Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Frodo blinked, yawning, and rolled over, rising on one elbow when he heard the door open.

Faramir shut the door quietly and turned, shading the candle he carried with his hand.

“What news of Boromir?” Frodo sat up, wincing as sore muscles protested. He ached from head to foot but was glad he had suffered no worse injury in the fight with Denethor that morning.

“I hoped you were asleep,” Faramir said softly, setting the candle on the table and crossing the room to sit on the bed. “It’s late.”

“I did sleep, I think. For a while. But Boromir?” Frodo rubbed his eyes, looked more closely at Faramir and saw the shadow of bruises on his neck and face. “You’re hurt!”

Ignoring his aches, Frodo scrambled free of the bedding tangled around him, and stood on the bed, moving to Faramir’s side to run his fingers gently over his skin. “What happened?”

Faramir winced, shook his head, clasped Frodo’s hand. “Boromir.”

“What?” Frodo could not believe it. In all the time he had traveled with Boromir, the only time Frodo had seen him harm anyone was in battle, fighting to protect others. He had never raised a hand against anyone in the Fellowship, not even when Frodo had fought him for the Ring.

“He didn’t mean to, Frodo, I know he didn’t. It’s hard.”

Rising from the bed, Faramir went to the table to pour wine.

Frodo sat cross-legged, watching him. The candleflame painted gold streaks in his hair but cast his body in shadow. No matter what had happened, Frodo was suddenly, desperately happy to be here at this moment, alive.

Frodo had awakened earlier in a bed at the Houses of Healing with Gandalf at his side. Sure that Boromir was dead, perhaps Faramir as well, Frodo could hardly believe Gandalf’s news, had insisted on hearing it over again. Faramir had suffered no new injury in the fight although the dart wound had begun to bleed again. Boromir had a serious head injury but was being tended to by the best Healers who had studied such things. Denethor was the only one near death, Boromir’s knife sinking deep into his belly when he had fallen on Frodo.

Gandalf had given Frodo no news other than the battle had been won and that the Fellowship had come through it, with some injuries. Instead he insisted that Frodo eat and rest. Then the wizard had left him to help tend the wounded. Frodo feared what might come but could do nothing. Faramir was with his brother, and Gandalf had refused to allow Frodo go to them for fear of what the Ring might do.

Frodo had spent the afternoon and early evening resting and eating. The boy who had brought him daymeal had told him that Aragorn had come from the Pelennor Field to the Houses of Healing where he had helped many, going last to Boromir.

Faramir drained his goblet, set it down, rested his hands on the table a moment, head down.

“Come to bed then tell me about it,” Frodo moved back to the head of the bed, pulling the bedding straight, and sat against one of the pillows.

Faramir leaned over to blow the candle out. Frodo heard the soft sounds as he undressed, felt the bed tilt as he slid into it. Turning to lie next to Faramir, head on his shoulder, Frodo felt the long sigh as Faramir’s arm went around him, as he relaxed under Frodo. The darkness felt safe and warm, holding the two of them like a cocoon.

“What happened?”

“Aragorn was worried because Boromir was so unresponsive, no injury he had seen had caused such a death-like sleep. I thought him dead a half dozen times. Aragorn had to use a mirror to show me he still breathed. The athelas which had helped others, including your friend Meriadoc, had no effect.”

Frodo nodded. Gandalf had told him briefly of Merry’s deeds. “How could he injure you?”

“After hours, hours during which Aragorn did not rest or sleep for tending Boromir, he asked me to call Boromir’s name. When I did, he woke.”

Faramir stroked his hand along Frodo’s back, silent a moment. Patient, Frodo waited. He could lie here all night if need be.

“I could see his eyes, dark as if the light around us was dim although Aragorn had brought in many candles to work by. I was happy for a moment, then he struck Aragorn.”

“What?” Frodo pushed himself up, ignoring Faramir’s grunt. “That’s impossible,” he said.

Frodo remembered lying on the stony river bank, hearing the two men argue over what was the best road to travel, two men he had watched become closer with every league they had traveled since Rivendell. The one argument had been painful to hear because of that closeness. They had fought side by side in Moria. Frodo remembered lying in Lothlorien, grieving at Gandalf’s fall, but seeing them sitting together, talking, which had comforted him. “Impossible,” he said again.

“I know, but he did. Aragorn was leaning over him, was not on his guard, and fell, then Boromir flung himself off the bed and tried to choke him. When I tried to pull him off, he turned on me.”

Beyond surprise, Frodo lay down again, felt Faramir’s hand on his head. “Then what?”

“We had to tie him down, to save him from injuring himself. He was raving, saying vile things, making such accusations—”

Frodo swallowed, feeling time slow around him. He shivered, wrapped his hand around the Ring, and even through the cloth of his nightrobe, he could feel its power pulsing.

“Vile things?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Frodo felt Faramir shake his head. “I won’t say, Frodo, don’t ask me. It’s too dishonorable, even knowing that it must be the head injury, what unspeakable things he accused us of, especially Aragorn.”

