen pulled away from him, her lips curved upwards into a secretive smile, and she turned to Boromir.
“Long have I heard of you, Boromir of Gondor,” said Arwen. “Long have I grieved for your passing, and for scores years I held a regret in my heart that I did not learn you better while we were both in my father’s valley of Imladris.”
“Nay,” replied Boromir. He gave Arwen a deep bow, and his body folded as he fell onto his knees like a soldier pledging his fealty to his Lord. “’Twas my own stubbornness that kept me from seeking you so long ago. I wished to.” He lifted his eyes, and his smile was sweet and hesitant. “Tongues have praised your beauty, my Queen, but it seems no words can do justice to it.”
Aragorn wished to reach out and draw Boromir to his feet for this proud Man did not belong to his knees. Yet he could not move, for he knew instinctive that it was not his place to interfere. This moment belonged to Arwen and Boromir.
“Do not kneel before me, Boromir. We are equals here, in these lands where I am told there are no Kings or Queens but merely Men, Hobbits, and the Elves who have pledged their troths to Men.” Despite her claim, Arwen was regal still in her speech as she reached down and took Boromir’s hands in hers. “Will you call me Arwen?”
“Arwen,” murmured Boromir. He darted a glance towards Aragorn, and the uncertainty in his eyes twisted at Aragorn’s heart.
“Have no fear. I know Estel’s heart well, and I welcomed you into it long ago.” Slowly, Arwen straightened, and she brought Boromir back to his feet. She grinned suddenly, and the sight soothed Aragorn’s heart more than he could say.
“I only hope you do not mind my presence after spending a year with him.”
Boromir shook his head, golden hair falling into his eyes. He pushed the strands back, his gaze fixed unerringly to Arwen’s. “Nay, I do not. Of course not.”
“Then let there be no conflict between us.”
Raising Arwen’s hand, Boromir pressed a gentle kiss against the back. Arwen gasped, a small, soft sound, and her cheeks reddened.
“No, there is none, my--” He swallowed. “Arwen.”
Together the two of them turned towards Aragorn again, and their matching smiles were glorious to see. Aragorn stepped forward, taking both of them into his arms.
All of his previous cares were washed away like a rock made smooth by a river’s running, and happiness filled his chest so full he could barely contained it. Aye, much good he must have done during his time in Middle Earth. Surely there was no other reason to the great joy he had been given; no other way of deserving both of his great loves, warm and smiling in his arms.
End
Reborn as Fortune’s Child
Aragorn/Boromir, NC-17
Prompt: Kneel before the King
Over a century ago, in the midst of a perilous journey that both brought together and sundered forever the Fellowship, Aragorn caught a single glimpse of Boromir’s naked back. It was in Lothlorien, in the beautiful Golden Wood of eternal twilight. The Company followed the Lady of the Light’s bidding and retired for rest, but Aragorn wished to clean the filth of the road from his skin. It was in the bathhouse that he sighted Boromir, looking upon the golden skin bared by Boromir’s own hands. Knowledge startled into Aragorn at that moment, and he knew instinctively the reason for Boromir’s unease in the lands belonging to the Elves.
The unearthly twilight that turned the pale skin of Elves luminous had changed Boromir into a corpse. He looked sickly pale underneath the light, and Aragorn’s heart was filled then with a terrible premonition. On that night he had backed away from the bathhouse, nigh running in the opposite direction while fear clenched its cold fist around his heart.
The memory was as bright as yesterday’s; perhaps even brighter. Yet it could not compete against the sight of Boromir’s back as it was revealed once more to his eyes, this time in the full light of the Sun where Gondor’s Captain belonged. Aragorn marvelled at the sight, his heart stuttering in his chest for a wholly new reason that he could not find words to voice.
Boromir noticed his silence, turning around. A grin curved his thin lips, and his eyes danced as he spoke, “Have you changed your mind, my Lord? Do not forget: ‘twas you who spoke of bathing in the river.”
Aragorn shook his head, brushing away the cobwebs of memories that should be laid to rest along with his mortal body. “No, I have not forgotten.” He tugged at his belt, his fingers nimble even as his eyes fixed on the sight of Boromir’s revealed body. “You are beautiful, Boromir, so much that my mind emptied itself.”
“If you lay the blame upon my shoulders, allow me to make amends,” replied Boromir laughing. He strode forward, large hands laying themselves over Aragorn’s fingers as he tugged the belt out of its loops. Dropping the leather carelessly on the ground, he unlaced Aragorn’s breeches.
