"Truce" (Aragorn/Boromir, R-ish) for caras_galadhon
Recipient: caras_galadhon
Title: Truce
Author: empy
Paring: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R-ish
Disclaimer: The characters all belong to the Professor, I only tinker with them and promise to put them back when I'm done.
Notes: I've taken a few crafty liberties with the timeline (hours rather than days), skewing the time of Boromir's arrival in Imladris to be a little earlier.
Merry Midwinter, caras_galadhon!
Night had fallen over Imladris, and though the Last Homely House glowed with light, the darkness around it was still near-solid. Aragorn had walked in the hallways for the better part of an hour, feeling restless even though he knew the place was well protected. Knowing that the Ring was in Imladris and realizing how narrow their escape from the Black Riders had been did nothing to lessen his agitation.
Turning a corner, he saw light spill from one of the doorways at the end of the corridor. It had been some time since he had last visited the Last Homely House, but he knew that these chambers usually stood unused.
As he came closer, he slowed his steps. Someone was in the room, but he could tell by the sounds alone that it was not an Elf. Positioning himself so that he could see into the chamber without being seen himself, he tried to make out who this was, but soon realized he had chosen a poor moment.
He had been right in assuming that the occupant was not an Elf. If nothing else, the strong build gave it away, and he was being treated to rather more evidence of that than he had expected. The sole person in the room was a man, and he was in the process off stripping his clothes off in preparation of a bath. Aragorn held his breath as he watched. He should walk on, leave, but something made him stay. This was a haven of Elves, and though it now held other folk, Men were unexpected. The light from the fire was too dim for him to make out any details, and the man still had his back turned to Aragorn.
This was a simple chamber, somewhat more closed-off than the others, and it was clear that the room had been prepared in a hurry to accommodate the surprise visitor, for the furniture had been moved back to make room for a large tub filled with warm water. During the previous night, Aragorn had been aware of other visitors arriving, but other more pressing matters had kept his mind off this.
When the man turned enough for Aragorn to be able to see his profile, Aragorn froze. Of all the people that might have come here, this one... One of Hurin's house. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back memories that rose unbidden.
He had been Thorongil then, many years ago, when he had been in the service of Echtelion. The Steward had been a stern ruler, but a wise one, and serving him had not been a burden. Echtelion's son, Denethor, however, had proved to be something of an obstacle. He was a proud man, proud to the point of obstinacy. He had no doubts about his worth, nor about his station, and though he respected his father, it was clear that he did not approve of all his decisions.
Thorongil, who had learned to pass as a shadow in the White City when he had business there, seemed to do nothing but irritate Denethor, who would seldom speak to him and only afford him the coldest of glances should they meet outside the hall where they plotted.
Once, the facade had cracked. As they had walked from Echtelion's study after a long and fruitless morning of debating and planning, Denethor's young son, Boromir, had met them in the corridor. The boy, who could not have been more than four or five years old, had laughed as he ran to meet them.
"Thorongil! You have returned!" His laughter had been infectious, and Thorongil had not been able to hide his own smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "Father, can I show Thorongil the hounds? The ones from the newest litter have opened their eyes now."
"I will come and see them once I have concluded some other business, Boromir," said Thorongil quickly as he caught sight of the scowl that was beginning to darken Denethor's face. "Run along now. I will join you soon."
Boromir, who was clever for his age, had immediately understood the hint, and had offered a curiously bright and brittle smile before hurrying off.
As soon as the boy was out of sight and earshot, Denethor had seized Thorongil by the arm, and they had stood there, motionless, barely breathing in the narrow hallway. Denethor's face had been pale, with a fever-flush burning on the high cheekbones, and Thorongil had nearly taken a step back in alarm. The hold on his arm had been so tight it had pained him, and his own hand had hovered by the hilt of the short sword he carried. He had not been able to read Denethor's intent, but had known at once that whatever had so unsettled him could not have been a simple matter. Something had become unbalanced.
