Fic: Cold Pressing Path 1 (4/4)
May. 10th, 2006 03:54 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleFic: Cold Pressing Path 1 (4/4)
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alex_quine
Pairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, NC-17)
Warning: AU, Mpreg(implied), Het(implied), possible medical squick
Summary: Boromir’s journey into pain.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 10,198
Feedback: Received with thanks.
AN: This story is in four parts. The first part was begun as one chapter with two alternative endings. This is a continuation of Path 1. The earlier parts can be found below or at my LJ. Chapter 1 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1694.html#cutid1 Chapter 2 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/2710.html#cutid1 Chapter 3 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/2979.html
Author:
alex_quinePairing: A/B
Rating: PG to NC-17 (this Part, NC-17)
Warning: AU, Mpreg(implied), Het(implied), possible medical squick
Summary: Boromir’s journey into pain.
Archive: Rugbytackling, my LJ
Disclaimer: These characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit.
Words: 10,198
Feedback: Received with thanks.
AN: This story is in four parts. The first part was begun as one chapter with two alternative endings. This is a continuation of Path 1. The earlier parts can be found below or at my LJ. Chapter 1 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/1694.html#cutid1 Chapter 2 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/2710.html#cutid1 Chapter 3 http://alex-quine.livejournal.com/2979.html
It had been close to eight years since Boromir had travelled alone and whilst his heart beat heavy at the prospect of his journey’s end, there was pleasure too in the freedom to set his own bearing across country.
His first evening was spent in a small lodge that Aragorn had built as a retreat and for hunting in the White Mountains. He was making for Edoras and then the Gap of Rohan, but Celond had asked that he sleep as many nights under a proper roof as he was able. The caretaker made him welcome, opened up a room for him and Boromir saw to his horses before settling down for the night.
As he unpacked his bedroll a slip of wine-dark silk fluttered from out of its folds and when he unbound the little package, he found within it a tiny knot of hair tied with silk thread. The knot entwined two dark curls, one baby soft, the other harsher, threaded with silver and Boromir wondered if this delicate thing was Arwen’s work.
In the morning, he carefully followed Celond’s guidance, taking the time with oil and honey to prepare his body for another day’s exertion, but his thoughts roamed as he worked, thinking on those he had left behind. As he readied to leave, he took up the little package again and pinned it inside the breast of his shirt. He would come home to them, to love them as was allowed to him.
The journeying over the coming weeks was easy for the most part, the weather fair enough. Although Eomer King was from home, Edoras welcomed him graciously. That evening he went to Theodred’s grave and offered a warrior’s tears for the young man he had last seen racing his cousin across the plains. On the morrow, he was offered remounts and took them gladly, riding out from the gates, with the wind at his back and a clear path before.
Along the Old South Road he travelled, taking in as he went homes rebuilt and signs of renewal that cheered his mood. It was as he crossed the Greyflood onto The Greenway, and neared the borders of the Shire, that fear began to knaw at him again and he had to force himself to ride forward with as much pace as before. His beasts seemed to sense his mood and would have turned for home, but Boromir dragged in great breaths and drove them on.
At the fork in the road that led to the Sarn Ford, he branched right, travelling North. Having come so far, he would not presume that Frodo would wish to look in his face, and determined to send word from Bree – a simple request to visit. Should Frodo refuse him, he would at least travel on to see Merry and Pippin and deliver the messages and remembrances he had been entrusted with.
If Barliman Butterbur, host at The Prancing Pony, was surprised by the quality of the horseman at his door he did not show it and merely beckoned forward a gaping groom, and ushered Boromir to his best bedroom, which had a large fireplace and a window seat with a view along the main street. Certainly, he could have messages sent into The Shire. To Bag-End and Brandy Hall? Nothing easier, the man would set out at first light and now if he might suggest some supper for his lordship? In truth, Boromir would have preferred a chamber further removed from the noise of the taproom and it was a struggle to make the landlord understand his request for hot water to wash in, but the food had been good and his aged warrior’s body ached for once for the comfort of a feather bed.
In the morning a light rain was falling as Boromir passed two sealed notes to a youth mounted on a skinny pony, with a silver coin passed privately for the lad himself. Frodo’s reply came three days later, by which time Boromir was heartily sick of The Prancing Pony and he opened the folded note with urgent fingers, his eyes momentarily blurring the words. Frodo would meet him. He was to leave his horses at the Green Dragon in Bywater and come to Bag-End.
That night, although he drank sparingly, he lingered over his ale. Hunched in the window seat, he did not light the candles at all, allowing the dark to sweep over him. Sick dread, gripping his chest with a cruel pain like none he had felt in many years, filled him up with loathing for the man he had become, who had hidden from this reckoning.
As he rode towards Hobbiton the next day, Boromir came to see why the Hobbits had such pride in their land. Fertile and well-loved fields stretched before him. He thought the people fitted its rolling green hills, their homes snug into the curves of the land, and if recent troubles meant that there were few old trees or ancient hedgerows to be seen, everywhere there was planting, wild flowers as well as crops.
At The Green Dragon inn, he left the horses grazing in a paddock and repacked his gear to take only the barest essentials, along with the gifts and letters, in a large satchel slung across his body. With directions from the landlord he began trudging the short distance towards Hobbiton. He could see the smoke of its chimneys up ahead and rising in the centre, the mound of Bag-End that he recognised from the Hobbits’ stories of old.
The road seemed to mock him, taking an age to wind itself down the valley and up and around the hill, until he found himself standing by a small wooden gate, before a short flight of steps up to a round green door. As he looked down to find the latch of the gate, he heard the door creak and straightened up to see Frodo standing in the opening. The hobbit beckoned slightly and then turned on his heel and disappeared.
Slowly Boromir climbed the steps, ducked his head to pass the threshold and entered Bag-End. Carefully avoiding the roof-beams, he swung the satchel from around his body and set it down in the tiled entrance hall. He could not see Frodo anywhere and wondered whether to close the door or not, but then up ahead, a small figure silhouetted against a burst of sunlight, said “You can close it, Boromir. I thought we might speak in the study. Come through.”
Half-crouching, Boromir followed Frodo through inter-linking round rooms, until they stopped in a cluttered study, with a sloped writing desk. The leaded windows were open to the mid-day sun and Boromir could smell lavender and the cinnamon of old-fashioned pinks. Frodo sat down at the chair in front of the desk and motioned Boromir to a window seat beside it.
The two studied one another for a while. Frodo could readily see the history of hardship across Boromir’s face and thought him weary, whilst to Boromir the Hobbit looked if anything younger, but somehow more fragile.
“The news of your return to Minas Tirith reached the Shire some months back. We were all glad. I had hoped you might come.”
Boromir had prepared no words against this day, but slipped from the seat to his knees, which seemed to him like the only proper attitude for him, faced with the Ringbearer. On his knees Boromir of Gondor humbly begged forgiveness of Frodo and thought that in his huge eyes he saw more understanding than he deserved, and when Frodo asked him to think back to those dark times, to try to remember how he had felt, he willingly stripped bare a memory that had festered deep within him, struggling to voice the doubt and fear that had overwhelmed his best endeavours to uphold his vows to the Fellowship.
“It was as though all I valued was slipping from my grasp and scorching my hands as it flowed from me; every good thought shrivelling, every hope as ash. I fought…with all the strength I had once thought enough and it flowed from me like sand and I was sinking, dry dust filling my mouth so I could not cry for help…and then I was too proud to try any more. I had been chosen for the task and I was a husk, a dead thing.” Boromir’s head sank onto his chest.
After a short pause, Frodo placed chilled fingers onto Boromir’s clasped hands. He spoke quietly and as though with knowledge hard won and heavy to bear. “You were groomed for your role by your father from birth, primed with duty that carried fear alongside it. Gondor lived with the shadow at its gates for so long and your family and your people paid a heavy price for keeping faith with the world of men.
In the Shire, we knew nothing of Rings or Mordor and tended our fields, brewed our ale and hobbit-holes hid us from greater evils than just the heat of a Summer sun. Yet the Ring came to us, to Bilbo and then to me. Perhaps it needed folk who had not been weakened by past sorrow and present dread to fight against it?
So many dark times came to us. When Gandalf was lost in Moria I despaired, but he fell through fire and ice to come back, to aid us, stronger than before – only I did not know it then.” Frodo paused to catch his breath and Boromir wondered at the frail strength of him. “I heard you Boromir, on Amon Hen, I heard you cry out to me, the sorrow in your voice and your grief was like a warning that I must do this alone.
In truth, I do not know if we would have succeeded if the Fellowship had not divided that day, but I know that it did divide and we won through and in the struggle many fine things that were thought lost were found good again. Men and elves have fought together one last time, the King has come into his own, and the Dead sleep.”
All afternoon the two sat and gravely teased apart dark memories. At one point Frodo looked away from Boromir’s gaze and his hands seemed to tremble. Then he asked, “Boromir, were you ever with your father when he used the Palantir?” “Twice,” he replied. Frodo could see a shadow cross the man’s face. “I did not look into it, but it brought a dread chill to the room that reached into you.” Frodo sat silent for a few moments. “It is everything Boromir, a burning hunger and so sweet, so much terrible hope in it. At the last, I was taken by the Ring and paid with my body, but if you had not carried me from Moria…If we had met at the end of the war, at the coronation of the King, I would not have known you as I do now, when I understand wounds that work inwards through the years. But we have met again in quieter and in wiser times.” He wrapped his arms as far around the man’s chest as he could reach and hugged him close, saying, “I call you true friend, Boromir of Gondor, and there is to be no more sorrow between us.”
At this, Boromir bent his head to the hobbit’s shoulder and closed tear-filled eyes and so they remained for some minutes. He had one hand laid to his breast and as they broke apart Frodo looked at him curiously. “Boromir,” he asked, “you are in pain?” Boromir hesitated and then reached in and brought out the little package. He unwrapped it carefully to display the knot and as Frodo stretched forth a stubby finger to touch it, he began to explain to Frodo what it meant. Frodo looked at him with wonder and a little sadness, saying “The enchantment is fading from this world, Boromir. The White Ship will sail soon and I must be on it, but I should have liked a child. This was a great gift. I think you must tell Aragorn, for the magic was of his making too.”
Boromir was doubtful, seeing too many difficulties ahead, but he did not argue the point. Frodo would keep his secret, as he would that of Frodo’s leaving. Now Frodo took him through to the big kitchen to make some tea, and the friends moved to simple talk of old companions, until a hammering and a commotion at the front door announced the arrival of Merry and Pippin, bubbling over with excitement and bearing an assortment of bottles, flasks and savoury-smelling parcels that appeared to entirely cover the back of a pony standing by the gate.
They hurled themselves at Boromir bearing him onto his back on the floor, where a tickle fight began that threatened to re-arrange the Bag-End furnishings. As Frodo protested and they picked themselves up, Pippin whisked out the door to the pony again, and Merry brushed himself down, trying to look more dignified. “He’s walking out with Diamond of Long Cleeve,” Merry told Boromir, “and it’s making him seem permanently tipsy.”
The first round of hugging and hilarity had barely finished when Sam came up the garden path, with Rosie and their brood, which began another round of embracing and introductions and then Boromir had to distribute all the gifts and letters in his bag.
Boromir had feared facing Sam, almost more than Frodo himself, but whilst the company fussed over the children, Frodo drew Sam to him. As Sam listened to Frodo, he stared at Boromir who was laughing softly, his infant son held close in the man’s huge arms, and saw suffering and love reflected in the scarred face. ‘I reckon he’s glad to be amongst friends, Samwise, so you bid him welcome,’ he thought and bustled forward, to kiss his wife, his babe and the top of Boromir’s blonde head, before beginning to organise Pippin’s laying of the dinner table more efficiently.
The night was long and merry with tales and many toasts and Boromir ended by sleeping on the floor of Frodo’s study. The house was quiet the next morning when he stepped out for a breath of air and to see Hobbiton in daylight, and came upon Sam, hoeing between his rows of potato plants. The two fell into a discussion about soils and Boromir told him of his hopes for the Harlond orchards. “You need to put bee skips between the rows,” said Sam firmly, “to help with the work at blossom time.” “Have no fear of that, Master Gamgee. The bees are dear to me,” replied Boromir, “for I owe them much.” And he found himself, much to his surprise, telling Sam about the Warg attack, peeling off his shirt so that Sam could see the fading scars on his chest. Sam nodded, adding his own account of how they had treated Frodo’s wounds.
