Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower, had never been in love. Oh, he had known other sorts of love: he loved his brother with the fierceness of a she-wolf guarding her cub; he had loved the gentle presence of his mother, while she lived. He even bore a dutiful love for his father. But romantic love had never held sway over his heart. The charms of the women of his realm were lost on him, their dark, willowy beauty of no more interest to him than the passing loveliness of a summer's day.
He preferred the company of men, of his soldiers, of his brothers-in-arms. He found friendship forged in battle more compelling than any alliance his father would have for his heir. And in spite of any protests to the contrary, Boromir was no stranger to passion between men. He had fought in too many campaigns, forged too many bonds with comrades in war. He had found respite and pleasure in the arms of a very few men, special friends, had revelled in matching his strength with another such as himself. But even in those encounters, love held no place.
All had changed when he came to Imladris and found a ranger in the chamber housing the sacred Shards of Narsil.
One chance meeting and he at last understood the emotion he'd so long thought an illusion, an invention of the singers of songs. One look at the man and he'd felt his breath catch painfully in his throat, felt a stirring in his groin. But it was no mere lust that took him. There was a tenderness, a stirring in his heart such as had only before been roused by his fraternal affection for Faramir.
Here at last, he thought, must be his destiny, the man he was fated to be bound to, to fight with, to live for. To love. The sense of fate, of rightness had been strong, irresistible. But then he had found that the man was no ordinary ranger but Isildur's heir, the promised king that Gondor had long since ceased to hope for, the man to whom he would need to bend his knee. The knowledge came like a betrayal. He'd struck out in reaction, mocking Aragorn's claim to the throne of his people, denying Gondor's need for a king, aggression masking the wound he felt.
And yet, when the Council had chosen the destruction of the enemy's weapon, pride had demanded he lend Gondor's strength to the Fellowship, binding his destiny to the son of Arathorn in a way utterly unexpected.
Days of preparation for the journey followed, and Boromir's heart was further pierced when he realized that Aragorn was bound by love to the daughter of Elrond, the graceful Arwen Undomiel. This knowledge brought more bitter disappointment, and he spent his last days in Imladris subtly avoiding them both, the ranger and his lady.
Then Arwen had sought him out. She found him in the woods where he had gone to find some peace, a respite from the misgivings in his heart. Instead, he had found even more disquiet, as Arwen had seen too clearly into his heart, seen things that he would hide, even from himself. It seemed she possessed the Elvish witchcraft his father had long warned him of. But in spite of the discomfort her intuition had caused him, he was determined to hold true to the promise he had made her. He would assist Aragorn when he could, as he would assist all members of the Fellowship.
The early days of the journey passed easily enough. The weather held and they were able to keep to a pace leisurely enough that even the Hobbits had no trouble keeping up with their taller companions. Boromir most often walked with Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, finding in their simple natures and good humour welcome reminders of the younger brother he had left behind. He took to telling them tales of his city, his men and his brother, and to offering them lessons in the use of their swords. In return, they would share their own stories of the Shire, and teach him the best places to find wild mushrooms and berries. If not for a whispering doubt that sometimes plagued him as he drifted to sleep, he almost could have forgotten the deadly quest that drove them toward the lands of the Enemy.
As for Aragorn, Boromir remained wary around the ranger in those first days of the Fellowship. He most often hunted for their evening meal with Legolas or Gimli, fearing to be on his own with a man for whom he felt such an untamed longing. Eventually, though, wariness was replaced by familiarity and he began to pass more time in the company of the strange Elf-raised man who caused him such confusion. Like recognized like, and they would share experiences of fighting orcs and goblins and other of Sauron's dark servants, tales not suited to the gentler nature of his little Hobbits.
More days passed, and Boromir hunted more often with the ranger than with Elf or Dwarf. He was pleased to see how well their skills complimented each other. Few were the nights when they returned to the others empty-handed.
Thus, the friendship between the two men grew, though always haunting that friendship was the promise of something else, something more.
A promise that was finally fulfilled.
It had been a glorious day. The sun had shone with a brilliance only possible in winter, the air holding the merest hint of future snow. They had made good time that day, travelling through forest paths crossed by golden shafts of sunlight. As the shadows began to lengthen in the late afternoon, Aragorn disappeared from the path for a moment, then returned and whispered words to Gandalf. The wizard nodded, then raised his hand to stop the Fellowship.
"We've made good time today. I think we can afford to stop a bit early for a change."
