*
*
The great tower of Orthanc soared upward, blotting out the stars, vast, mute, and indifferent to the lone figure that prowled its base.
Boromir longed to curse loudly and deliver a stout kick to the unyielding black stone monolith, but held his tongue and his temper. He stole back toward the woods, took refuge in the shelter of a many-limbed tree, and blew out an exasperated breath. How was it that a place of such immense size had only one means of entry? Not another door could he discern in that mass of rock, nor a servants’ entrance, nor a waste portal, nor even an accessible window. It was fearsome vexing, Boromir fumed. And it was also passing strange, was it not, that the place stood undefended? Since crossing into Isengard, Boromir had been alone among the trees, as if the trees themselves stood sentry. He had felt himself an intruder upon their green, venerable stillness, and stepped lightly, like a deer, as if by doing so he would not disturb them. The tower itself seemed abandoned, and yet he was certain that it was not. His tracking skills were not as acute as Aragorn’s, but they were keen enough. Four days ago, a company of orcs had entered the tower. And they had taken Aragorn with them.
Beyond the forest’s verdant canopy, the night sky, pierced by a thousand stars, was fading to deep blue. Dawn approached, and if he did not hurry, he would lose the cover of darkness, and Aragorn would be forced to face another day at the mercy of the orcs, and the white wizard who resided within Orthanc. And though Aragorn’s character was more maddening than not, and their last exchange of words had been bitter, Boromir could not leave a brother warrior and a fellow Gondorian to suffer. King or no, Aragorn was now his responsibility.
Boromir rose, tightened his sword belt, and divested himself of all but the most necessary tools to effect a rescue. Grumbling softly, he wondered how the elf traveled so lightly – no mail, no shield. When his belongings had been tied into a tidy bundle and stowed in the hollow of a tree, Boromir stood and drew a deep breath. The front door it must be, then, though he would not grant them the courtesy of knocking.
*
Black, it was, blacker within than without, an enveloping, swaddling blackness and silence that suffocated Boromir’s senses. Every nerve aflame, he pushed onward, pressed against the wall, alert to the faintest noise or fragment of light, but the only sound he heard was the thudding of his own heartbeat, so loud that he feared it might summon the enemy. His tongue crept out to wet his lips; dust motes swirled in his nose and throat, choking him and bringing tears to his eyes. The place was like a tomb – soundless, inert, and foully scented, as if it held centuries of corruption. He yearned to cough and sneeze, and stifled the impulse with every fiber of will in his soul. Lightly, his fingertips grazed the wall behind him, guiding his passage. The floors were smooth and even, but the walls seemed to curve, leaving Boromir with the confounding impression that he had been walking in circles. As to how long he had been traveling, he could not say. It might have been minutes, or an hour, or longer. There were no windows to allow sun or starlight in, no way to mark the progress of time.
Fear coiled itself around his heart and constricted, but he would not allow it to stop him. True, it was strange that Isengard’s gate and the doors of the tower were unguarded; stranger still that they were unbarred, strangest of all that he neither heard the rough voices of orcs nor suffered their noxious stench. It was almost as if – but he crushed the thought ruthlessly before it coalesced. No, his presence had been undetected so far. There had to be a passage, an interior stair, something besides this fathomless empty cylinder. Aragorn needed his help, and Boromir would give it, if only he could find the place where they’d taken him. A troubling thought came to him: he was too late, and Orthanc was empty. The orcs and their wizard-master had simply made for Mordor, and had spirited Aragorn away, for surely they knew what sort of prize they held. Perhaps they thought Aragorn had the Ring, or knew of its whereabouts. If they had not found it, would they have wrenched the name of its bearer from Aragorn’s lips? Would they have then murdered their captive, tortured him to death for the sake of their unremitting cruelty?
Boromir closed his mind against the tide of apprehension that overwhelmed him. Aragorn must be alive. He might be imprisoned, chained, maltreated, even wounded, but he must be alive. It was time for more decisive action. He stepped away from the wall, frustrated that his eyes could not pick out even the slightest glimmer, and readied his sword. Perhaps the outer wall was a shell, and navigating its perimeter the purest folly. He slowed his pace deliberately and moved closer to what he thought might be the center of the tower, praying that his feet touched stone with each step and not empty air.
His efforts were rewarded. The outstretched tip of his sword met obdurate stone. He drew nearer to this interior wall, the fingers of his free hand skating lightly against satin-smooth rock. Now the stone was whetted at a sharp angle, and he felt solid wood banded with metal, and what could only be the hinge of a door. Elated, Boromir found the handle and pulled. It opened with nary a creak, and Boromir’s heart lifted as he saw a faint greenish glow in a far corner. Light, at last! From here, then, he would find his bearings and thence Aragorn. He quickened his steps toward the light.
But all at once, the light dimmed, plunging him into darkness again, and Boromir heard a soft chuckle that chilled him from head to toe. He could not determine its direction, and so he stilled, brandishing his sword in a hand gone suddenly nerveless. “Show yourself, coward.”
“Boldly spoken, Son of Gondor. But I will indulge you.” At this the greenish light appeared again and spread, illuminating a tall, lean figure in robes of white.
There was none of Gandalf’s kindliness or compassion in the White Wizard; his very posture radiated malice and greed. Gandalf himself had been nearly bested by Saruman’s might and evil magic. Boromir swallowed, then dug deep and found a tattered scrap of valor. “Hear my words, Saruman, and heed them well. You hold a companion of mine prisoner. I demand that you release him to me at once.”
