A gift for evocates: A Winter's Tale Aragron/Boromir PG-13
Title: A Winter's Tale
Pairing/character: Aragorn/Boromir, Arwen, mentions of Faramir
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2462
Warnings: Non-graphic mention of m/m sex
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.
Summary: In the middle of winter, Aragorn meets someone in the Citadel he never expected to see again.
In the months since his coronation, Aragorn has come to accept his destiny and ease into the role he was born to play, but sometimes he still longs for the open road, misses sleeping rough on his own in the wilderness. Arwen can always tell when the urge to wander tugs at his heart. Her gentle suggestions that it may be a good time to visit the rangers are always well timed and welcome.
One cold morning just before mid winter, Aragorn wakes knowing that he needs to be somewhere. There’s something pulling at him, as if his body knows where he needs to be but his mind hasn’t caught up yet. He can hardly stay still, wanting to follow the urge but he has duties and responsibilities.
Arwen eyes him as they eat breakfast, then leans over the table with a smile and kisses him.
“Go. There is nothing you need to do today that cannot be dealt with later. It has been a while since you had an adventure.”
He kisses her back, and grabs his cloak as he strides from the room, startled at the urgency that’s driving him along corridors and eventually down passages he’s unfamiliar with. He takes a lit torch from a sconce on a wall in case he needs it, and Just when he thinks he’s hit a dead end, he sees the beginning of a spiral of stairs tucked almost out of sight around a corner. He climbs the stairs with caution. They stop in front of a heavy wooden door which is in the style of the older parts of the citadel. Without thinking, he reaches out and tries the latch, which lifts with little complaint. The door opens easily, outwards onto the stairs, revealing a small room.
As Aragorn steps inside, the ache leaves his chest, but his destination remains a mystery. Why has he been drawn to this unremarkable room? There’s a narrow window in one wall, the glass thick, and the hinges rusted, so he cleans off the dirt that’s accumulated with a corner of his cloak which lets some light into the room and reveals a view down a steep and snow covered landscape towards the river.
Two armchairs sit on either side of the hearth, a low table in between them. The table appears to have a chessboard on top of it. He runs a hand along the back of one of the chairs, the leather hard and cold under his fingertips, and feels a whisper at the edge of his mind. It’s too faint to understand, but familiar, so he moves around the room searching for anything that will tell him why he’s here.
Against the same wall as the hearth, a small army of toy soldiers lie in a pile on top of an aging wooden chest. He wonders if this was once a child’s playroom, but it’s too cold, too remote and too small for that to have been it’s real purpose. There’s hardly enough light in the room for him to see the chest, never mind to explore the contents, so he checks the other side of the hearth, and finds enough bone dry wood to set a fire. He piles it up, hoping that the chimney is clear, and uses the torch to set it away. He puts the torch into a sconce on the wall, and goes back to the chest, kneeling down and reverently lifting the soldiers off. He carries the chest back to the table and opens it.
Inside is a jumble of things, and Aragorn lifts them out one by one. There’s a box with a sliding lid. When he opens it, he finds a set of chess pieces inside, and glances down at the chessboard that he can now see has been crudely carved into the table top . He lifts out the white king, and turns it over in his hand. It’s carved from the tusk of an Oliphant, as are the rest of the pieces. He puts the king back into the small box, and slides the lid closed. He reaches into the chest again and his fingers brush something soft. He smiles as he pulls out an obviously well loved felt horse, the kind that he’s seen children in Rohan playing with. Strands of its woolen mane are missing, but the neatly sewn white blaze on its forehead is still bright. There’s a patch on its rump that doesn’t quite match the rest of the felt, and there’s darning on two of its hooves. Aragorn’s fingers move over the fabric searching for an echo of whoever the horse belonged to. He sets it down on the table almost reluctantly, and reaches into the chest.