“Let me go,” Frodo said faintly, sat up as Faramir’s arm dropped away, curled around himself, shivering. It was happening again. He had thought he would never say what had happened, what the Ring had done to Boromir, would never wish to, for the same reason that Faramir gave, that it was vile, unspeakable.

But now it might still be the Ring, and they did not know, could not guard against it, if there was any way to guard against such subtle evil.

“Frodo?” Faramir tried to pull him back down. Frodo pushed him away, shaking.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t say anything. Please. Just—listen.” He shut his eyes, longing for even more protection, sat alone in the darkness until he could speak of his attempt to leave Boromir, of being found by Beregond and taken back to the Citadel.

“I was so ill I could not stand, not sleeping as deeply as you say Boromir was, but then I was not injured. As soon as Boromir touched me, I began to recover. He took me back to his room. He, when we got there, he—the Ring—”

“Frodo, what?” Faramir’s voice was concerned though he did not move closer.

“It was vile, I did not wish to tell you, I know it was the Ring, but—”

“You can tell me anything.”

Frodo felt tears come, wiped his face, and knew he could trust this man. As quickly as possible, Frodo told of Boromir holding him down, the loving way he spoke of rape and torment, what he had done.

“Frodo!”

Hearing the anger in Faramir’s voice Frodo hurried to say, “A messenger came. He had to leave. He left me tied to the bed, nothing else happened.”

“What then, when he came back?”

Frodo relaxed, thinking the worst was over. “He had drunk so much wine he’d even forgotten I was tied—he could barely untie me—and he had brought no food as he’d promised. The next morning, you and Gandalf and Pippin came.”

Faramir laughed. “I think I recognize the tactician my brother is. Frodo, come here. I’m not angry at you. Or him. Though I would cast the Ring into the chasm myself if I could.”

Wrapping his arms around Frodo, Faramir pulled him down, holding Frodo close. He relaxed, slid his arms around Faramir in turn, breathing in the warmth and scent of his skin.

“You think it may be the Ring now, acting on Boromir, as it did before?”

Frodo could feel Faramir’s voice resonate against his cheek when he spoke and smiled to himself. “Perhaps. You said he spoke of vile things—”

“Yes, I see the connection. But it’s different, surely.”

Frodo shuddered. It seemed dreadfully similar to him. “I told you, how real the dreams were. You said Boromir seemed to be more than sleeping. What if he was dreaming? What if be believes the dreams are true? Of what did he speak?”

Feeling Faramir’s body go rigid under him, Frodo waited. He knew how hard it would be to speak of what happened. Slowly, Faramir relaxed, breathing deeply, finally speaking in a low voice. “Torture, rape. He claimed Aragorn had taken the Ring. That I—no, I cannot say it. He was raving, surely, from his injury?”

With cold certainty, Frodo spoke. “Gandalf said those Healers who had studied head injuries were working with Boromir. Did they fail to heal him?”

“Yes.”

“As did Aragorn. It must be the Ring, and perhaps Boromir was more vulnerable than before because of the injury.”

Frodo remembered the flailing bodies rolling down the stairs, the sounds of mail and flesh hitting stone, the way Boromir had lain, limp, under Faramir.

“Which I caused.”

“Which happened because you tried to keep him from taking the Ring,” Frodo said firmly, hugging Faramir. “It is the Ring. You know this. You must let me go to him. Perhaps I can help.”

“No!”

Frodo could hardly breathe for a moment as Faramir’s arms tightened around him, then they loosened.

“It helped me, when I was ill, being close to him.”

Faramir slid his hands under Frodo’s arms and gently set him aside to climb out of bed. “From what you tell me, it nearly got you raped if not killed. I will send a message to Mithrandir, tell him of your warning. Of all of us, he is the wisest and can best unravel this riddle. But you will not go to Boromir, Frodo. I love my brother, but I do not trust him near you. Not now.”

The striking of flint sounded loud in the quiet of the room, and Faramir lit the candle.

Relieved, Frodo lay back and watched him pull on tunic and leggings, then turn to the door. “You stay here, Frodo. I’ll soon be back.” He left the room with the candle.

Frodo lay, his eyes shut, until Faramir returned. When he came back to their bed, Frodo leaned over him for a kiss, long and soft and sweet, then rested against Faramir, feeling the pulse of blood and life through him.

“It’s so different,” he said.

“Different?”

Frodo felt the blood rising in his face, was glad that Faramir could not see him in the dark.

“What is different?”

“Lying here with you.”

“Rather than with Boromir? I’m glad to hear you say so.”

Frodo smiled, but continued. This felt important. “It feels so different. But would anybody else understand that?”