The Hobbits sighed with audible relief and began shrugging off their packs. The rest of the Fellowship began performing the many chores that went with setting up camp for the night. Boromir frowned, wondering why they were stopping when there was yet daylight remaining, but Aragorn took his arm, a smile brightening his face.
"Come, Boromir. We'll hunt tonight's meal." Without waiting for an answer, the ranger headed into the forests, leaving Boromir to shed his cape and shield and scramble in his wake.
Aragorn made his way through the trees with a purpose that told Boromir he had already picked up the trail of his quarry. Not wanting to frighten any game, Boromir held back his questions and merely kept his eyes open for deer sign, noting that Aragorn's steps never faltered as they wound their way ever deeper into the wild.
After perhaps ten minutes of picking their way quietly through the woods, Aragorn at last slowed and stopped, crouching down behind a wind fallen tree. Boromir joined him in his makeshift hide. At a gesture from Aragorn, he risked a look over the top of the log. And found himself staring at a rather large boar, rooting under a shrub.
His eyes gone wide with shock, Boromir looked at Aragorn.
"No spears, no hounds and you want to kill a boar?" he whispered.
"Don't worry. I've hunted larger game with only bow and arrow before. It only takes a sure aim and a strong swordsman to back you up."
Boromir ignored the implied compliment and shook his head. "Living with Elves has addled your mind," he said, even as he drew his sword and prepared to assist in this insanity. The madman said nothing more, but only smiled wider and nocked an arrow.
A nod from Aragorn and they both stood. The ranger had let one arrow fly before their prey even noticed their presence. The beast bellowed in pain and did exactly what any hunter should have expected: it charged.
Two more arrows were shot home, and still the boar didn't slow. Aragorn began to nock a fourth arrow, but Boromir knew he would not have time to draw and shoot before the boar would be upon them.
Placing a practiced hand, Boromir vaulted over the tree and came face to face with the massive, charging animal. He only had one chance before the beast would trample him. Raising his sword with both hands, he brought its point down hard at the base of the creature's skull and pushed it home. His aim was as true as his sword arm and with one last bellow of anger and pain, the boar fell dead at his feet.
Boromir stood, panting, beside their prey, the sword hanging loose from a suddenly nerveless hand, his breath gasping harshly in his throat.
Replacing the arrow in his quiver, Aragorn leaped over the tree and pulled out his dagger, ready to prepare the boar for the trip back to camp. Boromir, however, was not willing to let the foolhardiness of his friend go unremarked.
"You madman. You halfwit. You fool. How dare you put us both in danger like that? Who would have looked after the little ones if we'd been injured? If we'd been killed?"
The smile never left Aragorn's face as he moved toward his companion, but he did not speak in response. Instead, he closed the distance between them fully and then closed Boromir's mouth with a deep kiss, full of the unspoken promises between them.
When the ranger pulled back, Boromir found himself speechless.
"What..." he tried to say, but Aragorn's finger on his lips stopped up his words.
"Tonight," was all he said before setting to work removing his arrows from the animal. Stunned, Boromir stood frozen for a moment, his mouth hanging stupidly open like some love struck youth. Finally rousing himself, he set out to find a sapling strong enough to bear the weight of the boar.
They returned to the camp as heroes. The Hobbits were ecstatic over the prospect of roast boar, with Sam breaking out some of his cherished herbs for the preparation of the food. Even Gimli was impressed that they'd managed to bring down a boar.
The meal that night was a true feast, the boar accompanied by wild roots that Merry and Pippin had found and cooked to perfection by Sam. And yet, Boromir tasted none of it. He shared not in the jokes and laughter that circled the campfire. He heard none of the stories of making mischief in the Shire that his dear Merry and Pippin regaled the company with. All that went through his mind was one word: tonight.
The meal was finished as twilight turned to true darkness, the stars glittering faintly through the canopy of trees. The fire was banked for the night and all members of the company began to ready themselves for sleep. All, save one. Instead of laying out his bedroll, Aragorn instead drifted away from the company.
"Aragorn," Gandalf began, a note of warning in his voice.
"I want to scout out the area," Aragorn said, cutting off all criticism. "Make certain there are no enemies haunting our progress." Gandalf nodded in response, with only a glimmer of suspicion in his expression.