His fingers close around a small leather pouch. The contents are heavy, solid, and he gasps when he tips them out onto his hand. A fine gold chain pools around a pendant of stunning beauty. A large, faceted teardrop of emerald is edged in an exquisitely intricate setting of gold. He’s seen it before, once around the neck of a woman who’s beauty surpassed even this, and every day in a portrait of the same woman that hangs in the great hall. The necklace is a Gondorian heirloom which was a favorite of Finduilas, and Aragorn assumed it had been buried with her.
Aragorn digs through the rest of the contents of the chest faster now. There’s a warg’s tooth, cleaned and polished, a small note book that he hopes is a journal, but which turns out to have flowers pressed between its pages. There’s a small brass compass, and Aragorn wonders why anyone would leave that behind and there’s a large spoon, which he’s very intrigued by. At the bottom is a dirk in a fine leather sheath. Aragorn’s hands are shaking when he pulls it out, partly from the cold, and the still sharp blade nicks his finger.
He sits back, almost sure he knows now who the chest belongs to. Now there’s more light in the room, he can see into the far corner, past where the chest had sat. He gets to his feet, and walks across to where two small wooden swords lean against the wall. He picks them up, one in each hand, and lets out a shaky sigh. There are letters carved into the hilts of both swords. One is an F, the other a B.
“Boromir.” He hasn’t uttered that name for far too long.
“It was snowing the last time I came here.”
Aragorn hardly dares turn around as if doing so will break the spell, but he wants, he needs to see what he thinks he may be imagining, but no. Boromir is standing by the window, his face tilted up to catch the light.
“When I was small, I thought it was a great game to run away from my nanny and hide until she found me. One day, I ended up in here. No-one found me, so the next time I wanted to be on my own, I came here, and once Mother died …” The shade of Boromir hangs his head. “This became a refuge for both me and Faramir. Our place, where we could forget the rest of the world existed. Things that mattered to us always found their way here.” Now he smiles again, and looks at Aragorn. “Old habits die hard.”
Boromir walks over to the table and looks down at the contents of the chest strewn across it. He reaches out, but doesn’t try to pick anything up. Instead he runs his fingers lightly across the cover of the book.
“Faramir picked flowers for Mama when she could no longer leave her rooms. She pressed her favorites and taught him the names of each one.” His fingers move to hover over the leather pouch. “And here is the evidence that the Steward’s eldest son turned thief. I couldn’t bear the thought of her necklace being worn by anyone else, so I hid it away.” The wistful look on his face turns to one of amusement when he reaches the felt horse. As Boromir talks, the room around them begins to warm up. The fire is burning brighter and Aragorn wonders if he’s catching a glimpse of an earlier time.
“This,” he says as his fingers ghost over the felt, “was the cause of a feud that lasted for years. I learned the hard way never to get between a prince of Rohan and his horse, even when both of you are three and the horse is made of felt.”
“How did it make its way into the chest?” Aragorn asks, wanting Boromir to keep talking. He’s missed the sound of his voice.
“We found some common ground, became firm friends and he insisted I keep the horse as a reminder of that friendship.”
His fingers don’t linger on the warg’s tooth, but falter when they come to the compass.
“I gave that to Faramir the night before I left for Rivendell.”
Aragorn doesn’t want the smile to fade from Boromir’s face, so he moves closer, and Boromir straightens up and turns to face him. Boromir looks younger, but no, that’s not quite right. He looks lighter, unburdened, as if the weight he was carrying has been lifted.
“Kingship looks good on you.” Now Boromir’s smile is an affectionate smirk.
“You would have been my Steward.” Aragorn can’t help the words that spill out, but he catches himself and doesn’t add ‘if you had lived’. Even now, it’s too painful to speak of, even to the ghost of the man who fell.
“No, that was never meant to be.” Boromir reaches out and touches Aragorn’s cheek. His hand isn’t quite solid and Aragorn feels it like a warm breath against his skin. “Fate played out as it was meant to, and we each had a part in the outcome. Don’t hold onto regrets, Aragorn. Turn and look to the future.”