Some days later, as Boromir went to take his leave of them, he found Sam pressing a damp bundle wrapped in sacking into his hands, with an injunction to keep the base of it moist. “Apple tree seedlings from the Gaffer’s plot, Lord Boromir. They’ll give you the best cider apples in Gondor…and fast growing too,” he said proudly, “Your son won’t have to wait for old age to see the first pressing. And remember,” he added, “You talk to your bees. They like to know what’s a-going on.”
The journey homeward was both lighter and wearisome. Boromir ached to see Aragorn and their son. He had thought on Frodo’s words, but could only imagine difficulties ahead and remembered his promise to Arwen. In Edoras, Eomer, indignant that he had missed him on the outward journey, held a feast of such riotous good humour for his sister husband’s brother that Boromir left the next day late into the afternoon, set on a quiet few miles to clear his head.
It was as he swung west along the flank of the White Mountains towards home that he began to feel that he was no longer alone in the landscape. There were scattered settlements to be sure and the odd parties of hunters with whom to exchange a few words, but on more than one evening he was sure his camp was watched.
The countryside was considered peaceful these days and Boromir had gone lightly armed. Celond had forbidden him the use of his long sword and heavy shield, but he carried the short bow with which he was reckoned a useful shot and the long knife of a street fighter. When he heard some rustling around his fire that night, he rose quietly, notched an arrow in the bowstring and struck out from the light to make a sweep around his camp, starting with the tethered lines where his horses stood, heads down, seemingly undisturbed.
As he stood silent in the darkness, he had all but decided that the rustling was some small forest creature when the faint tang of pipeweed drifted to his nostrils and coming from the direction of his own campfire. As he emerged once again into the light, he found two tall, cloaked and hooded Rangers lounging by his fire, feet stretched out and one of them apparently finishing off his roast hare. “Since when did Rangers stoop to taking food unasked?” he enquired, advancing toward them, one hand to the knife hilt. The Ranger with the hare, stopped eating and leant towards his companion. “You know, Sire, brotherly love stands for little these days.” Faramir pushed back his hood in time to receive a crushing embrace from Boromir, whilst Aragorn sucked contentedly on his pipe, grinning at them all the while.
Boromir was loathe to let his brother go, and his smile was as wide as it was warm, “Glad I am to see you both!” Aragorn inclined his head graciously, “but you have taken my supper.” “This is true, brother,” said Faramir wresting himself from Boromir’s embrace and going to pick up a bulging pack on the ground. “We hope to make amends.” And he unpacked bread, a cheese, a plump meat pie, a stone bottle of ale and a flask, from which he poured Boromir a share into a silver thimble. “Miruvor! Where did you find this?” Boromir felt the liquor slide down inside him, wrap itself around his innards, stroke and warm them and then explode in a burst of golden flowers on his tongue. “I have a little saved,” said Aragorn, “for special occasions.”
“Have you been shadowing me for the last three days?” Boromir asked as Aragorn stretched forward to take up a morsel of cheese. “No, Allane has been with you. Safe home Allane!” he called out and “Safe home!” came back from the darkness. The men settled around the fire with their food and Boromir asked gruffly, his speech muffled in pie, “How’s the lad been doing?” “Well. School is closed for the Harvest break, so we sent him to visit Nan. Legolas is going with him and he’s planning to teach Arin to ride. He’s grown, Boromir.” Aragorn smiled and Boromir swallowed hard and nodded.
Hunger sated, the three sat and talked over the events of the last few weeks across Middle Earth. Boromir told them some of his exchange with Frodo, although most of it would stay hidden in his heart, and he passed on to them letters from the hobbits. As he watched them break the seals and skim the pages, Boromir asked, “And did you come all this way to bring me in safe, or were you homesick for the Ranger life?” Aragorn looked up. “There was that.” He glanced at Faramir, who was watching them, adding “However, also we wished to put a case to you – or at least offer a choice to you.” Faramir spoke, his voice warm. “We wondered if you had thought more on the Healer’s words?” Boromir glanced at Aragorn whose eyes told him that he was cared for come what might, and turned to his brother. “I have had long hours to wrestle with this brother and I am resolved. I will try his way and soon.”
Aragorn picked up a stick and poked the dying embers of the fire into a brief blaze that sparked and flared. “This will be a trial.” He raised his eyes to Boromir’s face. “We would help as best we might and had thought that a retreat away from the bustle of the city might be welcome. I have opened up the hunting lodge and Celond and his assistant are there now. We will reach it tomorrow. At the least you may speak with him further.”
For a moment Boromir’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, for this was come upon him unawares, but a little reflection and he saw the good of it. He could avoid the gaze of the curious around the Houses of Healing and Arin would not have to see his father sick a-bed. The thought that if all should fall awry he would never see the child again brought him up short and Faramir, studying his face closely, said, “He is less than a day’s ride away.” Boromir looked at them both. “I will go to the lodge.” Aragorn threw his stick into the fire, “We will go together.”
When they walked into its courtyard the next morning leading the horses, Boromir could see the change in the place; shutters opened and the quiet bustle of a few capable servants had brought it to life, yet it was private still. They were shown to rooms readied for them and Boromir took the opportunity to bathe before joining the company, gathered in a room bright with sunshine from windows on three sides, where Celond had him strip and lie flat on the top of a long table.
Celond spent some time examining him and seemed satisfied that his travels had not taken too much from his body. “My lord,” he said, “we can do this tomorrow if you desire it. All is ready, but you must understand what you face,” and as Boromir dressed, once again he laid out for the men the steps he meant to take. Faramir, hearing the details for the first time, gripped the arms of his chair and breathed soft, more fearful for his brother than he had expected. “My first and simple choice, is to loose you and sew up the sack,” Celond continued, “but in truth until we begin to work we cannot know exactly how the scarring knits together and it is possible that there may have been damage we cannot see that has added to the way you are tied down. You know that the men of Harad have a fashion amongst their warriors to cut away this skin,” and his fingers ghosted lightly against the foreskin. “It is done when a youth comes of age or when he kills his first foe and we know that the wound can be readily healed, although with care. If I cannot free you or cut away the scarring without leaving too much damage I would wish to…” “…turn me Haradrim,” growled Boromir, but he nodded and then met Aragorn’s gaze. “If he should do that, I would dress you as they dress their warriors, with gold at your wrist and ankle,” soothed Aragorn.
“We must do this work while you are awake my lord. The pain is a signal to me that we do not stray from our course. If you should lose the pain, then we must know, for great danger lies that way.” Faramir took in a shaking breath, but Boromir went to enfold him in his arms, saying, “Little brother, this pain is for me a blessed trial.” And he kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Through the rest of that day the three men walked in the grounds surrounding the lodge, enjoying the harvest sun on their faces. Boromir roughly dug in Sam’s bundle of apple seedlings to a sheltered place, and they talking quietly of small things. After supper, Celond appeared in the parlour with a sleeping draught. “I need you fully rested, my lord,” he said, handing him a cup containing a dark liquid. Boromir swallowed it down protesting, for the taste was bitter, but the final few drops from Aragorn’s flask of minuvor on his tongue smoothed his brow, and as the drug began to overcome him, Faramir and Aragorn took him to his bed, attended him and laid him down on cool sheets.
“Arin – where is Arin?” Aragorn lifted him up to place another pillow at his back. “He is gone on a visit to Nan.” Aragorn patiently repeated and Boromir sighed and lay back, eyelids heavy with sleep. “I sent the elf with him and Beregond has lent them a pony his daughters have outgrown. If he gets on well with it, Legolas will find him something for his own.”
“You know that our brother-in-law will feel slighted if he is not consulted about this.” Faramir stroked the hair out of Boromir’s eyes, as Boromir fought to keep them open. “You’re not putting him up on one of Eomer’s great beasts…I won’t…allow…” His voice trailed away and he slept.
In the morning Celond would allow him no food other than a cup of sweet wine in which he had mixed a powerful herbal draught to quiet him. Boromir watched as though through a window at another man as they spread-eagled him and tied him along the heavy table with soft ropes, but so tight that he could move no more than his head from side-to-side. Then his brother carefully shaved his groin, whilst Aragorn knelt beside his shoulder and, turning Boromir’s head gently so that he could gaze into his eyes, told him stories of what Arin and Rullo had been doing in his absence.
The healer was laying out his gear on a side table, running thin blades through the flame of a lamp and pouring raw spirits over his hands. His assistant was heating the ends of long steel pins in another fire and placing hot water, salt and clean cloths to hand. When Faramir had finished, the man came forward with a cloth dipped in the spirits and wiped the freshly shaved skin. It stung, particularly where the flesh was raw and a tear leaked from Boromir’s eye. Aragorn wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and took it into his mouth to taste.
Celond approached the table to speak to him. “My lord, you know what I must do and why you must be awake through it. These men will hold you, for a sudden movement could cause the knife to cut where I cannot heal nor stem the bleeding, even to the forfeit of your life. If you can be still of your own volition I have the best chance of being quick and neat. Try to keep your breathing even. Do you understand me?” Boromir inclined his head and his eyes sought Aragorn’s gaze again.
Faramir placed a leather strap between Boromir’s teeth and lay down across his brother’s torso, his full weight pinning him down. Aragorn cupped his scarred cheek in one hand for a moment and then went to his feet, kneeling on the table-top, straddling his legs, his hands gripping Boromir’s thighs. The men could still see one another up until Celond and the assistant bent over Boromir to work and, just before they began, Aragorn dragged his thumbs over the muscles of Boromir’s thighs in recognition.
A gasp and a ragged intake of breath signalled the beginning of pain that flowed crimson around and through Boromir. He fought not to tense but to melt, to breath into it, becoming dazed with the sensation. Above him, Aragorn could feel the tears trickling down his own face, but still the thighs below his hands felt pliable. The only expressions of Boromir’s agony were the soft groans that issued around the leather strap in his mouth. Faramir laid his head to his faintly trembling side and prayed to Eru for his brother’s life.
The healers were undeniably nimble. Once he was done with the knife, one-by-one the assistant handed Celond the white hot pins, with which he stemmed the bleeding and then threw them done into a bucket of water that hissed and steamed. The smell of burning flesh scoured Aragorn’s nostrils. Now Celond was bent close over his patient with fine needles and thread and finally the assistant poured a liberal measure of the raw spirits over the whole, which caused Boromir to cry out for the only time, a choking scream, and they were swabbing the excess liquid away, binding him firmly, covering all in oilcloth and packing his groin in cold, wet cloths to reduce the swelling.
Celond motioned Faramir to rise from his place. He untied Boromir’s arms and Faramir and Aragorn supported Boromir’s head and shoulders as Celond fed him a few spoonfuls of warm mead. Then they laid him down again, with a small pillow under his head. Celond looked closely into his patient’s eyes and seemed satisfied with what he saw.
“I think that we have both done well,” he told Boromir, “but we will leave the ropes, loosened, on your ankles for the time being. I have cut away the scarring to the sack that was holding you close and taken a deal of the skin from your sex besides. It had been badly torn and had healed worse. The flesh will swell and there will be pain for some time, but we can control that. My lord, for now you will have more of the chasteberry liquor. You must not harden, but so that the healing flesh of your sack knows how far to stretch, we will bind you, using honey and oils to protect the new skin. You know, my lord, that there is every hope that you will sire more children.”
At this last, Boromir tried a small laugh, which turned into a cough and a wince. Celond told him to rest and he and his assistant began to clear the room of their tools. Faramir drew two chairs up beside the table, whilst Aragorn poured them cups of mead and they settled down, one on either side, to talk him into slumber, keeping their voices low.
All day they watched, silent as he slept, fetching and carrying for Celond or his assistant as they returned periodically to change the cold wet compresses or check that all was still dry under the oilcloth.
