FIC: Eagle of the Star

[splix]

Title: Eagle of the Star
Author: Alex [splix]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Denethor/Aragorn; Boromir/Aragorn
Summary: Destiny comes to its inevitable fulfillment.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their copyright holders.
Warning: Nonconsensual sex.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: To kimberlite for her friendship and patient beta,
as well as her thoughtful and inspiring conceptual contributions.




*

"Thorongil! Thorongil!"

The crowd surges around Aragorn and his men in a vast
benign wave, eddying them through the great city
gates. Wild cheering drowns out all other sound; faces
that had long been creased with anxiety now laughing,
exultant, youthful with gaiety. Their most beloved
captain has succeeded where none had before. The
Corsairs of Umbar have been routed at last, their
leader slain by Thorongil himself.

For the first time in many years, the White City's
slow slide into decay seems trivial. Since the news of
the Gondorian victory reached the gates, its people
have thrown themselves into a frenzy of patriotic
triumph. Crumbling facades are hastily patched,
tattered awnings replaced. Garlands of flowers, the
spring's fragile first, hang from windows in looping
strands of white and palest pink and fresh, hopeful
green. Aging banners bearing the White Tree are
carefully brought from storage and hung outside,
snapping and fluttering in the breeze. People array
themselves in their finest to receive the returning
soldiers. Even the weather seems to know what is
expected of it; the air is cool and clean, and watery
sunlight bathes the city in a pale-gold luster.

The soldiers dismount and lead their horses along the
streets. Aragorn moves through the throng with
difficulty; there is not a man, woman, or child who is
not eager to clasp his hand, to wish him the joy of
his victory. Flowers are thrust into his arms; petals
rain on him and his men. A silver cup brimming with
frothy ale is pressed into his hand. He nods thanks,
sips, passes the cup to his lieutenant. The crowd
roars its approval. Battle-weary, filthy, his tunic
stiff with dried blood, Aragorn looks over his
shoulder at the company of men behind him and trades a
quick smile with one and all. Long have these people
had little cause for celebration. Eru bless them; let
them rejoice as they will. Graciously, he accepts the
tributes, the accolades, the occasional fervent
embrace.

"Make way! Make way!"

The multitude parts with reluctance, leaving the
company to face a small cadre of Citadel guards. Their
leader bows and addresses Aragorn. "Captain Thorongil,
Lord Ecthelion hails your victorious return to Minas
Tirith." He withdraws a folded and sealed note from a
pocket and hands it to Aragorn with pardonable
solemnity.

Aragorn inclines his head with grave courtesy, breaks
the seal, and reads:

You have saved the White City, and all Gondor
proclaims your victory and safe return. Rest tonight.
Attend me in the morning. I command but this, though I
know you desire it little: submit to our praise for a
while. Allow our people to share your glory. I would
that you were a son of mine.

Ecthelion

A tired chuckle escapes Aragorn's lips. Ecthelion
knows him too well. He would prefer to avoid the days
of public fetes and revelry that are certain to
follow, but for Gondor's people -- for his people --
he will acquiesce to the Steward's wishes.

"He is swift to praise you."

Aragorn turns toward the voice. Denethor, son of the
Steward, removes his helmet. His long, dark curls are
damp with sweat, the ends matted with blood. A deep
cut snakes across his chin, but it enhances rather
than mars his stern beauty. His eyes, so like polished
black stone, bore into Aragorn's. Smoothly, Aragorn
re-folds the note. "Lord Ecthelion is most generous."

"Indeed."

Aragorn waits, but Denethor does not speak; he merely
regards his captain with dark, fathomless eyes. Never
has the delicately woven web of rank been breached
between them. Denethor occupies a precarious space.
Subservient to Aragorn, he is yet the Steward's son.
He obeys orders without question and praises Aragorn's
strategies, his skill in battle, though his gaze is
ever dark and turbulent. To accuse him of arrogance or
insubordination would be futile. Aragorn has not a
shred of tangible proof. But he feels the weight of
Denethor's anger, his bitter envy. He has never
competed for Ecthelion's favor, and he never will.
Nevertheless, Denethor has fashioned him a rival
without a single word.