The glitter in Denethor's eyes had been bright and unnatural. "Stay away from him," he had hissed, his voice twisted and guttural. "Do not turn his head like you turn the heads of all others."
With that, he had let go and walked off, leaving Thorongil to stand bewildered.
The next day, Denethor had gone back to his old cold manner, as though nothing had happened.
This was Boromir, of that Aragorn was sure. Time had changed him, but not so much that he was no longer unrecognisable. This was the heir to the Stewardship, the apple of his father's eye, now grown into a man both tall and strong.
Stay away from him. The command echoed in his mind, for it reminded all too much of another admonition. Stay away from her. You are not worthy of my daughter.
Boromir, seeming entirely unaware that he was being watched, had stepped into the bath and was washing himself with short sharp movements, strictly utilitarian, a soldier's habits. Then, perhaps as it dawned on him that this was a place more civilized than a rocky riverbank, he relaxed. The change was immediately visible, for he leaned back in the large tub, settling his arms on the sides before stretching out as much as he was able. His eyes slid shut as he rested his head against the edge.
The water glittered with the mellow refracted light of the fire, and little ripples scored the surface as he moved. He still leaned back with his eyes closed, and his right hand now dipped into the water with a slow, somnolent movement. It was a movement born of ease and habit, something that Boromir in his relaxed state perhaps did not think to be inappropriate. A slow murmur, barely loud enough for Aragorn to discern, rose through his chest, half-formed words that were for the ears of none.
Aragorn swallowed thickly. He had no right to stay, and yet he seemed unable to move. There was something intensely alluring about Boromir, something that had nothing to do with his ancestry or with the memories that the sight of him caused. No, this was something much baser. It was simple need, the welcome and pleasing sight of a body like his.
Aragorn started as Boromir rose, thinking that he had made some noise that would give him away, but nothing in Boromir's manner suggested that. Boromir stood by the tub for a moment, stretching unselfconsciously, and shaking the worst of the water out of his hair and off his limbs before reaching for one of the towels that had been provided. Each movement was measured and calm, and by contrast, Aragorn felt as though his own peace of mind was being drained away.
Searching his discarded clothes, Boromir took up a knife and regarded it for a moment, then set it down again. Grasping his still-wet hair and gathering it into a ponytail, he then grasped the knife and swiftly cut a few inches off with a single swipe of the blade, leaving his hair to reach his shoulders. He cast the cut-off strands on the fire, watching as they burned to ash in seconds.
The old customs died hard, Aragorn noted. No cut-off lock of hair must remain for evil spirits to latch on to and plague the former owner with headaches and ill dreams.
Boromir moved with the grace of a man who has no shame over his form, clothed or otherwise, but he soon dressed for another reason: a soldier must never allow himself to be surprised. The clothes were still stained with long travel, though he had attempted to brush off the worst of the mire. His wet hair tangled and curled, and he brushed it back with an irritated gesture. His right side was ever turned to his weapons, though it was strange that they had not been taken from him. It could have been the lateness of the hour in which he arrived, or else it could be boldness on his part to insist that he not be parted with them. Aragorn could not tell which. What was clear was that Boromir did not feel wholly at ease in this place.
Realizing he would have to leave very quickly to avoid being caught, Aragorn stole one last glance before slipping into the shadows. It was a small comfort that he had the advantage of knowing this place inside and out, of remembering each little nook, cranny and hidden passage. However, that comfort was soon eroded by the strange longing that began to gnaw at him and which would not let him rest.
In the clear light of the next morning, Boromir seemed even more regal, for the silver buckles of his gear caught the sunlight and his bearing was proud. He was armed even now, at a council of allies, though he had consented to setting his sword by the seat that had been reserved for him.
When he spoke, he was polite, even when Aragorn's true identity was revealed, and yet in his gaze was the disapproval of centuries. It held the firm beliefs of the long line of Stewards who had taken what they saw as their rightful place. Aragorn's heart sank. His task was becoming more impossible for each passing day, and now even those who would be his allies were against him.