As evening came they wakened him and coaxed him to a little broth and more mead, sweetened further with extra honey, dressed his torso in a warm shirt and laid a soft blanket over his feet and calves. Celond came to check on his patient before retiring for the night and brought a sleeping draught, which he swallowed with minimal fuss.
Faramir had closed the shutters, fetched more wood and was banking up the fire to keep the room warm, whilst Aragorn teased him towards sleep, soothing the old scars on his chest with supple fingers coated in Celond’s healing oils and with warm praise for his bravery, for the stoutest of hearts. “The pity is, “ he said, “that we must be so secret and no-one will know the true valour of Boromir of Gondor in the face of unthinkable pain.” Boromir chuckled and yawned, mumbling, “You jest…and I’ve met worse pain and for longer.”
The drugs were sinking him further into stupor, the slightest movement of his head was exhausting, thinking an effort beyond him. Aragorn looked down at the neat, faint scar across his belly below the navel. It was old and ran under the Warg marks, but it had been a great wound.
“Boromir,” he said softly to the drowsy man, running his fingers along the silvery line. “Where did this long scar come from?”
Boromir’s eyes tried to focus on Aragorn’s face. “Arin,” he sighed, “your babe was a full-term child.” And his eyelids closed against Aragorn’s white face and horrified gaze.
For a long moment the chamber was silent but for the crackle of the fire. Faramir wondered if Aragorn might faint, he looked so pale, stood clutching the edge of the table.
“How could this be? We lay together a handful of times in Lothlorien.”
Faramir took pity on the stunned man.
“It is a place of enchantment.”
“For a man to carry a child! I have heard in legend of Elven lovers…”
Faramir had wondered this many hours and stroked his brother’s sleeping face, offering Aragorn the only explanation he had been able to conjure up. “When Arin was conceived you had no heir and were set on a quest given small chance of succeeding. Perhaps Isildur’s blood took what chance was offered to it…and our Mother, Finduilas, was of the true Dunedain…blood on both sides.”
Aragorn looked into the eyes of the man opposite, seemed to see him for the first time as his lover’s brother and an expression of guilt swept over his face.
“I cast him into the river. I was almost the death of him…of them.” This time he did sway and Faramir caught him, sat him down on the stone floor and slumped beside him.
“Aragorn,” said Faramir, as the shadows lengthened around them, “ask him when he wakes.” He shook his head lightly at Aragorn’s keen glance, “It is not my tale to tell.” Faramir arose to fetch oil lamps for the darkening room and Aragorn sat still by his love’s side, waiting to hear his fate.
The next day, although Celond remained pleased with his progress, contained long hours of discomfort for Boromir, and Aragorn judged it not the time to speak. Instead, with Faramir, he helped care for the man. Celond had them untie him and support him as he stood and walked slowly to a garderobe to make water into a bowl so that the Healer could check it for blood. Satisfied with what he saw, Celond stood by as his assistant stripped off all the dressings except the one on his sex, cleaned the wounds of dried blood, laid on soothing salves, re-bandaged and re-laid fresh cold compresses. He was bound to support the weight of the healing sack, but his cock lay free above the linens and through the aches Boromir felt some renewed freedom, no longer tied down by his own ruined flesh.
He ate sparingly, mostly broth, but Celond allowed him small ale and warm mead to contain the drugs that kept him dozing most of the day. Aragorn had packed some of his lightest silk robes and his brother helped him dress. They sat for a while in the garden and after the evening meal gathered by a lit fire in his room, to talk and listen to Aragorn read to them. He had had a crate of volumes brought from Boromir’s library and told them an old tale of lovers torn asunder by war who finally re-unite. “How did you know what to bring, amongst so many books?” asked Faramir later. “I sat in his chair and stretched out my hands and took everything within simple reach,” replied Aragorn, turning over a history of Gondor, rich with hand-coloured maps.
Over the next few days, Boromir’s strength grew, although he was still cautious in his movements and Celond remained pleased with how the flesh was knitting. His body was less swollen; all his bandages were now changed daily, and he would walk in the garden, sometimes sitting on a sheltered bench that offered a view across the plain towards Minas Tirith. It was there that Aragorn found him one afternoon and sat down beside him. The chasteberry potion, whilst it sated his desires, did not dull the love Boromir felt for the man beside him and as they sat and looked out over the countryside in the late afternoon sun, he felt Aragorn lay a roughened, but gentle, hand over his and Boromir moved his fingers slightly so that they could inter-twine. Although they were oft times able to sit together content in silence, after some minutes Boromir knew that his love was holding back words and squeezed his hand, granting him permission to speak.
“The first night, when you lay on the table, do you remember my tending the weals on your chest with the healing oil?”
“Barely, love. Celond’s potions are strong and I will admit to weariness that had turned my bones to water.”
Aragorn hesitated and then he said quietly, “I asked you about the great scar across your belly and you told me.”
As Boromir’s fingers stiffened under his, Aragorn kept hold of his hand, but slipped to his knees to gaze up into Boromir’s face. Boromir’s expression was a mixture of fear and love and confusion that tore at Aragorn’s resolve and he brought Boromir’s fingers to his lips and then to his forehead, silently pledging himself to keep this man and their son, in whatever way he might.
“His eyes are your eyes,” whispered Boromir, taking an uncertain step into the gulf that had opened up before him, but one where the kingly man holding his hand offered himself as the only strength that Boromir thought he would ever need.
“Faramir would not tell me what happened to you after Amon Hen.”
Boromir leaned forward and stroked Aragorn’s hair.
“The River would not take me, love.”
He thought for a moment. “Or mayhap it would have claimed me as dead to this world, but it would not carry away the child, the spark of Isildur’s flame that flickered in me.” He smiled reassuringly to Aragorn. “I do not remember you putting me into the boat,” and Aragorn looked down to hide the tears that came unbidden. “I remember the sound of Rauros. There was a rainbow mist of water and a roaring like a great beast and then a great beast came, and lifted me from the boat. A great black bear with sopping fur lifted me up as though I was a child myself…a Beorning. I had only heard of Beorn in song and this Beorning had ranged South, but it carried me for days together until we came to a home-place, a hall surrounded by a meadow, thick with flowers and the bees, Aragorn! Great black and gold jewels that flew. They fed me on cream and soft bread and honey and some golden dust that they would blow over my tongue. It tasted like honey and I breathed it in. And I grew fat. They had great skill as Healers, although no skills alone could dull the pain when our son was born, but their closing of me was neat. When later I needed healing again, I bethought to the Beorning and tried what the honey could do.” He paused and drew a trembling breath as though the long-held tale had pulled at his insides in its passing. “Celond would enjoy that tale, but he must not hear it. Aragorn, we cannot call Arin ours to the general eyes of men. I would not have him marked by those who will never know enchantment and so fear it.”
Aragorn dropped his head to his chest, was still a moment and then said sadly, “He is a child of the blood of Isildur’s line. It should be enough… How many know of his making?”
“Frodo knows. I told him and the wise hobbit said I should tell you. And Arwen.” Aragorn’s face was blank. “Your Queen saw you in him the first day we came home. I could not dissemble before her, but I have come to believe that the long lives of Elves have made some of them wise and some of them compassionate. She has never treated either of us with less than kindness and courtesy…and perhaps she gives her blessing.” Boromir drew from within his shirt the wine-dark slip of silk and unwrapped it. “When I stopped here on the first night of my journey, this was in my bedroll. It has been my help-meet.” He took the knot and placed it in Aragorn’s outstretched palm.
The King gazed at the tiny thing and then looked up at Boromir. “This is Elven work.” As he handed the knot back to Boromir, Aragorn rose from his knees and sat beside him once again and they looked out across the valley.
“You have cared for Arin all his life. I will be guided by you, but I will not be less to him than his uncle.”
This time it was Boromir who brought Aragorn’s fingers to his lips.
“We will find a way through the years. And I will be your Steward.”
Another two weeks passed, Faramir went back to Ithilien, promising to return later and to bring Arin with him, and Celond proclaimed himself well pleased. To Aragorn’s eyes, Boromir seemed younger, as though weight had lifted from his shoulders and his love’s eyes sparkled, his step became lighter. The bandaging was gradually done away with, although the daily ritual of oils remained, the tiny stitches had gone and now the chasteberry liquor was lessened.
Celond had gone back to the Houses of Healing, leaving his assistant to watch over him, but had returned this day to oversee the final steps. Boromir was laid naked on the long table. This time he was alone with the Healer. Celond pinched some skin on the inside of the top of his right thigh, and nodded in satisfaction when the sack beside it twitched. “We need to tempt your body to try out its full compass, my lord. Tonight you will have a small amount of the drug and for the next few days and we will see what sleep can do.”
It was on the morning of the third day that Boromir awoke, with a familiar ache in his groin, moved gently in his bed and gasped as the still tender head scraped across the bedcover. He was giddy for a moment, but his breathing gradually calmed and after a few moments he drew back the sheet. He did not dare yet touch, fearful that to touch would be to come, and that might be too much for the newly healed skin, but he saw himself strong again.
Over the next few days, appetite returned and then hunger, but still he would not bring himself to completion and now, each time he hardened, there was a heavy aching in his sack. Then one night he awoke, body spasming, drowning in pleasure and sudden agony too and found his sheets spattered with a thick and blood-spotted nightfall. He could not tell the assistant, and was bewildered at his newly-found shyness, but confided in Aragorn as they walked, who smiled warmly at him. “Boromir, your body wishes to return to its old, good, ways and must clear the stale seed.” Aragorn saw heat come to his cheeks and Boromir felt himself a callow youth again, learning his body in confusion and shame, but his love would not let him brood on it, saying, “I will prepare a syrup of poppies to blunt the pain.”
It was as he sat with Aragorn over the noon meal the following day that a servant entered and whispered low in the King’s ear, who cast down his knife and rose from the table, catching at Boromir’s sleeve, saying, “We have guests,” and dragging him to his feet. They walked out into the yard and Aragorn led him to the gate, from where he could see the greenway to the lodge. Some half-league distant three riders approached. Faramir’s big roan was well-known to him and Legolas’ grey stepped as daintily as ever, but between them, sitting very upright on a sturdy chestnut pony with a flaxen mane that swept to its knees, was a small boy, managing the reins of his first mount with pride and concentration.
Boromir began to run towards them and saw the boy catch sight of him, heard him exclaim to Legolas, who waved him on, and saw Arin urge his pony into a brisk trot. Boromir met him at the top of a small rise and caught at the pony’s rein as Arin brought it to a halt. “Adar!” Arin’s arms opened wide and Boromir dragged him from the pony’s back and hugged him fiercely. “I have missed you boy!” Arin wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and kissed him, hardly drawing breath through a tumbling monologue in which his joy at seeing his father again was entwined with news about Nan and Rullo and the pony, which was ‘only a loan and I have to give it back.’
The others of the party had arrived and Aragorn had caught up the wandering pony. As Boromir went to greet Legolas and to thank him, he saw in the corner of his eye, Aragorn gently lay his hand on Arin’s head, whilst the child, uncaring of his presence, chattered to Faramir. Then Arin turned to the King and said “Can I get up now please?” and the man nodded, dumbly, lifted him onto the pony and helped him find his stirrups and gather up his reins. Arin thanked him politely, meeting his gaze a little shyly and then turned his mount away to go upsides Arod again. As the riders went ahead to the lodge, Boromir and Aragorn followed slowly. Boromir slipped an arm around Aragorn’s waist. “He will come to know you as more than his King, I promise you this, on my life.”
The riding party stayed one night before returning, Arin and Legolas to the mill for a few more days of liberty and Faramir to Ithilien. As night came on, Boromir took Aragorn by the hand and drew him to the boy’s bedside, where Boromir and Arin lay, propped up by pillows. Aragorn told them a tale of adventure in Gondor long ago. Arin’s eyes grew round and if Boromir knew it to be one of Thorongil’s exploits, he said nothing.