A silent sigh whispers from Aragorn's throat. There is
no marrow to these thoughts, especially when there is
much yet to be done. Time enough to think on ill
wishes when he is fed, bathed, rested, and has had his
spirit restored in Ecthelion's benevolent presence. "I
think it best that the soldiers return to barracks."
He pivots on one heel and addresses the captain of the
Citadel guard. "Can you see that they are well fed? It
has been many a day since they've seen a decent meal."

"Preparations for a feast have already begun,
Captain." The guard sounds insulted. Aragorn bites
back a smile.

"Thorongil." Denethor lays a hand on Aragorn's arm.
"Sup with me tonight."

Aragorn shakes his head. He is almost too weary to
stand without help. The cheering of the crowd has
become an insectile buzz, their jubilant faces
blending into a soft, colorful blur. "Lord Denethor, I
am honored, but --"

"Please." Denethor's full mouth curves into a smile.
"You would honor me. I insist. Late tonight, so that
you may rest as my father commands."

Denethor has seen the body of the note, then, and
doubtless Ecthelion's affectionate last line as well.
There is no help for it now. Aragorn nods, too
fatigued to protest further. "If it pleases you,
sire."

"I assure you, it does." Denethor replaces his helmet
and strides off.

The crowd surges around Aragorn once more, sweeping
him toward the second level.

*

Hours later, a small honor guard escorts Aragorn
through the now dark and quiet streets. They bow
deeply upon arriving to collect him, but their
presence makes Aragorn uneasy, as though he were a
respected but dangerous prisoner. He attributes his
wariness to exhaustion. He has slept but little, and
eaten nothing. War cries and battle-frenzy still echo
in his blood; full rest, he knows, will not come for
several days. Until then he must endure as best he
can.

They reach Denethor's lodgings. Aragorn nods
courteously to the guard -- strange that he knows none
of them -- and is received by Denethor's principal
servant, who leads Aragorn into the dining hall.

Denethor is alone, sipping from a tall flagon of wine.
His appearance is restored to its customary princely
splendor. He wears a grey tunic, richly embroidered
with silver, bordered at the wrists and hem with
glossy black fur. His black hose look as soft as
swansdown, his boots are fine polished leather,
and yet he never seems preoccupied with his appearance
as other high-born young men often do. Aragorn,
who cares nothing for clothing, save that it keeps him
warm in the winter and within the law in summer, feels
unaccountably shabby in his simple green tunic, black
hose, and well-worn boots. He reminds himself that
Denethor is ever eager to widen the gap that separates
a humble military captain from the Steward's son. Were
he a nakedly greedy man, he would be amused at
Denethor's ambition and the truth that lies dormant
under the guise of Captain Thorongil. Instead, he
feels only wariness and a distant pity. He bows low.
"My Lord Denethor."

"Thorongil!" Denethor rises, and in two long steps
stands before Aragorn, grasping his arms in a show of
affectionate camaraderie. "Well met, my friend.
Please -- sit. Forgive me that I've begun early," he
says, gesturing at his flagon, "but my thirst seems
nigh unquenchable after long days of battle. I see you
found time to bathe."

Aragorn ignores the barb and seats himself, noting
that the table is set for two. "Finduilas will not be
joining us?"

Denethor's smile dims. "Nay, not this night."

"How does she fare?"

"She was overjoyed to see me," Denethor replies. "As
one might expect."

"And Boromir?"

"He grows like a young tree." Denethor's response is a
shade warmer. "And strong -- he grasped my hand today
and even I was surprised by his strength."

Aragorn feels himself unbending. If Denethor conceals
his true bitterness toward Aragorn, he cannot
dissemble altogether -- his genuine love for his young
wife and child shines like a beacon in the night.
Perhaps love will prevent Denethor from being wholly
carried away by his darker impulses. It is a
comforting thought. "I look forward to seeing them on
the morrow."