As the Fellowship set out, Aragorn keenly felt the distance between himself and Boromir. They were closer allies now, forced together by a council decision, but that alliance would be worth precious little if Aragorn was not able to prove his worth to Boromir. Even so, it might be fruitless, he reflected bitterly. If Boromir was anything like his father, he would resent even the smallest suggestion that he would not go on to become ruler of Minas Tirith.
Moria echoed with dead voices, just like Aragorn's mind. Every shadow lingered, seemed to sear into stone and draw closer as they passed. Even Boromir, who had seemed so unshakeable on the mountainside, seemed to feel some trepidation.
As they sat in the near-darkness, waiting, fearing each little sound that echoed through the cavernous halls, the darkness crept over all their features, and the change it brought in Boromir was startling. It was not overt, nor was it frightening to Aragorn, but it woke memories, for his face was that of his father, with lines etched into his forehead and his mouth seeming set in a mirthless line. However, as he spoke, the likeness disappeared. Though his words were still proud, and though he did not always agree with what Aragorn said, he was no longer as stiff-necked as he had been at the council. An understanding was forming between them.
Though their journey through the mines was short in duration, it was filled with horrors, and the sadness and desperation Aragorn felt at Gandalf's death sat in his chest like a block of ice, hurting him whenever he moved, and it seemed pure chance to him that he was able to lead the way to Lorien. The responsibility of leading the Fellowship rested on his shoulders more than ever, and he realized that no matter how much he might wish it, he could not share that responsibility with Boromir.
Even the fair sight of Caras Galadhon was not enough to soothe him.
On the fourth night after their arrival, Aragorn was once more walking by himself in an attempt to clear his mind. His breath steamed softly in the night air, coiling upward for the shortest moment before dissolving. Though Lothlorien seemed a closed-off land, the chill of the nearing war had crept in. He was so deep in thought that he did not immediately notice that he had doubled back on his tracks and returned to the canopied tents that had been set up for the weary travellers.
Boromir sat alone by the roots of a great mallorn, some way away from the tents, and he had drawn his rich cloak around his shoulders. Aragorn walked toward him, deliberately stepping on a branch to let Boromir know that he was approaching. He was startled to see the quick flicker of emotions that passed over Boromir's face as he looked up. Neither said any words of greeting, and Boromir merely swept his hand out to indicate that Aragorn was free to stay or leave.
At first, he told himself he had intended to place his hand on Boromir's shoulder, but Boromir had turned to face him suddenly, and his lifted hand had disobeyed him, moving instead to cup Boromir's jaw. The quiet despair in Boromir's gaze had been so potent, so incongruous, that he had not known how to react. What manner of leader was he if he was not able to console his men?
They both stilled, and Aragorn immediately let go, leaning back. "I am sorry," he said, inclining his head, "I did not mean to--"
"I did not take offense," interrupted Boromir. "Tell me, what was it you did not mean? This?" With that, he leaned forward, setting his hand on the back of Aragorn's neck and kissing him. "Proud we may be, but we are not blind." The statement was not tempered with a smile as one might have expected, and Aragorn kept still, feeling hesitant. "Nor do we ignore the needs of others."
Stay away from him.
Ignoring the voice from the past that echoed in his mind, Aragorn leaned in to offer a kiss of his own, and when they broke apart, he saw the smile he had been expecting. It held humour and approval, as well as tacit permission, something which Aragorn was quick to take advantage of. Boromir, for his part, did not seem to disapprove of Aragorn's sudden enthusiastic assault.
Aragorn could feel Boromir's hands scrabbling at the fastenings of his shirt. His fingers were strangely nimble despite the rising urgency, and he managed to divest Aragorn of both shirt and tunic without breaking a single clasp or snapping a single lacing. Aragorn did not fare as well.
"The tents," he murmured urgently, twisting loose a snapped clasp from Boromir's tunic before giving up. "The Galadhrim sentries see in the dark."
