splix | FIC: And in Dreams

Title: And in Dreams
Author: Alex
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing/Character(s): Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Note: Written for the

seans_50 final challenge.
Thanks: To

kimberlite for support and beta.

*

Aragorn walked with slow, even steps, nodding with grave but slightly absent courtesy to the few servants, courtiers, and men-at-arms who occupied the corridors at this late hour. Each man and woman returned his greeting with a little gesture of obeisance and watched his retreating figure with curiosity; it was clear that their sovereign, less than a month upon his throne, was preoccupied with weighty matters.

So absorbed was he that he did not notice the footfalls that dogged his pacing. He stopped and stared at the flickering of torchlight over a pale statue of a man in old-fashioned dress. There was a scrolled banner at the statue's foot, but it was so worn he could no longer read the writing.

"I can't recall his name, but I always admired his sword and his crown," said a soft voice. "So did Boromir."

Aragorn pivoted on his heel. Faramir stood a few steps behind him, gazing up at the statue. Aragorn turned again and obligingly studied the carving. The king's sword was beautifully carved, its blade etched with delicate scrollwork still faintly visible. The crown was a simple circlet, but in its center was a milky stone that seemed to glow from within. "It is beautiful."

"There are so many statues here. Somewhere there is a book listing the name and placement of each one."

"I would like to see it."

"I'll do my best to locate it for you." Faramir stepped forward, standing beside Aragorn. "There are no likenesses of my brother in Minas Tirith. Father didn't approve of them; he felt they were a vanity. A great pity. I should like to look upon his face now and again." He smiled. "Is that what you were searching for?"

Aragorn nodded, surprised. His steward was young, but extraordinarily perceptive. "You might have told me rather than letting me wander for an hour," he chided gently.

Faramir's smile deepened. "I can't read your thoughts, sire. In any case, I only saw you a few moments ago, and it was clear you were seeking something on the walls. You should sleep, though. Your open table begins at an early hour."

Once more Aragorn nodded, but did not move.

"He has been much in your thoughts of late?"

"He has," Aragorn replied quietly. "I still grieve his passing."

"As do I, sire, but he would not wish either of us to grieve long or excessively. He would, I think, prefer to be remembered with joy and affection."

"You are wise for one so young," Aragorn remarked.

Faramir shook his head. "Only a devoted brother, sire."

"I shall commission a likeness of him, and his name shall be cut deep upon its base, so that he will be remembered for a thousand years."

Another smile, not so brilliant or lavish as Boromir's, but full of sweetness nonetheless, spread itself across Faramir's face. "That would please me, sire," he said. "It would please me very much indeed."

*

Arwen lay curled in bed, reading by the light of a candle. She would not sleep, but it comforted Aragorn to have her near while he slept, and so she indulged him. She glanced up as he entered and laid her book upon her lap. "Tired at last?"

"At last." Aragorn stripped down to a thin linen tunic and placed his boots beside the clothes set out in readiness for the next day. He spared his worn clothes a rueful glance – he'd only had them on for a day, and it seemed absurd to wear an entirely new set of clothes every day – sometimes two, if a state occasion demanded it. He felt a moment's nostalgia for the days when he'd strip beside a forest stream on a warm day and wash clothes so disreputable and stiff with filth that it was likely they'd walk away on their own. On the heels of that brief longing came a memory of Boromir, removing his Gondorian finery by starlight.

Aragorn closed his eyes, then smiled. He would make certain Boromir's statue was clad in kingly fashion.

"Does something trouble you, Estel?"

He looked at Arwen's radiantly lovely face, her brow etched with concern. "No." He told her of his plans for the statue.

She smiled. "It is a fine idea, Estel."

"Thank you, my love." Aragorn came to the bed and embraced her. The book slipped unnoticed to the floor.

*

It was nearly June, sweet, fragrant June, and the White Tree bloomed heavy and luxurious, its pale blossoms translucent in the light of the moon. Aragorn breathed in its scent and sighed contentedly as the faintest of breezes set the branches to stirring and sent a drift of fragrance past.

"To think I've never seen it in full bloom. What a beautiful thing it is."

Aragorn started. There stood Boromir, gently bringing a branch close to his nose. He inhaled deeply and let the branch go; it sprang back, and a few petals spiraled upward on the breeze. "Boromir!" Boromir smiled and moved closer. His boots made a soft crunching noise upon the stone. He stopped and sat beside Aragorn on a white stone bench. Aragorn stared, his breath caught in his chest. Boromir wore the same clothes he'd had on the day he died. Faint lacerations in his surcoat, the killing gashes caused by Orc arrows, were visible by the moonlight. Upon his wrists were the protective guards Aragorn had taken from his body, worn leather etched with a stylization of the Tree of Gondor. Sudden disappointment surged in Aragorn's belly. "I'm dreaming."

"I should hope so. It's not at all regal to wander around in the Fountain Court in nothing but a nightshirt."

Glancing down, Aragorn saw the embroidered hem of his sleeping shirt, and his naked knees. He looked at Boromir's twinkling eyes and laughed. "You're right." He reached out, then hesitated. "May I...."