"Finduilas asked for you." Denethor's mouth twitches,
then he shakes his head and pours wine into Aragorn's
cup. "Drink, my captain. Let us celebrate your
victory. Surely the name of Thorongil shall not soon
be forgot. Alas that the Stewards shall not fare as
well when measured against your great deeds."

So this is to be the evening. Denethor will deliver a
thousand veiled gibes, and Aragorn must needs smile
foolishly and feign ignorance so as not to offend.
Well, it can be borne for one night. Aragorn drinks,
resisting the urge to drain the flagon and bring on
a swift oblivion.

Food is brought: roast fowl, bread, cheese,
new spring vegetables. Aragorn eats sparingly.
Extreme fatigue combined with a hot bath -- a luxury
dimly recalled -- have diminished his appetite. He
finishes his wine, and Denethor pours another flagon
full despite his protests. Reluctantly, he takes a few
sips before realizing that he is perilously close to
resting his head atop the table and falling asleep.

Denethor's pointed jibes have dwindled into silence.
Once more he stares at Aragorn, motionless and
inscrutable, firelight flickering in his dark eyes.

Aragorn places his palms on the table. "My lord, I
must beg your indulgence. I'm afraid that I'm somewhat
overcome by exhaustion...and wine." He attempts to
smile, but his mouth feels numb. Struggling to his
feet, he finds himself sitting again, rather abruptly.
Sweet mercy, to become drunk on his first night back
in Minas Tirith! It is shameful.

"It seems so," Denethor says quietly. "Still...it was
the only way to ensure that you remained here
tonight."

A frown creases Aragorn's brow as he tries to
comprehend the meaning of Denethor's words. Simple
reasoning appears beyond him at the moment. "Why would
I..." He endeavors to rise once more and fails.

"Guard!"

At Denethor's summons, the honor guard reappears,
though they are no longer clad in the uniform of the
Citadel; their clothing is coarse, unkempt, their
expressions greedy and intent. Numbly, Aragorn
realizes at last: no honor guard this. These men must
be assassins for hire.

It is too late to flee. The men surround Aragorn's
chair, pulling it backward and dragging him up. He
fights blindly, with the last of his flagging
strength. His arms are wrenched behind him and held
with painful force. What he intends as a shouted
summons for aid emerges as a faint croak from the back
of his throat.

A meaty fist crashes into his face. Darkness takes
him.

*

Aragorn feels the none-too-gentle prod of a boot in
his ribs, and a familiar voice.

"Dúnadan. Wake up."

He is cold and stiff, and slowly comprehends the
reason for it: he lies on his side on a stone floor,
his cheek pressed to its smooth chill. The room is
dimly lit; no fire burns in its small grate. Stout
cord is tightly knotted around his wrists, knees, and
ankles. He does not fight the bonds, but turns his
aching head toward the voice.

Denethor towers above him, malice brimming in his
eyes. "At last."

Aragorn struggles to rise to one elbow. Denethor has
not murdered him. It is a small comfort that he finds
himself lying bound and helpless, but he has rarely
been helpless for long, and it is preferable, after
all, to being assassinated. "What do you mean by
this?"

"I have matters to discuss with you."

"Matters so fearsome that I must be drugged and bound
before I hear them?" Aragorn does not trouble to stem
his anger.

Denethor musters a thin smile. "It is your response
that concerns me, not the thing itself."

"Speak it, then, and release me. This is a grave
affront against your captain, Steward's son though you
be."

"Some would call you captain. I call you a traitor."
Denethor kneels beside Aragorn and grasps a handful of
his hair, dragging him upward. "I am no fool,
Thorongil. Not the fool you think me by any means."

Aragorn refuses to wince, though he is certain that in
seconds Denethor will be holding naught but a fistful
of bloody hair. "I have never thought you so."

"And still you mock me." Denethor shakes his head as
though he cannot quite believe his ears. He releases
Aragorn's hair with a push. Aragorn's skull collides
with the stone floor, and stars coruscate before his
eyes. "You are steeped in deceit. Do you think I have
not seen you in whispered conference with the wizard?
Your plotting, your scheming?"