“Is that why you’re here? To ease my soul? To set me free?”
Boromir moves closer, still smiling, something that Aragorn hadn’t seen enough of when Boromir was still alive.
“Am I? Easing your soul? Lifting the grief I know you carry with you?”
He places his hand on Aragorn’s chest, making Aragorn gasp at the warmth that radiates out from the lightest of touches.
“Yes,” Aragorn sighs, almost reluctantly.
The tight knot he’s carried in his chest since Boromir died has been a reminder of the brief time they had together. Part of him hasn’t wanted to let it go, but now, staring into Boromir’s eyes, seeing the way they crinkle at the corner when he smiles, he knows he can.
“Good. You have a long life ahead of you, my ranger, and I want you to live it without sorrow.”
“But what about you? Is your spirit trapped here?”
“No, I’m not trapped. I felt a pull to this place, felt you needed me, and so I came.”
“Where from?”
Boromir puts his fingers against Aragorn’s mouth.
“You cannot know, not yet, not until it’s your time.”
Aragorn draws a breath to ask again, but Boromir’s lips touch his and he melts against them instead. The tantalizing, not quite there feel of Boromir’s familiar mouth is torture and Aragorn moans in frustration.
“Close your eyes and think of me,” Boromir whispers.
Aragorn does as he’s commanded and remembers stolen hours in the depths of Lothlorien, naked and spread out on Boromir’s cloak, warm skin and taut muscle, heated kisses and wet tongues tasting hidden places. He moans and then gasps as the shade of a body in his arms becomes solid, whole, and now he returns the kiss with a passion that matches Boromir’s. His fingers dig into golden hair as Boromir’s arms wrap around him and as the kiss deepens, he remembers the way Boromir had smiled up at him as they lay together, sated and happy.
All too soon, it’s over, and Boromir pulls away from Aragorn’s now tender lips. As soon as Aragorn opens his eyes, his friend, his lover, begins to fade. Boromir steps back, fingertips brushing one of Aragorn’s hands as he smiles, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“Will I see you again?” Aragorn wants more, doesn’t want this to be over.
“Perhaps I’ll be here again next winter.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know.” Boromir winks, and fades away.
As soon as he’s gone, the warmth and light fade from the room, and Aragorn is left alone with a fading fire in the grate.
He packs everything back in the crate, pausing as he puts the spoon back in and whishing that he’d had time to ask Boromir why it was there. He places the felt horse on the top and smoothes down what remains of its mane before closing the lid. As he’s putting it back in place with the soldiers once again arranged neatly on the top, he wonders if Faramir ever comes here. Boromir’s visit isn’t something he would feel right about sharing with Faramir, but finding the room has reminded him that he doesn’t know the man who is his steward as well as she should, and he resolves to put that right.
Aragorn’s step is lighter as he leaves, closing the door behind him. The corridors are quiet now as he makes his way back to the king’s rooms, and he wonders how long he’s been tucked away from the world in Boromir’s sanctuary. He opens the door to the sitting room as quietly as he can, but Arwen is still awake, sitting by the fire and he can smell the spicy scent of hot red wine.
“Where did your adventures take you?” she asks, patting the couch as an invitation to join her.
He pours himself a cup of wine from the pan by the fire and sits down, lifting his arm so she can curl against him, and kissing the top of her head.
“They took me to a room on the far side of the citadel,” he begins, and tells her the tale of a hidden room and what he found there.
At the end of his story, she pulls back a little so she can reach up and cup his face.
“Your sorrow has eased.” She smiles and kisses him softly. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I still miss him,” Aragorn admits, thankful, not for the first time, that Arwen understands what there was between himself and Boromir.
“He’s always with you, in here.” She touches his chest. “I think that’s what he was letting you know.”
“I think he was.”
