FIC: Pretence (A/B, PG-13)
Nov. 19th, 2003 04:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
thedevilchicken.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleTitle: Pretence
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fangirl_lizzie
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. All you'll get is a dog-eared copy of LotR and a collection of my trashy fanfic anyway.
Feedback: Makes my life worth living.
Summary: Thelotr100 ‘contentment’ challenge inspired this, but it’s really not about contentment in that sense, nor is it 100 words. Takes place somewhere between leaving Rivendell and arriving at Moria. And as I am in perpetual need of a beta, all mistakes are my own.
***
Mostly he can pretend that there's nothing different about this journey, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing… wrong. He can see them as friends or as civil travelling companions at the very least. They eat together, drink together, walk together, talk together - it's like they're friends and he's on his way home.
He's missed this easy camaraderie since he's been away. He misses his brother and his father, his rooms in the Tower, his men, his horse. He longs for it all; he barely remembers why he left it all, sometimes. It hurts to think of it so he tries to tell himself it won't be long now. He'll be home soon.
They stop by a stream to eat. Sam unpacks from his inordinately large bag and starts a fire to cook while Merry and Pippin go down to wash their hands and feet and faces; Pippin trips and soaks himself and Merry almost through while Frodo smiles at them from where he's sitting then, by Sam and the fire. Legolas speaks with Gimli, and though they're probably comparing notes on the slaughter and dismemberment of orcs, they seem quite happy to do so. Even Gandalf, sitting alone on a flat rock on the bank a way upstream, puffing on his pipe, seem quite content in his own way.
Boromir, for his part, is sitting on the grass at the base of a big old tree, his pipe in his hand and his head in a haze of smoke. The tree is a little way away from the stream, on a gentle roll of land that means he's looking down on Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam, Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf. He doesn't mind being apart from the others; he enjoys it in a way. And besides, half the sweet smoke around his head is not his own, and he sits thigh-to-thigh with Aragorn.
Pippin grins and splashes Merry, and Merry gives chase in good-natured mock-anger. Legolas is sharpening his knives as Gimli makes a show of polishing his axe. Sam and Frodo sit by the fire in companionable silence and Gandalf puffs thoughtfully on his pipe. It's comfortable. It makes him smile.
Aragorn says something in a low voice that he doesn't quite hear, but he doesn't need to; from the wave of Aragorn's hand, not quite pointing but designing the scene below then, he knows the only answer he need give is a smile. He gives it willingly and leans back against the tree. Aragorn's shoulder presses against his own, the fingers of one hand toying with the buckles of his bracer, over his wrist. When Frodo glances up at them and Aragorn gives a wave, he knows from Frodo's smile that they must look happy, too. It's an odd feeling, knowing that he looks happy. It's odd being happy, but he'll take whatever he can get.
But sometimes it isn't enough.
The hours pass and the sky darkens. The sun sets and they make camp there, just a stone's throw from the stream, in a clearing through the trees. It's as he lies there in the dark, turned from the half-light of the fire, that the truth weighs down upon him.
Gandalf, seeming an old man, is a wizard of great power. The Hobbits are the bearer of the One Ring and those closest to him. Legolas and Gimli - sole representatives there from two of Middle-earth's great races, and warriors. He himself if the son of a great leader of Men, of a country ravaged by war and beset at all points by the Enemy. This is no ordinary journey. They are no ordinary fellowship. And in his heart he is already sure that he will never see his home again. It's almost cruel that the dark should bring such clarity.
Aragorn's hand brushes his and even through his leather gloves he feels it; he looks up into Aragorn's face and his blue eyes, darkened by the night and his desire. He stumbles to his feet and allows himself to be led away, away from the fire and their companions and into the trees and the dark where Aragorn's lips meet his and his fingers tangle in his hair. He gasps, pushed back against a tree, the same tree that they sat by in the evening, and the cool sound of the stream down the hill runs in counterpoint to the heat of their bodies, of their kiss.