Saruman tilted his head to one side in a delicately inquisitive gesture. “And who would that be?”
A faint ember of hope stirred in Boromir’s chest. Saruman had known Boromir was Gondorian; there was nothing to be done about it, for Boromir had the look of his people. But Aragorn…perhaps he had managed to conceal his identity. “He is a ranger of the North, called Strider by some.”
Another soft chuckle, laced with contempt, escaped the wizard. “Is that what he is called by some?”
“Do not play at words with me. Will you release him?” Anger lent an edge to Boromir’s voice.
“Perhaps you would like to find him yourself.”
“I will, if need be.” Boromir took a menacing step forward, and the light brightened, widened, and he found himself in the center of a circle of pikes held by a number of Uruk-hai, each half again as broad as himself and standing at least a head taller. Boromir’s heart plummeted toward his stomach. Soundless they had been, and scentless, no doubt thanks to Saruman’s loathsome spells. Even in the odd green light Boromir could see the killing edge on the pikes. A wrong move meant that he might end up decorated with his own entrails. Slowly, he pivoted, counting heads, coldly assessing his chances. They were slim, but not altogether insurmountable. Half a score surrounded him, and he had killed thrice that number at Amon Hen. As he turned, the circle tightened, and the Uruk-hai chuffed growling, contemptuous laughter at him. Boromir snarled in return. I’ll slaughter you with pleasure, Aragorn or no, he thought.
“Admirable courage,” Saruman allowed, and curled long fingers around his dark staff. “It deserves a reward. Yes, I have your companion. Do you wish to see him?”
“Yes. And pray he’s unharmed, or I promise it will be the worse for you.”
Saruman laughed in what seemed genuine delight, and glided closer to Boromir. The green light followed him, as if he were its source. He stopped and made a broad gesture with his staff. Bound to a chair, blindfolded, and gagged, was Aragorn. An Uruk-hai stood behind him, holding a roughly hewn blade to his throat. Saruman leaned down and eased the gag from Aragorn’s mouth. “What say you, Aragorn, that your kinsman has come to your rescue? And all alone. Brave, but foolish, is he not?”
Disappointment closed Boromir’s throat. So Saruman knew Aragorn’s identity after all. But Aragorn was alive, thank Eru.
Aragorn licked dry, cracked lips. “Know that your downfall approaches, Saruman,” he whispered.
“Does it indeed?” Saruman gave an ungentle tug to Aragorn’s blindfold, and it fell away.
Aragorn blinked in the greenish light, saw Boromir’s predicament, and fear filled his eyes. “Let him go. You have me, and no need of him.”
“No particular need, no,” Saruman agreed. “But he is the Captain of the White Tower, and you are Isildur’s heir, and I find a pleasing symmetry in having you both. And now the Ringbearer has lost another protector. Would that I could entrap your Fellowship one by one.”
“You dare not!” Boromir cried, and surged toward the wizard. The pikes converged on him, and he halted with an oath.
“Would that I could,” Saruman repeated, “but it is not to be. Even now forces from Mordor come to collect the heir of Isildur and take him to Barad-dûr, to Sauron himself. And now there is a new prize. Perhaps Lord Denethor would like to see his beloved son’s head on a pole. Perhaps when the Ringbearer is allowed to reach Mount Doom he will be pleased to find the corpses of his friends.”
Undaunted, Boromir took another step forward, but the pikes pressed firmly against his chest and back now, sharp and painful. He gripped his sword tighter. “Release him, filth.”
The Uruk-hai behind Aragorn pushed the blade against Aragorn’s unprotected throat; beads of blood welled around the point and trickled down. “Drop the sword, tark, or he dies.”
Boromir glanced at Saruman. “You would disappoint Sauron by killing him?”
“True, we would deny him the pleasure of the heir’s slow death. But in truth, the Ringbearer is a greater prize.” Saruman turned and walked toward his own chair, straight-backed and serene.
Aragorn twisted against the ropes that lashed him to the chair, but his strength was clearly ebbing. “Boromir, don’t –“ The Uruk-hai grasped a handful of Aragorn’s hair and yanked his head back. The point of the blade pressed deeper, and the wound bled freely. Aragorn stifled a cry of pain as the ugly weapon scraped at raw flesh.
“Stop!” Boromir let his sword clatter to the floor. Swiftly he was seized, his shield and dagger taken from him, and his hands manacled. The Uruk-hai forced him to his knees and held his head by the hair. He stared at Saruman with proud defiance. “Aragorn was right,” he said. “Do as you wish, but your downfall approaches nevertheless.” One of the Uruk-hai drew back a fist and clouted Boromir behind one ear. He slumped to the smooth stone floor, and only dimly heard Saruman’s voice, choked with rage.
“Take them both below. Give them the pleasure of each other’s company.”
*
The iron-bound door thudded shut, and Boromir and Aragorn were left alone. High above their heads, a torch burned. It threw off only the feeblest of flickers, but to Boromir it was as welcome as a bonfire. He glanced quickly around at their cell. It was crude stone, bare of furnishings save a waste bucket, and no more than three paces in any direction. He moved toward Aragorn, who leaned against the nearest wall where their jailers had heaved them as though they were no more than sacks of grain. “Have they injured you?”