"Scheming!" Aragorn meets Denethor's scornful gaze.
"You misspeak yourself, Steward's son. Gandalf means
Gondor no harm. His only intent is to protect it. As
for myself --"

"The people cheer your name from the city gates to the
White Tower," Denethor says softly. "It would be easy
for you now, would it not -- to take advantage of
Gondor's esteem for you? To ruin my father, who loves
you so? To seize the throne?"

Aragorn opens his mouth to speak, but Denethor closes
a hand over it -- lightly at first, then with
increasing pressure, his fingers digging into
Aragorn's flesh until his eyes water with the pain.

"No. Speak not your lies. Say nothing...Aragorn."

Silence fills the cold little chamber as the last
stroke of the hammer falls. Shocked into utter
stillness, Aragorn stares at Denethor. Their faces are
lover-close. A sharp odor of wine is on Denethor's
breath. Torchlight glances off the silver embroidery
on his tunic. He looms over his captive like a cloud
in the midst of the brightest day.

"I see it in your face. You thought you had deceived
me." Denethor leans closer. "Traitor," he whispers,
almost lovingly. "Usurper."

Aragorn's caustic anger alchemizes into apprehension
chased at its edges with fear. Not for himself, though
he has ample cause; he fears for Gondor. Gondor is not
ready for him, nor he for it, but it is his eventual
destiny. Now all is chaos. Denethor, in his rage and
ambition, will kill him under the pretext of service
to the realm, and Gondor will be hastened along its
avenue to decay. It cannot be permitted. Though his
air is almost entirely stifled, Aragorn moves
stealthily, plying the ropes lashed around his
wrists with small circular motions. He must free
himself, and deliver the truth to Ecthelion before
his life is forfeit and Gondor's future is lost.

A strange light pervades Denethor's eyes. "You are
comely, son of Arathorn. You are admired for more than
your warrior's prowess. Even my wife gazes at you with
veneration and desire." He takes his hand from
Aragorn's mouth. "But come -- one small truth out of a
liar's existence, to ease my pain and gain you a
little mercy. Why have you come to Gondor? And why,
unworthy as you are, have you insinuated yourself into
my father's heart and driven a sword into mine?"

Guile is useless; perhaps only pure truth will
convince Denethor. "It is for Gondor, not for my own
ends. Can you not see that, Lord Denethor?"

"I see it is impossible to expect truth from you. No
matter." A thin smile creases Denethor's cheeks. He
brushes a wayward strand of hair from Aragorn's brow.
His dark eyes glittering, he bends down and presses
his lips to Aragorn's.

To his horror, Aragorn feels a swelling of sudden and
unwilling desire as Denethor's tongue pushes into his
mouth. Once he might have welcomed Denethor's lips
upon his; the Steward's son is fair of face and strong
of body. But now, whatever vaporous thoughts he once
harbored flee before this brutal, unsought kiss. Aragorn
acts upon instinct, clamping his teeth on Denethor's tongue.

A muffled howl escapes Denethor; he rears back and
strikes Aragorn with all his strength. Snarling, he
strikes again and again until Aragorn is rendered
half-conscious and gasping in pain. Denethor rises to
his knees and rips at the laces of his breeches. "You
have never suffered the loss of a father's love. I
would have you feel that if I could. But I can wound
you in other ways."

Denethor's intent is unmistakeable even before Aragorn
is forcibly turned to his belly. He struggles and
thrashes with all his might, but there is a heaviness
in his limbs; whether because of the drug or his own
apprehension and horror, all his movements are
graceless and leaden. When it becomes clear that he
cannot free himself, he calls for help, hoping one of
his own faithful men lingers nearby.

No reply is forthcoming. Aragorn will not cry out
again; he will not permit Denethor the satisfaction
of seeing his rival panicked and defenseless. He
grinds his teeth in frustration and renews his efforts
for freedom. Alas, it is to no avail. He feels a hand
grope beneath him, loosening his laces, then cold air
as his breeches are dragged down. A moment later, the
assault comes. Denethor clamps his hands upon Aragorn's
hips and rams in with brutal force. Aragorn stifles a
moan, though his face burns with humiliation and
helplessness. He has suffered physical agony a thousand
times worse, but mere bodily pain is not Denethor's aim.