They don't undress. There's not time and Boromir wonders then if there ever will be time, time for them to take their time. He pulls off his gloves, tucks them into his belt, and pulls Aragorn in hard against him by the collar of his coat. His fingers find his hair, the back of his neck, a shoulder, the curve of his backside, as he crushes him against himself, as their mouths come together with a heat that almost burns. They grind together, harder than they want but just as hard as they need. They grasp at each other, tensing, gasping, shivering into completion. They don't care about the mess. They're already dirty.
They take their time walking back to the camp; it's not far but they move slowly between the trees. Aragorn's hand plays at the small of Boromir's back until they part by the fire; Boromir lies back on his cloak on the hard ground and he faces inward this time, as he pulls on his gloves and lets his gaze skitter across the sleeping faces that surround him. They're so peaceful. He's not sure he knows what peace is by night.
Aragorn takes his place by the fire, coat and cloak pulled in tight around him, hair falling across his face as he closes his eyes. Boromir sighs as Aragorn's hand falls unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. He didn't want that reminder, not now.
The sword is Andúril, the Blade that was Broken, reforged from the Shards of Narsil, the blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. The man who bears this sword is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. It's no ordinary journey. It's no ordinary fellowship. The man whose touch he craves and whose taste lingers in his mouth will be his king one day, and that's the truth, right there.
But by day it all seems better. He can pretend there's nothing wrong, smile and laugh, press shoulders with his lover and sometimes believe what he pretends. By day it's good; he and his friends are going home.
As he drifts into sleep with the firelight gleam of Andúril hot in his eyes, he hopes the days are enough.
Author:
fangirl_lizziePairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. All you'll get is a dog-eared copy of LotR and a collection of my trashy fanfic anyway.
Feedback: Makes my life worth living.
Summary: The
lotr100 ‘contentment’ challenge inspired this, but it’s really not about contentment in that sense, nor is it 100 words. Takes place somewhere between leaving Rivendell and arriving at Moria. And as I am in perpetual need of a beta, all mistakes are my own.***
Mostly he can pretend that there's nothing different about this journey, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing… wrong. He can see them as friends or as civil travelling companions at the very least. They eat together, drink together, walk together, talk together - it's like they're friends and he's on his way home.
He's missed this easy camaraderie since he's been away. He misses his brother and his father, his rooms in the Tower, his men, his horse. He longs for it all; he barely remembers why he left it all, sometimes. It hurts to think of it so he tries to tell himself it won't be long now. He'll be home soon.
They stop by a stream to eat. Sam unpacks from his inordinately large bag and starts a fire to cook while Merry and Pippin go down to wash their hands and feet and faces; Pippin trips and soaks himself and Merry almost through while Frodo smiles at them from where he's sitting then, by Sam and the fire. Legolas speaks with Gimli, and though they're probably comparing notes on the slaughter and dismemberment of orcs, they seem quite happy to do so. Even Gandalf, sitting alone on a flat rock on the bank a way upstream, puffing on his pipe, seem quite content in his own way.
Boromir, for his part, is sitting on the grass at the base of a big old tree, his pipe in his hand and his head in a haze of smoke. The tree is a little way away from the stream, on a gentle roll of land that means he's looking down on Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam, Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf. He doesn't mind being apart from the others; he enjoys it in a way. And besides, half the sweet smoke around his head is not his own, and he sits thigh-to-thigh with Aragorn.
Pippin grins and splashes Merry, and Merry gives chase in good-natured mock-anger. Legolas is sharpening his knives as Gimli makes a show of polishing his axe. Sam and Frodo sit by the fire in companionable silence and Gandalf puffs thoughtfully on his pipe. It's comfortable. It makes him smile.