Boromir and Aragorn left the lodge two days later, riding into Minas Tirith in mid-afternoon, Aragorn bare-headed, so that the first recognition by the guard at the main gate had trumpets pealing all the way up before them. Boromir rode into the palace courtyard with Aragorn, where he jumped down to take his King’s stirrup and help him dismount before the grooms could reach them. “That was a Steward’s courtesy,” murmured Aragorn for his ears only, “and you do the King honour, but I would re-shape the title for this Fourth Age… no-more the servant’s role.”
So saying, the King entered into his palace and Boromir strode down to the Sixth Level, where he went briefly to Celond, and thence to open up the house, although in truth all was ready ahead of his arrival. Aragorn spent time in speech with Arwen and playing with Eldarion. The King and the Queen strolled, arm-in-arm, in her garden and at the last she kissed his lips and sent him to his Steward.
Sunset found the men walking together in Boromir’s garden, arms entwined.
They had not been lovers since before Amon Hen, but Aragorn thought he could remember the very feel of Boromir’s weight in his arms, the way that Boromir had laved at throat and hip, made him gasp and beg, and now the man’s touch made his body thrum once again. He stopped on the path and caught Boromir to him firmly.
Aragorn bent his head into Boromir’s neck, drawing in his scent, then he stroked the hair curled around the back of an ear and asked “Will you lie with me tonight, Boromir of Gondor?” “That I will,” replied Boromir, meeting his gaze, “although…” and laughter bubbled in his throat. Aragorn tilted his head sideways in query and his smile matched Boromir’s answering grin.
“Although…?” he asked.
“It will seem strange to lie together in a bed…”
“We could sleep on the floor, or out here…”
“I am a delicate soul in need of tender care.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn said dryly, but he caught Boromir’s mouth in the softest of kisses, that barely brushed his lips with warmth.
In his chamber, Boromir had opened up the long shutters leading onto the balcony, and the last of a harvest breeze blew warm into the room to send the oil lamps flickering. Warm water scented with spiced oils had been poured into the tub before the fire and Aragorn lay soaking as Boromir massaged his shoulders, his fingers sweeping over taut muscle. Boromir had watched him undress earlier for the first time in many years and wondered anew at the dark beauty of the man. Perhaps there was the lightest dusting of silver in the hair on his chest, to match the streaks in his hair, but he was muscled and lithe still and to Boromir’s eyes the ideal of a warrior.
Boromir had made his own preparations earlier, quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, whilst Aragorn stood on the balcony with a glass of sweet wine. It was one matter to display his shattered beauty to Aragorn in the presence of healers, but now he would stand before him as a lover and Boromir found himself draping his damp frame loosely in a silk robe, uncertain anew of how his body and his love would respond.
As the water cooled Boromir held out a towel which had been warming before the fire and let Aragorn step into his arms, whilst he dried him. As he worked down his body he came to his cock, stood stiff before him, laid a brief kiss to the rosy tip and quickly skimmed past it to dry down his long legs. When Boromir stood up again before him, Aragorn captured him very gently by his erection, laying it besides his own in his large palm. For a moment the two men looked at the now very visible differences between them. “You look very sleek and strong, like Arod,” said Aragorn. Boromir’s lip trembled, “If you are comparing me to a horse, my lord…” then Aragorn took the breath from him completely, by moving him back slightly with both hands on his shoulders, lining up the heads of their cocks to touch tip to tip and sliding the skin on his own erection out and over the head of Boromir’s cock. Boromir gasped and laid his forehead on Aragorn’s shoulder, smelling the spiced oil that reminded him of the pinks in Frodo’s garden, whilst the older man gently worked them together, sliding the edge of his foreskin around the rim of Boromir’s head, who groaned and rolled his hips, causing Aragorn to gasp in his turn.
Sparks of pleasure were jumping in his body and behind his eyes, so that he did not object when Aragorn broke their hold and enveloped him in warm arms, sliding the robe off his shoulders so that they pressed together all along their bodies. Aragorn’s hands were more insistent now, caressing his shoulderblades, tracing long muscles, kneading at firm buttocks. His King was breathing hard and as their eyes met, long years fell away in a shared hunger. Aragorn would have pressed him back onto the bed, but Boromir resisted, turned his back on him and bent to take hold of one of the massive posts of the bed. Aragorn stilled for a moment, a hand laid on his flank and gazed at the golden back. There was not a scar, nor a blemish, anywhere, only supple muscle and velvet skin and he understood what it was that Boromir sought to offer to him.
Very gently Aragorn reached up, unclasped Boromir’s hands from the carved wood and turned him into his embrace again, saying “Love, I could not wish for the man I knew back here with me again. I love the man before me, shaped by time and trial,” and one hand pressed to Arin’s scar, he took Boromir’s mouth in a deep kiss.
As they emerged breathless, Boromir said gruffly, “Please, do this for me.” A long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he bowed his head and carefully replaced Boromir’s hands where they had been on the post. As Boromir shifted his stance wider, he fetched a flagon of sweet almond oil from beside the tub. Boromir knew that no amount of preparation would make this first time in an age, anything other than painful, but he had almost forgotten the aching pleasure that went along with it. He was sweating freely, rocking back against deep thrusts, when he felt Aragorn reach for his cock, swinging free. Boromir batted his hand away and behind him Aragorn groaned, wrapped an arm around his waist and laid his cheek to Boromir’s hair. His rhythm was becoming ragged, a low stream of Elvish sounded in Boromir’s ear and then he could feel his climax sweep over Aragorn in five or six great swooping thrusts that took him up on the balls of his feet.
When they untangled themselves and Boromir went to find a towel to dry them off, his erection still half-hard, Aragorn watched him closely, leaning back against the post, catching his breath. He stooped to pick up Boromir’s silk robe and as he passed it to him, receiving back the towel, said, “Love, let me take care of you. I promise I will not hurt you.” Boromir looked at him, smiled briefly and wrapped the robe around himself. “Later, I would lie quiet with you now.”
As Boromir emerged out of sleep, he was lying on his back between Aragorn’s legs, body cradled in the other man’s arms. The moon was up, a true harvest moon, bathing them both in silver light. Aragorn was whispering words of love into his ear and when he saw Boromir was awake, curled sideways to kiss him, biting softly along the edge of Boromir’s lips, probing gently with his tongue.
Boromir sighed and drew the tip into his mouth, and now they were able to taste one-another, Boromir finding the bitter tang of smoke on his love’s breath amidst the sweetness of the wine and the taste of Aragorn himself.
Their love-making was unhurried, each content at the first to trace the planes of the other’s form; to shower kisses over eyelids, temples, jaw-lines, run a tongue along the curved line of an ear. Then Aragorn caught Boromir’s earlobe between his teeth and nipped hard and Boromir felt the sharp jag of pleasure travel all the way to his groin. He moaned deep in his chest, which Aragorn took for encouragement and half-turned him in his arms to lavish wet kisses down the length of his throat until he reached the rise of his collarbone, where he took in a mouthful of flesh and sucked hard to raise a purple blush brand on his love’s skin. Boromir writhed in his grasp, his hips lifting fractionally and straining to offer his prone body, to present more of his flesh to Aragorn, who began to open the front of his robe, his fingers seeking, and finding, the swollen nubs which connected most immediately to his lover’s sex.
Urgent now, Aragorn shifted their positions, levering himself out from under Boromir to lie beside him, spreading the tunic wide and burrowing with his face into the man’s chest. Boromir was dizzy, the heat of Aragorn’s breath, the scratch of his beard on his breast was causing feeling to rush to his groin and a familiar and a good ache began to spread outward from his member, already grown half-hard. As Aragorn’s tongue circled his nipples, suckling and laving, nipping and pulling, the soft sounds in his throat became a mewling needy thread. He was breathing shallow, the fear of pain being overwhelmed by the sensation of being swept along in this man’s hunger…and yet it was not an unthinking, savage, need to feed, for Aragorn took in a ragged breath and raised his head, his eyes drugged with sensation but a soft smile on his lips, wet and swollen . He brushed damp locks back from Boromir’s eyes and asked. “Is it well with you, lover?” to which Boromir could only reply with a nod and a ravenous kiss to his mouth, that left the Ranger breathless. Aragorn gasped as they broke apart and laid his forehead on Boromir’s breast, saying “Let me do this for you.” Boromir stroked down his sweat-covered back and whispered “Aye” before he lay back and sank willingly into the moment. His nipples and his groin were aching, and as Aragorn swept down his body with soft kisses and bites, weaving his way amongst the tracery of silver scars, a throbbing began in his cock, now erect and purpling. Boromir could feel the pull on the skin of the sack, but there was no pain, only sharp pleasure and for the last time, slow tears began to run on his face.
Aragorn’s mouth had reached his navel, where the tip of his tongue teased and dipped and then marked a broad wet trail down the join between leg and groin until his nose rested snug into the curls at the base of Boromir’s cock, damp with sweat. Boromir watched as Aragorn leant slowly forward and blew gently on the head, which twitched in greeting, tearing a groan from Boromir’s throat. The tip of Aragorn’s tongue came out and softly nuzzled at the slit, catching up the clear drops at its edge and spreading them over the head, before his mouth opened further to take it in. Boromir cried out in pleasure and Aragorn sucked greedily at his prize, working around the rim with his tongue whilst one hand held the shaft loosely, moving his hand slowly in time with his sucking.
There was an old tightness pooling in Boromir’s groin that could have been his climax beginning to build, but for a moment the fear returned to him, so that he clutched at Aragorn’s shoulder, whispering “Wait! Aragorn, please.” Aragorn closed his eyes and let him go, rolled over onto his back panting, allowing his own erection to spring free and as Boromir’s breathing calmed beside him, he stroked himself lazily. Then he raised himself on his elbows and stretched over to catch up the jug of oil. Boromir took the oil from him and poured some into Aragorn’s palms, the men exchanged words unspoken and Aragorn pressed his hands together, before bending to kiss Boromir, letting him taste himself faintly, sweet and salt, in his mouth.
Boromir took Aragorn’s hand in his and guided it to his straining cock and as Aragorn closed his oiled fist on him, a hot mouth with flickering tongue suckling at his breast, he lay back on the bed. Aragorn was working him slowly but firmly this time, so that Boromir could feel the waves of sensation spreading and building through every fibre and when more slick fingers swept below and behind his cock, not seeking entrance to his body, but stroking and pressing against hardening flesh, he could barely suck in the air to stay conscious.
He was keening and the tightening feeling had begun again in his groin, but now he dared to breathe into it and when the climax came pouring over him, he choked out his love’s name, feeling thick cream spatter on his stomach and chest. Aragorn leaned across him, trying to hold him down, to ensure that there was no unlucky pull on fragile skin and then bathed him slowly with his tongue, until Boromir could reach for him, to stroke Aragorn to completion and finally they slept. This time Aragorn lay between his legs, cradled in Boromir’s arms and their sleep was calm and deep, as though they knew that they had come home.
After that time they had explored the edges of the possible in their love-making with more freedom. Aragorn had relished the return to the close heat of his lover’s body, nevertheless there had been some small reticence until the day, months later, when Boromir, returned from a round of frustrating diplomacy, found his King waiting in his library, bent him over a sturdy table and took him; loved him with deep, urgent, strokes that drove Aragorn to the edge of delirium, and a savage grip on his hair, pulling his head back so that Boromir could whisper dark desires into his ear. And as they lay slumped on the floor regaining their breath, Boromir reached over to his pack, cast aside in the struggle, and brought out thin gold bracelets of Harad design to clasp around his love’s wrists and ankles.
But the true mystery of it was that a few days later, one of the Harlond gardeners, crossing the orchard early, swore that he saw the Master through the morning mist, walking amidst the bee skips and talking to the bees.
His first evening was spent in a small lodge that Aragorn had built as a retreat and for hunting in the White Mountains. He was making for Edoras and then the Gap of Rohan, but Celond had asked that he sleep as many nights under a proper roof as he was able. The caretaker made him welcome, opened up a room for him and Boromir saw to his horses before settling down for the night.
As he unpacked his bedroll a slip of wine-dark silk fluttered from out of its folds and when he unbound the little package, he found within it a tiny knot of hair tied with silk thread. The knot entwined two dark curls, one baby soft, the other harsher, threaded with silver and Boromir wondered if this delicate thing was Arwen’s work.