“Ah. I see.” Faramir’s hand moved over his back, and Frodo sighed happily. “From what I have read in the Archives, the Nameless Enemy cannot create, only mock or copy. That was true of his master in ages past as well. They lust after what others create, try to destroy it or steal it and thus twist it to their use. I think the Ring could force a bond on you and Boromir, but it was not love. It was a mockery, a sham, that could be enforced only through the body. Your sickness, what Boromir is suffering now, perhaps is the same thing. But they cannot prevail, Frodo.”

“Even with Boromir?”

“I must believe there is still hope, Frodo.”

Boromir lay, eyes nearly closed, feigning sleep, watching Aragorn. It was some new trick, this play at healing, pretending to heal when he had caused the injury.

The rope tying wrists and ankles to the bedposts was not elven rope, light to the hand and unbreakable, but it was strong enough. Boromir’s skin was chafed raw from his escape attempts, his nightrobe twisted around him, tight and binding on his body.

The room was full of golden light from candles and fire, light Aragorn had claimed he needed to work. Littered on table and floor were basins, pitchers, goblets, plates. A window opened on darkness, but Boromir was glad for the fresh air, glad to be out of the damp staleness of his earlier prison.

A short distance away, Aragorn sat on a stool, drinking from a clay cup, staring into the flames. He had left off the black velvet and leather, was wearing only a ragged red shirt which Boromir remembered from their journey, one he had worn at Parth Galen, and leggings stained with mud, or with dried blood. His feet were bare.

The fire flickered red, bronzing Aragorn’s skin, showing the fine details of his large hands clasped around dull clay. Remembering the pain those hands had caused him, Boromir shifted, uneasy.

Aragorn looked up, smiling, set the mug on the floor next to the stool and rose to come stand by Boromir’s right side, legs against the bed.

Feeling vulnerable, arms and legs spread across the bed, Boromir gave up his pretense of sleep and looked directly at Aragorn, seeking the Ring. He had hidden it, wore only the silver ring with the serpents on it that he had always worn. But Boromir knew it was on him, somewhere.

He could feel it.

“Are you rested? Do you remember what has happened?”

Boromir marveled that Aragorn could sound as he always had, could so well hide what he had become.

“You took the Ring. I will not forget what happened.” Smiling, Boromir saw the bruises he had inflicted on Aragorn, showing dark and mottled against the white skin of his throat and chest where the loose shirt gapped open. “I will not submit.”

He had been surprised when his first blow knocked Aragorn over, surprised to have had such success with one blow, but not surprised enough to slow his attack. Boromir had rolled from the bed to fall on top of Aragorn, trying to choke him. Feeling Aragorn’s body under him, his hands clamped around Boromir’s wrists, seeing him struggle for air, his face darken, Boromir had thought he had this one chance to snatch victory.

Then Faramir had attacked him. From behind.

Boromir remembered a long-ago afternoon in the armoury, sitting and cleaning weapons with his brother, their argument over warfare and lordship. Faramir had been young, a stripling, spending more time in the Archives than in weapons-training. He spoke of the kings of old who were generous and gentle as well as lordly. Boromir had half-listened for a while, confused by a long list of names and dates as he sharpened his sword, then interrupted, counseling him. “Those kings are dead, they lost power, they threw it away when the days of peace passed. We face desperate times, brother, and at such times gentleness and honour may be repaid with death. Fight to win if you must.” Then, Boromir had not thought Faramir listened.

The fight had been brutal but short, the two of them able to wrestle him back onto the bed, face-down, Aragorn with a knee in his back, his hands clamped around Boromir’s arms, holding him while Faramir fetched rope. It took a further struggle to tie him down, Boromir remembered grimly.

Aragorn shook his head. “You were injured trying to take the Ring from Frodo this morning, no, yesterday now.”

Boromir turned his head away as Aragorn reached toward him, felt the gentle touch on the back of his head. “Here.”

Boromir flinched before he could stop himself, shut his eyes, waited for the pain which did not come, felt the hand lift away.

“You do not remember.”

Opening his eyes, Boromir looked back at Aragorn. “Your pretense of sorrow is excellent, but I do remember. And what I remember taught me never to trust you.”

“Let me fetch Faramir then, or Gandalf.”

Laughing, Boromir shook his head, felt pain but ignored it. “I know what hold you have on Faramir, know how he betrayed me. And your wizard? Why would I believe him?” Boromir was sure that Aragorn would never have been able to do what he had done without the help of the wizard who must have been planning from the start. All of his words about destroying the Ring had been false. He had tricked them in Moria, had been plotting against Gondor all along.

Frowning slightly, Aragorn asked, “Whom would you trust, then?”

“Untie me first.”

“Give me your word not to fight, and I will.”

Boromir opened his mouth, hesitating. He should lie, he knew, but he could not easily bring himself to give his word knowing he would break it.

Aragorn shrugged, turned to pull the stool closer to the bed, and sat, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He looked at Boromir but said nothing.

Uneasy under the weight of the silence and the blue gaze, Boromir finally said, grudgingly, “Frodo. I would trust him. If I were untied and left alone with him.”