Denethor groans in discomfort as their unprepared
bodies grind together. Long moments pass before he is
fully plunged inside Aragorn's body. All at once his
lips are at Aragorn's ear. "Be still," he murmurs.
"Struggle and you worsen the pain. Listen well. This
is for every honor conferred upon you while I was cast
into shadow. Each tender glance, each loving touch,
each time the mob screamed your name...I take it from
you." He pulls back slightly, then thrusts deep,
deeper, working himself into a blind frenzy. At last
he halts, a deep shudder wracking his frame.

The only sound in the small chamber is that of mingled
ragged breathing. At last Denethor drags himself from
atop Aragorn and kneels beside him, wiping himself
clean with the edge of Aragorn's tunic. When he speaks,
his voice is parched and breathless and blackly amused.
"You were a tight fit, Thorongil. My compliments."

Aragorn closes his eyes as Denethor cuts his bonds.
Though he knows it takes far more than an assault, no
matter how pitiless, to rob him of his very heart and
strength, he longs for nothing more at this moment
than sweet oblivion. Then there is the matter of the
future -- of meeting Denethor's eyes in public without
hatred, of dissembling before the Steward, knowing he
must say nothing, do nothing. Revenge upon the
Steward's son? It would not be borne. Slowly, he
kneels, rearranges his garments, and chafes his sore
and reddened wrists.

Denethor watches from a short distance. "Now,
pretender, you will leave Gondor. You will leave
immediately -- at this very moment. No weapons will be
given you, no coin, no food -- naught but the clothes
on your back. My men will accompany you as far as the
river. You will not bid my father farewell, nor attempt
to send him a message. In return, I will not have you
executed, nor tell him of your treachery. It is a
great mercy I grant to both of you. And if you ever
cross the border into Gondor, I will see your blood
upon my hands -- I swear it. Get up." He seizes
Aragorn's arm and propels him out the door and down
the staircase.

Aragorn no longer struggles, nor attempts to protest
in words. It is cleverly done on Denethor's part, this
exile -- clever and subtle and laced with perfidy. There
is nothing for it at this moment but to submit.

Early morning light floods Denethor's receiving hall.
The four rogues who have taken part in the night's
attack wait near the heavy doors. Aragorn turns the
full force of his gaze upon Denethor. "Ecthelion will
wonder at my absence."

"I will make your excuses to him for now. Soon he will
wonder why you have abandoned Gondor, and then...then
you will be easily forgot, Thorongil." Denethor puts a
finger to Aragorn's lower lip, caressing it. "In some
respects, it is a great pity. I --"

Scuffling from a side door halts Denethor's next
words. His son Boromir, dragging a blanket to the
apparent chagrin of a hovering nurse, catches sight of
Aragorn and, squealing with pleasure, runs forward and
attempts to fling his small, sturdy body against
Aragorn's legs. Aragorn holds the child off, mindful
of the foul stains on his tunic, then lifts the boy
into his aching arms before Denethor can speak or move
against him.

A fanciful notion strikes. He could escape with the
child; even weary and injured, he is fleet of foot. He
could take Boromir to Imladris, there to be raised
with compassion and learning, and grace and beauty
that he will never know as the son of Denethor. It
would be a fitting revenge, to remove this heir of
the Stewards.

Denethor moves forward, one hand outstretched.
Perceptive terror and anger light his eyes. "Give him
to me, Thorongil." The guards at the door surge
forward. "Stop!" Denethor barks. "Fools!"

Boromir's arms wrapped around his neck, Aragorn does
not move. He calculates for a moment, then strokes the
boy's silken head. He cannot do it. He would not stab
Finduilas' heart with the abduction of her son; she
is abstracted and sad enough without further pain to
torment her. Nor would he cause Ecthelion to suffer
so; the child is a joy to him. Tenderly, he kisses
Boromir's little cheek, then lifts him into Denethor's
waiting arms.

