It began with such a trivial incident. The King was speaking with a councillor as they walked briskly along a corridor. He had half turned to laugh at something said as they went to enter a low doorway and on turning back had struck his head on the stone lintel, staggering back with blood beginning to well from a graze on his forehead into the arms of the startled courtier.
Once set back on his feet, a little dazed, Aragorn had been unwilling to put the Healers to the trouble of looking at the injury, and had been persuaded only by the entreaties of his anxious advisors.
The young Healer summoned to view the damage had been careful in working around the bruise that was darkening his temple. Fortunately, there did not appear to be any great hurt. The resultant wound had not even required closing, merely to be cleaned of a little grit from the stonework and a salve applied. Having finished his work, he reminded Aragorn to report any blurring of his vision and had advised the Queen and Lord Steward, who stood one on either side of the stool on which Elessar sat, to call them should the King appear unexpectedly sleepy.
The King had not appeared any the worse for the experience all that day. Indeed the King was rather of the opinion that it was his pride that had taken the most damage, so that it had come as something of a shock the following morning when he had awoken to a world grown strangely cold and distant.
It was as though he were seeing all through a grey mist and as the morning had progressed Aragorn came to realise that he could no longer smell the new-baked bread on the plate before him, nor taste the strong, hard cheese he had bitten into.
He remembered a bitter winter and a siege of a small fort when his Ranger band had been reduced to eating the tallow candles before help came. This was something the same; as he chewed the food filled his mouth with a waxy paste, but there was no flavour to it and in the end he was hard pressed to swallow it. He had tried a mouthful of bread, but the effort to eat made him gag.
From along the table Boromir had seen his love struggle with the food, but when Aragorn had, smiling, waved away a servant with another dish to turn instead to his neighbour in lively conversation, his concerns eased and he resolved to see what the dinner hour might bring.
In the event, they had been separated by duties and Boromir had eaten with Arin in the small library. Once the boy had gone to bed, Boromir had followed not long after, padding noiselessly up the stone staircase, despite the bundle of documents he was carrying. He had long since become resigned to the gentle teasing of his brother and his King, who had dubbed him Ranger Oliphant and he knew that he would never become as soft-footed as those who had been trained to it, but he could still move noiselessly on marble floors and so, when he reached his room and heaved open the door with a shoulder, Aragorn, who had been stooped over an open chest, whirled about startled and the vial of liquid in his hands splashed over the floor.
Boromir dumped the papers down on his bed, exclaiming, and snatched up the pot of sand by his inkwell to pour over the spill, turning the spreading pool of oil to a sort of yellow mud. He strode over to the windows and flung wide the shutters, before turning back to Aragorn who seemed almost fixed, a stricken look on his face.
“Don’t fret,” Boromir chuckled,”I can make more next winter, although,” he added, “this room will probably reek of jasmine for weeks.” He blinked, saying, “It is a little overpowering, isn’t it…love?”
Aragorn looked down at the glass tube and then back to Boromir. Smiling ruefully he said, “I can’t smell it,” and when he saw Boromir’s incredulous grin, he added, “I can’t taste anything either.”
When consulted, Celond was fairly sure that the blow to the head was to blame for the King’s sudden alteration. There was a chance, he said, that all would right itself…but he could not say when, or if, that might be.
Aragorn had listened and nodded, outwardly calm, but within a sort of despair crept over him. It was hard enough to force himself to eat, despite the ever stronger flavours employed by his cooks, but he was only now truly aware of how his appetites were satisfied by taste and smell. He could gaze with joy on his beloved, lying golden and all but purring in his arms, but when he set his lips to Boromir’s skin there was none of the salt and spice warmth flooding his senses – so that sometimes he felt as though he were in a nightmare in which he could feel some familiar things, but he was left frustrated, unfulfilled, knowing that there was more he could not reach, no matter how hard he tried.
Boromir and Arwen watched him strive for patience and saw anxiety strip the flesh from him. Arwen had his food served ready on one plate. He could no longer judge what might sustain him, but he had no appetite and struggled each day to finish a meal.
Celond consulted with his fellows and then more widely and at last sent King and Steward on a gentle sea voyage, partly in hopes that the sea air might invigorate the King, but also because he had heard rumours that the Sisters who had worked their magic on him before were making a brief sojourn along the coast.