“This is your Ranger’s wear, Aragorn,” murmured Boromir as he slid heavy cloth over hips. “Your face has not changed either, though surely it must have in the long years you spent in Middle Earth.”
“Time turned back on itself when I died,” answered Aragorn, barely able to keep his voice from shuddering as Boromir’s sword-roughened fingers brushed his skin. “I found myself in this form when I awoke upon the Lord Lukasarkuva’s back.”
“The Valar see deeply into Men’s hearts,” said Boromir. His hands slid upwards, tugging on the hems of Aragorn’s tunic and undershirt. “You have remained a Ranger.”
“Aye,” replied Aragorn, smiling lopsidedly. His hands curled over Boromir’s hips, relishing in the gentle heat he found against his own skin. “I named my house ‘Telcontar’ for ‘tis as a Ranger I was born, and a Ranger I will always remain.”
“Not merely a Ranger, but a Ranger King,” corrected Boromir. He leaned back slightly, allowing Aragorn to pull the embroidered red cloth of his tunic over his head. “My Ranger King, Aragorn, if you allow it.”
Aragorn did not reply immediately. Instead he tugged the remainder of his clothing over his head, standing naked in front of Boromir. There were only single pair of eyes upon his form, and though Aragorn could feel heat instinctively suffuse the skin of his neck and face, he refused to feel shame. Such a despicable emotion had no place amongst the dead who were freed from the cares of the world.
“Aye,” said Aragorn eventually. He spread his fingers open, laying them on Boromir’s chest, above his beating heart. “I allow it, and far more.”
They walked together with their steps equal towards the lake. The water was chilled, the sun’s warmth blocked by the heavy canopies of the trees that surrounded the lake. In another time Aragorn would come back here and note every plant; he would marvel at the sight of things he thought had been long lost to the world of Men. Yet now the green that caught and held his sight was that of Boromir’s eyes, the edges crinkling into a smile as he drew Aragorn into his arms.
“I have been here for time longer than I knew, but I still marvel at being able to feel after death,” murmured Boromir into his ear.
“This world is a great blessing to us all who are allowed to come,” replied Aragorn. “Yet ‘tis not the world that has me in its thrall.”
“A thrall, Aragorn?” Boromir raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “There is little that you have seen of me just yet.”
With those words, Boromir disappeared from his sight, sinking to his knees until only his shoulders and head were above the water. Aragorn’s lips parted to ask of his intentions, but Boromir silenced him with a heated kiss against his hips.
“Steel your knees,” commanded Boromir, and that was the only warning Aragorn was given before Boromir ducked his head into the water. Heat enveloped him as Boromir swallowed him down, and Aragorn’s gasp echoed through the still air as he felt himself harden almost painfully quickly.
Boromir’s name escaped him, a mangled word, and Aragorn’s hand slipped into the water to card into golden hair. He held on tightly like it was his only anchor, his body shuddering as his hips thrust sharply forward. The pleasure was wholly unexpected and almost too overwhelming, and Aragorn trembled from head to toe.
“You are full of surprises,” he managed to say, but the words were for his own sake for he knew Boromir could not hear him. His hand tightened even more on the strands as Boromir took him in even further, and he could feel Boromir’s throat clench around his length. Bubblers floated upwards, bursting against his skin, and he felt Boromir’s laughter thrum against him. Aragorn’s head dropped backwards, moaning loud and shamelessly.
It was too much, too sudden, and Aragorn could not help himself. Pleasure was ripped out of him from the depth of his heart, the gentle warmth of the love he always felt for this Man turned into wrenching lust. His hips thrust forward helplessly, but Boromir held him still with strong hands that anchored him to the ground and the land. Aragorn’s other hand found its way to Boromir’s shoulders, digging into heated flesh with his nails as he fought not to writhe.
His voice spoke Boromir’s name over and over again, a litany that beat like war drums next to his heart. This was beyond any dream he ever had for Boromir, the sound wrapped its chains around him, tying him to reality. The rough, scraping pain of his throat reminded him that this was real and blissfully true, and as Aragorn fell over the edge, it was with a final cry of Boromir’s name on his lips.
His knees could not hold him up any longer and he sank down to the muddied ground. In front of him, Boromir was an absolute vision, his hair plastered down, accentuating the curve of his cheekbones, and Aragorn surged forward, crashing their lips together. The taste of his essence mixed with that of Boromir’s mouth made him groan again, and Aragorn felt as if he was younger than twenty again as his spent length twitched against his thigh in the cool river water.