The balance of power has shifted. Aragorn gazes
steadily at Denethor, who drops his eyes, kissing his
son and holding him close. Aragorn is strangely
satisfied. Of revenge, this will suffice him.

He turns and walks toward the door, and the waiting
guard.

*

Cool, soft, and dark is the night beneath this vast,
soaring canopy of trees, and for the first time in
many days, the Company is safe, however fleetingly.
The halflings and Gimli are fast asleep after a meal
that sated even Merry and Pippin; Legolas has joined
his kin in the lament for Gandalf. It rises and falls
upon the breeze, now faint, now piercing:

Mithrandir, Mithrandir, A Randir Vithren
ù-reniathach i amar galen
I reniad lìn ne mòr, nuithannen
In gwidth ristennin, i fae narchannen
I lach Anor ed ardhon gwannen
Caled veleg, ethuiannen.

A choking tightness fills Aragorn's chest. Too weary
for sleep, he presses his hands to his eyes to stem
the tears that threaten to fall. He cannot mourn
Gandalf yet. It seems a thing to be done in leisure,
when one may dwell upon the fairest qualities of the
lost and, thus fortified, bid them farewell. A long
road lies ahead of them, to be sure, and there will be
few occasions for leisure, but he finds himself unable
to relinquish his memories; he clings to them as if
they were the fluttering, falling hem of the wizard's
cloak.

Silently he moves through the trees, drawing
nourishment in his spirit from his tranquil
surroundings. A figure sits alone in a starlit glade,
face upturned to the sky. Aragorn hesitates, then
moves closer. It is inevitable, perhaps, this uneasy
yet devoted camaraderie; inevitable that his path and
the path of this son of Gondor should cross once more,
that they have encountered one another in this small,
distant meadow, the mourning song still drifting
through the air. Boromir sees him and starts to rise
to his feet, but Aragorn stills him with a gesture.
"Do I disturb you?"

"Nay." Boromir settles again and points upward. "I
tried to sleep as you advised me and could not. I had
a strange yearning to see the stars."

"They are in their rightful place, are they not?"
Aragorn smiles to take the edge off his gentle jibe.

Boromir looks up, but does not answer at once.
Exhaustion and anguish have etched new lines around
his eyes. Aragorn saw him newly born, but the son of
the Steward seems the elder at this moment. "For now."

Aragorn crouches beside Boromir and rests a hand upon
his arm. "Unshoulder your burdens for a while,
Boromir. We have days to rest before resuming our
journey, and it will be arduous enough without the
pain you carry in your heart."

The glint of tears winks in Boromir's eye. He strikes
his upraised knee with a gloved fist. "Would that I
could spend a single night without this...." He shakes
his head and opens his hand as though something has
slipped through it, then touches his chest. "Without
this ache devouring my spirit. It gnaws at me like a
worm, and I cannot fathom why. I have willed it to
leave with the last shreds of my strength, and still
it remains, burrowing deeper. And now I can no longer
dislodge it."

Aragorn regards Boromir in silence. He has seen the
effects of the Ring, but never has he witnessed its
effect upon a man. Boromir is tall and broad and fair,
a man of physical might, of formidable courage and
strength. His love for his city, his country, is
truehearted and steadfast. But what would become of
him were the Ring to take hold altogether? Would
Boromir, as the puppet of Sauron, wield his swordarm
against his own city? Would he disappear within the
Black Land to emerge as Gondor's greatest foe? Would
he finally face down Aragorn himself, and would the
son's fell deeds surmount the father's?

The past collides with the present; Aragorn sees
himself bound, in Denethor's power. In his mind's eye,
Denethor's countenance lightens, quickens, and it is
Boromir who stands over him, mocking, hateful, his
mouth writhing with rage and lust. An unwelcome surge
of fear stabs Aragorn's heart. Is this to be Gondor's
fate? His own?