“I’m well enough,” Aragorn said, and sank into a crouch.
The orcs had taken everything but his tunic and breeches, and Boromir shivered with cold. To distract himself, he began to explore the door. His fingers were sure and deft, and he prided himself on his steady nerves. He examined the hinges and cracks minutely, but found nothing that would speed them on their way to freedom. Frustrated, he turned and sighed. “Have you been occupying this cell all the while?”
“Yes. I’ve already tried to find some means of escape. And have failed, as you can see.”
Boromir craned his neck, searching skywards. “Are we deep underground? I scarcely found my feet while our guards escorted us here, but it seemed we traveled a series of inclines.”
“Indeed we are. There is a maze of caverns below Orthanc. I had hoped I might break free of the guards and hide, but when I managed to briefly do so, I encountered…more of them.” Aragorn let out a small, rueful chuckle.
“It was brave of you to try.” Boromir smiled and settled onto the cold stone floor. “They stopped at nothing to supply you with all the comforts of home, I see.”
“You should not have come for me.”
“I thought you might say that,” Boromir sighed. “But never mind. Once the party who took you made for Isengard, Legolas and Gimli and I dispatched the others. The little ones fought valiantly also. Legolas and Gimli are protecting them now. My presence here was agreed upon by all.”
“Frodo and Samwise?”
“Safely gone, as far as we could tell. A boat had been taken, and their particular belongings.”
Aragorn nodded as if satisfied, then slid to the floor. “You should not have come after me, Boromir.”
Boromir sighed again, a deeper, heavier exhalation, and said, “I should have left the King of Gondor to rot in a filthy orcish prison instead?”
“King?” Aragorn’s tone betrayed a touch of derisive surprise. “Is this an unexpected change of heart?”
All the cautious, respectful phrases Boromir had planned to say were forgotten in a moment. His deepest heart’s confession shriveled into hot coals of anger. “Do not bait me, Aragorn. I have no patience for it just now.”
“Your foolhardiness made you a prisoner as well. Saruman is right; now the hobbits have only Legolas and Gimli to protect them. You should have stayed together.” Aragorn drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms round them.
“Foolhardiness!” Boromir gaped at the injustice of Aragorn’s words. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should have left you to rot after all.” He saw Aragorn’s face crease with distress, and frowned. Surely his words had not cut that deep. “What is it?”
“Naught. A scrape, only.”
“Show me.” When Aragorn did not move, Boromir gently grasped his arm. “Aragorn, show me.”
“You can see little in this gloom,” Aragorn replied, but lifted his shirt and tugged at the waistband of his breeches.
Boromir gasped silently at a long, deep cut that scored Aragorn’s lower belly. He could not see the wound entire for the dimness of the cell, but it was ugly enough in the low light to provoke fear nonetheless. He lowered Aragorn’s shirt, feeling the cloth stiffened with dried blood. “Has it festered?”
“I do not think so. Not yet, at least. It does not bleed any longer, and for that I’m grateful.”
“How was it got?”
“During an escape attempt.” Aragorn’s gaze fastened upon Boromir. “I would spare you what will surely come, Boromir. They are by no means gentle.”
Boromir was suddenly afraid that Aragorn’s injuries were far more extensive than the cut he’d just seen. “What else have they done to you?”
“Nothing that would damage me permanently.” Aragorn’s hand found Boromir’s. “Forgive my ill temper. It was courageous of you to come, and I thank you for it.”
At this, Boromir’s heart thawed a little. He grasped Aragorn’s hand gently. “There is nothing to forgive. Perhaps I was foolhardy. But I could see no other way to attempt to rescue you.” Suddenly he bowed his head. In a low and ragged voice he said, “I had to come, Aragorn. I have done a terrible thing –“ In hot, choking words he told the story of his betrayal, of the irresistible call of the Ring that even now still sang sweet and poisonous in his ears. “I would atone for this, Aragorn. I would sacrifice myself for Frodo’s sake. I do not know why I could not simply turn my back upon it – why I alone was weak.” He felt a tender caress upon his cheek, but kept his head lowered, unable to meet Aragorn’s eyes.
“Boromir. Boromir. Listen well. Your valor and honor is without question. Not even the Lady Galadriel is altogether immune to the Ring’s spell. Do not grieve.” Aragorn’s hand was tender upon Boromir’s cheek. With one fingertip he traced the path of a tear. “You think, perhaps, I am blind? I saw you fight for the Fellowship with your whole heart and strength. I credit the hobbits, but I doubt they could have felled a score of Uruk-hai unassisted.”
Boromir struggled to speak. “I misjudged you most shamefully.”
“Not every barb you aimed was false,” Aragorn said softly.
“It was not my place to aim barbs.”
“It would be an unworthy king indeed who failed to take heed of the truths his steward spoke.”
Boromir stared at Aragorn for a long time. It was easier to do so in the near-darkness. He noted the resolute expression in Aragorn’s eyes, the play of light and shade on his angular features. He did not appear regal, this heir of Isildur, shivering on a stone floor in naught but a blood-encrusted shirt and torn breeches, with dirty, tangled hair and the hollowed shadows of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. But he had strength and courage to spare, and that Boromir admired. “You’re cold.”
