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: 8587

Published: 07 Aug 2009 Updated: 07 Aug 2009

Author's Chapter Notes:
Boromir didn't die at Amon Hen. Nor did he die at Helm's Deep. Aragorn, on the other hand...
Boromir stood by King Theoden on the walls of Helm's Deep. Below them lay the Deeping Coomb where had fallen Hama, Captain of the King's guard. Below them lay the gates of the Hornburg, where had fallen Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Boromir stood by Theoden with Anduril in his hands, and he wept. The heir to the throne of Gondor was dead.

***

The War of the Ring was hard fought and hard won; there were many casualties, including Theoden of Rohan and Denethor of Gondor. More were lost than could be counted. But in the end it was the armies of the Free Peoples that prevailed, and those few left alive from the host that had ridden from Gondor to the Morannon returned to their homes as heroes.

Boromir rode with Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Eomer of Rohan. Imrahil, the Prince, was a high and noble man who had fought so very bravely for his country, and Eomer, perhaps then Boromir's closest friend in all the lands, was to be King of Rohan. Boromir himself would be made Steward; there would be no coronation as would make Eomer Rohan's king, but dressed in the livery of the Tower and under his fathers' white banners, Boromir would receive the rod of his office and the title to which he was born. He would rule Gondor.

Faramir, his brother, wed the Lady Eowyn soon after. Boromir was pleased for them but would not take a wife himself, though many would have had him – even Lothoriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil, was offered. She was beautiful and most high-born; she would give him sons, and smile, and would not care at all should he not love her as he ought. But still he took no wife, and rode to war instead. He brought their country many victories and praise rained down upon him. His men and his people loved him. He was the leader that his father never had been, and Gondor again grew strong.

Then something happened that had not been foreseen.

Returning from another battle, a war that he had ridden to with Eomer, and fought, and won, he was sought out by his brother. Faramir had remained behind and had not fought; this was not through any cowardice but rather it was that he ruled Gondor in his brother's absence, and his wife Eowyn was with child, their first. Still, Boromir's first nephew was not the topic of which Faramir wished to speak.

"The people would make you king, brother," he said as they sat together, as Boromir began to clean his sword. He stopped, his hand still on the blade. "The line of the kings is broken. They would make it anew."

For one long moment Boromir neither moved nor spoke. He sat still as stone in his seat and gazed down at the sword that he held, at the figures etched there that he had never understood, at the blade that had seen him through so many battles. Aragorn's sword, and Isildur's before. And then he looked down the hall at all the faces of the kings, the statues that lined the walls, with their blank eyes and noble brows. There was one, the last, upon whom his eyes rested longest. At last, he shook his head.

"No," he said, and his voice was firm. "There will be no return of the king. The throne of Gondor shall sit empty ‘til the ending of all things; there is no man left alive can fill it."

There was such conviction in his voice that Faramir could not speak. He was silent then, and spoke of it no more.

***

Sometimes in the night he felt the sword owned him and not that he owned it. He was no king, nor could he be; he was not Aragorn. The idea that he should be elevated, that Gondor should see a king once more, had horrified him; Isildur's heir was gone and no other could ever claim the throne. They had offered him the crown and he knew that once, perhaps, he would have seized it with both hands. No longer.

He lay awake in bed that night and found no rest. In the morning he sent out a rider – he sent word to Rohan and to Eomer. The King was to return to Gondor then, in death; in Minas Tirith they would bury what was left, the bones, of Aragorn, King Elessar. They would speak of kings no more.

He went then to the Tower Hall and he stood by the new-hewn statue there, a commission of his own, his head bowed. He could not look into the blank stone eyes. For all his great courage, he dare not.

"You will be missed," he said softly, though even such softness echoed in the Tower Hall and sounded empty to his ears.

His eyes strayed; they crept slowly upwards over Aragorn's form, familiar though attired as befitted the king, to the sword captured there in stone at his side. Boromir's hand went to the hilt of the sword at his waist, lingered there a moment, then drew it out.

"You lent me this awhile," he said, "and I have made use of it. Now I return it to you."

With a heavy heart, he placed the sword across Aragorn's lap; his fingertips traced the engraved blade, the sun and moon, the runes, then his hands dropped back to his sides. And he said goodbye to Anduril that had borne him through so much bloodshed. It was not his own to keep.

***

Three weeks passed in preparation, then it was done; Aragorn rested in the House of the Kings. His body was brought from its rest at Helm's Deep by a party of Riders from Rohan, Eomer King himself amongst those that came with the bones. Perhaps Gondor, perhaps the White City, did not understand the ritual and solemnity that surrounded the event, never having known the rule of a king or the man that Aragorn had been, but they understood their Steward felt his loss acutely. At his command, at the moment the party entered Rath Donen, the whole city fell to silence.

He wished to speak great words to him to bid him on his way, but no words would come; instead Boromir placed beside him in the coffin the ring of Barahir, an heirloom of the king. The star of Elendil and the sceptre of Annuminas were brought down from the North and placed there with him also. It was Arwen that brought them, with the banner she had made, and she wept freely as they sealed the tomb. There were creases at her eyes now. Though still fair, she had diminished. Boromir laid his arm around her shoulders and she seemed grateful to him for it; when he thought of what she had lost, it seemed it was a wonder she could even stand at all.

"I am sorry for your loss, Lady," he said softly, as she wiped her eyes.

She smiled and turned her gaze upon him. Despite it all, she was still captivating; he thought of asking her to stay, and marry him, the poor now-mortal Lady Arwen, now that she had lost her love. She may have accepted and dwelt there with him, in the city, the country where she should have been Queen. But in the end he did not ask; it would have been cold comfort to them both, but a poor consolation for the loss of the man they both still mourned.

