Under the Cover of the Night
by
Mimine
Chapter One
hese are things one does not speak of. It is a well known fact,
however, that in similar situations, with death's cold breath
touching their necks, men will turn to each other and casual contact
will become a caress, boundaries will be crossed and friend will
become lover. I have been in such situations and accepted my
companion's affections under the cover of the night. One does not
speak of such things but that does not make them less true.
He does not seek that kind of attentions. His face is pressed on my chest, his dislike and antagonism forgotten in the dark, solemn night. His shoulders shake with sobs that he tries hard to stifle as he grieves for Gandalf that he hardly knew, for our White City that he longs to see again, perhaps for other things as well that I do not know of. He seeks comfort but his closeness has awoken my body in a way that I do not want him to feel. I try to pull back, disgusted with myself. He rolls closer to me. His sobs have quietened now and all he does is sigh from time to time. Our lower bodies make contact as he holds on to me. He draws in a sharp breath and I know that my shameful condition is now known to him. To my surprise he doesn't pull back. On the contrary, he presses his body against mine, giving out a little moan. Soon a hardness meets my own and green eyes shine under the moonlight staring at me with something akin to wonder.
"I'm sorry," I try to whisper but his lips against mine stifle the words.
The kiss is gentle. Questioning. I respond and I deepen it. His lips are sweeter than a man's lips should have the right to be. Intoxicated, I plunder his mouth and he yields under my assault. I taste his tears in his mouth and perhaps they should put me off but they do not.
Deft fingers unfasten my shirt and remove it and for a second jealousy flares in me. I wonder how many times he has done this and with whom. My necklace shifts on my chest as if of its own volition, trying to stop me from this madness by reminding me of the elvish lady who awaits me. Guilt has no time to register as his lips fasten on the skin he has exposed and he suckles and bites and marks me as his own. He trails sucking kisses down my abdomen his beard tickling the fine hairs and ruthlessly reminding me of who is giving me these attentions. My hands tangle in his hair to try and stop him but end up stroking the silky mass as his mouth continues its downward journey. He knows exactly what he is doing, there is no hesitation, no fumbling as he pulls down my breeches and takes me in his mouth. Slick and unbearably hot and the small part of me that can still think wonders where and how he's learnt how to do this, how to take me in all the way without choking. His tongue probes and teases and I bite my makeshift pillow not to cry out as he starts sliding up and down my length. Abruptly he abandons me and I give out a groan of disappointment that sounds too loud in the silent campsite. The cool night air reminds me of my nakedness and I feel my face burn. His hand takes over from his mouth, stroking softly.
"I want you inside me," he says, his voice a low purr.
I stay silent for a while. I cannot... I need to be honest.
"It will be over before it begins," I admit shamefaced. He chuckles and takes me in the hot cavern of his mouth again, tongue lashing relentlessly until I explode. I feel him pull back as I do. I cannot blame him for wanting to escape the taste, even though I have never given anyone the kind of ministration he has just given me, I've tasted me in another's mouth and it is not a taste I recommend.
Boromir gathers my release in his hands. I did not see when or how but he is naked. He raises his legs in a rather undignified position if one was to think about it much... which I don't as I stare dumbfounded at how his slickened fingers disappear inside him. He is hard and leaking, shameless and beautiful and before long I feel some movement in my nether regions just from watching him.
He rubs against my thighs, smearing me, and to my surprise I register the feeling as erotic.
"Oblige me, friend," he whispers seductively. "Take me."
His mouth is on me again and I grow hard inside it. He suckles with less than his former fervour. I stroke his bowed back, tracing the sculpted muscle which stirs as he keeps impaling himself on his fingers. His other hand had been aiding his mouth, providing delightful friction but now it moves lower and behind and presses tentatively. A moan leaves my throat before I can stop myself as a finger slips inside without warning. I've never allowed such an intimate touch but now I wonder hazily why not. The finger becomes bolder and strokes repeatedly a spot that gives me blinding pleasure making me fear that I shall not be able to 'oblige' my comrade as he has put it. Another finger joins the first and any protest dies before it leaves my lips, drowned in the roar of pleasure. He makes me wonder whether he wants to ask of me what he has offered. I realise that my answer would be 'yes' but he does not ask and pride doesn't let me suggest it.
I hiss when he abruptly takes his finger away. My hands hold onto his hair as he slides back up with difficulty and I whimper in protest at the loss of his mouth. He gives out a chuckle and I feel his warm breath on my stomach.
