Conquered
And that again was nothing, compared to the harsh, rough thrusts driving
into him, the hands keeping him down, spreading him, keeping him open to
every new assault.
So shameful, this.
Aragorn buried his face into the hard-soft floor, unmindful of the prickling
dry grass and the dirty soil. This was wrong. The Evenstar seemed to try and
breach its way to his heart with every thrust.
He and Boromir had quarrelled—no, not that. Discussed. Discussed again,
after their argument of the previous night. They had left camp in search of
pacification this time, leaving Legolas to look grave and mildly
disapproving, to watch with Gimli over the Halflings beside the boats.
They had reached this secluded clearing, and the Sun had not yet completed
her journey to the West when Boromir had stepped closer than he had ever
been and told him, "I would be your faithful Steward." His eyes had flashed,
anger or resentment or despair, Aragorn could not tell. "But will you be my
King?"
The words had burned, like an open-handed slap to Aragorn's face. His own
words turned against him—his own unwillingness to approach the White City
twisted and...
...and revealed.
Boromir had looked sad, as he had since they had started exchanging words
the night before. "You do have my allegiance," Boromir had repeated, softly
but proudly, his eyes dark in the fading light. "You have conquered it." The
confession should not have come so unexpectedly, yet it did, and Aragorn
thought maybe it had been then, that his heart had begun to ache so.
"Yet you seem not to demand anything of it," Boromir had finished, his voice
questioning, perhaps even hurt—and then for a while there had been silence,
and the far away, eternal washing of the great river.
"It is me, then," Boromir had said at last, regret making his eyes darker
still, "who has failed to conquer."
A new, powerful thrust sent Aragorn's arms flailing out, hands scrambling
for support on the rocky, slippery ground, a gasp torn from his mouth. It
had been right, he tried to think, biting back whatever sound was trying to
escape from deep in his throat, tasting blood and dark earth. Yet wrong.
For he had truly thought himself unconquerable. For the white, pure Evenstar
shining on his chest was constantly reminding him of his only, real vow—the
only vow he had ever dared to make.
For the Evenstar had kept night at bay, and night's darkest desires as well.
He had made his next words a challenge. He had been certain of the outcome.
He had thought he could perhaps give Boromir a part of himself, without
giving all.
He had not seen—the white light of the Evenstar had kept the night secret
from him, and so when it finally came, he was caught off his guard.
He had not expected Boromir's mouth to be so gentle, nor to take a kiss from
him with such heart-breaking, hungry despair. He had expected his own hands
to reach out, to clasp, to draw back—never to grasp, to stay, to draw in.
To tremble.
With the next thrust Boromir's hands closed around his waist, lifting him on
his knees, back pressed against heaving chest—strong arms, gently
encircling him, the thrusts slower now, rocking him, almost tenderly.
It was wrong, this. It had to stop.
The Evenstar had drawn blood from his chest, human blood, dimming its pure
light, staining its white perfection—his only vow, made in the sure
knowledge that it would never fail, would never be abandoned, for death was
to have no dominion over it.
This was wrong.
Aragorn shuddered, the cool sunless air shivering on his skin, his most
vulnerable parts exposed to the unforgiving night—and deep inside, deep
inside he could feel Boromir, could feel himself being taken.
Conquered.
His head rolled back against a strong shoulder, and Aragorn shuddered again,
eyes closing, pleasure and shame building like a quick flame in him.
Boromir's voice sounded like tears in his ear, three small words whispered,
for none other than him to hear, to understand. A hopeless vow, pleading
with him to be accepted.
It was wrong.
Only a word was on Aragorn's lips, yet it was not a vow—it could never be,
he could never make a vow to this man, he would never...
It had to stop.
His hands gripped hard leather-covered forearms, fingers digging into the
symbol of his rightful kingdom.
Night entered Aragorn's chest, filling it, when he drew breath to plead.
End
by
Cinzia
oromir's hands were grips of steel on Aragorn's flanks, keeping him down on
the soft, moss-covered forest floor, pebbles and twigs poking him through
his vest, small discomforts compared to the way the Evenstar dug into his
flesh, pressing up against his chest like a cold dagger, imprinting its
exquisite, beautiful patterns deep into his skin, bruising the bone.
