Aragorn threads the Citadel’s moonlit halls, deprived of sleep by the need for speechwriting and a concomitant lack of inspiration. Silent ghosts attend him, echoes of another time if not another place, where falsehoods brought some semblance of brotherhood and belonging, if only for the bright brief burning of a candle. Truth sits heavy upon his shoulders, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, a burden never sought, always dreaded.
Something more corporeal than memory stalks the darkling corridors and the king slides into shadows at the approaching creak of leather and soft swish of a robe. Boromir’s stride is measured, head bent deep in thought, feet seeming to choose their own random course. Aragorn slips silently into the Captain General’s wake, his own path now determined, watches and wonders at what he sees.
Pallid as one risen from the grave as much as from his bed, slowly the soldier paces, stops, turns, continues upon his way. What is it that has roused him? What causes him to wander sighing, a sorrowful creature of the night? Is he too, Aragorn ponders, haunted by promises from the past, tortured by the present? Is the king’s own existence the poisonous root of this nocturnal anguish?
Boromir pauses once more, caught in a shaft of cool pale moonlight, flesh become perfect marble and Aragorn is transfixed, pierced to the heart, unable to look away as the figure rocks upon its feet, long slim whip connecting again and again and again with leather-booted calf. The last sigh is deeper still and it is not just Aragorn’s heart that quickens and throbs.
Suddenly Boromir moves away and into dim shadow, turns a corner, disappears from sight and the king follows noiselessly, only to run into a solid barrier of unforgiving muscle.
‘Did you think to outwit me, Ranger? Did you believe my senses dulled by darkness rather than sharpened by the stars?’
Aragorn finds himself held firmly in place as an answer is awaited. His voice seems not an easy thing to find.
‘I… I was walking, thinking… Considering my speech. For tomorrow… That is, for today… For the Autumn Feast… I did not wish to disturb you yet was concerned. You seem… distracted, unhappy. Is there ought amiss?’
Boromir’s grip loosens and a curious smile plays across his mouth.
‘New boots,’ he murmurs.
‘New…?’
‘New boots. I wish to wear them for the Autumn Feast yet they are tight, still pinch and rub. The fit is almost right, but not quite. I seek to break them in.’
Aragorn looks down at strong muscled legs encased in stiff shining leather. Without realising what he is doing his hand comes to rest upon his companion’s hip, remains there as he lifts his eyes and whispers.
‘May I… assist you?’
He licks his lips.
Their gaze remains unbroken until Boromir’s eyes narrow and a brief snort and curt nod give assent. The king kneels slowly, fingers trailing downwards then he falls upon hands and knees, nuzzles against leather, first one cheek then the other, inhaling deeply, eyes closed in rapture.
Healing hands have no power over dead pigskin, he has no fine words for speeches now or at any other time, yet his tongue is smooth and skilful, eager to please and gifted wtih ability. Wet trails glisten like obsidian, misted by hot breath and smudged by stubble, the only sound a long sibilant ‘Yes…’
It is when he feels the gently insistent stroke of Boromir's whip that the ground shifts beneath him, that the pieces move upon the board, and Aragorn knows they have both found their destined places within this great, strange, labyrinthine scheme of things.
Summary: Boromir prepares for the Autumn Feast
Rated: NC-17
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 616 Read: 1192
Published: 02 Aug 2009 Updated: 02 Aug 2009