Aragorn says something in a low voice that he doesn't quite hear, but he doesn't need to; from the wave of Aragorn's hand, not quite pointing but designing the scene below then, he knows the only answer he need give is a smile. He gives it willingly and leans back against the tree. Aragorn's shoulder presses against his own, the fingers of one hand toying with the buckles of his bracer, over his wrist. When Frodo glances up at them and Aragorn gives a wave, he knows from Frodo's smile that they must look happy, too. It's an odd feeling, knowing that he looks happy. It's odd being happy, but he'll take whatever he can get.
But sometimes it isn't enough.
The hours pass and the sky darkens. The sun sets and they make camp there, just a stone's throw from the stream, in a clearing through the trees. It's as he lies there in the dark, turned from the half-light of the fire, that the truth weighs down upon him.
Gandalf, seeming an old man, is a wizard of great power. The Hobbits are the bearer of the One Ring and those closest to him. Legolas and Gimli - sole representatives there from two of Middle-earth's great races, and warriors. He himself if the son of a great leader of Men, of a country ravaged by war and beset at all points by the Enemy. This is no ordinary journey. They are no ordinary fellowship. And in his heart he is already sure that he will never see his home again. It's almost cruel that the dark should bring such clarity.
Aragorn's hand brushes his and even through his leather gloves he feels it; he looks up into Aragorn's face and his blue eyes, darkened by the night and his desire. He stumbles to his feet and allows himself to be led away, away from the fire and their companions and into the trees and the dark where Aragorn's lips meet his and his fingers tangle in his hair. He gasps, pushed back against a tree, the same tree that they sat by in the evening, and the cool sound of the stream down the hill runs in counterpoint to the heat of their bodies, of their kiss.
They don't undress. There's not time and Boromir wonders then if there ever will be time, time for them to take their time. He pulls off his gloves, tucks them into his belt, and pulls Aragorn in hard against him by the collar of his coat. His fingers find his hair, the back of his neck, a shoulder, the curve of his backside, as he crushes him against himself, as their mouths come together with a heat that almost burns. They grind together, harder than they want but just as hard as they need. They grasp at each other, tensing, gasping, shivering into completion. They don't care about the mess. They're already dirty.
They take their time walking back to the camp; it's not far but they move slowly between the trees. Aragorn's hand plays at the small of Boromir's back until they part by the fire; Boromir lies back on his cloak on the hard ground and he faces inward this time, as he pulls on his gloves and lets his gaze skitter across the sleeping faces that surround him. They're so peaceful. He's not sure he knows what peace is by night.
Aragorn takes his place by the fire, coat and cloak pulled in tight around him, hair falling across his face as he closes his eyes. Boromir sighs as Aragorn's hand falls unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. He didn't want that reminder, not now.
The sword is Andúril, the Blade that was Broken, reforged from the Shards of Narsil, the blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. The man who bears this sword is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. It's no ordinary journey. It's no ordinary fellowship. The man whose touch he craves and whose taste lingers in his mouth will be his king one day, and that's the truth, right there.
But by day it all seems better. He can pretend there's nothing wrong, smile and laugh, press shoulders with his lover and sometimes believe what he pretends. By day it's good; he and his friends are going home.
As he drifts into sleep with the firelight gleam of Andúril hot in his eyes, he hopes the days are enough.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-19 05:09 pm (UTC)After having seen the look on Boromir's face when Denethor forces him to leave, I can believe he knew he was lost the moment he left Gondor. This captures that pain and that longing for home.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-19 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-19 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-19 06:31 pm (UTC)So many lovely lines (It's almost cruel that the dark should bring such clarity), and I can just feel Boromir's hopelessness (But by day it all seems better. He can pretend there's nothing wrong, smile and laugh, press shoulders with his lover and sometimes believe what he pretends. By day it's good; he and his friends are going home)... *shivers* This is so good. It breaks my heart (in a most wonderful way ;)
Thank you for sharing! :)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-20 05:35 am (UTC)*sniffles*
And in his heart he is already sure that he will never see his home again.
Poor Boromir, but at least he has his King.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-20 02:42 pm (UTC)Wonderful!
~Kris