Boromir's cloak had barely settled on the ground inside the tent before the two of them tumbled onto it, knocking knees and elbows against hard ground. Haste overrode courtesy and comfort, and Aragorn briefly wondered if perhaps he was so frantic because he feared that at any moment, he might again be forbidden this.
The grass crushed and bent under the weight of their intertwined bodies, and he gave a long pleased shudder as he felt the soft fur lining of the cloak slide along his back as they moved. Boromir held onto his wrists, pressing them down to keep him in place.
Each kiss was rough but not painful, and lingered until it burned. Aragorn gave a soft groan, tipping his chin up to invite deeper kisses.
Boromir took him by the jaw and shushed softly at him, the air exhaled brushing softly over Aragorn's mouth like a kiss in its own right. Smiling a strange and almost impish smile, he bent his head to Aragorn's neck, not breaking his hold. Aragorn obeyed, staying still and looking up at the roof of the tent. The fabric was thin enough to let him discern the shapes of the mallorn trees around them, and he cast a half-formed wish that the walls would not be equally translucent, for his present state was less than suited for polite company, and what Boromir was doing to him was equally inappropriate. It was, however, intensely pleasant.
Giving in to carelessness, he murmured encouragement, spreading his legs and grasping Boromir's shoulders to pull him close. "You said you do not ignore the needs of others," he breathed into Boromir's ear. "Cater to my need and I will repay the favour handsomely."
Neither party had lied, reflected Aragorn later as he attempted to catch his breath. Needs had indeed been met and favours repaid, and with great enthusiasm. Despite the cold of the night air, their skin was slick and heated, and Aragorn tipped his head back, feeling the crown touch the mat of leaves they rested on. Boromir was still holding him up with one strong arm hooked around and under his back.
Boromir murmured something against his shoulder, the words muffled and indistinct.
"What did you say?" asked Aragorn.
"I see that all that is old has not withered," smiled Boromir, and the smile was so wide it bordered on a grin. Aragorn could do nothing but answer the smile.
Here, in this moment, it seemed they had a truce, and it was, he reflected, a good start.
END
Title: Truce
Author: empy
Paring: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R-ish
Disclaimer: The characters all belong to the Professor, I only tinker with them and promise to put them back when I'm done.
Notes: I've taken a few crafty liberties with the timeline (hours rather than days), skewing the time of Boromir's arrival in Imladris to be a little earlier.
Merry Midwinter, caras_galadhon!
Night had fallen over Imladris, and though the Last Homely House glowed with light, the darkness around it was still near-solid. Aragorn had walked in the hallways for the better part of an hour, feeling restless even though he knew the place was well protected. Knowing that the Ring was in Imladris and realizing how narrow their escape from the Black Riders had been did nothing to lessen his agitation.
Turning a corner, he saw light spill from one of the doorways at the end of the corridor. It had been some time since he had last visited the Last Homely House, but he knew that these chambers usually stood unused.
As he came closer, he slowed his steps. Someone was in the room, but he could tell by the sounds alone that it was not an Elf. Positioning himself so that he could see into the chamber without being seen himself, he tried to make out who this was, but soon realized he had chosen a poor moment.
He had been right in assuming that the occupant was not an Elf. If nothing else, the strong build gave it away, and he was being treated to rather more evidence of that than he had expected. The sole person in the room was a man, and he was in the process off stripping his clothes off in preparation of a bath. Aragorn held his breath as he watched. He should walk on, leave, but something made him stay. This was a haven of Elves, and though it now held other folk, Men were unexpected. The light from the fire was too dim for him to make out any details, and the man still had his back turned to Aragorn.
This was a simple chamber, somewhat more closed-off than the others, and it was clear that the room had been prepared in a hurry to accommodate the surprise visitor, for the furniture had been moved back to make room for a large tub filled with warm water. During the previous night, Aragorn had been aware of other visitors arriving, but other more pressing matters had kept his mind off this.
When the man turned enough for Aragorn to be able to see his profile, Aragorn froze. Of all the people that might have come here, this one... One of Hurin's house. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back memories that rose unbidden.