“You have given me far more than I can ever repay,” rasped Aragorn, his forehead leaning against Boromir’s shoulder. His fingers traced the strong muscles of Boromir’s back, and he would have counted the knobs of his spine if he had the mind for it at the moment.
“Do not speak of such things as payment,” said Boromir, his voice low and rough against Aragorn’s ear. A soft kiss pressed against his temple. “’Tis my greatest pleasure.”
“Then let me--” Aragorn reached downwards.
Boromir caught his wrist, lifting it up to brush his lips over Aragorn’s knuckles. “I need naught more than your presence beside me, Aragorn,” he murmured. “Let us keep some pleasure for the next moments.”
How had he forgotten Boromir’s wilful and stubborn nature in the long years they were apart? Aragorn smiled wryly, turning the hand still on his backwards. His beard rasped against smooth skin as he kissed it. A Boromir who obeyed his every wish was no Boromir at all, only a dream; Aragorn far preferred reality.
He stood slowly, finding himself sudden lethargic. A passing thought struck him: it was strange indeed that the dead would still feel tired during what Men had long thought to be their eternal rest. Yet here, he knew, he was but a Man, nothing more or less, and he wished to lie beside Boromir now on the banks of this stunning river.
Following him only until they reached the banks, Boromir took the lead once more. He dragged his heavy red velvet cloak close, draping it over the two of them as they lay on the grass. Aragorn could feel the heat of his unfulfilled desire against his thigh, but it was alright.
In these lands, there was no need to hurry. Long gone was the urgency that drove each of their steps during the Fellowship’s journey. Here, they had all the time in the world.
Wear This Pilgrim’s Cloak, or be a Common Thief
Aragorn/Boromir, implied Aragorn/Arwen, NC-17
Prompt: On your knees (kind of)
Though clouds suffused the blue skies and Boromir was warm beside him, Aragorn refused to allow his eyes to close. He felt exhaustion tug at the edge of his being but he needed to drink in the sight of Boromir more than he needed rest. Gondor’s truest son was a vision to behold, his hair wet and messy, a smile of pure joy and satisfaction that Aragorn had never seen before lighting up his eyes.
Aragorn reached out, gently pulling golden strands away from Boromir’s face.
“I remember your voice during our journey,” whispered Boromir. “You sang the Lay of Leithian one night, the tale of the immortal Elf maiden Lúthien and her mortal lover Beren.”
It was during their times in the mines of Moria. Then, Aragorn sang to keep the shadows away from the Hobbits who were trying so valiantly to keep their spirits. His breath hitched.
“I did not think you heard me,” he said.
“You were making quite a racket, and there were no other voices I could distract myself with,” teased Boromir, his thumb grazing against Aragorn’s lip. “My Sindarin had always been poor - ‘tis Faramir who was the scholar, as you surely know - yet I heard your voice, and I knew the names you sung of.” Boromir’s eyes turned distant for a moment.
“I met them, once.”
Aragorn nearly sat up in his shock, blinking hard. “What?”
“I met them,” repeated Boromir. His hand was heavy on Aragorn’s shoulder, pressing him back to be enveloped by grass and Boromir’s arms. “The Lord Beren and the Lady Lúthien, for whom so many songs were sung - they are here.”
“How-?” Aragorn could not continue.
“This is a land without time, Aragorn,” said Boromir, his smile gentle. “I had the honour and pleasure to meet with the legends I was told of during my youth. I had thought the bards exaggerated Lúthien’s love and courage and Isildur’s leadership, but it seems the stories do them little justice.”
“Ah, I see it now: only legends whose songs are sung for thousands of years are worthy of your admiration, Boromir,” said Aragorn solemnly. “All others are but undeserving and flawed creatures with foibles well-acknowledged. Is that not so?”
“You know that is untrue!” cried Boromir, and for the first time since Aragorn had arrived, he saw once more the harsh passions that so ruled the son of Gondor during their journeys together. “There are plenty of Men deserving of my admiration for their vulnerabilities and failings, for is it not the lot of Men to be imperfect? Figures of legends drew me little in life for I knew them as only that - as figures so pure that they are unbelievable, but here I have met them and knew them to be no more perfect than any soldier of Gondor, and ‘twas their strong wills, not their inherent perfections, that honoured them.”
His voice lowered, “Do you know so little of me, my Lord?”