"What is it?" Boromir's brow furrows in concern, and
he grasps Aragorn's hand. The illusion is pierced;
Denethor is gone, and only Boromir remains,
disheveled, fatigued, sorrowful. Still mighty, but
plagued by cares beyond his reckoning. He is a man in
need of succor, of protection.

Long years have passed since Aragorn was responsible
for the lives and safety of others. It has been more
than two score years since he has taken on the mantle
of command. Now, with Gandalf fallen, the burden of
leadership, of the safety of the Fellowship, rests
upon him alone. He had counted on protecting the
hobbits; now it comes to him that he must protect
Boromir as well -- from the Ring, from the shadows of
his fears, from his immense pride, even from the love
of his city that blinds him to danger. Aragorn did not
bargain for this, nor in truth does he want it.

Now the cloak of destiny, of millennia, weighs heavily
upon him. This is but a small part of what will one
day become the whole of his existence. If he is to be
king, he must protect those in pain and disillusion.
He must assume the encumbrances of his charges. He
must bolster their courage when it fails. And even
before all this, he must see that the Ringbearer is
borne to Mordor in safety, that the weapon of the
Enemy is destroyed. How? How can he do all that must
be done?

For a moment, he closes his eyes and once more feels
the ache of tears. It is too much for one man to bear.

A tentative fingertip strokes away the trail of
moisture on his cheek. "I think you have greater cares
than I do, Aragorn," Boromir says softly. "You are
merely more skilled than I at concealing them."

Aragorn grasps Boromir's callused hand and presses it.
"Then we must sustain each other." He leans forward
and brushes his lips over Boromir's cheek.

Boromir takes Aragorn's face in his hands and kisses
him deeply.

A panicked instant flashes by, a sudden vision of
Denethor. But then Aragorn senses truth: there is no
anger in Boromir's kiss, no jealousy, no malice. There
is only desperation and grieving, the bond of warriors
who have seen each other through battle, and a fierce
hunger that sets Aragorn himself aflame in moments.

Without speaking, they undress, fumbling with the
unfamiliarity of each other's clothing, stopping now
and again for kisses and caresses. Aragorn fastens his
mouth at the base of Boromir's strong throat and
suckles. Boromir makes free with his hands, slipping
inside Aragorn's tunic to toy with a nipple. Piece by
piece their garments fall to the soft grass beneath,
wool and velvet rustling, the fine metallic cascade of
chainmail ringing in quiet counterpoint to the lament
still floating softly round them.

Now Boromir is fully unclothed, splendid in his
nakedness. Aragorn watches him, the starlight gleaming
on his bare flesh, the upthrust heaviness between his
legs, and groans with the quickening of his own
desire. He allows Boromir to strip off the last of his
raiment, and they sprawl together on the blanket of
their discarded garments, cleaving to each other,
wrapping each other in a ferocious embrace. They have
survived hardships together; they are bruised and bloody
still from the battle in the mines. Boromir has protected
Aragorn with all his vast strength and courage, and
Aragorn vows to repay in kind.

Though their movements are slow and deliberate, their
entwined bodies grow slippery with sweat and exertion.
The sound of their shuddering breath fills the night.
They explore each other thoroughly, respectful fingers
discerning the marks of a hundred brutal conflicts.
Boromir is the bolder of the two; he wets his fingers,
probes inside Aragorn, emitting a small, breathless
laugh at Aragorn's quick indrawn gasp. "How is it for
you, my lord?"

Aragorn is all but undone. Wordlessly, he nods his
assent, and feels his legs pushed up. Moaning, he
curls his hand around his sex, only to have it plucked
away.

"Allow me."

Boromir's hand closes around him; Aragorn groans. He
watches Boromir's face, his hand, the width of his
shoulders. Boromir spits into his free hand, wets
his hardness and lifts Aragorn slightly, pushing
inside. He is still for a moment, then begins to
plunge further, rhythmic and slow. His hand moves
in time with his body; each stroke is heavier,
deeper than the last.