A wry smile curled Aragorn’s mouth. “A little. I’ve been walking to warm myself.” He rose awkwardly and limped to the far end of the cell, then rested, his effort and exhaustion plain to see in the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders.
“They hurt your leg,” Boromir murmured, anger flaring in his chest.
“No – not precisely. I tried to flee, and one of the orcs caught my ankle and dragged me a while. He was faster than he looked.”
Boromir swore under his breath. “You cannot walk on that.” He leapt to his feet and went swiftly to Aragorn, catching him round the waist. “Put your arm around my neck. You mustn’t injure it further. Come.” He guided Aragorn back to their better-lit section of wall. “It’s much more comfortable over here.”
Aragorn laughed quietly. “I’m sorry they captured you, Boromir, but it is good to have company. And witty company, no less. What more could I ask for?” He stifled a groan as Boromir settled him back onto the floor.
“A way out. We are two now, Aragorn. A solution will reveal itself.” He spoke with more enthusiasm and determination than he truly felt.
“Saruman is cunning, and the orcs’ combined strength overwhelming. I do not share your optimism.”
“Then I shall be optimistic for us both,” Boromir replied. “Rest against me, Aragorn. Sleep. You have been ill-treated.” Obediently, with a quiet diffidence, Aragorn leaned against Boromir’s arm. In moments his weight increased, and Boromir knew he had fallen asleep.
Awed by Aragorn’s trust in him, Boromir eased him down until his head rested on Boromir’s lap. Gently, he stroked Aragorn’s brow, feeling a sudden and most unexpected surge of tenderness. “Sleep, Aragorn,” he whispered. “My brother.”
*
Two days passed, perhaps three. Boromir and Aragorn existed in a perpetual gloom, their cell lit only by the torch high above their heads, and when it burned down they were plunged into blackness for long hours until their guards appeared with their meager and miserable rations, and the torch was lit again. Why they were permitted even that small comfort was a mystery to Boromir, but he dared not ask for fear that it would be removed. At odd times, three or four orcs would enter the cell to cuff or kick one of them as the other struggled futilely.
Afterward, they huddled together for warmth, for the simple consolation of human companionship. They listened to distant hammering and shouting, and other strange noises – a high, steady whine, a deep thudding as if the orcs were pounding and tearing out the very earth beneath Orthanc. What the noises might have been, they could not guess, but their purpose seemed clear enough. To distract themselves, they traded stories in soft voices, as if to avoid attracting more unwanted attention, and Boromir was pleased and a little disconcerted to discover that Aragorn had known him as a child.
“Kicking and screaming, you say,” Boromir murmured.
“But not incoherently,” Aragorn said. “You were most eloquent, even as a tiny child. Your demands to have a sword and be allowed to fight the corsairs were perfectly lucid.”
“In damp smallclothes.”
Aragorn shrugged. “It was a sea battle. What was a little more dampness?”
Boromir smiled. “And Father? Did he disapprove?”
“On the contrary. He was pleased and proud, I think. He might have taken you to at least observe if not for Finduilas’ intervention.”
“What was he like in his youth?”
“Denethor?” Aragorn hesitated a moment. “He was courageous. Hot-tempered, at times. Very handsome. He and your mother were like the sun and the moon. Denethor was all blazing strength, and your mother cool loveliness.” A wistful smile creased Aragorn’s face, now marred by a large bruise on one cheek.
A pang of mingled nostalgia, envy, and grief pierced Boromir’s heart. He had never seen his parents thus; he remembered only his mother’s sad longing for her home, though she had tried to mask it, and his father’s love and esteem that elevated one brother and diminished the other. “Why did you not tell me earlier? It might have eased the way between us.”
“Perhaps,” Aragorn acknowledged, then was silent for a while. “Are you still angry with me?”
“No.” Boromir shook his head and gave Aragorn a shy sideways glance. Now that he knew Aragorn’s true age – more than twice his own – he found himself somewhat humbled. “No,” he repeated. “I would follow you, Aragorn, to whatever end.”
Aragorn placed his hand atop Boromir’s, giving it a wordless squeeze of thanks. He leaned close to Boromir’s ear and spoke quietly. “I am glad for your companionship, Boromir. I am not as close to despair as I was. We shall survive this and escape, I vow it.”
Boromir felt a sudden heat and stirring between his legs as Aragorn’s lips and a faint prickle of beard brushed against his ear. He drew in a quick breath, but before he could make a reply to Aragorn’s affectionate and innocent words, the door crashed open, revealing the hulking silhouettes of three Uruk-hai.
“On your feet, little tarks,” growled the largest. “Time for a walk.”
Aragorn laid a cautionary hand on Boromir’s thigh. “Have the forces of Mordor come so soon?”
“We’re escorting you,” the Uruk-hai said, throwing a bundle at them. It landed at their feet, but neither Boromir nor Aragorn made a move to pick it up. “Go on, take it! Unless you’d rather walk barefoot to Mordor.” He leaned close and grinned, showing jagged, broken teeth. “Must protect your dainty white skins, eh?” Casually, he reached out and slapped Boromir across the face, a blow that nearly knocked him to the ground. “Come on, little princeling. Get dressed.”
His ear ringing, Boromir glared at the Uruk-hai. “Pray I don’t get you alone, filth.”
The Uruk-hai bellowed laughter. “Pray I don’t get you alone, tark. Best be on your guard.” He reached down and grasped Boromir’s chin in one huge hand. “Get dressed.”