Aragorn’s heart clenched in his chest, and he sorely regretted his words. Sitting up, he took Boromir’s face in both hands, staring into darkened eyes. “Nay, my love, I only tease,” he whispered. “I have spoken thoughtlessly. I know your heart has always been with the world of Men with their many failings.” He smiled hesitantly.
“How can I not, when you have made your distaste for the One’s firstborn race’s perfections so clearly?”
Boromir turned his head away, and Aragorn feared that these clumsy words were insufficient as recompense. Yet Boromir chuckled, a low, half-hollow sound, and his thumb grazed Aragorn’s jaw once more.
“Forgive me, my Lord. I have been unfair in my judgment of you.”
“Consider it forgiven,” returned Aragorn, smiling. “It seems only right that you stumble as well, for how much I stumbled over my judgment of you the first time we met.”
“Aye, but that was so long ago.”
Aragorn silenced him with a finger against his lips before he could continue. “Hush; do not chide yourself further,” said the Ranger who was once a King. “Tell me of these lands, Boromir. Tell me of the Men of legends you have met.”
“Before I tell you of those tales, let me ease your heart,” said Boromir. “I know our Queen will come, Aragorn. Arwen will come to this place and return to her rightful place by your side. ‘Tis not merely the nightingale Lúthien who is here; the Lady Idril has followed her human Lord Tuor as well.”
Taking in a long, sharp breath, Aragorn wondered if Boromir understood how much of a gift he had given his once-King. He remembered Arwen’s anguished face when he told her of his decision to take the Gift of Men before his faculties begin to fail him; remembered, too, that he had reassured her that their love was beyond the circles of the world, but he had not been sure of those words he had spoken to her until now.
The grief in his heart that lingered despite Boromir’s presence now eased like a knot slowly being pulled apart. Aragorn exhaled slowly, his smile soft and sweet as he looked at Boromir.
There were no other words in the language they shared that could suffice for the gratitude he felt for the knowledge Boromir had given him, but he had to try, nonetheless.
“Thank you.”
Boromir’s lips curved up, his thumb stroking over Aragorn’s lip.
“Isildur is here as well,” he said.
Aragorn blinked. Isildur was less of a Man than a symbol of the weight of the burdens that were laid upon his shoulders on his twentieth year. When Arnor was slowly rebuilt in the times of peace, he kept Isildur in his mind, trying to glean some guidance for the path he knew he had to take to return the broken city into the glory of the world of Men as it had once been. But Isildur the Man had remained ever elusive within the stories that he knew of him, for the legends showed only a fraction of a Man, and such bits and pieces gave so little light for him to find his way.
Closing his eyes, he leaned into Boromir’s touch, seeking comfort.
“Tell me of him,” whispered Aragorn.
“I met no great King, no leader of Men,” said Boromir. “He lives far from the Tower, to the North in a farm hidden within the valleys. He grows his own grain and tames the animals around him. His brother Anárion lives with him.”
“Anárion!” exclaimed Aragorn helplessly. “The legends told of his death but mentioned nothing of Isildur and Elendil’s grief.”
“Aye, they grieved, and they grieved deeply for Anárion’s death was not an easy one,” said Boromir. “Yet this is a place of a new life, a second life, and few here think of death now.”
Aragorn fell silent for a long moment. He looked up to the skies so blue and brilliantly bright that he was reminded once more of Gondor during the beautiful day after Sauron’s defeat. Surely it was the healing space of time that allowed Isildur to stop thinking of the world he had left behind, for Aragorn could not. Once, in the Reunited Kingdoms, it was the dead who haunted his steps. Now in this land of the dead, it was those that still lived.
He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge these dark thoughts. “How strange it is to think of a great King as a mere farmer,” he murmured, turning back to Boromir. “Yet ‘tis surely the path he has taken his true wish?”
“Aye,” replied Boromir. “No longer are the burdens of ruling for Isildur, and he seems far happier in this state.”
“’Tis a strange thing to say, but ‘tis stranger still for me to think of a great King who chooses to become little more than a farmer,” murmured Aragorn softly. “My burdens were once his burdens. ‘Twas the blood that we share that made me more than a Ranger and allowed me to become King.”
“You give yourself too little credit, my Lord,” said Boromir, his tone chiding. “Blood did not make Kings; if that is the only criteria, then surely your line would have been made Kings long ago. No, Aragorn, you are the King that Gondor sorely needed, and though your blood legitimised your claim, ‘twere your deeds that made you worthy of the Winged Crown.”