His strong arms grab my shoulders and with a move that would be more suited to a wrestling match than lovemaking he brings me on top of him. I lie between his spread legs, confused for a moment. The thighs spread even further and his long legs close around my back. He raises himself under me and his fingers leave his fundament to curl around my length and lead me in him. I push gently, hesitantly. I feel his heels dig into my waist as he arches to meet my thrust and I slide into him fully. A cry escapes me and I bite on my lip to stop any others. Tight, so tight that I fear the tension in his face is pain and I still, concerned.
"Please," he whispers and tries to move under me, his rock hard erection rubbing against my belly. "Take me."
What demons am I exorcising as I ram him harder and harder, holding his legs back to stop him from quickening our rhythm? The moonlight catches something shiny running down his cheek and I lean to kiss it. His hand tangles in my hair to pull me closer and I forget where his mouth has been, he felt no disgust, what right do I have? I kiss him and our tongues twine just like our bodies. I feel his warm release on me as he tightens. I have no choice but to let go as well. His mouth muffles my cry.
I try to get off him but he holds on to me tightly. We're lying on his cloak and I'm sure it makes a flimsy mattress but he does not complain. I stroke his hair with a tenderness I've never shown to another man.
"I'm supposed to be standing guard," I whisper and he finally lets go.
I get off him and lie flat on the ground next to him for a moment. He gets up, picks up his cloak and his sword and leaves in the direction of the lake.
I want nothing more than to follow him but I need to wake up Legolas first. Dark elvish eyes meet mine when I look in his direction and my cheeks burn. Indeed he has woken.
"I will continue standing guard," he says simply.
I have no words to explain, to justify what has just happened, the madness which overtook his two human companions. I nod vaguely in his direction and make for the lake.
Chapter Two
The moonlight paints silver the calm waters of the lake. Calm, unlike the river which has not welcomed us and our tiny boats with good grace. My shoulders ache constantly from rowing, as his do. I'm just too proud to complain. He does not let pride stop him and he has often gotten nimble hobbit fingers easing away the tension as a reward. Merry and Pippin take charge of one shoulder blade each. They adore him and with good reason. He, more than anyone, has embraced their presence in this quest.I smile in the darkness at the thought of the two ever cheerful hobbits we have left asleep back at the campsite. At least, I like to think they remained asleep during our lovemaking. I'm not as unworldly as Boromir, to see them as children just because of their small size, yet the thought of them too having heard what went on makes my cheeks burn.
Soon I discern his form in the dark forest. He stops by the lake and he lets his cloak slide down to reveal his nakedness. Slowly, deliberately. He turns to me, only a fraction, still offering me an ample view of his backside. Each sinew clearly defined and interlocked, a thin waist, firm, round buttocks, muscular thighs and calves. Definitely a male and oh, so beautiful! Jealousy rises in my chest before that perfection. Followed by pride for, however briefly, I have possessed it.
He walks steadily in the water, drawing a sharp breath for it must be cold, but not breaking his graceful stride. He's in up to his waist when he turns and looks at me, wordlessly asking me whether I plan to join him at some point.
I set down my cloak and my sword slowly, wishing with a misplaced modesty that he would look away for a moment. I walk reluctantly in the water, clenching my jaws firmly to keep my teeth from chattering. If I'm spared a heart attack I suspect pneumonia will be the end of me. I'm no stranger to hardships and had not expected a warm, scented bath but this is simply too cold. It appears that I've underestimated the Steward's son. He's casually letting some water splash on his chest now and moving his hand on it in a circular motion. I'm up to my thighs in the water, my testicles frantically trying to draw up so they will not be immersed and he's simply washing away, humming under his breath! Is this a contest, I wonder?
His seed has almost dried on my abdomen and I cannot turn back. Resolutely I go further in, closer to where he is standing. A curse escapes my lips as the water reaches a little above than my waist.
"I forgot to warn you that the water is cold," he says teasingly.
I don't trust my teeth not to chatter if I open my mouth to speak so I glare at him.
He laughs and beckons me closer. I take it my glare was lost in the darkness. I'm surprised at how strongly my senses register the rich sound of his laughter. I hadn't heard it in entirely too long.
