Stronger than Death 1/3

[govigmoombean.livejournal.com]

Title : Stronger than Death 1/3
Pairing : Aragorn/Boromir
Rating : G to NC-17, this part G 
Archiving : Rugbytackling, viggo_cursive, switch_bottoms
Summary :  40 years after Sauron's defeat, something strange is happening.
Authors : mooms    (Aragorn) govi20    (Boromir) 

STRONGER THAN DEATH

 

Part 1/3

 

“Love is stronger than death even though it can't stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can't separate people from love. It can't take away our memories either."

 

 

 

Prologue

 

Amon Hen

 

My sword swings, striking metal, slicing through leather, ripping through flesh, crunching bones, as I fight like a thing possessed. My nose is  full of the filthy stench of orcs and their reeking blood, my ears ring from the clash of blades and the animal grunts of these foul beasts.

 

Then amid the noise and chaos, I hear the horn – his horn, the Horn of Gondor- and I am running as hard as I can towards the sound.

 

I arrive at a scene of horror, Boromir kneeling at the feet of the foulest beast of all, his breast pierced by three wicked arrows. The vile creature is snarling with pleasure, as it draws its bow to administer the final blow and Boromir has raised his head to look it right in the eye, fearless to the last.

 

With a roar, I hurl myself at the brute and knock it to the ground, but it is strong and it springs up, pinning me against a tree by its shield.

 

I fight my way loose and fall to the ground, stabbing it in the leg, but it pulls me up and head butts me, knocking me onto my back. Taking the bloodstained knife, it runs its tongue along it and throws it at me, expecting to end the fight, but I parry with my sword and then I am up close to it and strike off its arm with my sword.

 

It snarls and pulls me towards it, with its good arm, until I am nearly suffocated by its vile breath, but I strike its head off and it is finished.

 

Then I am running again, to where Boromir is lying cradled in the roots of a tree, his face contorted by pain and anxiety,

 

“They took the little ones. Where is Frodo ?”

 

I try to sooth him and tell him that I let Frodo go.

 

“Then you did what I could not. Forgive me. I did not see.  I have failed you all.”

 

I seek to reassure him, hot tears stinging my eyes,

 

“No Boromir, you fought bravely. You kept your honour.”

 

My hands are trying to pull out the evil arrows, so that I can tend his wounds, but he hisses in pain and tells me through clenched teeth to leave it,

 

“It is over !”

 

The pain he must be feeling from his wounds is nothing to the pain he feels for his people, as he tells me in despair that all will come to ruin. My tears brim over and begin to trickle down my face as I make him my solemn promise,

 

“I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the white city fall, or our people fail.”

 

“Our people ? Our people !” he echoes me as he smiles at the acknowledgement that his people are mine also. He puts out his hand and I press the hilt of his sword into it.

 

“I would have followed you, my brother, my captain, my king.”

 

And then he is gone. Gone with so much unsaid and so much unshown and my heart breaks.

 

I close his eyes and whisper ,

 

“Be at peace, Son of Gondor.”

 

And I place my first and last, chaste kiss on his forehead, knowing that I shall never be at peace again.

 

Boromir

Despair. And failure. I failed us all, could no even prevent them from taking the little ones. But the heaviest burden is to know I failed my people, and the man who is their rightful King, as reluctant he may be.

I look the beast in the eye, wanting him to end it all. I am not afraid, I feel nothing but contempt for him and me, I want that last arrow.

He’s gone suddenly and I fall down, and then there are his – Aragorn’s – arms around me. I try telling him what I have done, how I let the Ring take possession, how I failed them all. When I speak of my people he swears an oath, and calls them “our people”.

He gives me my sword, as he gave me peace of mind. I know in my heart that this man I learned to trust and love does not vow lightly, he will be true to his word.

I close my eyes, into darkness and safety, just before his tear falls on my face. I slip away, safely in his arms, the faint ghost of a kiss on my brow.



Brand

I am sitting under the big tree in the shade. It’s a warm day and after I helped my mother with some small tasks she sent me off to play with the other boys. Instead of that I took my dog with me and went off to the woods.

Even though I like to play our games, mostly about King Ellessar defeating Sauron, sometimes I just want to be alone.

I always knew I was different from the start. I am only ten years old, , but I can remember very clearly how my mother held me in her arms and caressed me as a baby. But even then I seemed to remember someone else before her, someone even more meaningful to me than her.

I tried to talk about it with Dryn, my best friend, but he just laughed at me and said there was something wrong with me, it just was not possible.

That ended in a little fight, and even though Dryn is a full year older than me, and bigger, I managed to defeat him very easily as I always do. I might be a dreamer, but I know there is a warrior inside me too.

But today I just sit here, my back against the tree, my dog at my feet, closing my eyes and let the images come. They used to frighten me, but now they seem to belong to me, and I welcome them as old friends when they visit me.

Shards of faces, eyes, and a memory of strong arms holding me, lips kissing me on my forehead.

I never told my mother about these things, she would probably think it was something bad and put me over her knee to set me on the right path again. My mother is a loving mother, but she also believes in discipline strongly and a life of hard work has gifted her with a hard hand.

