1. Chapter 1

by Hurinhouse (1742 words)

2. Chapter 2

by Hurinhouse (1345 words)

3. Chapter 3

by Hurinhouse (1452 words)

4. Chapter 4

by Hurinhouse (2379 words)

The servants called her cold, and Faramir wanted to believe them. He buried the instincts that told him her indifference was merely a radiant mask to hide pain and grief, convinced himself she wanted to be alone. His heart no longer had room for empathy.

They had spent afternoons in the garden, he at one end, Eowyn at the other, both gazing to the east, soaking up what little sun broke through Mordor’s haze. He could have had the grounds to himself, but she was sister to Rohan’s new king; it would be erroneous not to share. Besides, her presence distracted him from his own bitterness and sorrow. He’d sensed that the darkness would not keep, and told her so, though he barely cared himself.

“I thank you, Sir, for your kind words, though they are just pitied echoes within a dead dawn.”

Her dismissal felt like an insult. “I offer no pity, for I have none left; but instead, understanding.”

“I will take with me your recognition then, and bid you free to heal your own troubled mind.”

With that, she left him alone on the ramparts, and Faramir was glad of it. He’d had his share of chasing wild beasts. He felt spite rushing to his throat anew as he glanced toward Mordor. Let them all run as far as they wished. His tracking days were over.

**

Boromir had developed a keen sense of hearing, the need to detect coming trouble making it a necessity. So it was not difficult to discern the whispers that ran through camp after their second day of travel, a welcome distraction to the youngest soldiers from the cold damp that lingered after the rains. The rumors about his identity spread more quickly after his private lesson in the clearing, the men realizing he must be more than just a ragged outlaw for the future king to take notice. The sergeant had heard Aragorn call Boromir by his true name, confirming suspicions.

Boromir resented Aragorn for the pitied curious looks he’d received, those Aragorn seemed to pointedly ignore. When a private mentioned the Steward’s grim fate, not knowing the heir was passing toward the king’s tent at that moment, Boromir found his water skin quite slippery, and open. No one had the courage to contest his attack on the poor lad.

He hadn’t needed the reminder. He wasn’t sure he would have recognized his father on the Pelennor if it weren’t for the premium chainmail and the fact that the man was in the same position as the last time he’d seen him, a far cry from his featherbed, though. The extraordinary leader he’d dreamt of all these years, cut down just like the lowly soldier next to him, hatchet buried in his chest, a line of blood trailed from his mouth down his cheek. No regal allowances for his station. Boromir had never considered the privileges of aristocracy before then.

The worst part was holding his father’s body down with his boot as he pulled the hatchet from his chest. A voice in the back of his mind screamed at how unfair it was, after just meeting him. But who deserved fair? The standard bearer? The sewer drudge? Certainly not the wretched man in the tent whom he was about to berate.

The tent was large enough for a cot, a table, and chairs. A bit larger than the Steward’s great bed, what he remembered of it. There was no chance of avoiding the flesh of the would-be king, the man bent over the makeshift wash basin, rough blanket round his hips, hands scooping water up to his face. Boromir had jumped into the cold stream with the rest of the men, the caked mud itching to distraction. Now he wished he could return, the gooseflesh upon Aragorn’s back composing most of his view.

His cheeks blushed hot and he thought back to the hours after the battle. Aragorn had healed dozens of men, consoled dozens more as they made their way toward their last gasp. A day later he mastered a rock of evil magic and charged the Captains of the West with a death march, brandishing the same authority as when he’d directed the Dead.

Said authority mocked Boromir’s wavering admiration, branding him a love sick pup when he had no comprehension of the concept to begin with, unless it was defined by a primal need of another’s company. Since one could not love one’s own brother that topic was pointless. He’d lost his taste for men some twenty years past, until this quietly controlling brooder before him showed, as much a vagabond as Boromir.

Aragorn fumbled for a towel, startling Boromir from his thoughts, and he handed over a cloth from the bed.

“My thanks.” Aragorn’s voice was lyrical, and Boromir felt his face heat up like a child’s once more. When his cock followed suit he blushed anew and his thoughts grew darker, ashamed of his lack of control. He may as well be sent back to spar with boys and old men.

“I’m sorry.”

Boromir shrugged. “I’ve played the servant before. Tis no difficult role.”

“No… ugh, your damned wordplay. I meant your loss… I knew Denethor.”

Boromir’s throat thickened at the unexpected subject. “Well… good that someone knew ‘im.”

“We did not get along, but he was an excellent leader.”

Boromir shoved aside odd sensations of desolation, grasped for what he knew. He stared at the freckles on Aragorn’s shoulders, almost reaching out, but as the man turned, his righteous morality ignited a gathering fury within Boromir’s mind.

