A Taste of Ecthelion
'He rode in the host of the Rohirrim and fought for the Lord of Gondor, by land and by sea; and then in the hour of victory he passed out of knowledge of the Men of the West and went alone into the East and deep into the South.'
Dreams. Dreams. Dreams. All alone he had traveled to Imladris, seeking the counsel of Elrond and the meaning of the riddle of the dream that plagued him and his brother Faramir.
Seek for the Sword that was broken
Faramir had wanted to make the journey, but Boromir felt the call stronger. Mordor was beating at the gates and Gondor needed weapons of wisdom as well as steel. At the border, one hundred and ten days from the White City, Elf warriors guided him to Rivendell. Here he was safe, well fed, and treated with honour as he rested and let many weary days of hard travel and fear fall from him.
A council was to be held, but they were waiting on the strength of someone named Frodo, who had only recently been healed. In a few days, Boromir was told, he would be called to join this council.
Boromir was given leave to wander in Rivendell. He marveled at the dwellings' union of tree and leaf, stone and beam, water and air. It was hard to discern where natural formation left off and Elfin artistry began. He wandering into an alcove one evening and gazed at the rendering of Isildur and the smiting of Sauron. Pride for his heritage welled up within him. 3000 years of noble blood and Gondor's history pulsed in his veins.
For 40 years he had unabashedly given his heart and soul to learning warfare. No tales of love reached his ears with interest. Only the tales of battle made his heart beat faster. Only in the company of warriors did he take delight.
A man sat in the darkness, reading. Boromir saw he was no elf and said so. He peered at the man. He knew him, but could not pin the memory down. Caught off guard, Boromir turned and caught the glint of a sword hilt. A blade lay shattered on fine cloth. Narsil!
"The sword that cut the ring..." He wanted to buy a little time. He loathed not being able to remember names. He had fought with this man before...but when and where? He picked Narsil up and tested the jagged edge. The very edge that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. It sliced the tip of his finger and Boromir's blood dripped onto the marble floor. "Still sharp," he murmured.
He looked back to the man sitting in semi-darkness. He was a darkly handsome man. He held a tome of Elf lore in his hands. The persistent glimmer of recognition parried and dodged with Boromir's memory. The man's voice was familiar. He knew this man, this stranger whom he called 'friend'... Boromir's hands trembled as the decade's old memory finally surfaced.
"But no more than a broken heirloom," he said curtly as he replaced the sword. The blade fell and crashed to the marble as he turned away. Boromir paused, but did not replace it. At a steady walk, Denethor's Heir fled the man he once knew as The Ranger of Rohirrim.
The Ranger of Rohirrim had come from Edoras, gifting a fine Rohan stallion to Denethor and offering his services to the Lords of Gondor for two seasons. His time in service to Denethor was nearly over. The ranger had sailed along the shores of Gondor and rousted several lairs of orc encampments. He had detected several spies in Sauron's pay, causing unrest in outlying settlements, and brought them to Denethor for questioning.
The Ranger had more than earned their respect. They knew little about the man, except he was an exceptional warrior and a natural leader, and Denethor had wished Boromir to go on patrol with him and learn the skills of a true ranger.
Boromir sat away from the fire, perched on a rock. The ranger was sharpening his sword and trading tales with the older warriors. They were drawn to him, begging for news of the north, and descriptions of how Orcs could be vanquished and hints of his life in the Wild.
Usually bold in spirit, Boromir was intimidated by the Ranger's presence. He was, for now, content to listen and watch from a distance. He was drawn to the man like no other. He took delight in sparring with him, in learning how to track, and in listening to the Ranger's confident, measured voice speak of dealing death to the enemies of Gordor.
Later that night, Boromir lay nearby in the dwindling firelight watching him from the pallet. The ranger began to softly sing a song in Elvish. It was a tune of haunting beauty and Boromir knew it was a song for a woman. He was glad he did not understand the words. He felt tears slip down his cheeks and he quietly wept for his lack of such longing. He did not find women of interest as other men did. As heir to the Stewardship he knew one day he must marry and produce heirs, but he did not think on the idea much. It was warfare Boromir craved. Being in the wild hunting orc, and pitting himself against the enemies of Gondor, this was what made him wish to sing.