In the morning, he carefully followed Celond’s guidance, taking the time with oil and honey to prepare his body for another day’s exertion, but his thoughts roamed as he worked, thinking on those he had left behind. As he readied to leave, he took up the little package again and pinned it inside the breast of his shirt. He would come home to them, to love them as was allowed to him.
The journeying over the coming weeks was easy for the most part, the weather fair enough. Although Eomer King was from home, Edoras welcomed him graciously. That evening he went to Theodred’s grave and offered a warrior’s tears for the young man he had last seen racing his cousin across the plains. On the morrow, he was offered remounts and took them gladly, riding out from the gates, with the wind at his back and a clear path before.
Along the Old South Road he travelled, taking in as he went homes rebuilt and signs of renewal that cheered his mood. It was as he crossed the Greyflood onto The Greenway, and neared the borders of the Shire, that fear began to knaw at him again and he had to force himself to ride forward with as much pace as before. His beasts seemed to sense his mood and would have turned for home, but Boromir dragged in great breaths and drove them on.
At the fork in the road that led to the Sarn Ford, he branched right, travelling North. Having come so far, he would not presume that Frodo would wish to look in his face, and determined to send word from Bree – a simple request to visit. Should Frodo refuse him, he would at least travel on to see Merry and Pippin and deliver the messages and remembrances he had been entrusted with.
If Barliman Butterbur, host at The Prancing Pony, was surprised by the quality of the horseman at his door he did not show it and merely beckoned forward a gaping groom, and ushered Boromir to his best bedroom, which had a large fireplace and a window seat with a view along the main street. Certainly, he could have messages sent into The Shire. To Bag-End and Brandy Hall? Nothing easier, the man would set out at first light and now if he might suggest some supper for his lordship? In truth, Boromir would have preferred a chamber further removed from the noise of the taproom and it was a struggle to make the landlord understand his request for hot water to wash in, but the food had been good and his aged warrior’s body ached for once for the comfort of a feather bed.
In the morning a light rain was falling as Boromir passed two sealed notes to a youth mounted on a skinny pony, with a silver coin passed privately for the lad himself. Frodo’s reply came three days later, by which time Boromir was heartily sick of The Prancing Pony and he opened the folded note with urgent fingers, his eyes momentarily blurring the words. Frodo would meet him. He was to leave his horses at the Green Dragon in Bywater and come to Bag-End.
That night, although he drank sparingly, he lingered over his ale. Hunched in the window seat, he did not light the candles at all, allowing the dark to sweep over him. Sick dread, gripping his chest with a cruel pain like none he had felt in many years, filled him up with loathing for the man he had become, who had hidden from this reckoning.
As he rode towards Hobbiton the next day, Boromir came to see why the Hobbits had such pride in their land. Fertile and well-loved fields stretched before him. He thought the people fitted its rolling green hills, their homes snug into the curves of the land, and if recent troubles meant that there were few old trees or ancient hedgerows to be seen, everywhere there was planting, wild flowers as well as crops.
At The Green Dragon inn, he left the horses grazing in a paddock and repacked his gear to take only the barest essentials, along with the gifts and letters, in a large satchel slung across his body. With directions from the landlord he began trudging the short distance towards Hobbiton. He could see the smoke of its chimneys up ahead and rising in the centre, the mound of Bag-End that he recognised from the Hobbits’ stories of old.
The road seemed to mock him, taking an age to wind itself down the valley and up and around the hill, until he found himself standing by a small wooden gate, before a short flight of steps up to a round green door. As he looked down to find the latch of the gate, he heard the door creak and straightened up to see Frodo standing in the opening. The hobbit beckoned slightly and then turned on his heel and disappeared.
Slowly Boromir climbed the steps, ducked his head to pass the threshold and entered Bag-End. Carefully avoiding the roof-beams, he swung the satchel from around his body and set it down in the tiled entrance hall. He could not see Frodo anywhere and wondered whether to close the door or not, but then up ahead, a small figure silhouetted against a burst of sunlight, said “You can close it, Boromir. I thought we might speak in the study. Come through.”
Half-crouching, Boromir followed Frodo through inter-linking round rooms, until they stopped in a cluttered study, with a sloped writing desk. The leaded windows were open to the mid-day sun and Boromir could smell lavender and the cinnamon of old-fashioned pinks. Frodo sat down at the chair in front of the desk and motioned Boromir to a window seat beside it.
The two studied one another for a while. Frodo could readily see the history of hardship across Boromir’s face and thought him weary, whilst to Boromir the Hobbit looked if anything younger, but somehow more fragile.
“The news of your return to Minas Tirith reached the Shire some months back. We were all glad. I had hoped you might come.”
Boromir had prepared no words against this day, but slipped from the seat to his knees, which seemed to him like the only proper attitude for him, faced with the Ringbearer. On his knees Boromir of Gondor humbly begged forgiveness of Frodo and thought that in his huge eyes he saw more understanding than he deserved, and when Frodo asked him to think back to those dark times, to try to remember how he had felt, he willingly stripped bare a memory that had festered deep within him, struggling to voice the doubt and fear that had overwhelmed his best endeavours to uphold his vows to the Fellowship.
“It was as though all I valued was slipping from my grasp and scorching my hands as it flowed from me; every good thought shrivelling, every hope as ash. I fought…with all the strength I had once thought enough and it flowed from me like sand and I was sinking, dry dust filling my mouth so I could not cry for help…and then I was too proud to try any more. I had been chosen for the task and I was a husk, a dead thing.” Boromir’s head sank onto his chest.
After a short pause, Frodo placed chilled fingers onto Boromir’s clasped hands. He spoke quietly and as though with knowledge hard won and heavy to bear. “You were groomed for your role by your father from birth, primed with duty that carried fear alongside it. Gondor lived with the shadow at its gates for so long and your family and your people paid a heavy price for keeping faith with the world of men.
In the Shire, we knew nothing of Rings or Mordor and tended our fields, brewed our ale and hobbit-holes hid us from greater evils than just the heat of a Summer sun. Yet the Ring came to us, to Bilbo and then to me. Perhaps it needed folk who had not been weakened by past sorrow and present dread to fight against it?
So many dark times came to us. When Gandalf was lost in Moria I despaired, but he fell through fire and ice to come back, to aid us, stronger than before – only I did not know it then.” Frodo paused to catch his breath and Boromir wondered at the frail strength of him. “I heard you Boromir, on Amon Hen, I heard you cry out to me, the sorrow in your voice and your grief was like a warning that I must do this alone.
In truth, I do not know if we would have succeeded if the Fellowship had not divided that day, but I know that it did divide and we won through and in the struggle many fine things that were thought lost were found good again. Men and elves have fought together one last time, the King has come into his own, and the Dead sleep.”
All afternoon the two sat and gravely teased apart dark memories. At one point Frodo looked away from Boromir’s gaze and his hands seemed to tremble. Then he asked, “Boromir, were you ever with your father when he used the Palantir?” “Twice,” he replied. Frodo could see a shadow cross the man’s face. “I did not look into it, but it brought a dread chill to the room that reached into you.” Frodo sat silent for a few moments. “It is everything Boromir, a burning hunger and so sweet, so much terrible hope in it. At the last, I was taken by the Ring and paid with my body, but if you had not carried me from Moria…If we had met at the end of the war, at the coronation of the King, I would not have known you as I do now, when I understand wounds that work inwards through the years. But we have met again in quieter and in wiser times.” He wrapped his arms as far around the man’s chest as he could reach and hugged him close, saying, “I call you true friend, Boromir of Gondor, and there is to be no more sorrow between us.”
At this, Boromir bent his head to the hobbit’s shoulder and closed tear-filled eyes and so they remained for some minutes. He had one hand laid to his breast and as they broke apart Frodo looked at him curiously. “Boromir,” he asked, “you are in pain?” Boromir hesitated and then reached in and brought out the little package. He unwrapped it carefully to display the knot and as Frodo stretched forth a stubby finger to touch it, he began to explain to Frodo what it meant. Frodo looked at him with wonder and a little sadness, saying “The enchantment is fading from this world, Boromir. The White Ship will sail soon and I must be on it, but I should have liked a child. This was a great gift. I think you must tell Aragorn, for the magic was of his making too.”
Boromir was doubtful, seeing too many difficulties ahead, but he did not argue the point. Frodo would keep his secret, as he would that of Frodo’s leaving. Now Frodo took him through to the big kitchen to make some tea, and the friends moved to simple talk of old companions, until a hammering and a commotion at the front door announced the arrival of Merry and Pippin, bubbling over with excitement and bearing an assortment of bottles, flasks and savoury-smelling parcels that appeared to entirely cover the back of a pony standing by the gate.
They hurled themselves at Boromir bearing him onto his back on the floor, where a tickle fight began that threatened to re-arrange the Bag-End furnishings. As Frodo protested and they picked themselves up, Pippin whisked out the door to the pony again, and Merry brushed himself down, trying to look more dignified. “He’s walking out with Diamond of Long Cleeve,” Merry told Boromir, “and it’s making him seem permanently tipsy.”
The first round of hugging and hilarity had barely finished when Sam came up the garden path, with Rosie and their brood, which began another round of embracing and introductions and then Boromir had to distribute all the gifts and letters in his bag.
Boromir had feared facing Sam, almost more than Frodo himself, but whilst the company fussed over the children, Frodo drew Sam to him. As Sam listened to Frodo, he stared at Boromir who was laughing softly, his infant son held close in the man’s huge arms, and saw suffering and love reflected in the scarred face. ‘I reckon he’s glad to be amongst friends, Samwise, so you bid him welcome,’ he thought and bustled forward, to kiss his wife, his babe and the top of Boromir’s blonde head, before beginning to organise Pippin’s laying of the dinner table more efficiently.
The night was long and merry with tales and many toasts and Boromir ended by sleeping on the floor of Frodo’s study. The house was quiet the next morning when he stepped out for a breath of air and to see Hobbiton in daylight, and came upon Sam, hoeing between his rows of potato plants. The two fell into a discussion about soils and Boromir told him of his hopes for the Harlond orchards. “You need to put bee skips between the rows,” said Sam firmly, “to help with the work at blossom time.” “Have no fear of that, Master Gamgee. The bees are dear to me,” replied Boromir, “for I owe them much.” And he found himself, much to his surprise, telling Sam about the Warg attack, peeling off his shirt so that Sam could see the fading scars on his chest. Sam nodded, adding his own account of how they had treated Frodo’s wounds.
Some days later, as Boromir went to take his leave of them, he found Sam pressing a damp bundle wrapped in sacking into his hands, with an injunction to keep the base of it moist. “Apple tree seedlings from the Gaffer’s plot, Lord Boromir. They’ll give you the best cider apples in Gondor…and fast growing too,” he said proudly, “Your son won’t have to wait for old age to see the first pressing. And remember,” he added, “You talk to your bees. They like to know what’s a-going on.”
The journey homeward was both lighter and wearisome. Boromir ached to see Aragorn and their son. He had thought on Frodo’s words, but could only imagine difficulties ahead and remembered his promise to Arwen. In Edoras, Eomer, indignant that he had missed him on the outward journey, held a feast of such riotous good humour for his sister husband’s brother that Boromir left the next day late into the afternoon, set on a quiet few miles to clear his head.
It was as he swung west along the flank of the White Mountains towards home that he began to feel that he was no longer alone in the landscape. There were scattered settlements to be sure and the odd parties of hunters with whom to exchange a few words, but on more than one evening he was sure his camp was watched.
The countryside was considered peaceful these days and Boromir had gone lightly armed. Celond had forbidden him the use of his long sword and heavy shield, but he carried the short bow with which he was reckoned a useful shot and the long knife of a street fighter. When he heard some rustling around his fire that night, he rose quietly, notched an arrow in the bowstring and struck out from the light to make a sweep around his camp, starting with the tethered lines where his horses stood, heads down, seemingly undisturbed.