Unbidden, Boromir followed in the ranger's footsteps, drawn to the other man like a dreamer to starlight. Behind him, he could hear the Hobbits stirring by the fire as they made themselves comfortable for the night. He could hear Gimli's grumbling and Legolas' soothing words. He even imagined he could feel Gandalf's gimlet eye upon him as he trailed the heir to Gondor's throne. But he ignored it all, ignored everyone but the man in front of him, the man who would fulfil his promise. Tonight.
They were beyond the sight and hearing of the company when Aragorn at last stopped, his back against an ancient tree, a welcoming look on his face. As Boromir approached, Aragorn held out his hand, their fingers entwining together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Boromir closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of the other man's hand in his own, the warmth of the skin, the battle-hardened calluses that matched his own.
With a tug, Aragorn drew him closer until their bodies were almost, but not quite, touching. Boromir could feel the warm puffs of Aragorn's breath brushing his face, could feel the heat of the ranger's body. He hovered for a moment on a precipice, knowing that to move, to move just a fraction, would change everything. He felt as he had not since he was a child, poised on a boulder, gathering his courage to dive into the Anduin while Faramir watched, coils of pleasure and fear twining 'round him. He held himself at the threshold of the moment, enjoying the anticipation of what was to come.
Then the threshold was passed. Bodies and mouths came together in a rush of motion and heat, and Boromir found that it was he, not Aragorn, who now had the tree at his back. Clothes were pushed aside, and Boromir shivered as his skin was exposed to the chill night air, only to gasp as the heat from Aragorn's mouth traced a path down throat and chest and belly. The next shiver that wracked his body had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the teeth that nipped at his hip, the tongue that traced a path down his cock.
His neck arched as Aragorn drew his cock fully into his mouth, the rough sensation of the tree bark behind him a welcome counterpoint to the liquid pleasure that exploded from his groin. Boromir's hands searched for an anchor, settling behind him to grip the tree's trunk as Aragorn sucked and caressed and brought him to a shattering climax. And even then, Aragorn's mouth did not release him until the last of his seed was spent. Only when his knees threatened to buckle with the weight of the bliss that flooded his limbs, his head, his heart, did Aragorn at last stand, encircling Boromir in a supporting embrace and kissing him deeply with a mouth that tasted of sex. And love.
Briefly, they pulled apart, only to spread Boromir's cloak on the forest floor before lying together on its rich cloth. The remainder of their clothes were shed, cold completely disregarded in the heat of their passion. Their mouths clashed and limbs entangled as they grappled with each other, as each sought to possess the other, to hold a piece of the other's soul in his grasp.
It was Boromir who finally surrendered the battle, who gave himself to his future king. And with the surrender, came a gentleness that Boromir had not expected, a tenderness that he craved.
Aragorn eased him onto his back and worshipped him with hands and mouth. He loved him until Boromir thought that he could bear no more, could feel no more. And only then, did Aragorn enter him. There was only spit and the fluid from Aragorn's leaking cock to ease the way, but it was enough. Boromir had made do with less, in the aftermath of battle when the joy at having survived had turned to a lust that could not be denied. His need was so much more now.
They thrust together, until Boromir could no longer tell which voice was his own, could no longer say which limb was Aragorn's, and which his. Aragorn's hand took his cock in a firm grip, pushing him higher and higher still. Then, reaching the pinnacle, he fell, his seed spilling over Aragorn's hand as his body convulsed around the cock buried within him.
He pulled Aragorn even closer to him, and the other man thrust deeper, his breath coming in more and more ragged gasps and then catching in his chest. At last, Aragorn threw his head back, and came within him.
Rolling onto their sides, Boromir clutched Aragorn close to his breast. He wanted to remember this time forever, to hold it forever green in his memory. But all things must end, whether good or ill.
Passion spent, the cold at last intruded upon them. They separated and donned their clothes, and then Boromir wrapped them both in the warmth of his cloak while they shared more kisses and caresses. The setting of the moon was their warning that they must needs return to the camp and the others, before they lost all but the dimmest starlight to show their way.
Silently, they made their way through the forest to where the other members of the Fellowship lay sleeping. They made their bed together, under the sheltering boughs of an old beech tree. As they lay together, the only sounds the rustling of trees in the wind and the occasional sigh from a sleeping Hobbit, Boromir found that his heart was lighter than it had been since his youth. His concern for the survival of his city had faded, overcome by his growing confidence that this ranger from the North would be the leader to save it. Together, they would see the Fellowship's quest succeed. Together, they would lay defeat at the Enemy's gate.
For, in the end, who could fight against his destiny.
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