“No.” Aragorn’s voice hardened. “I will not allow it. You wish only to be in the presence of the Ring—”

Boromir reddened, opened his mouth to shout his denial, but Aragorn’s gesture stopped him.

“You may not know it, may not realize it, but that is what you wish. It would drive you mad. You bore the Ring since Parth Galen. You have twice tried to claim it for your own. I have not seen Frodo yet, but I have heard from Gandalf and Faramir what happened in the Citadel, heard from Faramir what you tried to do on the wall.” The power in Aragorn’s voice pulled at Boromir, willing him to trust what this man told him. But he lied, Boromir knew he lied.

Confused, Boromir felt pain in his head growing. Memory jumbled, pieces splintering, pain jagged. He squinted, eyes watering, the throbbing pain making it hard to think. He swallowed, his throat dry and aching. He did not know what to say.

The taps on the door sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Aragorn frowned and rose from the stool to to go stand by the closed door.

“Who is it?”

“Gandalf.”

Boromir watched as Aragorn opened the door, stood back to let the wizard enter. The white-robed figure nodded to Aragorn and crossed to stand by the bed, leaning on his staff. He looked at Boromir who stared back, defiant. Mithrandir looked tired, his white robes stained with mud and blood, and he smelled of smoke.

“Is that still necessary?”

“You were not here when he awoke. Had you been, you would not need to ask,” Aragorn said, rubbing his neck and joining the wizard by the bed.

“I heard, but thought he may have been in a fever, not knowing what he did. He seems aware now.”

“When he first tried to kill us, I might have agreed. But it’s been hours, and he is aware, and he will try again if he can. He has said so.”

Boromir scowled, looked away. He need not justify his actions to Mithrandir.

“Hmmm. I received a message from Faramir, that Frodo thinks that Boromir has been affected by the Ring, that he wishes to see Boromir although—”

Boromir looked back at the wizard when he spoke Frodo’s name, almost responded before remembering that whatever the wizard said would simply be one more lie.

Aragorn shook his head. “Why would Frodo send such a message at this time of night? Of course he’s been affected. He’s now asking to see Frodo, alone, and untied, after trying to take the Ring again. But I won’t allow it, it’s too dangerous for Frodo.”

“Faramir agrees with you. No, Aragorn, Frodo wasn’t talking about what happened at Parth Galen and after, but something else, something new and deeply disturbing.”

Aragorn stepped back, dropping onto the stool, resting his head in his hands. “What now?”

“We knew the Ring sent visions to deceive Frodo and Boromir before. Frodo thinks that it still may be happening, that may be what caused the attack.”

Shifting, feeling the pains and aches in his body, aching with thirst and also feeling a desperate need to piss, Boromir could not longer keep silent. “Why do you bother with these lies?” he demanded.

Mithrandir looked at him a moment, silent, then smiled slightly. “What lies?”

“I know Aragorn has taken the Ring, why pretend otherwise?”

“Why would we bother lying to you, if Aragorn had the Ring? Why would he bother with you at all, if he had the One Ring?”

Boromir closed his eyes, frustrated. He should not even try to speak to them, should not listen. They were his captors. He was a prisoner. Nothing that was said would change that.

“I’ve heard little of these visions, beyond what Pippin told me that Frodo said.” Aragorn said slowly. “I’ve not had time to speak to Frodo. Perhaps I should, before—”

“Perhaps you should sleep first, as I’m sure Frodo is doing now,” Mithrandir said firmly.

“How can I? What of Boromir?”

“Boromir.”

The command in the wizard’s soft voice could not be denied. Hating, Boromir opened his eyes.

“There seem to be many riddles needing to be solved. You can either be locked away here, at least in part for your own safety, while we try to tease out the answers as well as face the threat of the next attack from Mordor, or you can give us your word to behave honorably and help find the answers.”

“My own safety?” Boromir laughed. “After what Aragorn did to me, you’re worried about my safety?”

Mithrandir leaned forward slightly. “What did Aragorn do to you?”

“Ask him.”

“Aragorn?”

Sighing, Aragorn raised his head. “Boromir claims I tortured him, raped him.”

“As you feared you had raped Frodo?”

“What?” Boromir was stunned.

“Three days ago, in this House, you told me you feared you raped Frodo. Have you forgotten?”

Shaking his head, Boromir said, “No. I never—”

“You may not remember what happened earlier today, but I can bring in half a dozen Healers who helped to carry you as well as Faramir and your father and Frodo back from the street after you fought your brother on the wall. Your father lies near death with a wound from your knife. Faramir and Frodo have told me what happened, but there are rumours flying through the City.”

Agony sheeted through Boromir’s head, wrenching his body and blinding him in a blaze of light. He choked, unable to breathe.

The sunlight mocked him as he moved through the streets. It had all been in vain, all the suffering, the death, all in vain. All that he had done was for naught. How many dead would be alive had he been strong enough to act before, to do what he had known must be done. No longer would he be weak.

Before he reached the Houses of Healing, he saw the two figures on the wall above him. He would recognize Frodo anywhere.