As he stood silent in the darkness, he had all but decided that the rustling was some small forest creature when the faint tang of pipeweed drifted to his nostrils and coming from the direction of his own campfire. As he emerged once again into the light, he found two tall, cloaked and hooded Rangers lounging by his fire, feet stretched out and one of them apparently finishing off his roast hare. “Since when did Rangers stoop to taking food unasked?” he enquired, advancing toward them, one hand to the knife hilt. The Ranger with the hare, stopped eating and leant towards his companion. “You know, Sire, brotherly love stands for little these days.” Faramir pushed back his hood in time to receive a crushing embrace from Boromir, whilst Aragorn sucked contentedly on his pipe, grinning at them all the while.
Boromir was loathe to let his brother go, and his smile was as wide as it was warm, “Glad I am to see you both!” Aragorn inclined his head graciously, “but you have taken my supper.” “This is true, brother,” said Faramir wresting himself from Boromir’s embrace and going to pick up a bulging pack on the ground. “We hope to make amends.” And he unpacked bread, a cheese, a plump meat pie, a stone bottle of ale and a flask, from which he poured Boromir a share into a silver thimble. “Miruvor! Where did you find this?” Boromir felt the liquor slide down inside him, wrap itself around his innards, stroke and warm them and then explode in a burst of golden flowers on his tongue. “I have a little saved,” said Aragorn, “for special occasions.”
“Have you been shadowing me for the last three days?” Boromir asked as Aragorn stretched forward to take up a morsel of cheese. “No, Allane has been with you. Safe home Allane!” he called out and “Safe home!” came back from the darkness. The men settled around the fire with their food and Boromir asked gruffly, his speech muffled in pie, “How’s the lad been doing?” “Well. School is closed for the Harvest break, so we sent him to visit Nan. Legolas is going with him and he’s planning to teach Arin to ride. He’s grown, Boromir.” Aragorn smiled and Boromir swallowed hard and nodded.
Hunger sated, the three sat and talked over the events of the last few weeks across Middle Earth. Boromir told them some of his exchange with Frodo, although most of it would stay hidden in his heart, and he passed on to them letters from the hobbits. As he watched them break the seals and skim the pages, Boromir asked, “And did you come all this way to bring me in safe, or were you homesick for the Ranger life?” Aragorn looked up. “There was that.” He glanced at Faramir, who was watching them, adding “However, also we wished to put a case to you – or at least offer a choice to you.” Faramir spoke, his voice warm. “We wondered if you had thought more on the Healer’s words?” Boromir glanced at Aragorn whose eyes told him that he was cared for come what might, and turned to his brother. “I have had long hours to wrestle with this brother and I am resolved. I will try his way and soon.”
Aragorn picked up a stick and poked the dying embers of the fire into a brief blaze that sparked and flared. “This will be a trial.” He raised his eyes to Boromir’s face. “We would help as best we might and had thought that a retreat away from the bustle of the city might be welcome. I have opened up the hunting lodge and Celond and his assistant are there now. We will reach it tomorrow. At the least you may speak with him further.”
For a moment Boromir’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, for this was come upon him unawares, but a little reflection and he saw the good of it. He could avoid the gaze of the curious around the Houses of Healing and Arin would not have to see his father sick a-bed. The thought that if all should fall awry he would never see the child again brought him up short and Faramir, studying his face closely, said, “He is less than a day’s ride away.” Boromir looked at them both. “I will go to the lodge.” Aragorn threw his stick into the fire, “We will go together.”
When they walked into its courtyard the next morning leading the horses, Boromir could see the change in the place; shutters opened and the quiet bustle of a few capable servants had brought it to life, yet it was private still. They were shown to rooms readied for them and Boromir took the opportunity to bathe before joining the company, gathered in a room bright with sunshine from windows on three sides, where Celond had him strip and lie flat on the top of a long table.
Celond spent some time examining him and seemed satisfied that his travels had not taken too much from his body. “My lord,” he said, “we can do this tomorrow if you desire it. All is ready, but you must understand what you face,” and as Boromir dressed, once again he laid out for the men the steps he meant to take. Faramir, hearing the details for the first time, gripped the arms of his chair and breathed soft, more fearful for his brother than he had expected. “My first and simple choice, is to loose you and sew up the sack,” Celond continued, “but in truth until we begin to work we cannot know exactly how the scarring knits together and it is possible that there may have been damage we cannot see that has added to the way you are tied down. You know that the men of Harad have a fashion amongst their warriors to cut away this skin,” and his fingers ghosted lightly against the foreskin. “It is done when a youth comes of age or when he kills his first foe and we know that the wound can be readily healed, although with care. If I cannot free you or cut away the scarring without leaving too much damage I would wish to…” “…turn me Haradrim,” growled Boromir, but he nodded and then met Aragorn’s gaze. “If he should do that, I would dress you as they dress their warriors, with gold at your wrist and ankle,” soothed Aragorn.
“We must do this work while you are awake my lord. The pain is a signal to me that we do not stray from our course. If you should lose the pain, then we must know, for great danger lies that way.” Faramir took in a shaking breath, but Boromir went to enfold him in his arms, saying, “Little brother, this pain is for me a blessed trial.” And he kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Through the rest of that day the three men walked in the grounds surrounding the lodge, enjoying the harvest sun on their faces. Boromir roughly dug in Sam’s bundle of apple seedlings to a sheltered place, and they talking quietly of small things. After supper, Celond appeared in the parlour with a sleeping draught. “I need you fully rested, my lord,” he said, handing him a cup containing a dark liquid. Boromir swallowed it down protesting, for the taste was bitter, but the final few drops from Aragorn’s flask of minuvor on his tongue smoothed his brow, and as the drug began to overcome him, Faramir and Aragorn took him to his bed, attended him and laid him down on cool sheets.
“Arin – where is Arin?” Aragorn lifted him up to place another pillow at his back. “He is gone on a visit to Nan.” Aragorn patiently repeated and Boromir sighed and lay back, eyelids heavy with sleep. “I sent the elf with him and Beregond has lent them a pony his daughters have outgrown. If he gets on well with it, Legolas will find him something for his own.”
“You know that our brother-in-law will feel slighted if he is not consulted about this.” Faramir stroked the hair out of Boromir’s eyes, as Boromir fought to keep them open. “You’re not putting him up on one of Eomer’s great beasts…I won’t…allow…” His voice trailed away and he slept.
In the morning Celond would allow him no food other than a cup of sweet wine in which he had mixed a powerful herbal draught to quiet him. Boromir watched as though through a window at another man as they spread-eagled him and tied him along the heavy table with soft ropes, but so tight that he could move no more than his head from side-to-side. Then his brother carefully shaved his groin, whilst Aragorn knelt beside his shoulder and, turning Boromir’s head gently so that he could gaze into his eyes, told him stories of what Arin and Rullo had been doing in his absence.
The healer was laying out his gear on a side table, running thin blades through the flame of a lamp and pouring raw spirits over his hands. His assistant was heating the ends of long steel pins in another fire and placing hot water, salt and clean cloths to hand. When Faramir had finished, the man came forward with a cloth dipped in the spirits and wiped the freshly shaved skin. It stung, particularly where the flesh was raw and a tear leaked from Boromir’s eye. Aragorn wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and took it into his mouth to taste.
Celond approached the table to speak to him. “My lord, you know what I must do and why you must be awake through it. These men will hold you, for a sudden movement could cause the knife to cut where I cannot heal nor stem the bleeding, even to the forfeit of your life. If you can be still of your own volition I have the best chance of being quick and neat. Try to keep your breathing even. Do you understand me?” Boromir inclined his head and his eyes sought Aragorn’s gaze again.
Faramir placed a leather strap between Boromir’s teeth and lay down across his brother’s torso, his full weight pinning him down. Aragorn cupped his scarred cheek in one hand for a moment and then went to his feet, kneeling on the table-top, straddling his legs, his hands gripping Boromir’s thighs. The men could still see one another up until Celond and the assistant bent over Boromir to work and, just before they began, Aragorn dragged his thumbs over the muscles of Boromir’s thighs in recognition.
A gasp and a ragged intake of breath signalled the beginning of pain that flowed crimson around and through Boromir. He fought not to tense but to melt, to breath into it, becoming dazed with the sensation. Above him, Aragorn could feel the tears trickling down his own face, but still the thighs below his hands felt pliable. The only expressions of Boromir’s agony were the soft groans that issued around the leather strap in his mouth. Faramir laid his head to his faintly trembling side and prayed to Eru for his brother’s life.
The healers were undeniably nimble. Once he was done with the knife, one-by-one the assistant handed Celond the white hot pins, with which he stemmed the bleeding and then threw them done into a bucket of water that hissed and steamed. The smell of burning flesh scoured Aragorn’s nostrils. Now Celond was bent close over his patient with fine needles and thread and finally the assistant poured a liberal measure of the raw spirits over the whole, which caused Boromir to cry out for the only time, a choking scream, and they were swabbing the excess liquid away, binding him firmly, covering all in oilcloth and packing his groin in cold, wet cloths to reduce the swelling.
Celond motioned Faramir to rise from his place. He untied Boromir’s arms and Faramir and Aragorn supported Boromir’s head and shoulders as Celond fed him a few spoonfuls of warm mead. Then they laid him down again, with a small pillow under his head. Celond looked closely into his patient’s eyes and seemed satisfied with what he saw.
“I think that we have both done well,” he told Boromir, “but we will leave the ropes, loosened, on your ankles for the time being. I have cut away the scarring to the sack that was holding you close and taken a deal of the skin from your sex besides. It had been badly torn and had healed worse. The flesh will swell and there will be pain for some time, but we can control that. My lord, for now you will have more of the chasteberry liquor. You must not harden, but so that the healing flesh of your sack knows how far to stretch, we will bind you, using honey and oils to protect the new skin. You know, my lord, that there is every hope that you will sire more children.”
At this last, Boromir tried a small laugh, which turned into a cough and a wince. Celond told him to rest and he and his assistant began to clear the room of their tools. Faramir drew two chairs up beside the table, whilst Aragorn poured them cups of mead and they settled down, one on either side, to talk him into slumber, keeping their voices low.
All day they watched, silent as he slept, fetching and carrying for Celond or his assistant as they returned periodically to change the cold wet compresses or check that all was still dry under the oilcloth.
As evening came they wakened him and coaxed him to a little broth and more mead, sweetened further with extra honey, dressed his torso in a warm shirt and laid a soft blanket over his feet and calves. Celond came to check on his patient before retiring for the night and brought a sleeping draught, which he swallowed with minimal fuss.
Faramir had closed the shutters, fetched more wood and was banking up the fire to keep the room warm, whilst Aragorn teased him towards sleep, soothing the old scars on his chest with supple fingers coated in Celond’s healing oils and with warm praise for his bravery, for the stoutest of hearts. “The pity is, “ he said, “that we must be so secret and no-one will know the true valour of Boromir of Gondor in the face of unthinkable pain.” Boromir chuckled and yawned, mumbling, “You jest…and I’ve met worse pain and for longer.”
The drugs were sinking him further into stupor, the slightest movement of his head was exhausting, thinking an effort beyond him. Aragorn looked down at the neat, faint scar across his belly below the navel. It was old and ran under the Warg marks, but it had been a great wound.
“Boromir,” he said softly to the drowsy man, running his fingers along the silvery line. “Where did this long scar come from?”
Boromir’s eyes tried to focus on Aragorn’s face. “Arin,” he sighed, “your babe was a full-term child.” And his eyelids closed against Aragorn’s white face and horrified gaze.
For a long moment the chamber was silent but for the crackle of the fire. Faramir wondered if Aragorn might faint, he looked so pale, stood clutching the edge of the table.
“How could this be? We lay together a handful of times in Lothlorien.”
Faramir took pity on the stunned man.
“It is a place of enchantment.”
“For a man to carry a child! I have heard in legend of Elven lovers…”
Faramir had wondered this many hours and stroked his brother’s sleeping face, offering Aragorn the only explanation he had been able to conjure up. “When Arin was conceived you had no heir and were set on a quest given small chance of succeeding. Perhaps Isildur’s blood took what chance was offered to it…and our Mother, Finduilas, was of the true Dunedain…blood on both sides.”
Aragorn looked into the eyes of the man opposite, seemed to see him for the first time as his lover’s brother and an expression of guilt swept over his face.