Strange it was to hear such praise from Boromir’s lips, stranger still for Aragorn had always wished to hear them. There were none else who loved Gondor as much as this Man; none else who represented her more. Long were the nights that Aragorn spent in the Citadel, staring at the statue Faramir had built of his brother, wondering if Boromir was glad of the changes he had wrought upon Gondor.
Aragorn cast his eyes down. “Let us speak no more of kings and kingships,” he said finally. “Tell me of the friends we share instead; are they here?”
“Aye, they are,” smiled Boromir. “Faramir and the White Lady of Rohan his wife arrived on the back of the great hawk at the same time. Éomer is here as well.”
“Come now, Boromir. Do not tease; you know the friends I wish to hear most about.”
Boromir chuckled, his grin wide as he stroked Aragorn’s cheek. “Merry and Pippin are in the Tower. Like you, they have been restored to their looks during their time in the Fellowship.”
“What of Frodo and Sam?” asked Aragorn, who knew that Sam, by the merit of bearing the Ring for a hours when Frodo could not, had followed his master over the seas to Valinor. “What of Legolas and Gimli?”
“I do not know,” frowned Boromir. “Only Elves who have chosen mortality and taken mortal Men as their lovers are here. I know not if…” he hesitated, “If those who have sailed to Undying Lands of the Elves will ever arrive.”
Aragorn leaned over, pinning Boromir hard against the ground. “I will not let sorrow taint this day,” he said, his voice harsher than he wanted it to be. He looked deep into Boromir’s eyes before he kissed him, pressing their mouths together and breathing in Boromir’s heated breath, feeling it settled in his lungs as an affirmation of this Man presence. Aragorn nearly trembled, but he stilled himself, pulling away for the briefest of moments.
“I have long dreamed of this.”
Boromir parted his lips to speak, but Aragorn would not allow him a single word. Instead, he slipped downwards, sword-callused fingers stroking down Boromir’s sides, mapping the lines of his body. There was an insistent heat against his thigh, and Aragorn ducked his head down to attend to it.
The strong warrior’s body, untouched by years, shook beneath him. Boromir arched upwards but Aragorn placed his hands on slim hips, holding them down. He parted his lips - and for the briefest moment he was struck by a horrible sense of insecurity as it as it had been far too long since he had done this - and took Boromir into his mouth.
“Aragorn!” Boromir’s cry resonated around the glade. Aragorn smiled around his mouthful, ducking his head down further as he felt strong fingers slide into his hair, urging him to move faster. But Aragorn had been kept waiting for far too long and he would not be rushed now, not when he so enjoyed the feel of Boromir’s needful struggles caused by naught more than his hands and mouth.
He had not lasted long, and Aragorn was gratified when he realised Boromir could not either. It took only a few moments of having Boromir’s length in his mouth before he felt a rush of heavy and bitter salt landing on his tongue and throat. Aragorn swallowed immediately, compulsively, and Boromir’s soft moan made him shiver to the depths of his bones.
He pushed himself up, pressing his knees against the soft, grass-covered ground. Boromir’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown until the green was but a thin rim. Aragorn grinned at the sight, almost involuntarily proud, and he leaned in to allow Boromir to taste himself.
“’Tis long that I have waited,” murmured Boromir, his words nearly muffled by Aragorn’s lips. His fingers carded through Aragorn’s hair, and he was still panting as he pulled away, looking deep into Aragorn’s eyes.
“I do not begrudge a single moment, for the joy you have brought me has filled up my hollow heart.”
Eternities Still Unsaid
Aragorn/Boromir, Aragorn/Arwen, implied Boromir/Arwen and Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir
Aragorn kept track of the days through making small marks on a laurinquë tree found near the Tower. Its clusters of bright yellow flowers and its sweet scent reminded him somewhat of Arwen, and he kept time for her. Though he had found new joy with Boromir, there was still an ache within him. Even in the gentle peace of death, his heart was still incomplete and he missed the lady with whom he had spent his long years of life.
The first time Boromir had watched him placing those marks, he laughed and told Aragorn that he placed marks on the same tree, and the marks always disappeared the next day he saw them. He tried for days he could not count, making a mark on the same place, but they never remained.
Yet the mark Aragorn made remained; all of them did. He could not help but hope that it was a sign from the invisible One who ruled over this land that Arwen would be with them soon.
Nearly four hundred marks later - a single year in Man’s reckoning, so little for an Eldar’s - Aragorn sat with Boromir near the river. The grass rustled as it often did with the coming of the great hawk Lukasarkuva, and Aragorn found himself standing. Though he had greeted the hawk many a times since his first coming, wishing to express his gratitude to the creature for bringing him here, Lukasarkuva never once replied.
