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: 8627

Published: 07 Aug 2009 Updated: 07 Aug 2009

Author's Chapter Notes:
Boromir survives Amon Hen. But does that mean he'll live happily ever after?
Boromir's sword had no name. It dawned upon him late one night as he lay restless and the others slept; stretched out and warm by the fireside, his left hand closed on the leather round its hilt and it occurred to him. The words formed, oddly clear in his head. This sword has no name.

The thought was jarring, though he could not say why. It should not have mattered in the slightest. It was a good sword, after all, and for years it had served him well, since the breaking of his last. For one hot-cheeked moment then he felt like some traitorous servant, that he had discarded that last sword so readily, but the moment passed. It left him frowning in the half-light, toying with the wrapped leather grip of the sword by his side. He could no longer even look at it. He closed his eyes instead.

A hand brushed his and even through his leather gloves he felt it; he looked up into Aragorn's firelit face and blue-grey eyes, darkened by the night and his desire. He stumbled to his feet and allowed himself to be led away – away from the fire, from their companions and from all thoughts of his sword, away into the trees and the dark where Aragorn's lips met his and fingers tangled in his hair. He gasped, pushed back against a tall, strong tree, and the cool sound of the water of Nen Hithoel ran in sharp counterpoint to the heat of their bodies, of their kiss.

They did not undress. There was no time and Boromir wondered then if there ever would be time, time for them to take their time. He pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and pulled Aragorn in hard against him by the collar of his coat. His fingers found his hair, the back of his neck, a shoulder, the curve of his arse, as he crushed him in against himself, as their mouths came together with a heat that almost burned. They grasped at each other, tensing, gasping, shivering into completion. They did not care about the mess. They were already dirty.

They lingered after; it was not far back to the camp but they moved slowly then between the trees. Aragorn's hand played at the small of Boromir's back until they parted by the fire. Boromir lay on his cloak on the hard ground and he faced inward that time, as he pulled on his gloves and let his gaze skitter over the sleeping faces that surrounded him. They seemed so peaceful. He was not sure he knew anything of peace by night.

Aragorn took his place by the fire, coat and cloak pulled in tight around him, his hair falling down across his face as he closed his eyes. Boromir sighed as Aragorn's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He did not wish to be reminded. Not then.

The sword was Anduril, Flame of the West, forged from the Blade that was Broken. The man who bore it was the man whose touch he craved, whose taste was in his mouth, and who would be his king one day. He understood that now.

He drifted into sleep that night with the firelight gleam of Anduril still hot in his eyes.

***

They woke and ate lightly the following morning; there was some talk, though it was strained, and Boromir himself was silent. He was not hungry and he had no wish to talk.

Legolas and Gimli, and the hobbits shortly after, left the camp to ready the boats. Aragorn sat smoking by Boromir's side, stretched out resting back against a rock, his eyes cast to the water and his hand again resting on the hilt of his sword. Boromir watched him. He could not avert his eyes, even when Aragorn turned to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Boromir laid his hand on the sheath of Aragorn's sword. "You are Isildur's heir," he said, and Aragorn frowned at this.

"You have known that all along."

"Known, but never truly understood." For a moment he smiled, and he took his hand from the sword. "But now I understand."

He moved and knelt, and Aragorn sat up, his legs crossed and his sword across his lap.

"I would swear fealty to you," said Boromir. "Even now, on my knees before the rocks and river. I would swear it on my knees before your throne in the White Tower, with my hand upon my heart."

Then he frowned. The look upon his face was of dismay, of heartrending realisation.

"I cannot go with you," he said, in one terrible moment of clarity. "And I should never have come."

Aragorn grasped him tightly by his shoulders but did not tell him he was wrong. "Go to your city," he said instead. "My way lies with Frodo a while longer, and yours, I see, lies to the south." His rough fingers found the base of Boromir's neck and he brought their foreheads down to rest together. "But I shall see you again," he murmured, as Boromir's hands brushed at his cheeks. "In the White City."

***

Denethor rode from the gates of the City and met with Theoden of Rohan, there on the battlefield. They died there, side by side, the highest blood of their two countries red on the grass of the Pelennor. The crown of Rohan then passed to Eomer; the stewardship of Gondor passed on to Boromir. And then the King returned.

First came the coronation; with the crown of Elendil the White Wizard made Aragorn Elessar. Then came the Steward's oath, when with joy in his heart Boromir knelt before the throne and swore his fealty to his king. Faramir his brother then did the same, and then they rose together, lords of Gondor, Princes of Ithilien. And then came the feasting, for days upon days.

Soon Elessar was wed, and also Faramir. Their wives were fair and wise, beloved of their people; Queen Arwen and the Lady Eowyn were, so Boromir believed, the only pair yet living worthy of his king and of his brother. But as for Boromir himself, he never married, for his heart was no longer his own to give, and he would not take a wife he could not love. It was said by the men that he was married to Gondor, and so he was; his counsel was just, and when he rode with the armies, his prowess in battle was ever undoubted.

Years passed. Battles came and went, and under Elessar Gondor again grew strong. Boromir was a fine Steward to his King, and an uncle to his brother's sons; he taught them the sword when the time was right, and how to swim in the summer, in the pool off the Anduin not a mile from Osgiliath, where Denethor had taught his sons before.

Then, when Boromir was a man of sixty-five, grey threading through his long fair hair, Elessar walked down from the Tower and came to his rooms. They stood by the window in silence, and looked out; from there they could see the whole city, its banners high, their people jostling in the streets. It was a good sight.

Then Elessar, in his black robes, with the seven stars and one white tree, set his hands upon his Steward, pressed his lips hot to his neck. And though it pained Boromir deeply, he moved away.

"Has it been so long that you no longer crave my touch?" asked Elessar.

Boromir smiled and shook his head. "Not so very long," he said. "But when you put on the king you became a different man. I love you no less now than I did then; the man I once was would have died for the Ranger and the Steward I am would die for his King. But Aragorn and Elessar are not the same. And I have never changed."

He gazed on Elessar, his eyes burning bright; he paused and swallowed, and turned away to the window. "Go back to your wife," he said.

***

He watched as his brother's boys grew into men, and then Barahir, grandson of Faramir, was born. When the boy was six years old, Boromir took him to that same pool, and while they splashed and played, he told the boy the story of the War of the Ring, of brave King Elessar and his fair Queen Arwen.

It was twelve summers later, while Elessar was away to the north and dwelling a while by Lake Evendim once more, that the Steward Boromir passed on. The King and his company rode back south at once, and as Boromir was laid to rest in the great house of the Stewards, Queen Arwen's head rested upon the shoulder of the king, her husband. She alone saw the tears he shed, but her words could form no consolation. It was the Ranger mourned then more than the King.