Aragorn holds her as they sip their wine and gaze into the fire.
Pairing/character: Aragorn/Boromir, Arwen, mentions of Faramir
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2462
Warnings: Non-graphic mention of m/m sex
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.
Summary: In the middle of winter, Aragorn meets someone in the Citadel he never expected to see again.
In the months since his coronation, Aragorn has come to accept his destiny and ease into the role he was born to play, but sometimes he still longs for the open road, misses sleeping rough on his own in the wilderness. Arwen can always tell when the urge to wander tugs at his heart. Her gentle suggestions that it may be a good time to visit the rangers are always well timed and welcome.
One cold morning just before mid winter, Aragorn wakes knowing that he needs to be somewhere. There’s something pulling at him, as if his body knows where he needs to be but his mind hasn’t caught up yet. He can hardly stay still, wanting to follow the urge but he has duties and responsibilities.
Arwen eyes him as they eat breakfast, then leans over the table with a smile and kisses him.
“Go. There is nothing you need to do today that cannot be dealt with later. It has been a while since you had an adventure.”
He kisses her back, and grabs his cloak as he strides from the room, startled at the urgency that’s driving him along corridors and eventually down passages he’s unfamiliar with. He takes a lit torch from a sconce on a wall in case he needs it, and Just when he thinks he’s hit a dead end, he sees the beginning of a spiral of stairs tucked almost out of sight around a corner. He climbs the stairs with caution. They stop in front of a heavy wooden door which is in the style of the older parts of the citadel. Without thinking, he reaches out and tries the latch, which lifts with little complaint. The door opens easily, outwards onto the stairs, revealing a small room.
As Aragorn steps inside, the ache leaves his chest, but his destination remains a mystery. Why has he been drawn to this unremarkable room? There’s a narrow window in one wall, the glass thick, and the hinges rusted, so he cleans off the dirt that’s accumulated with a corner of his cloak which lets some light into the room and reveals a view down a steep and snow covered landscape towards the river.
Two armchairs sit on either side of the hearth, a low table in between them. The table appears to have a chessboard on top of it. He runs a hand along the back of one of the chairs, the leather hard and cold under his fingertips, and feels a whisper at the edge of his mind. It’s too faint to understand, but familiar, so he moves around the room searching for anything that will tell him why he’s here.
Against the same wall as the hearth, a small army of toy soldiers lie in a pile on top of an aging wooden chest. He wonders if this was once a child’s playroom, but it’s too cold, too remote and too small for that to have been it’s real purpose. There’s hardly enough light in the room for him to see the chest, never mind to explore the contents, so he checks the other side of the hearth, and finds enough bone dry wood to set a fire. He piles it up, hoping that the chimney is clear, and uses the torch to set it away. He puts the torch into a sconce on the wall, and goes back to the chest, kneeling down and reverently lifting the soldiers off. He carries the chest back to the table and opens it.
Inside is a jumble of things, and Aragorn lifts them out one by one. There’s a box with a sliding lid. When he opens it, he finds a set of chess pieces inside, and glances down at the chessboard that he can now see has been crudely carved into the table top . He lifts out the white king, and turns it over in his hand. It’s carved from the tusk of an Oliphant, as are the rest of the pieces. He puts the king back into the small box, and slides the lid closed. He reaches into the chest again and his fingers brush something soft. He smiles as he pulls out an obviously well loved felt horse, the kind that he’s seen children in Rohan playing with. Strands of its woolen mane are missing, but the neatly sewn white blaze on its forehead is still bright. There’s a patch on its rump that doesn’t quite match the rest of the felt, and there’s darning on two of its hooves. Aragorn’s fingers move over the fabric searching for an echo of whoever the horse belonged to. He sets it down on the table almost reluctantly, and reaches into the chest.