Now he watched as the small speck in the wide skies grew. Boromir was silent next to him, his hand a reassuring weight on Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn knew not the reason for his sudden anxiety, but as the hawk landed on the ground, his claw scraping lines once more on the green grass that never died from such rough traction, his breath caught.
He could recognise the form upon the hawk anywhere. The shadow-dark hair he knew well, and the face, so beautiful and unchanged throughout the years, he knew as well as the face of the Man who now stood next to him.
“Arwen,” Aragorn breathed, and the Ranger stepped forward and took the hands of the Queen to help her steady herself as she half-stumbled from the hawk’s back.
His eyes drank his fill of Arwen. No longer were her eyes darkened with grief as they were since the day he told her of his choice; they were brilliant now, light appearing in them like stars on the night sky as the Sun finally yielded his grip.
“I did not think I would see you again,” said Arwen, her voice trembling slightly. “Such a long time passed in my mind since the day I saw you last, Estel, and I thought I had lost you completely to the sands of time.”
Great wings spread as Lukasarkuva took off, sending gales that whipped through their hair. Aragorn reached out with a trembling hand, tucking stray strands of Arwen’s hair back behind the curve of one finely-tipped ear.
“You are here,” breathed Aragorn. “Though Boromir had tried to reassure me, I feared--” he shook his head hard, clearing it of all unpleasant thoughts. They had no place now, not when his heart was finally full, its last ache dissipating like smoke in the wind.
“Long have I waited for you, my Evenstar, my Undómiel.”
“Scores years ago I arrived in Gondor in a carriage, escorted by my father and brothers; now I come to this land on the back of a great hawk, yet my destination has remained unchanged.” Arwen’s fingers were warm on his cheek, and Aragorn tipped his head, leaning into the tender touch. “I come to you, my King, my beloved, and my heart is at peace.”
Aragorn reached for her, wishing to take her into his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, to renew the memories that were in danger of fading in these days when he was no King, only a Man amongst Men in these lands. But Arwen pulled away from him, her lips curved upwards into a secretive smile, and she turned to Boromir.
“Long have I heard of you, Boromir of Gondor,” said Arwen. “Long have I grieved for your passing, and for scores years I held a regret in my heart that I did not learn you better while we were both in my father’s valley of Imladris.”
“Nay,” replied Boromir. He gave Arwen a deep bow, and his body folded as he fell onto his knees like a soldier pledging his fealty to his Lord. “’Twas my own stubbornness that kept me from seeking you so long ago. I wished to.” He lifted his eyes, and his smile was sweet and hesitant. “Tongues have praised your beauty, my Queen, but it seems no words can do justice to it.”
Aragorn wished to reach out and draw Boromir to his feet for this proud Man did not belong to his knees. Yet he could not move, for he knew instinctive that it was not his place to interfere. This moment belonged to Arwen and Boromir.
“Do not kneel before me, Boromir. We are equals here, in these lands where I am told there are no Kings or Queens but merely Men, Hobbits, and the Elves who have pledged their troths to Men.” Despite her claim, Arwen was regal still in her speech as she reached down and took Boromir’s hands in hers. “Will you call me Arwen?”
“Arwen,” murmured Boromir. He darted a glance towards Aragorn, and the uncertainty in his eyes twisted at Aragorn’s heart.
“Have no fear. I know Estel’s heart well, and I welcomed you into it long ago.” Slowly, Arwen straightened, and she brought Boromir back to his feet. She grinned suddenly, and the sight soothed Aragorn’s heart more than he could say.
“I only hope you do not mind my presence after spending a year with him.”
Boromir shook his head, golden hair falling into his eyes. He pushed the strands back, his gaze fixed unerringly to Arwen’s. “Nay, I do not. Of course not.”
“Then let there be no conflict between us.”
Raising Arwen’s hand, Boromir pressed a gentle kiss against the back. Arwen gasped, a small, soft sound, and her cheeks reddened.
“No, there is none, my--” He swallowed. “Arwen.”
Together the two of them turned towards Aragorn again, and their matching smiles were glorious to see. Aragorn stepped forward, taking both of them into his arms.
All of his previous cares were washed away like a rock made smooth by a river’s running, and happiness filled his chest so full he could barely contained it. Aye, much good he must have done during his time in Middle Earth. Surely there was no other reason to the great joy he had been given; no other way of deserving both of his great loves, warm and smiling in his arms.
End