“Frodo!”

The man standing next to Frodo was Faramir. He said something, but it wasn’t important. Boromir began to climb the steps. They had no place to retreat.

“Give me the Ring.”

Boromir watched Frodo back away, hand at his chest, as he climbed the last few steps, moving easily toward the cowering Halfling before being blocked by Faramir. Didn’t they see?

“You must, Frodo. The black ships on the River, they bring corsairs from Umbar. The Rohirrim are outnumbered. They will take the city. We cannot win without the Ring.”

“No.”

Faramir moved closer, striking Boromir’s hand down. “Brother, Boromir, you cannot. You must fight this.”

“We have fought. All that has been done is in vain. Frodo must give me the Ring. If I do not take it, the enemy will.”

Pain split Boromir’s head, and he fell forward onto his knees. Struggling not to fall further, Boromir watched as Aragorn walked by, struck Faramir down with one swift blow, then advanced toward Frodo. Unable to move, Boromir closed his eyes as Aragorn reached out to take the Ring.

A warm hand was laid on his forehead and Boromir could breath easily.

He drew a deep breath, smiling, suddenly back on the beach at Dol Amroth where he had visited years ago, the wind blowing from the west at sunset moist against his face, laden with the scent of seawater mingled with a touch of sweetness that he imagined might be some memory of Valinor.

“Boromir!”

He was lost. He was dreaming. He wept for that lost summer.

“Boromir, awake!”

Reluctant, Boromir opened his eyes. Aragorn was leaning over him, one hand on his head, the other holding a bowl of steaming water close to his face.

“What?” Confused, Boromir tried to sit but could not move. He saw he was bound to a bed. He tugged at his bonds.

“What did you see? What do you remember?” Aragorn’s voice was urgent.

“The black sails, the corsairs,” said Boromir, uncertainly. “I had to save the City.” He was dazed, felt as if had drunk more wine than he ever had before, as if he were seeing double. His head throbbed, almost an ache. But he was not drunk. He would not drink so close to a battle. “The Ring. I, no, you, took it—I don’t know.”

Aragorn straightened, turning to set the bowl down upon a table. “I had hoped the athelas would work this time. But—”

“I think it helped,” Mithrandir said. “Somewhat. Boromir, can you remember what happened today?”

“We were besieged,” Boromir said. “And the Corsairs of Umbar attacked. But then, I don’t know. Did we win? Why am I bound? What happened?”

“Who has the Ring?” The voice commanded him, could not be gainsaid.

Boromir stared into the keen eyes, breathing as if he had been running, caught in an endless moment, images jumbling in his head.

Aragorn, in black velvet and leather, the Ring shining on his left hand.

Frodo in a ragged shirt and stained trousers, hand clutched at his chest, backed against the grey stone wall, defying him.

Boromir, triumphant, the Ring around his neck, leading the forces of Gondor against the Enemy.

“Answer me, Boromir!”

“I don’t know!”

Silence rang through the room, save for the sound of flames and a falling ember.

“Release him.”

Boromir watched, amazed, as Aragorn looked at Mithrandir a long moment, head tilted. He nodded, and Aragorn moved slowly to the foot of the bed, untying the ropes that tied Boromir’s ankles, then came to the head of the bed. He released Boromir’s right wrist, hesitated, then leaned over him to free his left.

The loose red shirt fell across Boromir’s face, and from the soft worn cloth he inhaled the blend of horse, leather, pipeweed and the underlying scent that was Aragorn. Boromir was suddenly back in Moria, sitting next to Aragorn on the steps, feeling the warmth along his side in the cold air of the Mines, waiting for Mithrandir to decide which door to take.

Standing, Aragorn looked down at Boromir, not speaking while he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, tugging the twisted robe straight around him, stretching and rubbing his numb arms. The skin of his wrists and ankles was chafed and red.

“I have salve that will help,” Aragorn said.

Boromir nodded. He expected Aragorn to hand him the small pot and did not know what to say when he sat at the foot of the bed, dipping his fingers in, rubbing the salve between his palms to warm it. When Aragorn’s slick hands wrapped around his right ankle, Boromir flinched, expecting pain, then sat, eyes down, as Aragorn smoothed the salve over his skin. Then the other ankle, hands sliding around, moving up and down, cooling and soothing.

Swallowing, Boromir told himself the ache between his legs was only because he had to piss.

He felt Aragorn move up the bed before he spoke. “Give me your hand.”

Boromir held out his right hand, endured the fingers stroking along and around his wrist, then the left.

Pulling his hand free, Boromir made himself look at Aragorn who sat within arm’s reach. The bruises on his throat drew Boromir’s eyes.

“What happened?”

Aragorn shook his head. “When I came into the City, they said you and the others were injured but not in the battle. I do not know why you thought I had taken the Ring. If I had done all that you said, I would hope you, or someone, would kill me. But I did not.”

