Summary: Aragorn meets someone unexpected on the corsair ships.

Rated: NC-17

Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: Five Things That Never Happened to Boromir of Gondor

Chapters: 5 Completed: Yes

Word count: 8372 Read: 8590

Published: 07 Aug 2009 Updated: 07 Aug 2009

The dead ran out the sweeps and rowed the corsair ships against the strong flow of the Anduin. Aragorn, quite rightfully exhausted, took to rest in the great cabin at the rear of one ship, and he left the King of the Dead to captain it. Legolas and Gimli were aboard another ship, and Halabarad a third, with the Dunedain spread between them. But no one disturbed Aragorn. None except the Dead.

The door need not have opened to admit the form that entered, the form of one that had once been a Man, but the door did open and then closed behind it. The sound alerted Aragorn and he sat up quickly in the captain's bed, his knife drawn. It was midnight and no lamps were lit; the only real light in the cabin was that of the moon that shone in through the small, high windows and glinted pale upon the Elven blade. He could almost have believed he was alone, but for the pale glowing by the door, and for the chill in his bones.

"Why have you come?" he asked, sheathing his blade and focusing his eyes on the dim form at the door. The blade was useless against the Dead; his fingers closed on Anduril instead, which lay on the bed at his side. "What news?"

"No news, my lord," said the form. Its voice was low, little more than a rasping whisper, like stormy winds through trees. Aragorn shivered.

"Then why have you come?" he asked, and he frowned, his eyes narrowing.

The dim form moved then, slowly, as if floating across the room. It came closer but its shape became no more distinct. It was but a pale shadow of a man. "I had to see you," it told him. "They told me that we were leaving, that we had been summoned. But only the Heir of Isildur could summon us."

"And I am Isildur's Heir." He drew Anduril from its sheath and held its hilt in both his hands, the moonlight glittering on its blade. It almost seemed to draw the light to it, to shimmer in the darkness brighter than the glowing of the Dead. Its brightness lent a little strength to Aragorn's heart.

"I know that you are, my brother," said the form then, more softly and yet it was more clearly the sound of a Man's voice, though as if carried by the wind. The glowing began to fade and move away. "I just had to see you."

"Wait!" Aragorn threw back the sheets and put down his sword. He stood barefoot on the cold boards of the floor and stared at the form, now stopped stock-still by the door. It seemed his blood ran cold. "Who are you? Show yourself."

"Has it been so long?" The brightness of the form increased, and Aragorn's heart sank. "Have you forgotten me already?"

"Boromir," he whispered.

"The same."

The form grew brighter, though the light it shed did not illuminate the cabin, only the form itself. The air about it seemed as black as a void, deep and vastly empty as Aragorn then felt. And the form grew closer, closer, until it stood there by the foot of the bed, glowing and unearthly. Aragorn sank to his knees before it.

"Boromir."

The face was so familiar and yet still so foreign, a travesty, a mockery of the fairness that he had once known. Had there been flesh it would have been decayed, hanging from the bones he saw beneath. Had the clothing there had substance, it would have hung ruined and torn. He was dead yet there he was, before him. The sight rent Aragorn's heart in two.

"Why are you here, among the Dead?" he asked, leaning heavy on his knees.

Boromir's flat, dead eyes were trained on him. "Because of you," he said.

"Me?" Aragorn's eyes went wide.

The form then moved, rounded the foot of the bed and came closer, slowly, until it stood before him. It seemed he could gaze through that glowing, right through to the ship's timbers. Then, suddenly, it turned, and sat.

"Aragorn," he said. "Come sit beside me, as you once did".

It seemed his limbs were locked and unwilling to move, but he gritted his teeth and rose from the floor. Boromir looked up at him; he sat down at his side.

"You cursed me," he said. "As Isildur cursed the Men of the Mountain all those years ago, so you cursed me on Amon Hen. I do not think you even realised the words had left your lips, but as I lay dying in your arms, even then, you cursed me."

"I…"

But Boromir raised a hand and silenced him, and then went on. "I once said to you that we would see the White City," he said. "That one day our paths would lead us there, do you remember? My death made a liar of me and for that you cursed me. So I went to dwell with the Dead under the mountain, and like those men I cannot rest until my oath's fulfilled."

Tears welled in Aragorn's eyes as he turned and stared blankly through the window, out at the wide river beyond. He had cursed him, then, never to rest. For such a petty thing! It seemed his curse meant so much less than Isildur's, and yet was no less potent, or less binding. He had not meant this, not for Boromir.

The touch of Boromir's hand was as ice on his cheek as he reached out to turn his face toward him. Aragorn shivered, and his tears spilled. Boromir smiled sadly, and he brushed the tears away.

"I do not blame you," he said softly, and then it seemed he was himself again, no death there in his countenance, only in the ice of his touch. "You did not mean for this to happen."

"No."

He drew closer, and placed his hands on Aragorn's shoulders; the cold was almost burning. "I just wanted to see you this one last time," he said, and smiled. "Before we return to my City and I am gone forever."

He brushed back the hair from Aragorn's face and he looked into his eyes; Aragorn opened his mouth to speak but Boromir laid his fingertips upon them, and the words seemed to vanish.

"I have missed you," said Boromir. "And I shall miss you always."

He kissed him then, a hundred winters in that kiss. And Aragorn moved to hold him, but felt only air in his arms. He drew back, desolate.

"I can touch but not be touched." Boromir shrugged his shoulders. "A price that the oathbreakers pay. I'm sorry, I…" He broke off, and looked away, then stood. "I should not have come here. I should go."

"Don't." Aragorn stood also. "Stay with me." He reached out his hand and Boromir, hesitantly, took it; the cold was almost numbing, but Aragorn felt he did not mind. "I must rest now, but I would feel your touch."

He sat, and Boromir moved with him; he moved Anduril aside and lay, stretched out upon the bed. He could not touch but as he closed his eyes he felt Boromir's arms about him, cold like a blanket of snow, but comforting with it. His lover's hands rested at his waist, his hair spilling over his cheek, his lips pressed to his shoulder.

He slept that night in the arms of a memory.

***

He was alone when he woke; it was as he had expected, though not as he had hoped. Still, he had not the time to search him out. The ships drew near the harbour. Battle was upon them.

They fought hard, ‘til they were aching and torn and the field was red with the blood of both sides. He stood there then, in the aftermath, and the King of the Dead came down to him. It was over; the Battle of the Pelennor Fields was won. The Dead had fulfilled their oaths, and now they called on him to set them free.

He glanced over them, among them, the army of the Dead. Then he spoke the words that would release them. As they went, as his eyes searched, he thought he saw the man for whom he had been searching. A wide smile was on his face, and he was pointing to the City; and as he vanished into the air, Aragorn turned his gaze to look.

Minas Tirith stood before him, the White City, proud though torn. The Tower of Ecthelion overlooked it all, and its banners flew high in the breeze. Boromir was home at last.