He came to with the dank smell of wet earth and decay in his nostrils and his cheek pressed against something slimy. When he moved, rough stone grazed his face and he tried vainly to use his hands to push himself back from it, finding with fury and frustration that they were bound behind him.
An icy chill was seeping into his lower limbs, which he found to be also bound and he realized dully that he was standing up to his thighs in water. It was as dark as pitch and if he kept still, as silent as the tomb.
*Is it to end like this?* He had never feared death, but the death he did not fear was one of, rhythmic drums, fluttering pennants and strident trumpets; of sparks from clashing swords, the thud of steel on wooden shields, the thundering of hooves and cries of the wounded. He had never feared death and glory amongst his comrades in the sunlight, but to die alone like a rat in this stinking black hole filled him with horror and suddenly he was ten years old again.
Always an unbending disciplinarian, Denethor was just as ready to punish his favoured, elder son as the despised Faramir. The close bond between the two brothers angered him beyond words, for he saw it as defiance and disrespect of his authority on Boromir’s part, when he defended and protected the younger boy. He often suspected that Boromir took the blame for Faramir’s many misdemeanours, both real and imagined and would beat both of them anyway, to show that he had his suspicions. He felt that whether Boromir was the culprit, or merely trying to deceive him, his punishment was well-deserved and as for Faramir, he had no intention of sparing the rod to the detriment of what he saw as an already degenerate character, even at the age of five.
On this occasion, he had absolute proof that Boromir was claiming responsibility for a smashed urn, knocked over by his brother, because there had been a witness, unnoticed by the boys. He triumphantly produced the tale-bearer, and watched as Faramir’s frightened, defeated, white face contrasted with the more spirited son’s angry, reddened attempt to brazen it out.
This time a beating would not suffice for Boromir. He had to learn to bend to his father’s authority if he was to prove a worthy successor. Denethor called the guards and had Boromir bound and thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon in the citadel, as if he were the most desperate rogue, ignoring the raised eyebrows of his advisers and Faramir’s anguished pleas.
He had remained there for three days, lying in his own filth in the cold, damp darkness, hearing only the scratching of rats and dreading the sinking of sharp yellow teeth into his flesh. For the first time in his life, he had known real terror, been assured that he would die there alone and had wept bitter tears. On the fourth day, Denethor had appeared in the doorway, blazing torch held aloft, and coldly asked him if he was now ready to be a dutiful son. Too parched with thirst to speak, he had simply nodded and been picked up by one of the guards and turned over to his sobbing nurse to be bathed, fed and coddled.
The experience had not reformed him, merely made him more cunning and more determined not to be caught out in deceiving his father and had strengthened his resolution to protect his little brother. He had a feeling that had Faramir been the one in the dungeon, Denethor would likely have left him there. Thankfully it had never been repeated, except in the dreams, which would have him wake, shivering and yet bathed in sweat, for years after.
Until now. Now, he felt just as frightened and helpless as the ten year old boy and had to fight down a sob of despair. There was a scraping sound and a few small stones were dislodged, some striking him on the head, others plopping into the water beside him. He looked up and saw a crescent, waxing to a full moon above, as somebody slid aside the wooden cover of the well.
He could also see a thick chain, which must have been used to lower the bucket in the days when the well was still in use. A beloved voice called down to him,
“Boromir! Thank Eru we have found you.”
He tried to reply, but his throat was parched and he could only croak.
“Do not try to speak! Lower away.”
Another shower of small stones presaged a pair of boots, followed by strong legs wrapped around the rusty chain and finally he was able to see Aragorn, dressed as the Ranger, not the King, holding on and being lowered down to him.
He watched as his lover moved towards him by inches and it seemed that an age had passed before Aragorn was standing by his shoulder on a jutting piece of stonework and bending to cut the ropes tying his hands.
