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rugbytackleTitle: Compassion
Pairing: Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Some violence (descriptions of battle, nothing gory)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Tolkien, I make no money from this, no disrespect intended, etc, etc.
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laeb, wonderful beta with infinite patience for my 4am angsting over grammar and titles. You're the best, all remaining mistakes are mine.
Archiving: Rugbytackle
Comments: I've never sat on a fic for so long for lack of a title, hence the lameness. Sorry but my last brain-cells died sometime around 5am yesterday.
*
Boromir had never forgotten the first time he’d taken a life in cold-blood.
He'd been nigh on his twentieth birthday, riding with the Rohirrim for a season when they’d been ambushed by a party of Dunlendings. The fighting that ensued had been nothing more than a skirmish, the wild men being no match for the skilled riders of Rohan. He had fought with them, killed with them, hacked limbs and pierced hearts with them. There had been nothing unnatural in that, only chaos and fury and even a certain grim satisfaction. But when the sounds of battle had started dying around him, the man he’d been fighting with had fallen at his feet, begging for mercy.
He'd felt the eyes of the Rohirrim host burning his skin as his father's words echoed in his ears. Compassion is for the weak, Boromir. Never let a fallen enemy live. Boromir had advanced towards the kneeling man, yanked his head back by the hair and plunged his sword right above the breast bone, nearly splitting the throat in two. He'd lowered the dying man to the ground, slowly freeing his blade from the trap of sinews and bone; and with a final glance at the body he'd broken, Boromir had walked away, leaving the burning of bodies and the mending of wounds to his companions. He was, after all, the Steward's son. He deserved his peace.
That night Boromir shivered inside a Rohirrim tent, wrapped in heavy Gondorian furs. He hadn't found peace in solitude and he wasn't going to find it in sleep. Not sober, anyway. He stepped out into the darkness and approached one of the groups gathered around the glowing fires. His presence was acknowledged with silent nods from the soldiers as he sat in their midst. He was passed a flask of wine, offered a bowl of stew. The men looked at him sparingly and without warmth. As the hours grew smaller, he took notice of one who’d been looking at him with something more than wonder and distrust.
He had been young but not unaware. And he knew an offering when he saw one. He’d seen soldiers wander off into the night during long campaigns, away from hearth and home and wife. Perhaps here, in the midst of strangers would be the best place to test this new thing. Still, he had not expected to be taken like that, so abruptly, so... Disrespectfully. He had not expected to be taken at all. The Steward's son he was, and still he’d trembled from cold and shame and excitement as the Rohirrim, whose name he'd never dared to ask, kindled a fire in his soul that burned but never warmed him. The day after, he had half a mind to kill the man but decided against it. It would not have been fitting. It would have to be explained.
Boromir had lain with men after that, not many but also not few. Still, he had never again allowed another man to take him; not until he met Aragorn and his soft whispers and knowing looks. When first he’d heard the Ranger's voice he'd felt a sudden urge to tear the softness out of it along with the delicate elvish garments that fitted him so poorly. There stood a man made for leather and steel, not velvet robes and elven ornaments. A man he would be proud to have fighting by his side, one he'd be happy to take in frenzied blood-lust during the aftermath of battle. But just as these half-formed thoughts were taking a more defined shape in his mind, the shard of Narsil had bit into his skin and he'd been filled with a sense of distrust and, yes, fear.
For had the man not looked at him like he was seeing through to the very core of his being, laying bare all his weakness and want? Had he not recognised the gleam of pity in Aragorn's gaze? And what reason was there to pity the Steward's son, what kind of man was he to dare look at him in such a way?
Boromir had not let another man take him after that cold night on the Mark. But by the time Aragorn first came into his room uninvited, showering him with kisses that were at once fervent like a soldier's and tender like a brother's, he had already known. Aragorn was his King and it was his duty to yield. Much to his shame, Aragorn had made sure it had also been his pleasure.
There had been more such nights, both in Imladris and in the wild. Nights during which Boromir learned that comfort comes in many guises, that raw lust can be mingled with tenderness and that at times, even a King must yield.
It was the memory of those nights that had warmed Boromir in his cold death-bed of leaves and turf, when he still feared a lonely death. But then Aragorn had come and he knew he would die in familiar arms, looking into eyes that spoke of longing and hope and trust and much, much more.
Boromir smiled as he recalled his father's words. He had finally recognised what it was in Aragorn's gaze that had once made him feel so uncomfortable, so bare.
Pairing: Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Some violence (descriptions of battle, nothing gory)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Tolkien, I make no money from this, no disrespect intended, etc, etc.
Beta:
laeb, wonderful beta with infinite patience for my 4am angsting over grammar and titles. You're the best, all remaining mistakes are mine.Archiving: Rugbytackle
Comments: I've never sat on a fic for so long for lack of a title, hence the lameness. Sorry but my last brain-cells died sometime around 5am yesterday.