Aragorn’s eyes went straight south, hungry, forcing Boromir’s softening member to refill. He’d worn a long tunic, but it was difficult to hide his condition. A smug feeling kindled inside as he saw Aragorn’s similar state, but it began to choke off when a hand slipped into his shirt and pressed, grey eyes making a request Boromir had declined countless times in his youth.

He felt strangely commanded, though no words had escaped the other mans’ lips, and the fleeting consideration to yield was what made him lash out. He shoved Aragorn against the tent’s pole, scowled at the amused grin. As he ground his hips into the other man’s, Aragorn mirrored him, but also leaned forward, Boromir’s lips his goal.

Boromir tilted his head away and ground harder, deftly detoured from a second attempt by biting Aragorn’s neck. Aragorn’s hands came up to frame his face then and Boromir’s heart rate skipped, his breath abandoning him in spurts. He batted the hands away and crushed Aragorn onto the cot, unlacing his own breeches, eyeing the other man’s.

Aragorn stayed his hands. “Know that I expect equal exchange at some point.”

Boromir growled, worked on Aragorn’s laces, what started as distraction quickly heating his loins. “We will be dead in a day. No time for recompense.”

He took Aragorn into his mouth then and all protests died away. He was out of practice, bedding only women for twenty some years, but the skill came back to him easily and soon Aragorn was panting and writhing beneath his roving hands. He scooped up a dollop of the ranger’s salve and his hand crept to Aragorn’s cleft.

At the first touch, Aragorn gasped, fists clenching the blanket beneath him. Boromir marveled at Aragorn’s reactions. Always in control, disciplined in the face of chaos. Yet here he let go, willingly.

He slowed then, his lust cooling to hot desire. He tried to be gentle, though had little knowledge how, and Aragorn slammed teeth together as a finger worked in, then more. The tight heat gripped him as he slid in, hands resting on either side of Aragorn’s head. Aragorn eyed his mouth, and Boromir found himself leaning toward him, but stopped short and changed his angle. As he drove in again and again, tried and failed to soften his thrusts, not once did his brother’s beautiful face curse his thoughts.

**

The silence bothered Aragorn most. During his command at Rohan decades earlier, the sturdy horsemen had chattered merrily en route to battle, as close as was safe, confident enough to brag of maids back home and physical feats. But their silence now, along with that of the Gondorians, reminded him of the usual grave bearing of his rangers, and that did not bode well for the morale of men untrained for stealth.

He’d occupied too much of his scrutiny on Boromir, the man’s many flaws weighing against the attraction and benighted respect Aragon couldn’t seem to stamp down. After the incident in his tent, he was unsure whether he could trust Boromir on the road, let alone at the Gates. Ingrained tendencies were difficult to shake, especially when one felt cornered. Though Aragorn had been the one to give himself over, the stubborn Húrin had become even more resentful than he’d previously been. His brooding glares gathering with avoidance.

Sauron had just backed away, his threat echoing, when Boromir charged upon Aragorn from within the column, a wildness about his eyes. Aragorn checked his grip, a horrid fear at what he might need do rushing suddenly upon him, mournfulness for what might have been. But splendidly reckless as Boromir was, he could not believe the man had a death wish.

“Draughts!” the renegade yelled within earshot. His mount had nearly swiped Aragorn’s, Boromir so new to riding, but he circled back round clumsily and repeated his plea, “Draughts!” He pointed at the columns, fighting to control his mount. “Your formation is faulty.”

Faulty. Aragorn spared a curse at the fool’s arrogance, barely realizing his relief at not having to cut him down.

“If you form a checkerboard, the elves and Rohirrim can stand, firing bolt and spear first.” Boromir’s gesture moved toward the Gondorians. “The swordsmen can surround them, stopping the strays that get through whilst they fire.”

Aragorn hesitated. Leaving pockets of open ground for the enemy to fill seemed risky. But the extra space would ensure less of their men killed by their own rampant blades. At any rate, the point of it all was distraction, as victory by battle was impossible, so better to forge good relations with this possible ally, hopeful for more.

“Make it so!”

“Draughts!” they both bellowed down the lines then, pacing back and forth to be heard. “Swordsmen surround darts and spears!” captains and sergeants repeated farther in as the massive wall of orcs surged closer. “Draughts! You know it! Form Draughts now!” Startled faces young and old stared back, soldiers at the front quickly scrambling to form new ranks.

At the first “Loose arrows!” Aragorn knew the plan would work, for a while. More darts skewered the beasts than lances, but with large pikes newly imbedded in their shields, the untouched orcs quickly dropped the cumbersome tools, leaving themselves open to death.

At the front, Aragorn could not spare a glance toward Boromir, the man already within the fracas on the other side of the Host. He hoped this tactic would turn the tide, and he willed Frodo to hurry.

5. Chapter 5

by Hurinhouse (2379 words)