“I cast him into the river. I was almost the death of him…of them.” This time he did sway and Faramir caught him, sat him down on the stone floor and slumped beside him.
“Aragorn,” said Faramir, as the shadows lengthened around them, “ask him when he wakes.” He shook his head lightly at Aragorn’s keen glance, “It is not my tale to tell.” Faramir arose to fetch oil lamps for the darkening room and Aragorn sat still by his love’s side, waiting to hear his fate.
The next day, although Celond remained pleased with his progress, contained long hours of discomfort for Boromir, and Aragorn judged it not the time to speak. Instead, with Faramir, he helped care for the man. Celond had them untie him and support him as he stood and walked slowly to a garderobe to make water into a bowl so that the Healer could check it for blood. Satisfied with what he saw, Celond stood by as his assistant stripped off all the dressings except the one on his sex, cleaned the wounds of dried blood, laid on soothing salves, re-bandaged and re-laid fresh cold compresses. He was bound to support the weight of the healing sack, but his cock lay free above the linens and through the aches Boromir felt some renewed freedom, no longer tied down by his own ruined flesh.
He ate sparingly, mostly broth, but Celond allowed him small ale and warm mead to contain the drugs that kept him dozing most of the day. Aragorn had packed some of his lightest silk robes and his brother helped him dress. They sat for a while in the garden and after the evening meal gathered by a lit fire in his room, to talk and listen to Aragorn read to them. He had had a crate of volumes brought from Boromir’s library and told them an old tale of lovers torn asunder by war who finally re-unite. “How did you know what to bring, amongst so many books?” asked Faramir later. “I sat in his chair and stretched out my hands and took everything within simple reach,” replied Aragorn, turning over a history of Gondor, rich with hand-coloured maps.
Over the next few days, Boromir’s strength grew, although he was still cautious in his movements and Celond remained pleased with how the flesh was knitting. His body was less swollen; all his bandages were now changed daily, and he would walk in the garden, sometimes sitting on a sheltered bench that offered a view across the plain towards Minas Tirith. It was there that Aragorn found him one afternoon and sat down beside him. The chasteberry potion, whilst it sated his desires, did not dull the love Boromir felt for the man beside him and as they sat and looked out over the countryside in the late afternoon sun, he felt Aragorn lay a roughened, but gentle, hand over his and Boromir moved his fingers slightly so that they could inter-twine. Although they were oft times able to sit together content in silence, after some minutes Boromir knew that his love was holding back words and squeezed his hand, granting him permission to speak.
“The first night, when you lay on the table, do you remember my tending the weals on your chest with the healing oil?”
“Barely, love. Celond’s potions are strong and I will admit to weariness that had turned my bones to water.”
Aragorn hesitated and then he said quietly, “I asked you about the great scar across your belly and you told me.”
As Boromir’s fingers stiffened under his, Aragorn kept hold of his hand, but slipped to his knees to gaze up into Boromir’s face. Boromir’s expression was a mixture of fear and love and confusion that tore at Aragorn’s resolve and he brought Boromir’s fingers to his lips and then to his forehead, silently pledging himself to keep this man and their son, in whatever way he might.
“His eyes are your eyes,” whispered Boromir, taking an uncertain step into the gulf that had opened up before him, but one where the kingly man holding his hand offered himself as the only strength that Boromir thought he would ever need.
“Faramir would not tell me what happened to you after Amon Hen.”
Boromir leaned forward and stroked Aragorn’s hair.
“The River would not take me, love.”
He thought for a moment. “Or mayhap it would have claimed me as dead to this world, but it would not carry away the child, the spark of Isildur’s flame that flickered in me.” He smiled reassuringly to Aragorn. “I do not remember you putting me into the boat,” and Aragorn looked down to hide the tears that came unbidden. “I remember the sound of Rauros. There was a rainbow mist of water and a roaring like a great beast and then a great beast came, and lifted me from the boat. A great black bear with sopping fur lifted me up as though I was a child myself…a Beorning. I had only heard of Beorn in song and this Beorning had ranged South, but it carried me for days together until we came to a home-place, a hall surrounded by a meadow, thick with flowers and the bees, Aragorn! Great black and gold jewels that flew. They fed me on cream and soft bread and honey and some golden dust that they would blow over my tongue. It tasted like honey and I breathed it in. And I grew fat. They had great skill as Healers, although no skills alone could dull the pain when our son was born, but their closing of me was neat. When later I needed healing again, I bethought to the Beorning and tried what the honey could do.” He paused and drew a trembling breath as though the long-held tale had pulled at his insides in its passing. “Celond would enjoy that tale, but he must not hear it. Aragorn, we cannot call Arin ours to the general eyes of men. I would not have him marked by those who will never know enchantment and so fear it.”
Aragorn dropped his head to his chest, was still a moment and then said sadly, “He is a child of the blood of Isildur’s line. It should be enough… How many know of his making?”
“Frodo knows. I told him and the wise hobbit said I should tell you. And Arwen.” Aragorn’s face was blank. “Your Queen saw you in him the first day we came home. I could not dissemble before her, but I have come to believe that the long lives of Elves have made some of them wise and some of them compassionate. She has never treated either of us with less than kindness and courtesy…and perhaps she gives her blessing.” Boromir drew from within his shirt the wine-dark slip of silk and unwrapped it. “When I stopped here on the first night of my journey, this was in my bedroll. It has been my help-meet.” He took the knot and placed it in Aragorn’s outstretched palm.
The King gazed at the tiny thing and then looked up at Boromir. “This is Elven work.” As he handed the knot back to Boromir, Aragorn rose from his knees and sat beside him once again and they looked out across the valley.
“You have cared for Arin all his life. I will be guided by you, but I will not be less to him than his uncle.”
This time it was Boromir who brought Aragorn’s fingers to his lips.
“We will find a way through the years. And I will be your Steward.”
Another two weeks passed, Faramir went back to Ithilien, promising to return later and to bring Arin with him, and Celond proclaimed himself well pleased. To Aragorn’s eyes, Boromir seemed younger, as though weight had lifted from his shoulders and his love’s eyes sparkled, his step became lighter. The bandaging was gradually done away with, although the daily ritual of oils remained, the tiny stitches had gone and now the chasteberry liquor was lessened.
Celond had gone back to the Houses of Healing, leaving his assistant to watch over him, but had returned this day to oversee the final steps. Boromir was laid naked on the long table. This time he was alone with the Healer. Celond pinched some skin on the inside of the top of his right thigh, and nodded in satisfaction when the sack beside it twitched. “We need to tempt your body to try out its full compass, my lord. Tonight you will have a small amount of the drug and for the next few days and we will see what sleep can do.”
It was on the morning of the third day that Boromir awoke, with a familiar ache in his groin, moved gently in his bed and gasped as the still tender head scraped across the bedcover. He was giddy for a moment, but his breathing gradually calmed and after a few moments he drew back the sheet. He did not dare yet touch, fearful that to touch would be to come, and that might be too much for the newly healed skin, but he saw himself strong again.
Over the next few days, appetite returned and then hunger, but still he would not bring himself to completion and now, each time he hardened, there was a heavy aching in his sack. Then one night he awoke, body spasming, drowning in pleasure and sudden agony too and found his sheets spattered with a thick and blood-spotted nightfall. He could not tell the assistant, and was bewildered at his newly-found shyness, but confided in Aragorn as they walked, who smiled warmly at him. “Boromir, your body wishes to return to its old, good, ways and must clear the stale seed.” Aragorn saw heat come to his cheeks and Boromir felt himself a callow youth again, learning his body in confusion and shame, but his love would not let him brood on it, saying, “I will prepare a syrup of poppies to blunt the pain.”
It was as he sat with Aragorn over the noon meal the following day that a servant entered and whispered low in the King’s ear, who cast down his knife and rose from the table, catching at Boromir’s sleeve, saying, “We have guests,” and dragging him to his feet. They walked out into the yard and Aragorn led him to the gate, from where he could see the greenway to the lodge. Some half-league distant three riders approached. Faramir’s big roan was well-known to him and Legolas’ grey stepped as daintily as ever, but between them, sitting very upright on a sturdy chestnut pony with a flaxen mane that swept to its knees, was a small boy, managing the reins of his first mount with pride and concentration.
Boromir began to run towards them and saw the boy catch sight of him, heard him exclaim to Legolas, who waved him on, and saw Arin urge his pony into a brisk trot. Boromir met him at the top of a small rise and caught at the pony’s rein as Arin brought it to a halt. “Adar!” Arin’s arms opened wide and Boromir dragged him from the pony’s back and hugged him fiercely. “I have missed you boy!” Arin wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and kissed him, hardly drawing breath through a tumbling monologue in which his joy at seeing his father again was entwined with news about Nan and Rullo and the pony, which was ‘only a loan and I have to give it back.’
The others of the party had arrived and Aragorn had caught up the wandering pony. As Boromir went to greet Legolas and to thank him, he saw in the corner of his eye, Aragorn gently lay his hand on Arin’s head, whilst the child, uncaring of his presence, chattered to Faramir. Then Arin turned to the King and said “Can I get up now please?” and the man nodded, dumbly, lifted him onto the pony and helped him find his stirrups and gather up his reins. Arin thanked him politely, meeting his gaze a little shyly and then turned his mount away to go upsides Arod again. As the riders went ahead to the lodge, Boromir and Aragorn followed slowly. Boromir slipped an arm around Aragorn’s waist. “He will come to know you as more than his King, I promise you this, on my life.”
The riding party stayed one night before returning, Arin and Legolas to the mill for a few more days of liberty and Faramir to Ithilien. As night came on, Boromir took Aragorn by the hand and drew him to the boy’s bedside, where Boromir and Arin lay, propped up by pillows. Aragorn told them a tale of adventure in Gondor long ago. Arin’s eyes grew round and if Boromir knew it to be one of Thorongil’s exploits, he said nothing.
Boromir and Aragorn left the lodge two days later, riding into Minas Tirith in mid-afternoon, Aragorn bare-headed, so that the first recognition by the guard at the main gate had trumpets pealing all the way up before them. Boromir rode into the palace courtyard with Aragorn, where he jumped down to take his King’s stirrup and help him dismount before the grooms could reach them. “That was a Steward’s courtesy,” murmured Aragorn for his ears only, “and you do the King honour, but I would re-shape the title for this Fourth Age… no-more the servant’s role.”
So saying, the King entered into his palace and Boromir strode down to the Sixth Level, where he went briefly to Celond, and thence to open up the house, although in truth all was ready ahead of his arrival. Aragorn spent time in speech with Arwen and playing with Eldarion. The King and the Queen strolled, arm-in-arm, in her garden and at the last she kissed his lips and sent him to his Steward.
Sunset found the men walking together in Boromir’s garden, arms entwined.
They had not been lovers since before Amon Hen, but Aragorn thought he could remember the very feel of Boromir’s weight in his arms, the way that Boromir had laved at throat and hip, made him gasp and beg, and now the man’s touch made his body thrum once again. He stopped on the path and caught Boromir to him firmly.
Aragorn bent his head into Boromir’s neck, drawing in his scent, then he stroked the hair curled around the back of an ear and asked “Will you lie with me tonight, Boromir of Gondor?” “That I will,” replied Boromir, meeting his gaze, “although…” and laughter bubbled in his throat. Aragorn tilted his head sideways in query and his smile matched Boromir’s answering grin.
“Although…?” he asked.
“It will seem strange to lie together in a bed…”
“We could sleep on the floor, or out here…”
“I am a delicate soul in need of tender care.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn said dryly, but he caught Boromir’s mouth in the softest of kisses, that barely brushed his lips with warmth.
In his chamber, Boromir had opened up the long shutters leading onto the balcony, and the last of a harvest breeze blew warm into the room to send the oil lamps flickering. Warm water scented with spiced oils had been poured into the tub before the fire and Aragorn lay soaking as Boromir massaged his shoulders, his fingers sweeping over taut muscle. Boromir had watched him undress earlier for the first time in many years and wondered anew at the dark beauty of the man. Perhaps there was the lightest dusting of silver in the hair on his chest, to match the streaks in his hair, but he was muscled and lithe still and to Boromir’s eyes the ideal of a warrior.