Aragorn took the cold hands and brought them round to the front, rubbing them to try and bring them back to life, though it was clear that Boromir would not be able to grasp the chain. Kissing Boromir’s forehead, he took a coil of elven rope from around his shoulder and deftly knotted it into a kind of sling, which he put over Boromir’s head and under his armpits, tying it off fast and attaching it to the chain.
“Haul away!”
At his command, the guards above began winching and Boromir felt himself moving painfully slowly up the snaking vertical tunnel towards the blessed disc of light, dangling like a puppet, his feet still bound and his sodden clothes dripping down on Aragorn’s upturned face.
Finally, strong hands grabbed him and heaved him over the edge, bearing him gently and laying him on the grass. He blinked in the strong sunlight until someone thoughtfully shaded his eyes, while someone else put a leather water bottle to his cracked lips and yet another cut the ropes tying his ankles and removed his wet breeches, wrapping him in a woollen blanket to still his shivering.
Boromir drank a little water and lay in a daze, as the guards threw down the rope to Aragorn and hauled him up. He remembered little of the journey back to the White City, only fully realizing that he was home, when he was helped into a deliciously hot bath, fragrant with sweet herbs and he felt his sluggish blood begin to move around his body again.
He looked up and smiled as Aragorn stepped from behind the fine muslin curtain, wearing a loose robe and carrying two goblets, the delicate spiral of steam and scent of cinnamon and cloves telling him that they held mulled wine.
“Mulled wine in late spring, My Liege?”
“It will help to warm you, as will the hot water and as will I.”
Boromir’s blood quickened as Aragorn set down the goblets on the side of the deep bathing pool, slipped out of the robe and joined him in the water, sitting opposite him and putting his feet in the Royal lap. He picked up first one and then the other, using his capable hands and strong thumbs to massage them.
“Now, Steward, tell me. How came you to be bound hand and foot at the bottom of an old well? Am I to forbid you to ride out alone in future? I nearly lost you before, pierced in the breast by orc arrows.”
He stretched out a hand and his forefinger traced the scars on Boromir’s broad chest.
“I thought I had lost you again; would have lost you, had the well not been nearly dry, or had My Lady Arwen, not seen you down there in a vision.”
“I am so sorry, love. This is difficult for me to speak of, for I am ashamed.”
“Please. There is no shame between us” The hands resumed their massage and began working upon his calf muscles. Boromir cast his eyes down and spoke hesitantly,
“You know well how I need sometimes to be alone, as do you. I rode out into the forest yesterday and came upon a ruined cottage. It was being used by brigands to share out their ill-gotten gains and I foolishly allowed myself to be ambushed by their look-outs. They took me by surprise, knocked me out, bound me and threw me down the well.”
“I have already sent out troops of soldiers to search for your assailants. We knew there had to have been many to overcome you.”
“There were maybe a dozen. They could just have killed me, but it amused them to throw me down the well. They thought the water would be deep.” He flushed scarlet and looked into the grey eyes,
“Aragorn, they took my sword, shield and vambraces and poor Raven, they took him too.”
Aragorn had reached the creases, where Boromir’s torso joined his legs and noting that his member was standing hard and proud above the water, he smiled, crinkling the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Raven will come to no harm. He is a fine stallion and worth much. We will overtake them and retrieve all. Do not worry. We have already saved that which I value most.”
He moved onto his knees and leaned forward, drawing Boromir into a wine-flavoured kiss, their cocks rubbing together.
“But I caused you worry and you put yourself at risk descending into the well to save me. Could you not have sent down one of the men?”
“Let us go to bed, my love. I had to come down for you myself, for I am bound to you for ever.”
They climbed out of the water and dried each other carefully, before moving into the bedchamber and sinking onto the silken softness of the huge feather bed. Later, in the afterglow, Boromir would find the words to speak to Aragorn of Denethor’s punishment and the nightmares that had followed for years, how the well had brought it all back, but for now, he simply whispered, “As I am bound to you,” surrendering willingly into the welcome bondage of his lover’s arms.
Summary: Boromir had never feared death
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1737 Read: 1008
Published: 13 May 2010 Updated: 13 May 2010