At 18 seasons, many felt Denethor's son was too young to be burdened with a woman, and so his celibate ways did not cause much comment. Yet Boromir himself knew his inner longings could not be fulfilled by any maid in all of Gondor. It was different here in the wild. It was not uncommon for the warriors to pair off and seek privacy. For some it was heart's desire. For others it was simply another way to seek pleasure. None approached him. He was Denethor's son after all, and above reproach, but more than a few bestowed encouraging glances. Such mild advances had never been returned. Until now Boromir had not wished for them.
The Ranger finished his song. He placed broken wood on the fire and took a deep breath. Boromir saw the sheen of tears on the warrior's face.
"She must be very beautiful to make you weep so," he said.
The Ranger glanced down and saw that his tears had companions. "And my singing must be grating indeed to bring water to the eyes of so bold a young warrior," he replied.
"It was not the quality of your voice that affected me so, but the hopelessness of it. Did you ask to wed and were refused?"
The ranger tended the fire in silence for a time. "Nay, I was accepted but I will likely never marry. I am a doomed man. I have the gift of foresight at times, but my own fate is shrouded in darkness. Evil overwhelms us all. War will be my only bride. My swords shall be my only heirs."
Boromir sat up, his eye wide, fresh tears streaming down. "This too I know. I live to fight and fight with cause. Faramir, my brother, dreams of lore and song but these things lie not in my heart. This, here and now, is the best time I have ever known. Teach me all you can, friend Ranger. I would also take war as my bride."
"I would far rather the Evenstar for a bride." The ranger said gravely as he gazed up into the night sky. "War is no fit bride for any man. She is forced upon us, and bears us only children of misery. Do not mistake a lust for Victory and Vanquishing Evil as a replacement for love."
"What else, beside the fight, is there worth living for?" Boromir asked guilelessly.
The ranger stared at the blonde youth, assessing him. Firelight danced over his grim, dark features. "Perhaps I will show you."
Nov. 26, 3018
The counsel was over. Preparations had been made to take the Ring to Mordor. The riddle of the Dream had been answered, but not to his satisfaction. A Halfling had been chosen to bear Isildur's Bane into Mordor. It was madness!!
The elves had repaired and cleansed his gear. His shield glinted, his mail was rust free and oiled, his furs brushed and his leathers mended. They were to leave in two days.
Wandering in Rivendell, he saw Aragorn and a maid off in the distance. They stood on a bridge, Aragorn dressed as befitted a lord, and the dark haired female was certainly an elf lady. He saw them kiss for a very long time. Boromir gritted his teeth and turned away. His ranger had loved her even when they wandered together and fought in Gondor's service two decades ago. Aragorn had loved her even then, committed to her, yet believing the possibility of their marriage unlikely.
During the Ranger's service in Gondor, Boromir remembered that Aragorn did not encourage the women of Gondor to love him. But fair-haired, idolizing youths had been a different matter.
Fall, 2996
The men of Gondor had vanquished a small army from Mordor. Boromir was flush with victory but the ranger was troubled. "They merely test Gondor's strength. It was not a true assault."
"Three hundred Orc warriors!" Boromir cried. Orc blood still smeared on his face. "It was a fair enough assault."
The Ranger took Boromir outside the cave to speak privately. "I am going to Mordor, and into the south. I must spy out our enemy in his own land."
"Nay!" cried Boromir. "It is too treacherous a place."
"It must be done, my young friend." the Ranger said. "I give you this message to take to your father. Sauron is not idle. He weaves a web. I must know where it is, if I am to sweep it away."
Boromir grasped the Ranger's shoulders. "You cannot mean to go alone. It is madness! I will go with you."
The ranger grasped the young man's hands within his own. He held on to them for a moment and then did something Boromir did not expect. The Ranger leaned down and tenderly kissed Boromir's callused fingers. "You are a Lord of Gondor. Your responsibility lies here. I go alone."
Boromir cried out in anguish. This man who had taught him so much would be lost to him. The possibility that the Ranger would leave had never crossed his mind. On some simple level Boromir believed they would patrol the borders of Gondor until gray streaked their hair or they died together in battle.
"I would go with you." Boromir said, his heart breaking, "But I would have you remain. I want to show you Minas Tirith. Promise me you will return!"
The Ranger kissed him on the forehead. "I will return. I will find you in the White City. I hope together we shall look out from the Tower of Ecthelion and see the world before us. This I vow. We will battle our enemies together once more. I will only swear that much." The Ranger wiped the tears from the young man's cheeks, causing the Orc gore to smear even more. "For now, Boromir, come down to the Falls. We must cleanse the blood from thee."