Abandoned to sensation, Aragorn claws at the soft
grass, his fingers digging into the yielding earth.
When Boromir lowers himself closer, Aragorn grasps his
arm, threads his fingers through Boromir's hair,
pushes his body upwards in time with Boromir's. The
speed of their thrusting increases; Boromir cries out,
his frame shuddering. He pauses for a few seconds,
panting for breath, then pulls out carefully and
lowers himself to Aragorn's belly.

In seconds Aragorn's sex is surrounded by wet warmth.
He twines his hands in Boromir's hair and gasps,
stabbing his way to release in Boromir's mouth. Then
Boromir is beside him, and they kiss each other,
embracing; Aragorn tastes his own fluid, bitter but
not wholly unpleasant.

The first indigo light of dawn touches the sky above
them. A timid snatch of birdsong trills liquidly in
the branches above; Aragorn realizes that the lament
for Gandalf has ceased at last. He strokes Boromir's
back; Boromir, curled trustingly within his arms, rubs
his bearded cheek over Aragorn's chest. "The stars do
not seem so unfriendly now."

"My heart is gladdened to hear you say it," Aragorn
replies.

"This was many days in the making," Boromir's voice is
a mere whisper - diffident, sweeter than before.

Aragorn brushes at Boromir's tangled hair. "I know."

Time passes; the dawn brightens. At length, Boromir
meets Aragorn's eyes and frowns. "There are
moments...your eyes seem familiar to me, as a portrait
of old."

Aragorn smiles. It is not yet time to reveal himself
fully to this son of Stewards. "We are distant kin,
you and I. And I am told I resemble my forbears.
Perhaps that is all."

Boromir returns the smile. It is beautiful, wide
and joyous, full of laughter and compassion.
"Perhaps." He yawns. "I think I might sleep a little."

"As do I." It is true; for once Aragorn is pleasantly
exhausted, languid and relaxed. "No one will disturb
us. Rest well." He strokes Boromir's hair again,
feeling his eyes closing. Boromir is already asleep,
his head pillowed on Aragorn's chest. "Sleep, son of
Gondor. Sleep."

*

As the graceful craft disappears, Aragorn stands alone
on the western bank of the Anduin. Never has his heart
been so heavy; never have his earlier cares seemed so
trifling. He has failed, in no small measure, and now
there are two to mourn. His counsel was not enough to
save Boromir, for the Ring divided them when their
need was great. Now the Fellowship is broken: Gandalf
fallen, Merry and Pippin taken captive, Frodo and Sam
fled, Boromir slain. To what hope can he cling on a
day so dark as this?

Legolas and Gimli trudge toward him. They will look to
him for guidance when in truth he has none to give. He
must be the first to act, but his strength has
deserted him. Aragorn bows his head, overcome by
sorrow, his vision blurred with weeping. His tears
fall upon the scarred gauntlets he has unclasped from
Boromir's wrists. They are etched with the sigil of
Gondor, the White Tree.

When they prepared Boromir for his final journey
upon the great Anduin, Aragorn removed the gauntlets
as if in a dream, dimly remembering their night of
tenderness and pleasure, when he had unfastened
them with far different intent. Now he gazes at them,
tokens of that sweet memory, of the warrior who fell
defending his companions, of the man who died
proclaiming his loyalty to Aragorn.

In so short a time he was beloved. Long will he be
mourned.

Now this Aragorn vows: he will uphold Boromir's honor,
his vast courage. Merry and Pippin shall be rescued from
their savage captors. He will return to the White City,
to confront Denethor and answer that long-ago insult if
fate decrees he must. And when the journey is complete,
he will take up the crown and raise the banner of the
Tree high.

He laces up one gauntlet. His hands are swollen,
split, blackened with Orc blood and his own, but he is
sure and steady in his movements. It closes round his
wrist gently, as if it were Boromir's own hand.

Aragorn pauses, and lifts the second gauntlet to his
lips. Then he fastens it, filled with renewed strength
and clarity of purpose. It is time to reunite the
Fellowship as he can. It is time to resume the quest.

For Boromir. For Gondor.


End.