*
Boromir had never forgotten the first time he’d taken a life in cold-blood.
He'd been nigh on his twentieth birthday, riding with the Rohirrim for a season when they’d been ambushed by a party of Dunlendings. The fighting that ensued had been nothing more than a skirmish, the wild men being no match for the skilled riders of Rohan. He had fought with them, killed with them, hacked limbs and pierced hearts with them. There had been nothing unnatural in that, only chaos and fury and even a certain grim satisfaction. But when the sounds of battle had started dying around him, the man he’d been fighting with had fallen at his feet, begging for mercy.
He'd felt the eyes of the Rohirrim host burning his skin as his father's words echoed in his ears. Compassion is for the weak, Boromir. Never let a fallen enemy live. Boromir had advanced towards the kneeling man, yanked his head back by the hair and plunged his sword right above the breast bone, nearly splitting the throat in two. He'd lowered the dying man to the ground, slowly freeing his blade from the trap of sinews and bone; and with a final glance at the body he'd broken, Boromir had walked away, leaving the burning of bodies and the mending of wounds to his companions. He was, after all, the Steward's son. He deserved his peace.
That night Boromir shivered inside a Rohirrim tent, wrapped in heavy Gondorian furs. He hadn't found peace in solitude and he wasn't going to find it in sleep. Not sober, anyway. He stepped out into the darkness and approached one of the groups gathered around the glowing fires. His presence was acknowledged with silent nods from the soldiers as he sat in their midst. He was passed a flask of wine, offered a bowl of stew. The men looked at him sparingly and without warmth. As the hours grew smaller, he took notice of one who’d been looking at him with something more than wonder and distrust.
He had been young but not unaware. And he knew an offering when he saw one. He’d seen soldiers wander off into the night during long campaigns, away from hearth and home and wife. Perhaps here, in the midst of strangers would be the best place to test this new thing. Still, he had not expected to be taken like that, so abruptly, so... Disrespectfully. He had not expected to be taken at all. The Steward's son he was, and still he’d trembled from cold and shame and excitement as the Rohirrim, whose name he'd never dared to ask, kindled a fire in his soul that burned but never warmed him. The day after, he had half a mind to kill the man but decided against it. It would not have been fitting. It would have to be explained.
Boromir had lain with men after that, not many but also not few. Still, he had never again allowed another man to take him; not until he met Aragorn and his soft whispers and knowing looks. When first he’d heard the Ranger's voice he'd felt a sudden urge to tear the softness out of it along with the delicate elvish garments that fitted him so poorly. There stood a man made for leather and steel, not velvet robes and elven ornaments. A man he would be proud to have fighting by his side, one he'd be happy to take in frenzied blood-lust during the aftermath of battle. But just as these half-formed thoughts were taking a more defined shape in his mind, the shard of Narsil had bit into his skin and he'd been filled with a sense of distrust and, yes, fear.
For had the man not looked at him like he was seeing through to the very core of his being, laying bare all his weakness and want? Had he not recognised the gleam of pity in Aragorn's gaze? And what reason was there to pity the Steward's son, what kind of man was he to dare look at him in such a way?
Boromir had not let another man take him after that cold night on the Mark. But by the time Aragorn first came into his room uninvited, showering him with kisses that were at once fervent like a soldier's and tender like a brother's, he had already known. Aragorn was his King and it was his duty to yield. Much to his shame, Aragorn had made sure it had also been his pleasure.
There had been more such nights, both in Imladris and in the wild. Nights during which Boromir learned that comfort comes in many guises, that raw lust can be mingled with tenderness and that at times, even a King must yield.
It was the memory of those nights that had warmed Boromir in his cold death-bed of leaves and turf, when he still feared a lonely death. But then Aragorn had come and he knew he would die in familiar arms, looking into eyes that spoke of longing and hope and trust and much, much more.
Boromir smiled as he recalled his father's words. He had finally recognised what it was in Aragorn's gaze that had once made him feel so uncomfortable, so bare.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 02:27 am (UTC)One question . . .
kisses that were . . . tender like a brother's,
Is there another story there perhaps?
no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:33 pm (UTC)And I know you do, but I'm too stubborn for my own good...
no subject
Date: 2004-01-10 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 03:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 04:31 am (UTC)Like it a lot.*g*
no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:47 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 10:58 pm (UTC)I believe he does, yes.
I didn't realize when I commented that my weekend was destined to be spent writing that scene from the other side. Wish me luck!
no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:49 pm (UTC)Thanks, really.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-08 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-09 03:51 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2004-01-10 04:01 pm (UTC)And I also noticed kisses "tender like a brother's". Hmmm interesting :)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-17 04:47 pm (UTC)