Their guards waited while Boromir and Aragorn donned their boots and cloaks. “This is to our advantage,” Aragorn whispered. “I could not think how we could escape this place otherwise.”
“How will you walk?” Boromir asked. They had paced the perimeter of their cell in order to stave off the lethargy of their imprisonment, but Aragorn’s ankle was still badly hurt; when he walked, he was forced to drag his foot a little.
“I haven’t a choice,” Aragorn replied grimly. “We must stay alert, Boromir, and find the first opportunity to escape.”
Boromir nodded. “I’m afraid,” he said in a soft voice. There was a time when he would have died before admitting such. He wondered at his own candor.
“So am I.” Aragorn stretched out a hand, and brushed back a dirty, lank strand of Boromir’s hair. “We shall give each other courage.”
Their hands were bound behind their backs, and they were prodded and kicked to Saruman’s throne room. He sat without moving, watching them with fathomless black eyes. “The Captain of the White Tower, and Isildur’s heir. A noble pair you make. Son of the madman, heir of the traitor.” Mockery curled round his voice like drifts of smoke.
“You will live to regret this day, wizard,” Boromir spat, wounded and incensed by the insult to his father.
“Undoubtedly. My lord Sauron expresses his pleasure at your capture, young Boromir, or I would give you to my Uruk-hai in a moment. I have cautioned them to be gentle with you…but not excessively gentle, should you give them cause for ire.” He shrugged, seeming to lose interest in them. “Give the ranger his trinket,” he commanded, and a short, squat orc stepped forward, and forced a ring onto Aragorn’s finger. “It is of little consequence. Farewell, men of Gondor. We shall not see each other again.”
“We shall, though, Saruman,” Aragorn said, and while Boromir was impressed by the quiet strength in his voice, he held little hope that his words were true.
*
Had Boromir not been so exhausted, he would have marveled at the brutal stamina of their captors. They were backward in grace, but appallingly fleet of foot; they grumbled and snarled constantly, but bore the lash of their brawny leader, Uglúk, without complaint. When the captives’ strength flagged, the orcs pummeled and dragged them until they found their feet again. Boromir and Aragorn were not permitted to speak to each other, or to the orcs. Their hands were bound at all times, making their steps awkward. They were given hard bread and a loathsome brew to drink, just enough to keep them alive and walking at the pace the Uruk-hai demanded. Boromir kept a weather eye on Aragorn, watching fearfully as his strength diminished.
On a long, moonless night of their enforced march, the party stopped in a small glade of trees. Boromir and Aragorn were flung to the muddy, pebbled ground, and Boromir sank instantly into a troubled sleep, too exhausted to inquire after Aragorn’s health or spirits. He was kicked awake after what seemed only moments, and sat up in confusion and outrage. Beside him, Aragorn slumbered on; Boromir had only a heartbeat to glance at his companion before he was hauled up and dragged into the center of a circle of Uruk-hai who leered at him, laughing, a strange stench rolling from them in slow and noxious waves.
Two Uruk-hai forced him to his knees. One threaded thick fingers through his hair and dragged his head back. “Not so pretty as an elf.” His lips were stained with black blood, glistening in the light of a dim, smoky fire; Boromir suspected the company had dined on one of their own number while he’d slept.
Others crowded round. Boromir fancied he smelled hot blood and viscera. “Pretty enough for you, Lugdush.”
“Ain’t we to preserve them undamaged?”
“And who’ll know if you keep your mouth shut, Snaga?” Lugdush growled. “’Less you want to end up spitted on a skewer. Saruman said we needn’t be too gentle, after all.”
“If you have at him, then so must we all.”
“Well, then.” Lugdush leaned close to Boromir and chuffed stinking breath into his face. “Perhaps we shall.”
The company of Uruk-hai numbered a dozen – less one, had they made a meal. Boromir’s heart plummeted to his belly, and he struggled fiercely. The orcs bellowed laughter and held him fast.
“There’s enough to go round, boys!” another orc shouted. He pushed through the circle, dragging Aragorn, and flung him to the ground, then placed a heavily booted foot on his temple.
Lugdush shook his head. Tangled, clotted hair flew back and forth. “Can’t touch that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because, fool, the Eye will know. He sees. And I shouldn’t like to be in your place if you spoil him.”
“Just this one, then.” Another Uruk-hai pulled Boromir from Lugdush’s grip and threw him face-down over a fallen log. Boromir gritted his teeth, determined to bear any torment in silence, but fear choked his heart and clouded his vision. He longed for the merciful deliverance of unconsciousness.
“Leave him.” Aragorn’s voice rang out clear and strong over the lustful murmuring of the orcs.
Uglúk, who had been watching silently, turned and leaned near to Aragorn. “And why should we do that, Your Majesty?” he snorted. “Just because you say so?”
“No,” Aragorn said. “Because if you harm him, I promise you I will find a means to end my life. How will the Eye punish you for bringing a corpse to Mordor, I wonder?”
With an enraged snarl, Uglúk yanked Aragorn to his feet and shook him back and forth. “I should kill you now.”
“Do so,” Aragorn replied indifferently. “It would be a kindness.”
Boromir, still pinned to the fallen log, struggled mightily again, then gasped, nearly fainting with pain as Lugdush delivered a metal-clad kick to his upper thigh. “Be still, tark,” the Uruk-hai spat.