Boromir gripped his head, rubbing his temples, the herbal scent strong and refreshing. “Is there water?” he asked. Nothing made sense, but his thirst was becoming more than pain, drew all his attention.

Mithrandir nodded, turning away to the table. He leaned his staff against the wall, poured water into a clay cup, and brought it to Boromir. He took it, smooth against his skin, and drank, thirstily. The water was cool, the familiar tang of the city wells pleasant in his mouth. It grounded him. He drained the cup, handed it back to Mithrandir.

“Now what?”

Mithrandir set the cup down and retrieved his staff. “I think, sleep.” He glared at them both, impartially. “How long since you have slept a full night through, Boromir?”

Boromir shrugged. He could not remember. Not since he had come to Minas Tirith certainly.

“Aragorn?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Well, then. Sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.” In a swirl of robes, Mithrandir was gone.

Aragorn stood and began to blow out the candles.

Watching him, Boromir struggled with conflicting impulses. But one problem overrode the others.

He stood, moved to the door. Aragorn stopped and turned to watch him.

“I have to piss,” Boromir said.

“The room is down the hall, to your left,” Aragorn said calmly.

Boromir moved to the door, set his hand on the latch. He could not believe Aragorn would let him walk out on his own. He opened the door and walked through. No sound from the room behind him.

Wiping the sweat from his face, Boromir walked the short distance necessary and found the bathing room. He latched the door, stood leaning against it, shaking. Perhaps he was going mad. Or perhaps, what Mithrandir said, what Frodo had said it, could be true.

He would have to talk to Frodo. Somehow. Until then, he would wait. He relieved himself, stripped off the nightrobe to wash, and dried himself. Walking back to the room, he found himself hoping he would not dream.

When Boromir returned to the room, he saw Aragorn was already lying on the pallet, eyes closed. Hand on the door, Boromir stood a moment, watching.

The pallet lay to his right, under the open window, but across the room from the narrow bed. The room was small, the distance between bed and pallet not far, but it was as far away as possible. The fireplace was in the wall facing the door, flames burning down to a shimmering bed of coals. The room was quiet, peaceful, the night outside dark. Aragorn was lying on his back, a blanket pulled carelessly over him, his chest rising and falling evenly.

Closing his eyes, Boromir struggled with his memory of being chained, tied, tormented, of Aragorn’s laughter at the pain he caused.

The man who had treated him in such a manner would not now lie as Aragorn was. Unless it was some trick, a decoy meant to bait an attack that would justify punishment. Boromir opened his eyes, stared at Aragorn, then shut the door softly.

When he came to the side of the bed, he was glad to see that the ropes that had bound him had been removed, were no longer in sight. He pulled the bedding back and slid under it, turned on his side, facing the wall.

He had thought he would lie awake, but Gandalf had been right. It had been too long since had had a full night’s sleep. No matter his doubts and fears, his body demanded sleep. Comforted by the soft sounds of the fire crackling and the breathing behind him, Boromir felt himself sliding into sleep as he was trying to recall when he had last slept well and through the night.

Cair Andros.

The night Frodo had tried to take the Ring from him.

The Ring. Cair Andros.

Boromir tossed, caught between sleep and waking. Remembered Frodo trying to take the Ring in Cair Andros, remembered waking the next morning with Frodo wrapped around him and what Boromir feared had happened there.

Boromir slammed against the damp stone wall then fell to his knees, panting. The rough stone had scraped new pain from the welts and bruises on his back. He wiped blood off his face, spitting more out, and looked through the hair, lank and wet, that hung over his face, at the dark figure in front of him.

The fire behind him roared high, light glistening off the whip held in Aragorn’s left hand. Built in a circular firepit in the center of the room, the flames reached higher than a man. Waves of heat, waves of power, blurred Boromir’s vision and he thought for a moment Aragorn had wings of fire, the whip in his left hand glistening.

“Stand up.”

Aragorn stood in front of him, legs wide, the Ring gleaming on his left hand. He’d been alternating blows, using the whip when Boromir was further away, his right hand when he was able to goad Boromir into closing with him.

“Too weak, my Lord of Gondor? We have only begun this dance, and already you tire? The blood of your House runs thin.”

Boromir leaned forward, bracing himself a moment. Perhaps if he could slam into him hard enough, they would both be carried into the fire. A moment of hope gave him the strength to leap up, shouting.

“Boromir!”

Throwing himself to one side, Boromir stumbled from the bed, nearly tripping over the bedding, kicking it savagely aside, to stand with his back against the cool wall. Heart pounding so he could barely breathe, he searched for a weapon, a stool, anything to defend himself.

“Boromir!”

His eyes finally focused. The room was shadowed, the fire to his left burned nearly out, only a few flickers of red among the grey. Aragorn was a darker shadow against the wall, still sitting.

“What?” Boromir heard his voice crack. He was panting, felt sweat on his back and sides stinging the welts on his skin.

“You were dreaming. You shouted. What’s wrong?”