His fingers close around a small leather pouch. The contents are heavy, solid, and he gasps when he tips them out onto his hand. A fine gold chain pools around a pendant of stunning beauty. A large, faceted teardrop of emerald is edged in an exquisitely intricate setting of gold. He’s seen it before, once around the neck of a woman who’s beauty surpassed even this, and every day in a portrait of the same woman that hangs in the great hall. The necklace is a Gondorian heirloom which was a favorite of Finduilas, and Aragorn assumed it had been buried with her.
Aragorn digs through the rest of the contents of the chest faster now. There’s a warg’s tooth, cleaned and polished, a small note book that he hopes is a journal, but which turns out to have flowers pressed between its pages. There’s a small brass compass, and Aragorn wonders why anyone would leave that behind and there’s a large spoon, which he’s very intrigued by. At the bottom is a dirk in a fine leather sheath. Aragorn’s hands are shaking when he pulls it out, partly from the cold, and the still sharp blade nicks his finger.
He sits back, almost sure he knows now who the chest belongs to. Now there’s more light in the room, he can see into the far corner, past where the chest had sat. He gets to his feet, and walks across to where two small wooden swords lean against the wall. He picks them up, one in each hand, and lets out a shaky sigh. There are letters carved into the hilts of both swords. One is an F, the other a B.
“Boromir.” He hasn’t uttered that name for far too long.
“It was snowing the last time I came here.”
Aragorn hardly dares turn around as if doing so will break the spell, but he wants, he needs to see what he thinks he may be imagining, but no. Boromir is standing by the window, his face tilted up to catch the light.
“When I was small, I thought it was a great game to run away from my nanny and hide until she found me. One day, I ended up in here. No-one found me, so the next time I wanted to be on my own, I came here, and once Mother died …” The shade of Boromir hangs his head. “This became a refuge for both me and Faramir. Our place, where we could forget the rest of the world existed. Things that mattered to us always found their way here.” Now he smiles again, and looks at Aragorn. “Old habits die hard.”
Boromir walks over to the table and looks down at the contents of the chest strewn across it. He reaches out, but doesn’t try to pick anything up. Instead he runs his fingers lightly across the cover of the book.
“Faramir picked flowers for Mama when she could no longer leave her rooms. She pressed her favorites and taught him the names of each one.” His fingers move to hover over the leather pouch. “And here is the evidence that the Steward’s eldest son turned thief. I couldn’t bear the thought of her necklace being worn by anyone else, so I hid it away.” The wistful look on his face turns to one of amusement when he reaches the felt horse. As Boromir talks, the room around them begins to warm up. The fire is burning brighter and Aragorn wonders if he’s catching a glimpse of an earlier time.
“This,” he says as his fingers ghost over the felt, “was the cause of a feud that lasted for years. I learned the hard way never to get between a prince of Rohan and his horse, even when both of you are three and the horse is made of felt.”
“How did it make its way into the chest?” Aragorn asks, wanting Boromir to keep talking. He’s missed the sound of his voice.
“We found some common ground, became firm friends and he insisted I keep the horse as a reminder of that friendship.”
His fingers don’t linger on the warg’s tooth, but falter when they come to the compass.
“I gave that to Faramir the night before I left for Rivendell.”
Aragorn doesn’t want the smile to fade from Boromir’s face, so he moves closer, and Boromir straightens up and turns to face him. Boromir looks younger, but no, that’s not quite right. He looks lighter, unburdened, as if the weight he was carrying has been lifted.
“Kingship looks good on you.” Now Boromir’s smile is an affectionate smirk.
“You would have been my Steward.” Aragorn can’t help the words that spill out, but he catches himself and doesn’t add ‘if you had lived’. Even now, it’s too painful to speak of, even to the ghost of the man who fell.
“No, that was never meant to be.” Boromir reaches out and touches Aragorn’s cheek. His hand isn’t quite solid and Aragorn feels it like a warm breath against his skin. “Fate played out as it was meant to, and we each had a part in the outcome. Don’t hold onto regrets, Aragorn. Turn and look to the future.”