"It is not my loss but that of us all," she told him, her voice low. "It is Gondor's loss, and Arnor's, and it is yours."

They walked together after, and talked of the man they had known. Arwen told him the story of their meeting, tears shining in her eyes, and Boromir told the tale of his death in return. He did not spare her the detail. He told her Aragorn had died to save his life.

When he closed his eyes he could see it; the uruks had him, and he knew he could not survive. Then Aragorn had sprung as if from nowhere, sword in hand, with a mighty cry – they had fought together side by side, and when the uruk made to strike as Boromir's sword was caught in the chest of another, Aragorn had stepped in. The blade pierced his chest and he cried out loud and sank to his knees. Boromir slew the uruk, pulled Aragorn with him inside the Hornburg.

"Take my place," Aragorn had said. "I pass it to you. Win this war."

And as he passed, the light fading from his eyes, he had pressed the hilt of his sword into Boromir's hand. Boromir gripped it tightly and with his other hand he had brushed back the hair from Aragorn's forehead. Then he bent to kiss him goodbye.

"I wish I could have died instead of him."

The words shook him then, and Arwen also, by the simple truth that had he the choice, Boromir would give his life that Aragorn might live. He would have done so gladly.

"You should not blame yourself," said Arwen, even as her tears fell. "He made his choice, as I made mine."

Boromir leant forward, across the table at which they sat, and took her hands in his. The gesture felt awkward to him, yet right, and the contact seemed to comfort her. He wished there were more that he could do. He wished that he could bring him back, for her if not himself. She deserved so much more than to die alone while her people sailed to the West. She deserved so much.

"He did not talk of you often," he said, in a low voice. She looked up at him as though her heart were breaking. "But one night he did tell me that he loved you."

She smiled softly. "And you tell me this night that he loved *you*," she said.

His stomach lurched sickly. "But I…"

She shook her head, and gripped his hands tightly in hers as he tried to move away. "You need no words to tell me this," she said. "I do not blame you. I think perhaps there was love enough in him for both of us."

It was strange to hear those words, *that* word; what had been between them stayed unnamed, if repeatedly acknowledged. Glances, touches, stolen moments… Neither man had dared to name it, though Arwen did so easily. Perhaps it eased her grief to know that it was shared.

"You are a good man, Boromir," she told him. "My father says that Men are weak, but I see strength in you." She paused. "Your people would make you king, I hear."

"They would," he said, and nodded. "I have refused."

"They will ask again. Next time, do not refuse." He opened his mouth to speak but something in her face then made him stop, something mighty. In that moment, she was truly her father's daughter.

"If Gondor cannot have him, then let them have you. His line is ended; there is no king left for whom your house can keep the throne. Boromir, for centuries the Stewards have been kings in all but name; take this last step now. Show your strength to your people. Be the leader Gondor needs." Her eyes flickered to the statue at the end of the hall, and she smiled. "Rule in his stead, and in his memory."

He had no words with which to reply, so he stayed silent. She let go his hands and rose; she bent and kissed his forehead, and then she left that place. He remained alone.

The following morning he went to her, and he asked her to stay. He knew that she would not – ten days later she retired to the woods of Lothlorien, and they never spoke again.

***

Aragorn had seldom talked of Arwen but he did say once that what he felt for her, his love, was not a flame of passion burning but a while light ever constant, a backdrop at all moments to his life. He had loved her from his youth and he would love her always, the light of his love never waning. But in his speech and in his voice there was an implication, that despite that light a flame burned in him, and that flame was for Boromir. Boromir's great hope had been that this flame should never fail. Aragorn himself burned out before it could.

A backdrop at all moments… So Boromir swore Aragorn would be to him, his love, his conscience and his guide. He swore it by the Valar, and he meant every word. And then his brother came for him.

"All my life I had prepared for this," he said, as Faramir fussed at his cloak, straightened his new-forged sword at his side, smoothed the wrinkles from his fine black tunic. "I longed for this, and now it comes to it I find that I would gladly set it all aside." He tilted up Faramir's head, and smiled a small, sad smile. "I fear that I was never meant for this, little brother."

"You still think that this is wrong, even though your people want it, even though it is what's best."

Boromir nodded sharply. "*He* should have been king. But for me, he would have been."

"Arwen told you he would want this."

"Perhaps he would."

"Then come, brother. They are waiting."

Before the doors of the Tower stood the White Wizard. Gimli held the crown on a cushion and before the crowd that had assembled there, Gandalf set the crown on Boromir's brow. It was not as heavy as he had thought.

He turned then to his brother, Lady Eowyn at his side with their son in her arms. They smiled at him yet he felt no warmth in him from it. The people bowed to him as he walked down the line; he felt awkward, he felt false – as he saw Eomer with his own crown and they clasped arms, he felt worse still. He hid it well, but he still felt it. And then he went inside.

There stood the throne, and the Steward's chair that he had occupied below it. He ushered Faramir forward, to take that seat. Then he went forward himself.

With his friends behind him, he climbed the steps. He trembled as he went, and almost fell, then there he was. He turned, and he looked down. His hands were shaking; there he was now, gone higher than his father, gone where Aragorn could not. He took one last deep breath, and took the throne.

It was done. His brother smiled at him. Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli – they all bowed. Eowyn stood by with his brother's son; Boromir had not and would never marry, and he knew that boy one day would be king. Faramir deserved that. He was the noblest of them all, the best, and his sons would be great kings of men.

His eyes fell on the statues, and somehow then they seemed less imposing. They were with him; Elendil, Isildur, Elessar - they would be his guides. He smiled then, softly.

Perhaps he did not feel he was the rightful king, but he would be just. He hoped that this would be enough.