He had been Thorongil then, many years ago, when he had been in the service of Echtelion. The Steward had been a stern ruler, but a wise one, and serving him had not been a burden. Echtelion's son, Denethor, however, had proved to be something of an obstacle. He was a proud man, proud to the point of obstinacy. He had no doubts about his worth, nor about his station, and though he respected his father, it was clear that he did not approve of all his decisions.
Thorongil, who had learned to pass as a shadow in the White City when he had business there, seemed to do nothing but irritate Denethor, who would seldom speak to him and only afford him the coldest of glances should they meet outside the hall where they plotted.
Once, the facade had cracked. As they had walked from Echtelion's study after a long and fruitless morning of debating and planning, Denethor's young son, Boromir, had met them in the corridor. The boy, who could not have been more than four or five years old, had laughed as he ran to meet them.
"Thorongil! You have returned!" His laughter had been infectious, and Thorongil had not been able to hide his own smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "Father, can I show Thorongil the hounds? The ones from the newest litter have opened their eyes now."
"I will come and see them once I have concluded some other business, Boromir," said Thorongil quickly as he caught sight of the scowl that was beginning to darken Denethor's face. "Run along now. I will join you soon."
Boromir, who was clever for his age, had immediately understood the hint, and had offered a curiously bright and brittle smile before hurrying off.
As soon as the boy was out of sight and earshot, Denethor had seized Thorongil by the arm, and they had stood there, motionless, barely breathing in the narrow hallway. Denethor's face had been pale, with a fever-flush burning on the high cheekbones, and Thorongil had nearly taken a step back in alarm. The hold on his arm had been so tight it had pained him, and his own hand had hovered by the hilt of the short sword he carried. He had not been able to read Denethor's intent, but had known at once that whatever had so unsettled him could not have been a simple matter. Something had become unbalanced.
The glitter in Denethor's eyes had been bright and unnatural. "Stay away from him," he had hissed, his voice twisted and guttural. "Do not turn his head like you turn the heads of all others."
With that, he had let go and walked off, leaving Thorongil to stand bewildered.
The next day, Denethor had gone back to his old cold manner, as though nothing had happened.
This was Boromir, of that Aragorn was sure. Time had changed him, but not so much that he was no longer unrecognisable. This was the heir to the Stewardship, the apple of his father's eye, now grown into a man both tall and strong.
Stay away from him. The command echoed in his mind, for it reminded all too much of another admonition. Stay away from her. You are not worthy of my daughter.
Boromir, seeming entirely unaware that he was being watched, had stepped into the bath and was washing himself with short sharp movements, strictly utilitarian, a soldier's habits. Then, perhaps as it dawned on him that this was a place more civilized than a rocky riverbank, he relaxed. The change was immediately visible, for he leaned back in the large tub, settling his arms on the sides before stretching out as much as he was able. His eyes slid shut as he rested his head against the edge.
The water glittered with the mellow refracted light of the fire, and little ripples scored the surface as he moved. He still leaned back with his eyes closed, and his right hand now dipped into the water with a slow, somnolent movement. It was a movement born of ease and habit, something that Boromir in his relaxed state perhaps did not think to be inappropriate. A slow murmur, barely loud enough for Aragorn to discern, rose through his chest, half-formed words that were for the ears of none.
Aragorn swallowed thickly. He had no right to stay, and yet he seemed unable to move. There was something intensely alluring about Boromir, something that had nothing to do with his ancestry or with the memories that the sight of him caused. No, this was something much baser. It was simple need, the welcome and pleasing sight of a body like his.
Aragorn started as Boromir rose, thinking that he had made some noise that would give him away, but nothing in Boromir's manner suggested that. Boromir stood by the tub for a moment, stretching unselfconsciously, and shaking the worst of the water out of his hair and off his limbs before reaching for one of the towels that had been provided. Each movement was measured and calm, and by contrast, Aragorn felt as though his own peace of mind was being drained away.