“Is that why you’re here? To ease my soul? To set me free?”
Boromir moves closer, still smiling, something that Aragorn hadn’t seen enough of when Boromir was still alive.
“Am I? Easing your soul? Lifting the grief I know you carry with you?”
He places his hand on Aragorn’s chest, making Aragorn gasp at the warmth that radiates out from the lightest of touches.
“Yes,” Aragorn sighs, almost reluctantly.
The tight knot he’s carried in his chest since Boromir died has been a reminder of the brief time they had together. Part of him hasn’t wanted to let it go, but now, staring into Boromir’s eyes, seeing the way they crinkle at the corner when he smiles, he knows he can.
“Good. You have a long life ahead of you, my ranger, and I want you to live it without sorrow.”
“But what about you? Is your spirit trapped here?”
“No, I’m not trapped. I felt a pull to this place, felt you needed me, and so I came.”
“Where from?”
Boromir puts his fingers against Aragorn’s mouth.
“You cannot know, not yet, not until it’s your time.”
Aragorn draws a breath to ask again, but Boromir’s lips touch his and he melts against them instead. The tantalizing, not quite there feel of Boromir’s familiar mouth is torture and Aragorn moans in frustration.
“Close your eyes and think of me,” Boromir whispers.
Aragorn does as he’s commanded and remembers stolen hours in the depths of Lothlorien, naked and spread out on Boromir’s cloak, warm skin and taut muscle, heated kisses and wet tongues tasting hidden places. He moans and then gasps as the shade of a body in his arms becomes solid, whole, and now he returns the kiss with a passion that matches Boromir’s. His fingers dig into golden hair as Boromir’s arms wrap around him and as the kiss deepens, he remembers the way Boromir had smiled up at him as they lay together, sated and happy.
All too soon, it’s over, and Boromir pulls away from Aragorn’s now tender lips. As soon as Aragorn opens his eyes, his friend, his lover, begins to fade. Boromir steps back, fingertips brushing one of Aragorn’s hands as he smiles, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“Will I see you again?” Aragorn wants more, doesn’t want this to be over.
“Perhaps I’ll be here again next winter.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know.” Boromir winks, and fades away.
As soon as he’s gone, the warmth and light fade from the room, and Aragorn is left alone with a fading fire in the grate.
He packs everything back in the crate, pausing as he puts the spoon back in and whishing that he’d had time to ask Boromir why it was there. He places the felt horse on the top and smoothes down what remains of its mane before closing the lid. As he’s putting it back in place with the soldiers once again arranged neatly on the top, he wonders if Faramir ever comes here. Boromir’s visit isn’t something he would feel right about sharing with Faramir, but finding the room has reminded him that he doesn’t know the man who is his steward as well as she should, and he resolves to put that right.
Aragorn’s step is lighter as he leaves, closing the door behind him. The corridors are quiet now as he makes his way back to the king’s rooms, and he wonders how long he’s been tucked away from the world in Boromir’s sanctuary. He opens the door to the sitting room as quietly as he can, but Arwen is still awake, sitting by the fire and he can smell the spicy scent of hot red wine.
“Where did your adventures take you?” she asks, patting the couch as an invitation to join her.
He pours himself a cup of wine from the pan by the fire and sits down, lifting his arm so she can curl against him, and kissing the top of her head.
“They took me to a room on the far side of the citadel,” he begins, and tells her the tale of a hidden room and what he found there.
At the end of his story, she pulls back a little so she can reach up and cup his face.
“Your sorrow has eased.” She smiles and kisses him softly. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I still miss him,” Aragorn admits, thankful, not for the first time, that Arwen understands what there was between himself and Boromir.
“He’s always with you, in here.” She touches his chest. “I think that’s what he was letting you know.”
“I think he was.”
Aragorn holds her as they sip their wine and gaze into the fire.