Uglúk flung Aragorn to the ground. “I’ve a better idea, lads. We watch His Majesty take the tark and deliver ‘em fresh. Perhaps we’ll get them both as a reward for it.” Some of the other Uruk-hai snarled and growled their objections, but Uglúk drew his sword. “Shut it! That’s the way it’ll be for now. Afterward, who knows?” He bent and cut Aragorn’s bonds. “Go on, Your Grace, have at your friend. We’ll watch to make sure it’s done right.”
Aragorn stood slowly, rubbing his wrists. “And if I refuse?”
“Then we do. And if he dies, he dies. We drag you on a litter the rest of the way to Mordor.”
Aragorn appeared to consider this, then nodded. Quietly, his carriage dignified and straight, he walked to where Boromir still thrashed in the grip of two Uruk-hai and leveled a stare at them. “Let him go.”
The Uruk-hai glanced at each other, then shrugged and laughed. “Good enough, tark. Your turn will come, I tell you that,” one said. They released Boromir, dropping his upper body to the log and nearly knocking him breathless.
The grey fog in Boromir’s head only increased as he felt Aragorn’s hand upon his back. It was true that even at the height of their animosity, something in him had yearned to touch Aragorn in the most intimate fashion, to kiss and fondle him, to take him and be taken. But like this, captive in the wilderness, surrounded by leering, gibbering Uruk-hai – it was a nightmare, certain to end in his and Aragorn’s ignoble deaths. He half-twisted to meet Aragorn’s eyes and was comforted by their serenity, their quiet resolve. And now all was clear.
“Be ready,” Aragorn whispered, and leaned close. He placed a tender kiss upon Boromir’s cheek, and slid one hand over his flank. Boromir felt a sawing sensation at the ropes around his wrists, and wondered how Aragorn had found a blade. The ropes sagged, but Boromir caught them before they could fall. He banished the stirring in his loins and waited for Aragorn’s signal. Gently, Aragorn chafed blood back into Boromir’s tingling hands and pressed another kiss to Boromir’s ear. He suckled for a moment, and Boromir was hard-pressed to quell the sensation of desire that flared within him.
The Uruk-hai took no notice. They howled and barked their impatience with Aragorn’s gentle ministrations. “Take him now, tark. Now!”
Aragorn suddenly flung himself from Boromir with a cry. With one hand he sliced open Uglúk’s throat, and with the other ripped the crude sword from the staggering creature’s scabbard. In a moment he had killed two others before they had time to reach for their own blades.
Boromir heaved himself up and hurled himself at the nearest orc, wrenching his weapon from the dark, blood-crusted hands. He swung the blade wide, cutting a swath through two more Uruk-hai. Metal clanged against metal as one orc charged him, but Boromir was quicker; he gutted the monster swiftly and surely.
The next moments were a blur of shouting, the clash of metal, and tearing flesh and broken bone. At the end, he and Aragorn stood panting, covered in black blood, surrounded by the dead bodies of their captors. Boromir bled freely from a wound to the shoulder, but he scarcely felt it; he was glad to be alive.
Aragorn sank to his knees. “How quiet it is,” he murmured, and toppled over without another word.
Boromir ran to him with a cry. Had he been mortally wounded? Had his daring been in vain? “Aragorn. Aragorn!” He gathered the limp form into his arms and kissed his forehead. He saw red blood mingled with black. A dry sob shook his body. “Aragorn. Speak to me.” Aragorn did not answer; his eyes were closed, his skin where it was untouched with dirt and blood was deathly pale.
Boromir bent and wept. Presently, he lifted his head, frowning through his tears. The ground beneath him trembled. There was a faraway sound, strange and yet familiar. He squinted into the distance and heard the noise increase – and the breath left his body in a rush. Horses!
Thunder filled his ears, and the wonderfully comforting scent of horse and tack filled his nostrils. He felt a most peculiar urge to lie down and drift to sleep.
“You there! You!” a sharp, masculine voice called. A rider dismounted and strode toward them. “Identify yourselves!”
“We are from Gondor,” Boromir said, and allowed sweet oblivion to take him.
*
Boromir came to abruptly, prodded into wakefulness by a rough hand. For one dazed moment he thought he was still in the custody of Isengard, but the face above his was human, careworn and stern despite its youth, but not unkind. “Arise, man of Gondor. We must leave you.”
A fleeting picture of the man binding his shoulder wound flickered in Boromir’s memory. “Where do you go?”
“We make for Helm’s Deep, but we must remove the last of our people to safety. I haven’t horses enough to carry you and your friend.” The man rose from beside Boromir’s pallet and retrieved a handsome helmet, adorned with a long tail of horsehair, from the floor. “Were I you, I would leave here as soon as your companion is well enough to travel.”
Boromir turned to Aragorn, asleep beside him, well-covered in blankets. “Was he badly wounded?”
“A few gashes here and there, but a harsh cut to the head. He’ll live, however. You have perhaps five days before the orcs converge upon Edoras. Enough time to heal and flee.”
Boromir shook his head, confused. “Flee. You said...the last of your people. What has happened?” He glanced about in bewilderment. They were in a long room, much like army quarters in Minas Tirith. He, Aragorn, and the horseman were its only occupants; it seemed eerie, as if it had been hastily deserted. They were close to a fire pit in the center of the room, which threw off a comforting warmth, a welcome change from the chill cells of Isengard and the damp, cold outdoors.