The Ranger stripped and dove into the water and underneath the falls. A flat ledge lay behind. The roar of the falling water did not allow for conversation but they had no need of words. Naked and wet Aragorn stood before the young lord, his mouth parted—waiting, hoping.
Boromir's skin was chilled at first but in the Ranger's embrace it soon turned hot. The depth of his untutored desire astounded him. How was it that he never known this! The sweetness of mere touch. The taste of another's mouth. The wanton pleasure of embracing muscled hardness. In this, as in all things he had learned from the Ranger, Boromir was a most dedicated pupil.
The Ranger pressed him against the smooth stone ledge, their echoing moans scarce heard over the falls. Boromir's tongue rasped against the rangers' beard, tasting salt and sweet water. He clasped eager moist flesh to his own and wondered, Who was this man? A man of 40 seasons, dark haired and assured. A warrior, a ranger, a leader and much more, but always solitary—always closed to him... until now.
Nov 27, 3018
The bathing chambers were covered with slender, living, interwoven trees. The dwarves had left the baths a few moments before. Boromir was alone. The water had been warmed somehow and it was very pleasant. It might be the last chance of a good soak until he got home. He leaned his head against a tree root and closed his eyes.
A small splash alerted Boromir. Aragorn settled into the water across from him.
Boromir sat up and glanced around. They were quite alone, and no doubt the Ranger had arranged it so. His disregard towards Isildur's heir had been plain enough in counsel, though only Aragorn would have known the root cause of the blonde warrior's coldness.
He would not flee Aragorn this time. There was no point. They would be leaving on a quest in a day or two. Better to confront the issue privately now. Boromir stared hard at Aragorn. "You never returned to Gondor. You never returned to the White City, to Ecthelion. To me. Why?"
"Boromir." A wealth of pain was uttered in that single word. Dancing ripples of water licked against Boromir's flesh as the ranger swam to him. In a heartbeat Aragorn was beside him. "You had feasted on little but battle since boyhood. I wished to give you a taste of love, if only so you would learn to appreciate the flavour of it and not devour warfare your whole life."
"I have not partaken of love since." Boromir hissed. "No one else was to my taste, though I sampled many dishes. I wept and wept when years passed and no word came. Finally I gave you up for dead, and cursed myself every day since for not following you the night you left."
Aragorn closed his eyes. Regret suffused his dark features. They were of an age now, Boromir realized, and Aragorn would not whither as he would in the next few decades. It mattered not. Boromir was no longer a boy awed by a man whose fighting prowess exceeded his own. He was not awed by Aragorn's lineage, his Numorien agelessness or his doom. Aragorn was a man just as he was, just as strong and just as weak.
"I did not wish to mislead you, or cause you pain." Aragorn said, "It was a night and a day of bliss I still cherish. But it was never meant to be more than the falling star that flashes across the sky and leaves the memory of light in one's heart."
Aragorn made to move away, but Boromir grasped the Ranger's arm. His rekindled passion overwhelmed his ire. Aragorn did not pull away, though Boromir's grasp grew tighter and likely painful. They might not have fate's favour for a moment such as this again, Boromir thought. He pulled Isildur's heir to him and hungrily tasted him again. In Aragorn's fervent response Boromir found a moment of pure pleasure and peace he not known since his seventeenth year.
It was warmer here, without the roar of Henneth Annun's falling water, and they could hear themselves breathe, gasp and moan. No words were exchanged. No promises were made. It was a meeting of equals and a farewell of sorts.
Once his entire being had been wracked with desire for the Ranger. Now, as Aragorn left the pool to prepare for the journey, Boromir found a different lust was replacing the one he'd felt for his old mentor. A band of golden lust now encircled his heart. It sweetly whispered to his warrior soul and longingly called to him as no lover ever could. It promised him power and glory and anything and anyone he desired.
Within the whispers, Boromir heard something else. It reminded him of the Caves. Of the pool he'd first learned about love. He detected a faint echo of something being lost or something slipping away. It seemed to Boromir he could just hear the roar of falling water a long way in the distance.
FIN
by The Bardess
ou shall have neither wife, not bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it."
—Elrond to Aragorn at age 20
—Aragorn (at age 46-49) Appendix A, pg 44 LOTR
November 24, 3018
In Imladris it dwells...
Minas Tirith
Summer 2996—22 years previously
Rivendell
Henneth Annun
Rivendell
2003