Boromir drew off his gloves, then leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon Aragorn's lips. "What else are dreams for?"

"I miss you. Our time together was far too short."

A sigh issued from Boromir's chest. "It cannot be changed. Still, my little brother makes a fine Steward, does he not?"

"He does. He's wise beyond his years, Boromir. And he loved – loves you deeply."

"As I love him. And your elf lady? She loves you deeply?" Boromir's eyes upon him were steady and watchful.

"She does."

"And you love her." Boromir was smiling, but it was a wistful smile.

"I do." Aragorn took Boromir's long, elegant hand in his own and, turning it palm-up, traced the sword calluses upon it. Strange how warm, how vital that hand was, even for a dream. "But my heart is...capacious. And I still yearn for you."

Boromir stood, urging Aragorn to rise with him. The soft wind blew a strand of wheat-gold hair across his face. "Then let us make use of the time we have together. Chances such as this do not happen every day." He divested himself of his cloak and surcoat.

"Here? Now?"

"Why not?" Boromir laughed. "It's your dream, my king. No one will disturb us." He laid the fur-lined cloak upon the ground, beneath the low, flowered branches of the White Tree, then turned to Aragorn. Tenderly, he unlaced the strings of the nightshirt and pulled it over Aragorn's head, letting it fall to the ground.

Naked, Aragorn stepped into the warmth and strength of Boromir's arms.

*

The moon rose higher in the sky. Aragorn and Boromir lay still and quiet together, wrapped in the folds of Boromir's cloak. Aragorn leaned his head against Boromir's chest, drawing deep breaths of his clean, familiar scent, and stroking his hand against the smooth skin and scant hair of Boromir's belly, greedily storing away the sensations that would disappear all too soon. Boromir held him closely, his fingertips grazing small circles upon Aragorn's back.

"I cannot stay." Boromir's voice was muffled against Aragorn's hair.

"I know. But don't leave just now. Stay a little while."

Boromir tightened his grasp minutely. "I understand you're planning a statue in my honor."

"I am. It will be magnificent, I promise. You will look as one of the high kings of old."

"No." Boromir sat up.

Startled, Aragorn rose with him. "What is it?"

"Render me as I was," Boromir said. "In mail and tunic, with my shield and sword. No scepters, no circlets on my brow. Let the rents from the arrows be plain for all to see. Let them know I fell not as a king nor a steward, for I was neither. Let them see that I was a soldier, in the service of my city. Of our city." He turned away; when he turned back, he held his braces in one hand. "These are yours."

"They were all I kept to remember you," Aragorn whispered. Boromir laid the braces in Aragorn's lap, took his face between both hands, and kissed Aragorn's mouth. How sweet his kisses were, how they enflamed Aragorn to his very heart. Tears gathered on Aragorn's lashes. "Must you go?"

"Don't weep, my dearest captain," Boromir said, tracing his finger down the salty path on Aragorn's cheek. "We may yet meet again." With the utmost affection, he pulled Aragorn back down to the ground. "Sleep now. Rest."

Unwillingly, Aragorn closed his eyes. Another tear slipped down his cheek, but the ache in his heart softened as he felt the touch of Boromir's lips, kissing the tears away.

*

"Estel. Estel. Wake up."

Aragorn groaned and opened one eye. Sunlight streamed into the bedchamber, mercifully blocked as Arwen moved to one side.

"You sleep so deeply. I've been calling your name for some time." Arwen sat on the bed and touched Aragorn's cheek. "How do you feel?"

"Rested." Aragorn returned the sweet caress and kissed Arwen's hand. "Thank you." He remembered his dream and felt a pang of sadness, but with it came a sense of renewed purpose. He would follow Boromir's instructions, and the statue would be a tribute not only to Boromir, son of Denethor, but to all those who had given their lives to preserve the safety of Middle-earth.

"Your open table begins shortly." Arwen rose, still clad in the diaphanous nightdress that clung to her slender body. "Wash, and I'll bring your clothes."

"I washed yesterday," Aragorn said plaintively, and received a playful thump on his shoulder. He heaved himself from bed and poured water into the exquisite hammered mithril washbowl in a delicately curved wooden stand. He splashed water on his face, scrubbing it briskly with a cloth.

"Were you planning to wear these?"

Aragorn turned, blinking water from his eyes. Arwen held out two dark objects – Boromir's wrist braces. Carefully, hardly daring to breathe, Aragorn took them from her. "Where did you get them?"

"They were lying beside your boots. Boromir's, are they not?" She lightly touched the tooled surface of the scarred leather.

The braces had been in a locked chest. "Yes."

Arwen kissed Aragorn's cheek. "I must dress. Don't be long, my love." Silently, she glided from the room.

Aragorn looked at the braces for a long time. He brought them close to his face, inhaled their scent, kissed them.

He looked out his window, down at the heavy, flowering branches of the White Tree, and saw a breeze stirring the petals, setting them adrift.

End.