I do not know who my father was, my mother never speaks of him, and listening behind doors has not made me any wiser.

Perhaps she will tell me when I am older. I stroke the dog‘s ears, while I dream of being older, stronger, and about the day I can leave. I don’t know where I want to go, but I know there is more to my life than this village.

Somewhere it is waiting for me, I just know. I am biding my time, a little restless, but not unhappy. I never speak of it, knowing people would mock me, or get angry, but still I know.

I do not belong here.

Aragorn

 

So the Fellowship was rent asunder and we continued the quest with heavy hearts. Boromir’s bright flame was extinguished for ever. We laid  him out with honour befitting his noble rank and bravery, and entrusted him to the Anduin, watching the boat as it tumbled over the Falls of Rauros, bearing its precious cargo.

 

We had sent him to rest with all his armour, weapons and shield, but I took his vambraces, out of remembrance and as a symbol that I was taking the torch from him and would bear it until I had fulfilled my vow to him. I also wanted to carry something of his with me, always.

 

I was determined that I would return one day to the White City,  but it would never be with him, as he had wished.

 

We had many bitter battles still to fight and lost many friends and fine soldiers, but for me, no loss could ever be as bitter as that of Boromir.

 

And in the end, good prevailed, the evil was defeated and I was crowned King. The rough garb of the Ranger was put aside and I accepted the heavy velvet cloak of my office and with it the weight of responsibility and duty.

 

I wedded Arwen and together we set about rebuilding the city and repairing the damage wrought by Sauron.

 

I have loved Arwen since I first saw her, more than seventy years ago and we have trodden a hard and stony path to get to where we are today. She is beautiful and wise and she loves me with all her heart, even giving up her immortality for me. She has given me a son and heir, Eldarion, whom I also love more than life itself and soon there will be more children. She has foreseen it.

 

My  steward, Faramir and his wife, Eowyn have supported me loyally and supervised the reconstruction of the kingdom. It gives me great joy to see their happy partnership and their delightful young family.

 

Like me, Faramir should be a happy man, but like me, he nurses a deep sorrow. As it happens, we share the same sorrow. He mourns a much loved brother, while I mourn……a friend. A much loved friend, who would, I know, have become so much more had he lived.

 

Arwen knows. She still has the wisdom and insight of the Eldar and although we have never spoken of it, I can tell. She is infinitely gentle and patient with me at those times, when melancholy overtakes me.

 

Oh Boromir, we wasted so much time, you and I ! There was suspicion, mistrust and misunderstanding between us and that cursed ring called to you and tried to lead you to betray us.

 

I will never forget the hurt look you gave me, when we were on the mountain and my hand went to my sword hilt in automatic protection of the Ring Bearer. Unspoken between us was the question. Would I have struck you down, had you not given the ring back to Frodo?

 

I will not let myself answer that question, even in the darkest watches of the night, when I lie awake, Arwen breathing quietly beside me, and remember every step of our too brief journey together.

 

Brand

I became 16 today, and – as my uncle says – a man. Yesterday evening my mother went out “for a stroll” she said, and my uncle came by. He had that talk with me the other boys in the village told me they had with their fathers, and I suppose my mother asked him to do this.

At first I was bewildered, because he struggled with his words, perhaps even more embarrassed than I was, but he finally succeeded.

The situation was a bit awkward, but in the end I told him he need not  worry about me, there was no girl in this village making me want to do “that” as he called it. At least not yet. I agreed fully on my mother needing my support and me being too young to start a family of my own. After that we drank some wine together.

I think we were both relieved when my mother came home and he could leave, feeling he had answered his duty. My uncle is a decent man, but he has no children of his own, no imagination, and this sort of thing does not come natural to him.

My mother and I avoided each other’s eyes and I went to bed early. In bed, I started wondering why I never tried to have a nice time with one of the village girls. They seemed to like me and more than once I had the opportunity to, well, take a bit more than a tentative kiss behind a barn door, but I never did.

I remember having that secret crush on the farmer’s oldest daughter a few months ago. I thought about her all day, dreamt about her and finally found the courage to ask her to dance with me one night. I am not much of a dancer, but at least I could touch her.

She went willingly outside with me afterwards, and she never protested my hands sliding inside her clothes, stroking a full and firm breast. But that is where it stopped and I avoided being alone with her after that, until she turned to the carpenter’s son, and I was glad.

It is as if something inside me is telling me not to, to keep myself, even though I do not nor know for whom or what. Perhaps it’s just the hesitation of a boy not fully man, but I somehow don’t think so.

At night, when I am alone, there is often a yearning inside me that does not feel immature, that makes me stroke myself, my head filled with strange and arousing images until my back arches and I have to bite down my cries of release, afraid to wake my mother.

In the day time, I want to be like my friends and we laugh and tell each other dirty tales about the girls we know. I shove the thoughts of these nights aside, because the intensity of it all frightens me in the clear light of normal every day life.