Searching his discarded clothes, Boromir took up a knife and regarded it for a moment, then set it down again. Grasping his still-wet hair and gathering it into a ponytail, he then grasped the knife and swiftly cut a few inches off with a single swipe of the blade, leaving his hair to reach his shoulders. He cast the cut-off strands on the fire, watching as they burned to ash in seconds.
The old customs died hard, Aragorn noted. No cut-off lock of hair must remain for evil spirits to latch on to and plague the former owner with headaches and ill dreams.
Boromir moved with the grace of a man who has no shame over his form, clothed or otherwise, but he soon dressed for another reason: a soldier must never allow himself to be surprised. The clothes were still stained with long travel, though he had attempted to brush off the worst of the mire. His wet hair tangled and curled, and he brushed it back with an irritated gesture. His right side was ever turned to his weapons, though it was strange that they had not been taken from him. It could have been the lateness of the hour in which he arrived, or else it could be boldness on his part to insist that he not be parted with them. Aragorn could not tell which. What was clear was that Boromir did not feel wholly at ease in this place.
Realizing he would have to leave very quickly to avoid being caught, Aragorn stole one last glance before slipping into the shadows. It was a small comfort that he had the advantage of knowing this place inside and out, of remembering each little nook, cranny and hidden passage. However, that comfort was soon eroded by the strange longing that began to gnaw at him and which would not let him rest.
In the clear light of the next morning, Boromir seemed even more regal, for the silver buckles of his gear caught the sunlight and his bearing was proud. He was armed even now, at a council of allies, though he had consented to setting his sword by the seat that had been reserved for him.
When he spoke, he was polite, even when Aragorn's true identity was revealed, and yet in his gaze was the disapproval of centuries. It held the firm beliefs of the long line of Stewards who had taken what they saw as their rightful place. Aragorn's heart sank. His task was becoming more impossible for each passing day, and now even those who would be his allies were against him.
As the Fellowship set out, Aragorn keenly felt the distance between himself and Boromir. They were closer allies now, forced together by a council decision, but that alliance would be worth precious little if Aragorn was not able to prove his worth to Boromir. Even so, it might be fruitless, he reflected bitterly. If Boromir was anything like his father, he would resent even the smallest suggestion that he would not go on to become ruler of Minas Tirith.
Moria echoed with dead voices, just like Aragorn's mind. Every shadow lingered, seemed to sear into stone and draw closer as they passed. Even Boromir, who had seemed so unshakeable on the mountainside, seemed to feel some trepidation.
As they sat in the near-darkness, waiting, fearing each little sound that echoed through the cavernous halls, the darkness crept over all their features, and the change it brought in Boromir was startling. It was not overt, nor was it frightening to Aragorn, but it woke memories, for his face was that of his father, with lines etched into his forehead and his mouth seeming set in a mirthless line. However, as he spoke, the likeness disappeared. Though his words were still proud, and though he did not always agree with what Aragorn said, he was no longer as stiff-necked as he had been at the council. An understanding was forming between them.
Though their journey through the mines was short in duration, it was filled with horrors, and the sadness and desperation Aragorn felt at Gandalf's death sat in his chest like a block of ice, hurting him whenever he moved, and it seemed pure chance to him that he was able to lead the way to Lorien. The responsibility of leading the Fellowship rested on his shoulders more than ever, and he realized that no matter how much he might wish it, he could not share that responsibility with Boromir.
Even the fair sight of Caras Galadhon was not enough to soothe him.
On the fourth night after their arrival, Aragorn was once more walking by himself in an attempt to clear his mind. His breath steamed softly in the night air, coiling upward for the shortest moment before dissolving. Though Lothlorien seemed a closed-off land, the chill of the nearing war had crept in. He was so deep in thought that he did not immediately notice that he had doubled back on his tracks and returned to the canopied tents that had been set up for the weary travellers.