Boromir had made his own preparations earlier, quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, whilst Aragorn stood on the balcony with a glass of sweet wine. It was one matter to display his shattered beauty to Aragorn in the presence of healers, but now he would stand before him as a lover and Boromir found himself draping his damp frame loosely in a silk robe, uncertain anew of how his body and his love would respond.
As the water cooled Boromir held out a towel which had been warming before the fire and let Aragorn step into his arms, whilst he dried him. As he worked down his body he came to his cock, stood stiff before him, laid a brief kiss to the rosy tip and quickly skimmed past it to dry down his long legs. When Boromir stood up again before him, Aragorn captured him very gently by his erection, laying it besides his own in his large palm. For a moment the two men looked at the now very visible differences between them. “You look very sleek and strong, like Arod,” said Aragorn. Boromir’s lip trembled, “If you are comparing me to a horse, my lord…” then Aragorn took the breath from him completely, by moving him back slightly with both hands on his shoulders, lining up the heads of their cocks to touch tip to tip and sliding the skin on his own erection out and over the head of Boromir’s cock. Boromir gasped and laid his forehead on Aragorn’s shoulder, smelling the spiced oil that reminded him of the pinks in Frodo’s garden, whilst the older man gently worked them together, sliding the edge of his foreskin around the rim of Boromir’s head, who groaned and rolled his hips, causing Aragorn to gasp in his turn.
Sparks of pleasure were jumping in his body and behind his eyes, so that he did not object when Aragorn broke their hold and enveloped him in warm arms, sliding the robe off his shoulders so that they pressed together all along their bodies. Aragorn’s hands were more insistent now, caressing his shoulderblades, tracing long muscles, kneading at firm buttocks. His King was breathing hard and as their eyes met, long years fell away in a shared hunger. Aragorn would have pressed him back onto the bed, but Boromir resisted, turned his back on him and bent to take hold of one of the massive posts of the bed. Aragorn stilled for a moment, a hand laid on his flank and gazed at the golden back. There was not a scar, nor a blemish, anywhere, only supple muscle and velvet skin and he understood what it was that Boromir sought to offer to him.
Very gently Aragorn reached up, unclasped Boromir’s hands from the carved wood and turned him into his embrace again, saying “Love, I could not wish for the man I knew back here with me again. I love the man before me, shaped by time and trial,” and one hand pressed to Arin’s scar, he took Boromir’s mouth in a deep kiss.
As they emerged breathless, Boromir said gruffly, “Please, do this for me.” A long moment Aragorn gazed at him, then he bowed his head and carefully replaced Boromir’s hands where they had been on the post. As Boromir shifted his stance wider, he fetched a flagon of sweet almond oil from beside the tub. Boromir knew that no amount of preparation would make this first time in an age, anything other than painful, but he had almost forgotten the aching pleasure that went along with it. He was sweating freely, rocking back against deep thrusts, when he felt Aragorn reach for his cock, swinging free. Boromir batted his hand away and behind him Aragorn groaned, wrapped an arm around his waist and laid his cheek to Boromir’s hair. His rhythm was becoming ragged, a low stream of Elvish sounded in Boromir’s ear and then he could feel his climax sweep over Aragorn in five or six great swooping thrusts that took him up on the balls of his feet.
When they untangled themselves and Boromir went to find a towel to dry them off, his erection still half-hard, Aragorn watched him closely, leaning back against the post, catching his breath. He stooped to pick up Boromir’s silk robe and as he passed it to him, receiving back the towel, said, “Love, let me take care of you. I promise I will not hurt you.” Boromir looked at him, smiled briefly and wrapped the robe around himself. “Later, I would lie quiet with you now.”
As Boromir emerged out of sleep, he was lying on his back between Aragorn’s legs, body cradled in the other man’s arms. The moon was up, a true harvest moon, bathing them both in silver light. Aragorn was whispering words of love into his ear and when he saw Boromir was awake, curled sideways to kiss him, biting softly along the edge of Boromir’s lips, probing gently with his tongue.
Boromir sighed and drew the tip into his mouth, and now they were able to taste one-another, Boromir finding the bitter tang of smoke on his love’s breath amidst the sweetness of the wine and the taste of Aragorn himself.
Their love-making was unhurried, each content at the first to trace the planes of the other’s form; to shower kisses over eyelids, temples, jaw-lines, run a tongue along the curved line of an ear. Then Aragorn caught Boromir’s earlobe between his teeth and nipped hard and Boromir felt the sharp jag of pleasure travel all the way to his groin. He moaned deep in his chest, which Aragorn took for encouragement and half-turned him in his arms to lavish wet kisses down the length of his throat until he reached the rise of his collarbone, where he took in a mouthful of flesh and sucked hard to raise a purple blush brand on his love’s skin. Boromir writhed in his grasp, his hips lifting fractionally and straining to offer his prone body, to present more of his flesh to Aragorn, who began to open the front of his robe, his fingers seeking, and finding, the swollen nubs which connected most immediately to his lover’s sex.
Urgent now, Aragorn shifted their positions, levering himself out from under Boromir to lie beside him, spreading the tunic wide and burrowing with his face into the man’s chest. Boromir was dizzy, the heat of Aragorn’s breath, the scratch of his beard on his breast was causing feeling to rush to his groin and a familiar and a good ache began to spread outward from his member, already grown half-hard. As Aragorn’s tongue circled his nipples, suckling and laving, nipping and pulling, the soft sounds in his throat became a mewling needy thread. He was breathing shallow, the fear of pain being overwhelmed by the sensation of being swept along in this man’s hunger…and yet it was not an unthinking, savage, need to feed, for Aragorn took in a ragged breath and raised his head, his eyes drugged with sensation but a soft smile on his lips, wet and swollen . He brushed damp locks back from Boromir’s eyes and asked. “Is it well with you, lover?” to which Boromir could only reply with a nod and a ravenous kiss to his mouth, that left the Ranger breathless. Aragorn gasped as they broke apart and laid his forehead on Boromir’s breast, saying “Let me do this for you.” Boromir stroked down his sweat-covered back and whispered “Aye” before he lay back and sank willingly into the moment. His nipples and his groin were aching, and as Aragorn swept down his body with soft kisses and bites, weaving his way amongst the tracery of silver scars, a throbbing began in his cock, now erect and purpling. Boromir could feel the pull on the skin of the sack, but there was no pain, only sharp pleasure and for the last time, slow tears began to run on his face.
Aragorn’s mouth had reached his navel, where the tip of his tongue teased and dipped and then marked a broad wet trail down the join between leg and groin until his nose rested snug into the curls at the base of Boromir’s cock, damp with sweat. Boromir watched as Aragorn leant slowly forward and blew gently on the head, which twitched in greeting, tearing a groan from Boromir’s throat. The tip of Aragorn’s tongue came out and softly nuzzled at the slit, catching up the clear drops at its edge and spreading them over the head, before his mouth opened further to take it in. Boromir cried out in pleasure and Aragorn sucked greedily at his prize, working around the rim with his tongue whilst one hand held the shaft loosely, moving his hand slowly in time with his sucking.
There was an old tightness pooling in Boromir’s groin that could have been his climax beginning to build, but for a moment the fear returned to him, so that he clutched at Aragorn’s shoulder, whispering “Wait! Aragorn, please.” Aragorn closed his eyes and let him go, rolled over onto his back panting, allowing his own erection to spring free and as Boromir’s breathing calmed beside him, he stroked himself lazily. Then he raised himself on his elbows and stretched over to catch up the jug of oil. Boromir took the oil from him and poured some into Aragorn’s palms, the men exchanged words unspoken and Aragorn pressed his hands together, before bending to kiss Boromir, letting him taste himself faintly, sweet and salt, in his mouth.
Boromir took Aragorn’s hand in his and guided it to his straining cock and as Aragorn closed his oiled fist on him, a hot mouth with flickering tongue suckling at his breast, he lay back on the bed. Aragorn was working him slowly but firmly this time, so that Boromir could feel the waves of sensation spreading and building through every fibre and when more slick fingers swept below and behind his cock, not seeking entrance to his body, but stroking and pressing against hardening flesh, he could barely suck in the air to stay conscious.
He was keening and the tightening feeling had begun again in his groin, but now he dared to breathe into it and when the climax came pouring over him, he choked out his love’s name, feeling thick cream spatter on his stomach and chest. Aragorn leaned across him, trying to hold him down, to ensure that there was no unlucky pull on fragile skin and then bathed him slowly with his tongue, until Boromir could reach for him, to stroke Aragorn to completion and finally they slept. This time Aragorn lay between his legs, cradled in Boromir’s arms and their sleep was calm and deep, as though they knew that they had come home.
After that time they had explored the edges of the possible in their love-making with more freedom. Aragorn had relished the return to the close heat of his lover’s body, nevertheless there had been some small reticence until the day, months later, when Boromir, returned from a round of frustrating diplomacy, found his King waiting in his library, bent him over a sturdy table and took him; loved him with deep, urgent, strokes that drove Aragorn to the edge of delirium, and a savage grip on his hair, pulling his head back so that Boromir could whisper dark desires into his ear. And as they lay slumped on the floor regaining their breath, Boromir reached over to his pack, cast aside in the struggle, and brought out thin gold bracelets of Harad design to clasp around his love’s wrists and ankles.
But the true mystery of it was that a few days later, one of the Harlond gardeners, crossing the orchard early, swore that he saw the Master through the morning mist, walking amidst the bee skips and talking to the bees.
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Date: 2006-05-09 08:34 pm (UTC)There are so many little thing that I love in it: that Faramir know about Boromir's secret, that he still love his brother, about bees and Samwise,about Frodo who understand and forgave even there in Amon Hen. I think that acceptance of Hobbits, help Boromir arrange
himself.
And I love that scene when Aragorn and Faramir meet Boromir.Oh ! and the way your portrait Boromir's love for his "lad", all "motherly' devotion performed by real man who don't want to be 'weakened".
All story is much more calmer,tender, wondrous even-specially when Boromir talked about his labour. Absolutely fantastic. Thank you.
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Date: 2006-05-10 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-09 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-10 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-10 01:27 am (UTC)And bringing in a Beorning to save him from the river . . . that's brilliant!
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Date: 2006-05-10 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-10 03:55 am (UTC)Images from this story are etched in my brain as I think back over the details, but perhaps none so much as the final image of Boromir, with a smile on his face, I'll wager -- talking to the bees.
I apologize, my brain is nearly fried tonight and I can't think of everything I want to say. But I can tell you that I will read this story, as well as Path 1, again and again. Your work is a treasure.
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Date: 2006-05-10 06:37 pm (UTC)About the last image, I spent a long time swithering about having him walking naked in the orchard, but I thought that any emotion I might have been able to work up in the reader could be spoilt by sudden worries about bee stings, so I dropped it - although I have read an article about bee venom being used to dissolve scar tissue.
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Date: 2006-05-10 01:13 pm (UTC)This story is a journey of wonder...no words that I could say would be sufficient to express how wonderful it is.
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Date: 2006-05-10 06:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-10 05:46 pm (UTC)And Boromir's long talk with Frodo is wonderful. It does both of them good, as no one else can understand how it felt to be defeated and taken over by the Ring - except for maybe Sam, who had to watch it happen to Frodo.
I could natter on about lots of parts that I like, so I'll keep it short and just say Well done indeed! *does little Huzzah! cheer*
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Date: 2006-05-10 06:40 pm (UTC)Many thanks for reading this story and for your kind feedback throughout. The scene with Boromir and Frodo probably gave me the most trouble. I kept going back to tweak it, trying to get the flow of it how I wanted. I'm pleased that it worked for you.
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Date: 2006-05-12 08:56 pm (UTC)Very beautiful.
And it was quite an experience to follow the detailes of Boromir's healing. Very graphic description but also a very calm one... well, I can't say better than has already been said in one of the comments above.
Certainly I'll read the whole story more than once. )
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Date: 2006-05-12 09:21 pm (UTC)If it has enough in it to make you want to read it again some day, I'm very pleased and encouraged. Thanks.