“Much has occurred, and to relay all of it would be too long in the telling.” The man swung his helmet onto his head. “But this much I can say. Theoden King has taken our people to Helm’s Deep, for the orcs of Isengard approach. Take your friend and leave as soon as you can. He should be ready to travel in three days’ time. I have left herbs and clean linen there.” He nodded to a large basket on an empty pallet. “There is clothing here, and armor, and such weapons as we were forced to leave behind. There is food, also, in the storehouses. Eat your fill and regain your strength, but do not tarry overlong, if you value your lives. You seem sturdy enough, the pair of you. Were there time, I should have liked to hear the tale of how you came to slay eleven orcs with no weapons of your own.”
A shudder rippled up Boromir’s spine. “I would prefer to forget it.”
“As you will. I must go. I bid you good fortune.” The man saluted briefly, turned on his heel, and left.
Boromir slid back beneath the blankets. He was vaguely aware that he was still dirty, but his shoulder had been washed and there was a clean if clumsy bandage binding it. Aragorn’s forehead was similarly bound. Five days was enough time to heal, and decide where next to go. He brushed a lock of hair from Aragorn’s brow, then planted a quick, timid kiss on his cheek. Aragorn’s courage and resourcefulness had saved them both. Boromir vowed to thank him when he was awake, but he was too weary to do more than close his eyes and sink back into a deep sleep.
*
He awoke to the smell of cooking food. Aragorn stood beside the fire pit in the center of the room, stirring something in a pot. He sat up, and Aragorn came to him. “How is your shoulder?”
“Healing,” Boromir said. “I wonder how long we have slept.”
“It’s two days after our escape from the Uruk-hai, judging by the moon,” Aragorn replied. “Boromir, what has happened here? The city is deserted.” Boromir repeated the news the man of Rohan had given him, and Aragorn’s jaw tightened. “Those are unhappy tidings indeed. You say they have fled to Helm’s Deep?”
“Yes.”
Aragorn’s hand closed over Boromir’s. “I feel I must go, also. If there is aught I can do to avert the threat of Saruman and his Uruk-hai, I would do it. But I do not hold you to me. I know you wish to return to the White City, and I will not ask you to abandon that longing, or your duty.”
Boromir hesitated. The Fellowship was broken, their number scattered across Middle-earth, their ultimate fates hidden from him. His obligation to Frodo – such as it was in his weak and shameful desire for the Ring – had come to an end. He did yearn to go back to Minas Tirith, to see his father and his brother again, to help Gondor’s armies prepare for the threat from the East that was growing like a black, pestilential cloud.
He looked down at Aragorn’s hand, blunt and square, much bruised and scarred by toil and battle. No idle king this, grown lumpish and lazy upon a throne. No, not even a throne yet did he possess. It would be hard-won, and the victory bloody and stained with grief. And not everyone – Denethor most of all – would welcome him to Gondor with open arms. Even Boromir had not wanted to acknowledge truth when it stared at him, plain as daylight. He allowed his gaze to travel upward, to Aragorn’s face. The cut on his forehead blazed an ugly blackish red, but his eyes were clear and resolute.
Boromir’s heart leapt in his chest. “I said I would follow you to whatever end.” He smiled. “I am your steward, am I not?”
Aragorn beamed and tightened his grasp on Boromir’s hand. He leaned close and whispered in Boromir’s ear. “I would have you be more.”
Once more, the movement of Aragorn’s lips upon his ear sent a stirring of desire into Boromir’s loins. He shivered, then turned to capture Aragorn’s mouth in a kiss, slaking a thirst that had consumed him for far too long. “As would I.” Mindful of Boromir’s shoulder, Aragorn pulled him close and kissed him passionately, one hand tangled in Boromir’s hair, the other fondling his bare chest. After a long and silent moment, Boromir drew back and laughed softly.
“What is it?”
“How much more pleasurable this would be if we were both clean,” Boromir said with a grin. “We’re both fragrant, but it’s hardly attar of lissuin. What about a bath, my captain?”
Aragorn leaned forward and sniffed at Boromir’s chest. He shrugged. “I’ve smelled worse. Still, if you insist.”
Boromir felt lighter of heart than he had in months. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
*
There was a small bathhouse, tightly constructed and blessedly warm once they built a fire in its stone pit. They stripped and kicked their filthy clothing to one side, then began their ablutions in silence. Though accustomed to living in princely splendor when he was not in the field, Boromir thought he had never felt anything as blissful as the odiferous soap and rough cloths with which he cleaned himself. The buckets of hot water he poured onto his naked body cleansed more than surface dirt. He took up a fresh cloth and drew a new bucket of water from the iron pot and went to Aragorn, who was sitting on a bench, meticulously scrubbing his feet. “Your back,” he said.
Aragorn, his wet hair plastered away from his face, smiled. “Thank you.”