Boromir sat alone by the roots of a great mallorn, some way away from the tents, and he had drawn his rich cloak around his shoulders. Aragorn walked toward him, deliberately stepping on a branch to let Boromir know that he was approaching. He was startled to see the quick flicker of emotions that passed over Boromir's face as he looked up. Neither said any words of greeting, and Boromir merely swept his hand out to indicate that Aragorn was free to stay or leave.
At first, he told himself he had intended to place his hand on Boromir's shoulder, but Boromir had turned to face him suddenly, and his lifted hand had disobeyed him, moving instead to cup Boromir's jaw. The quiet despair in Boromir's gaze had been so potent, so incongruous, that he had not known how to react. What manner of leader was he if he was not able to console his men?
They both stilled, and Aragorn immediately let go, leaning back. "I am sorry," he said, inclining his head, "I did not mean to--"
"I did not take offense," interrupted Boromir. "Tell me, what was it you did not mean? This?" With that, he leaned forward, setting his hand on the back of Aragorn's neck and kissing him. "Proud we may be, but we are not blind." The statement was not tempered with a smile as one might have expected, and Aragorn kept still, feeling hesitant. "Nor do we ignore the needs of others."
Stay away from him.
Ignoring the voice from the past that echoed in his mind, Aragorn leaned in to offer a kiss of his own, and when they broke apart, he saw the smile he had been expecting. It held humour and approval, as well as tacit permission, something which Aragorn was quick to take advantage of. Boromir, for his part, did not seem to disapprove of Aragorn's sudden enthusiastic assault.
Aragorn could feel Boromir's hands scrabbling at the fastenings of his shirt. His fingers were strangely nimble despite the rising urgency, and he managed to divest Aragorn of both shirt and tunic without breaking a single clasp or snapping a single lacing. Aragorn did not fare as well.
"The tents," he murmured urgently, twisting loose a snapped clasp from Boromir's tunic before giving up. "The Galadhrim sentries see in the dark."
Boromir's cloak had barely settled on the ground inside the tent before the two of them tumbled onto it, knocking knees and elbows against hard ground. Haste overrode courtesy and comfort, and Aragorn briefly wondered if perhaps he was so frantic because he feared that at any moment, he might again be forbidden this.
The grass crushed and bent under the weight of their intertwined bodies, and he gave a long pleased shudder as he felt the soft fur lining of the cloak slide along his back as they moved. Boromir held onto his wrists, pressing them down to keep him in place.
Each kiss was rough but not painful, and lingered until it burned. Aragorn gave a soft groan, tipping his chin up to invite deeper kisses.
Boromir took him by the jaw and shushed softly at him, the air exhaled brushing softly over Aragorn's mouth like a kiss in its own right. Smiling a strange and almost impish smile, he bent his head to Aragorn's neck, not breaking his hold. Aragorn obeyed, staying still and looking up at the roof of the tent. The fabric was thin enough to let him discern the shapes of the mallorn trees around them, and he cast a half-formed wish that the walls would not be equally translucent, for his present state was less than suited for polite company, and what Boromir was doing to him was equally inappropriate. It was, however, intensely pleasant.
Giving in to carelessness, he murmured encouragement, spreading his legs and grasping Boromir's shoulders to pull him close. "You said you do not ignore the needs of others," he breathed into Boromir's ear. "Cater to my need and I will repay the favour handsomely."
Neither party had lied, reflected Aragorn later as he attempted to catch his breath. Needs had indeed been met and favours repaid, and with great enthusiasm. Despite the cold of the night air, their skin was slick and heated, and Aragorn tipped his head back, feeling the crown touch the mat of leaves they rested on. Boromir was still holding him up with one strong arm hooked around and under his back.
Boromir murmured something against his shoulder, the words muffled and indistinct.
"What did you say?" asked Aragorn.
"I see that all that is old has not withered," smiled Boromir, and the smile was so wide it bordered on a grin. Aragorn could do nothing but answer the smile.
Here, in this moment, it seemed they had a truce, and it was, he reflected, a good start.
END