But even daytime can not always keep me from having those daydreams, almost every time I am alone they visit me, haunt me, like they always did ever since I was a young lad. I do not know what it means, if there’s something wrong with me and if I’ll end up like Lucan, who has to be kept inside when he’s in one of his moods.

And there is more. While all my friends talk about what they want to do with their lives, be a farmer, or a smith, I dream of leaving here, finding my destiny, what ever that may be.

But I am still certain of that one thing.

I do not belong here

 

Aragorn

 

I dreamed of him again last night.

 

He was teaching Merry and Pippin to swordfight and his laughter transformed his sometimes grim face and made me laugh , too. There was not enough laughter in those dark days, but the little ones were able to lift our spirits with their merriment. He loved them and gave his life in trying to protect them.

 

Waking again to the velvet darkness and Arwen’s soft breathing beside me, I am acutely aware of the pain I still feel. They say that time heals all and yet after thirty years, the stab of loss is just as sharp, when I think of him. In a few days it will be the anniversary again and I will, as always make my pilgrimage to Amon Hen.

 

Unable to get back to sleep, I rise and quietly call into the corridor for bathing water, so as not to  wake my queen. I am grateful that I have plenty of work to occupy my mind. There are always papers to sign, petitions to read, suits to hear, judgements to make.  I also need to make my preparations for the journey.

 

 We have had thirty years of peace and prosperity and this city has been fully restored to the grandeur of old, with the help of Gimli’s stonemasons. With the aid of Legolas, trees and flowers bloom everywhere. Our people are well fed, clothed and safe and the streets ring again with the laughter of children. How Boromir would have loved to see his Gondor renewed.

 

When my bath has been filled with hot water, I sink gratefully into the depths  and close my eyes, to indulge myself in my memories.

 

I run my hands over my body, imagining his touch on my skin, caresses from those long, sensitive fingers I never felt and will never have the chance to feel. This is a guilty pleasure and I curl my fingers round my thickening member and indulge my fantasy. At times like these, I can almost feel his presence here in the bathing chamber with me and stroke myself to completion, calling his name.

 

Sighing, I rise from the cooling water and dry myself, dressing in the trappings of King Elessar. Before leaving my chamber, I bend and kiss the forehead of my sleeping queen, smiling as she purrs and turns over, snuggling into the blankets.

 

In my study, I deal with the mountains of paperwork, breaking only to breakfast with Arwen and our children.

 

Later, I sit by the fire with Faramir and we discuss his Stewardship in my absence.  I know that as always, I can leave all in Faramir’s safe hands, while I make this annual journey. The advancing years have left their mark on him, as they have not yet done on me, but he is still strong and capable.

 

We have talked often of his brother over these long years and although we have never discussed the true nature of my feelings for Boromir, I believe that, like Arwen, he knows. I feel his quiet understanding of my need to return to the scene of his death and I am grateful.

 

Three days later, I ride out with Legolas and a small band of guards and we travel  again to Parth Galen, at the foot of Amon Hen. They make a discreet camp a distance away and as always, I go alone to that spot, by the roots of the tree.

 

It is marked now by a simple marble stone, engraved with the words,

 

Here fell Boromir, Son of Gondor.

 

They will look to his coming from the white tower, but he will not return.

 

I kneel in reverence and speak to Boromir of my heart, telling him all that I would have said before. Then I tell him of all that has been achieved in the kingdom over that past year and how our friends have fared. Lastly I remind him that I kept my vow to him and I place on the stone a single white rose, given me by Arwen, when she bade me farewell.

 

Again, I weep here, as I did that terrible day and as I have done these past thirty years and I issue up a prayer that somewhere, Boromir’s bright spirit is burning still.

 

tbc 

 

Comments

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

This is a fine and intriguing start to your tale, with enough hints of what 'might' come to pass, and enough of the unknown too, to draw us in. Thanks for posting.

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Thank you ! This is a bit of a departure for us and more difficult than our usual stories to write.

[painted-horse.livejournal.com]

There are many Undead!Boromir stories out there, but yours is the first one I've come across, that uses instead the concept of rebirth. Astonishing, considering how easily the age-pattern of our heroes offers itself to this idea. Beautiful idea, beautifully written and I can't wait for the next parts!

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for this comment. We have read a lot of Ara/Boro and neither of us could remember coming across this particular idea, although I am sure someone must have. Inadvertent plagiarism is always a worry !

[rotpunkt.livejournal.com]

Interesting start - cool idea!

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Thank you !

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

"Again, I weep here, as I did that terrible day and as I have done these past thirty years and I issue up a prayer that somewhere, Boromir’s bright spirit is burning still"Again, I weep here, as I did that terrible day and as I have done these past thirty years and I issue up a prayer that somewhere, Boromir’s bright spirit is burning still."

Oooh, you made me weep too - several times - in this chapter.

And how wonderful that everyone - Faramir, Arwen, Legolas . . . - understands how much he needs to make the pilgrimage.

Deliciously sad, with the promise of more ...

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Thank you ! Sorry, am responding backwards and I know that you have already commented on the conclusion !