Boromir’s heart clenched. How exhausted he looked, his cheeks hollow and his eyes shadowed with grey. And now, it was easy to see what Aragorn had suffered at the hands of the orcs. His body was covered with dozens of lacerations and a spectrum of bruises, some dark blue or black, others an ugly fading yellowish green. With utmost tenderness, Boromir washed his back, moving the cloth in slow circles, careful not to cause more pain or break healing cuts. He urged Aragorn to his feet and began on his chest and belly. He blushed as he moved down to Aragorn’s cock; it was half erect, but Boromir continued as before, washing steadily and gently. His own cock stirred as he ran his hands over the tightly muscled, lean body. He longed to take Aragorn into his mouth, but vowed to wait. He did not look up as he felt a caress linger atop his soapy head, but briefly pressed his lips to Aragorn’s belly, then continued his ministrations.
He found a blade and a strop in a cupboard along with more towels. He shaved Aragorn, tilting his face this way and that with his fingertips, leaving a neat, close beard. As he worked, he found himself humming under his breath, and met Aragorn’s sweet smile with one of his own. He leaned forward and kissed Aragorn’s mouth, then gave him a coarse comb. “Good luck.”
Aragorn laughed, accepting the comb. As Boromir finished his own bath and shave, he heard Aragorn grunting as he dragged the teeth through weeks of tangles and snarls. He grinned. He would have Aragorn looking kingly yet.
*
Together they made their way back to the barracks, dry, warm, and dressed in clean clothing. Aragorn used the healing salves, dressing and bandaging Boromir’s wounds and his own. They ate the makeshift stew Aragorn had prepared, then explored and chose some battered but serviceable mail and weapons. Boromir packed kits, readying to leave on the morrow. They were both well enough to travel, they decided, and would not delay if they could be of some service to Theoden. At last, with nothing left to be done, they sat near the fire, weary from warm food and their bath, pain and apprehension drained from their bodies for the first time in weeks. For the moment, there was nothing to fear.
Aragorn stared into the fire. “I must tell you something.”
“What is it?” Boromir looked up from a minute examination of the embroidery on his shirt. He seemed to have strength for little more than that.
“I was...reluctant when first we began this quest,” Aragorn murmured. “We have suffered much loss in too short a time. And when the orcs captured me, I felt despair.” He touched the back of Boromir’s hand. “But no longer.”
Boromir took Aragorn’s face in his hands and kissed him. Together they sank onto the pallet, indulging in each other, their kisses voluptuous and slow. Boromir ran his fingers through Aragorn’s hair, now silken instead of snarled, and kissed the soft strands. He planted a row of kisses down Aragorn’s throat and in the little hollow below that gleamed in the firelight.
They undressed each other, discarding the clothes they had put on only a short time ago, and cleaved together. Boromir suckled Aragorn’s ear, feeling his hardness growing as he returned the pressure of Aragorn’s body. His control flagged, and he tightened his grasp and thrust up against Aragorn’s cock, moaning at the glorious friction, shivering as Aragorn clamped his thighs around him and forced himself upward. Boromir pinned Aragorn to the pallet, hands locking around his wrists, and kissed him again, delirious when Aragorn yielded to him, allowing the plunder, welcoming it.
All at once Boromir found himself on his back, Aragorn above him, laughing breathlessly. “Slow,” Aragorn said. “We have all night.”
Boromir nodded, and relaxed as Aragorn began to kiss and suckle his throat. He let out a shuddering exhalation as a wet, warm tongue traced his ear and teeth nipped at the lobe. Closing his eyes, he felt himself opening, sprawling, while Aragorn took a leisurely path down his chest, pausing to suckle at his nipples, his belly, to dip into the cup of his navel. He groaned and tangled his hands in Aragorn’s hair as the tongue tickled at his cock. Up and down, swirling delicately around the head; Boromir gasped, feeling himself ready to spill. But Aragorn withdrew and urged him onto his belly, then spread his legs apart. Boromir looked over his shoulder, and saw a gleam in Aragorn’s eyes.
Aragorn wet his lips with his tongue. “May I?”
Boromir nodded, too inflamed to speak coherently. He whimpered as he felt Aragorn’s hands pull him gently apart and Aragorn’s tongue probing at him, delicate at first, then harder and more insistent. He clutched ineffectually at the rough blankets and ground against them. His legs tightened, his toes curled, and he moaned into the pillow when at last Aragorn mounted him, thrusting deeply. There was pain, for Aragorn had but spat into his hand to ease the way, but the pleasure overwhelmed with each thrust. He rose to meet the exquisite assault, and when Aragorn’s hand curled round his cock, he spilled with a loud cry and tightened. Dimly, he heard a hoarse shout, and felt the heaviness of Aragorn’s body collapsing atop his.
*
They rose at dawn, dressed, and ate a hasty breakfast. Gathering their kits, they doused the fire and tidied their refuse. They left the barracks without a backward glance, but at the wooden gates, Boromir turned and gazed back at the empty city. He wondered if such could happen to Minas Tirith – or worse. If Rohan had been abandoned and left vulnerable to the forces of darkness, what then of Gondor?
He turned back as Aragorn lightly touched his shoulder. “What...” he began, suddenly full of misery. Their trials, he realized, had only just begun.
Aragorn shook his head and rested his palm on Boromir’s cheek. “We will not let the White City fall.”
In Aragorn’s face, Boromir saw tirelessness, courage, and strength, and hope bloomed within. “Nor our people fail.” He turned his head and kissed Aragorn’s palm in thanks and devotion.
They passed through the wooden gates, the captain and his king.
Summary: Hope remains
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: ViolenceChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 8286 Read: 1190
Published: 27 Dec 2009 Updated: 27 Dec 2009