…………………………………………………………………………….
Boromir had thought himself past blushing, but the remembrance of their last encounter came to him courtesy of the bright eyes of the Sisters who, even as they listened politely to Aragorn’s terse account of his troubles, were surveying them both intently. He also remembered the fun had and readily grinned back at them, even as his cheeks pinked.
On ending his tale, Aragorn leant back in his chair seemingly exhausted and in truth, he was bone weary. One finger, neatly tipped in scarlet, tapped on his knee to rouse him and he smiled gently.
“We will think on this,” smiled one sister.
“And bring you our solution on the morrow,” finished the other.
The solutions proved to be many, or at least it seemed that way to Boromir as he watched the Sisters unpack a chest readymade for travelling, with small glass bottles sealed with wax in wooden racks, covered with lambs’ wool.
At first sight all the bottles appeared to hold plain water, but as the Sisters placed single drops of one or another liquid on his tongue, he was transported back to childhood with the taste of a honeyed sweet his Mother had loved and to less happy times with the taste of dried blood.
Soon the women bade him sit and watch, as they worked through dozens of glass vials, placing drops from each on different parts of Aragorn’s tongue. Each time they asked him what the taste might be and each time a look of concentration, followed eventually by a sorrowful shake of the head was their only reply.
When after one dose, Aragorn’s eyes suddenly opened wide and he said unthinking to Boromir,
“It’s your seed!”
There was a moment’s silence and then a faint gasp and Boromir threw back his head and roared with laughter. Aragorn was nodding, cheeks scarlet.
“Now that settles the matter,” said a Sister, grinning broadly and flicking her long hair back over her shoulder, “we believe we know how you might be helped.”
“The blow to your head,” they murmured in unison, “began the problem, but you are tired and lacking a savoury in your food.”
“There is a precious metal, ciniz, may help your taste and smell return. Can you eat anything set before you?” they asked.
No Ranger could be choosy in his feeding, but since a child Estel had need to avoid some handful of foods that left him short of breath.
“Apricots and shellfish, all bar those,” said Aragorn eagerly, greatly cheered by the thought that he might feel whole again.
When they turned enquiring faces on him, Boromir had answered cheerfully, “Oh, nowt worries me!”
At this, a thoughtful look had come over the Sisters’ faces, so that for a moment the men feared some obstacle, but a moment’s whispering, a stifled chortle or two and soon they were smiling back at them in an encouraging way that Boromir privately found a little unnerving.
The pricking of the hairs standing up on the back of his neck the next morning when the Sisters appeared laden with baskets did not quite extend to unease, but once both men had been handed brimming tankards of a dark hoppy beer, Boromir was a little startled to find them leading him by the hand to a table set with a large platter, a knife and two lemons. One sister whisked a large white napkin about his neck whilst the other began to pile his plate high with oysters.
“Tuck in!” they chirruped and one Sister buffeted him soundly on the shoulder, whilst the other unwrapped a little vial and carefully added two drops of a ruby liquid to Aragorn’s beer.
So began the first of many such meals.
……………………………………………………………………………..
Boromir was panting, dizzy, stretched out beneath his lover’s ravaging tongue. He could hear himself whining with need, begging without shame. Aragorn licked along the hot vein that throbbed and tugged at his breath, his tongue burrowed into the little slit, flickered about the fat head and all the while he breathed in lungfuls of Boromir’s spicy, musky scent. Then he sucked Boromir’s cock down tight and began to hum, and the vibrations brought Boromir yelling over the edge of ecstasy, body jerking as he pumped out more seed than he could have imagined his poor flesh containing.
As he fell back, dazed, Aragorn whooped and smacked his lips.
“Let’s do it again, love!” he carolled.
“You are sure you only added two drops,” said one sister, seriously, to the other.
“Oh yes, sister,” said the other, “two drops per mug.”
There was a moment’s silence and then the women looked at one another…
“Oh my!” they said.
-oo0oo-
Summary: Aragorn realises what it is he takes for granted and the Sisters come to the rescue once again.
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: No
Word count: 1775 Read: 913
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."