Chilled, Boromir straightened. “It was you. You have the Ring. This was all a trick. I saw the Ring, saw you wearing it.”

A moment of silence, then Aragorn stood easily.

Boromir tensed, wary, but watched while the dark figure moved to the table, picked up something, and then to the fireplace. He bent, lighting a candle, then stood. Gold streaked his touseled hair, touched higlights off cheekbones and the hollow at the base of his throat.

Watching Boromir, Aragorn moved backward and around, slow step by slow step, holding the candle out at arm’s length. He stopped beside the bed, holding the candle out, looking at Boromir.

Boromir did not move until Aragorn said, “Take it.”

Leaning forward, Boromir reached until he could take the candle, then retreated back to the wall, setting his back firmly against it.

Aragorn held out his hands, spreading his fingers, showing he wore only the one silver ring he always had. He pulled it off his right hand and tossed it onto the bed where it shone against the white linen.

Still moving slowly, Aragorn reached behind his head and, gripping the back of his shirt, pulled it off over his head and arms, lay it on the bed next to the ring. He stood in front of Boromir, the candlelight showing pale scars on body and arms, the healing wound on his arm from Parth Galen red in the light.

Finally, Aragorn unlaced the leggings he wore, shoving them down over his hips and legs, kicking them off. Eyes on Boromir, he bent, picked them up, and draped them over the bed. Backing away, not turning, Aragorn moved to stand against the far wall.

“Search them.”

Holding the candle in one hand, unwilling to turn his back on Aragorn long enough to put it down on the table, Boromir took the few steps necessary to stand by the bed. He picked up the ring, weighted it in his hand, looked at it. Silver band, two crowned serpents, the green stone. It was heavy, but it was not the One Ring. He could remember the heft and smoothness of its gold, the feeling of power he felt when he held it, when he wore it around his neck. Boromir tossed the ring up and down, thinking that Faramir wold probably know its history, then tossed it across the room to Aragorn who caught it, slipped it back on his finger, stood quietly.

Awkward, Boromir picked up the shirt, tucked it under one arm while he felt along the seams, then the leggings. The clothes were familiar to him. He had seen Aragorn wear them often on their journey. The Ring was not hidden in shirt or leggings.

For the first time, Boromir realized there was no sword in the room with them, neither his of course nor Aragorn’s Anduril.

He shrugged, draped the clothes back over the bed.

“Nothing,” he admitted.

Aragorn took two steps forward, stood before him, hands open, arms extended slightly from his body. Light from the candleflame flickered over pale skin and dark hair which grew thickly on his chest and down his belly. Muscles cast shadows in patterns across his chest, arms, and thighs.

“I do not have the Ring.”

Aragorn did not have the Ring.

Boromir had taken the Ring.

Wavering, he stepped forward, the candle falling from his hand. Bedding tangled on the floor tripped him, and he fell to his knees, the pain in his head rising to agony.

He was lost in the dark.

Falling.

He did not know what happened, what to do, whom to trust. He could not be trusted. He would hurt those he loved trying to protect them.

Strong arms caught him, held him close. He let himself relax, leaning heavily against the strong body that easily supported his weight, enjoying the way arms wrapped around him. His arms went out in turn, wrapping around Aragorn, pressing closer, pulling him closer, one hand sliding up to grip his shoulder, the other sliding down around the slim waist.

Suddenly hungry for touch, for warmth, for security, feeling no matter what happened he could trust, trust this man, this moment, Boromir rested. He was content to simply be, wrapped in familiar scent, feeling the brush of hair against face, as time slowed, as the space narrowed to hold only them, the only sound their breathing, the beating of their hearts.

After an uncounted time, Aragorn stirred slightly, and Boromir became conscious of more than the comfort, felt the hardness pressed against his belly echoed in his own body, the ache growing, demanding, this hunger that was for more than just touch.

He pulled back, was relieved when Aragorn released him immediately, but was caught in the blue eyes, the gaze that met his openly, the quirk of lips that spoke something new. Naked, Aragorn faced him, refusing to pull away, refusing to hide the passion his body so clearly showed. Boromir felt shame that his first, fearful thought was to turn away, to pretend he had not seen, pretend he was not hard and aching.

But then the plea came, almost too soft to hear. “Do not leave me, I beg you.”

And Boromir knew he could not.

Standing, Boromir reached down to grasp Aragorn’s upper arms, tug him to his feet. He stood easily, letting Boromir turn and guide him to sit, then lie back on the bed, stretching out across it.

“Wait a moment,” Boromir said softly, then stepped back, pulling the nightrobe over his head in one easy movement, kicking the tangled bedding aside. He found the candle he’d dropped, moved to the fire and managed to light it at the last dying coals. He went to the table and lit the others he found, setting them on table and manglepiece. He craved light.

Moving back to the bed, he saw Aragorn was watching him, unmoving, and bent over to lay both hands on his shoulders, smoothing palms down over the warm skin of his chest, hair soft to the touch, feeling the lift of his breathing, the small hardness of his nipples, tracing the elegant arch of his ribs, sliding hands around to hold his hips.

Wanting to learn every part of him, to burn the feel of skin and flesh, scent and taste, into memory, to hold as a shield against the Ring, Boromir slid down to lie over Aragorn, pressing against him. When Aragorn lifted his arms to grip Boromir’s shoulders, he tensed, felt his breath catch. Before he could say anything, the strong hands fell away, Aragorn relaxing even more into Boromir’s grip, head tilting back, eyes closing, body open and vulnerable.

Reassured, Boromir pulled Aragorn closer, rose to lean on his right arm, sliding his palm over Aragorn’s belly, smiling as he felt the tremors start deep within. Sliding his leg over Aragorn’s, Boromir wrapped his left hand around Aragorn’s member, holding him until he thrust up, pleading without words. Sliding his hand up and down gently, slowly, learning the sounds and movement of Aragorn’s pleasure, of his need, Boromir explored each fold of skin, his fingers sensitive to the slightest moment, tracing from root to tip, then halting.

Aragorn opened his eyes, tried to speak, but Boromir kissed him, tasting warmth and richness, plunging his fingers between Aragorn’s legs, pressing up to force a moan which he swallowed, moving again, fingers caressing flesh, until Aragorn’s body convulsed under him, spilling wetness into his grasping hand.

Feeling the trembling within his grip, within the body pressed against his, Boromir waited until Aragorn lay still under him. Raising up, Boromir looked into the blue eyes gleaming between half shut lids, exulting in the smile, raised his hand and licked his palm and fingers clean. Sliding down to rest by Aragorn, Boromir watched him as he began to breathe more normally, damp skin shining in the light.

Looking a question, Aragorn raised his hand slowly, laid it against Boromir’s chest pushing until he tilted over on his back, shutting his eyes as Aragorn’s mouth took his, the kiss long and sweet. Boromir felt movement, wetness tracing down his throat and chest, as Aragorn leaned over him, not touching him, not holding him down. Warmth of lips and tongue slid lower over Boromir’s chest and belly, rose away, then sucked him in.

Boromir arched up as the warm wet mouth engulfed him, feeling each small movement of lips and tongue along his skin, the room, the world narrowing to the sweetness that ran under his skin, up his spine, exploding in a blaze of white light.

Feeling waves of pleasure shiver through him, Boromir lay panting, feeling the weight of Aragorn on his legs. Finally, opening his eyes, Boromir reached down to pull Aragorn up for a last long kiss, tasting himself in Aragorn’s mouth, tasting Aragorn in his mouth, the mingling of flavours a new pleasure.

Silent, they lay, wrapped around each other, until the chill air from the open window along his damp skin made Boromir shiver. He rose from the bed to search for the bedding.

Aragorn turned over, shoulders measuring the width of the bed, nearly. “These beds are hardly made for two,” he said. “Should I move back to the pallet?”

Boromir shook the bedding out and draped it over Aragorn. “No.” Boromir slid in beside him. Aragorn turned on his side, giving Boromir room enough to lie behind him, arms wrapped around him, spooned together. “No, this is perfect.”

Boromir lay, trying to think through all that had happened since Mithrandir had arrived. He suddenly wondered when Aragorn had come to the City. “Aragorn?”

“Yes?” Aragorn’s voice was low, drowsy.

“How, when, did you come to Minas Tirith? Mithrandir said you were in Fangorn Forest.” Boromir had heard whispered tales about the evil that lurked in Fangorn. “What happened since we parted at Parth Galen?”

“It is a long story. We followed the Orcs to Fangorn where we met Gandalf. He took us to aid the Rohirrim. After Isengard fell, I used the palantír—”

“You used one? They are evil, they—my father—” Boromir could not say what he feared, what he knew had happened.

“I know. I had the right, Boromir, and the strength, barely. I was able to wrench the stone to my will and I saw the force from Umbar that would come against you here. I led the force that took the ships. Even then, I feared we would be too late. Until the wind shifted.”

“You were in the black ships?”

A pause, then “Yes. We freed their slaves and used their own boats to bring men out of Lebennin and the Ethir and Lamedon up the River.”

Stunned, Boromir watched the light patterns on the grey wall. He saw how in every way the Ring had manipulated him, how he had been tricked first by believing he was helping Frodo only to bring the Ring into the City to his father, then how he had been tricked into trying to kill his brother and Frodo, believing that only he could save the city against the black ships which, instead of the enemies he feared, were bearing the forces that saved his city.

Burying his face in Aragorn’s hair, he said, “I am a fool.”

Aragorn’s hand pressed against his, pressing his hands against Aragorn’s chest to feel the strong beat of his heart. “You are an honourable man, you fought the Ring. Gandalf has told me. I do not know what will happen next, but I do know one thing.”

“What?”

“I have not slept for too many nights.”

Boromir laughed and relaxed against the strong body. “So sleep, my king.”

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