I take it, I haven't gotten as close to him as he would like for he reaches and takes a hold of my upper arm, then pulls me to him firmly. I nearly lose my balance. I find it hard to believe but he has kept a measure of warmth in the freezing water. I feel his broad chest against my back, his nipples two hard points pressing against me. It is not an unpleasant feeling yet my mind rebels against the sight we must present. I'm in his arms, if I relax my head will rest against his shoulder. I don't relax and I feel him pull back until we're not touching at all. But then... then he does something that tips the scales in his favour. His hands find a spot right on the nape of my neck and press gently. I'm undone. With a heavy sigh I melt. One of his arms snakes around my chest to keep me up, my head leans against his shoulder while his other hand works a primitive magic on my tense muscles. Where and how and most importantly why... why is he doing this?
"I will be back," he murmurs and leaves me barely standing in the cold water. A very undignified whimper of protest leaves my lips.
He is back only a few moments later and I feel his touch again on my shoulders, then on my chest.
"Soap," I murmur with wonder for indeed that is what has made the feel of his hands so slippery.
"Soap," he repeats with a chuckle. "You seem surprised, Ranger."
"I didn't know you carried it with you."
"I haven't let anyone know. The hobbits would more likely attempt to eat it. I assume you and Gimli would have told me to dispose of the extra weight... I am no elf to wash with my tongue, Aragorn!"
I laugh, overlooking his affront to my personal hygiene. I too have wondered how Legolas remains so impeccably groomed. I remember the look on his eyes as I left him earlier. I wonder how I'll be able to face him when Boromir and I go back.
He must have seen my expression darken. His hands draw lazy circles on my chest, then move slightly lower. He washes away the last traces of his seed, gently, lovingly, humming under his breath some tune I do not recognise.
A vague disappointment pulses through me as his hands wander away from the area where a tingling feeling has started to make itself known, convincing me that a third erection tonight might well be possible. The pleasure of his fingers on the nape of my neck is purer, almost innocent. They tangle in my hair, stroking softly, scratching. I have leaned against him now, against his wide, warm chest, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like "there" and "please" and "don't stop".
I obediently allow him to push me down. My head is already in the water when what I presume is common sense, cries to me about how imprudent it is to give myself over to his mercy so fully. What if he doesn't let me come up for air? What a death that would be for the future King of Gondor...
He does pull me up again. His fingers start carding through my hair in slow, hypnotic movements. I do not remember ever having had someone wash my hair for me. I assume my mother must have when I was a child but I suppose I asserted my independence early enough. It is a sinfully pleasant feeling, these broad, calloused fingers massaging my scalp. I moan in protest when the fingers stop.
"I need more soap," he says with a chuckle. "Don't go anywhere."
As if I can, just barely standing up, my eyes stinging since they have received an unneeded washing, my whole body trembling with sweet anticipation.
He's back sooner than I had expected and this time I feel no fear as he pushes my head underwater again. It's up to him to pull me out again since even that common sense that had been so vocal before has now taken a holiday. He pulls me up finally and I take large gulps of air, my head resting in the crook of his neck. I breathe in that scent which is uniquely his. That scent that had left me unable to sleep in Moria, unsettled by his closeness. We'd all needed to feel the presence of another in Moria, to reassure us that we were still alive in the midst of all that death. I'd felt Boromir's eyes on me, I'd felt him inch closer to me, bundled in his blanket. I could have had him then, I realise. I could have had him but it had not occurred to me to ask, certain he would refuse and be appalled at my presumption. How little I really know him. Will I ever get a chance? Will I march with him in Minas Tirith? I don't like this feeling in my chest, this strange foreboding. I press against him to make sure that he is still there. He is. Indeed he is, as I can feel against my backside.
It is a feeling that makes my cheeks warm. He is hard. No small a feat in the freezing water. I deliberately press against him, surprising myself with my wantonness. I am no stranger to dalliances with men, but, before, all my encounters had been hurried, focused primarily on tending to my own pleasure, though I would always see to the pleasure of my companion as well. But now, even though I am not aroused I'm overcome with tenderness for the man behind me, I want to pleasure him in any way he wishes. Surrender to him the way he surrendered to me.
He presses against me again and I panic. I think I'd been fooling myself into believing I could do this. I cannot let him use me as a woman even though it was something he easily allowed... nay... demanded of me.
He strokes me there under the water. His hands are gentle, reassuring, simply stroking the curve of my buttocks without trying to gain entrance. He walks us back, towards the edge of the lake. The water only reaches up to our calves there. He lies down, like a human mattress under me. I feel his lips on my neck, his manhood pressing against me. I force my body to relax on top of him. We don't have the luxury of time. Should enemies happen upon us now we'd be done for.
He doesn't try anything with a self control I rather admire. I'm the one who starts squirming, rubbing against him, delighting in his laboured breathing. I turn and search his lips. He lets himself be kissed, clearly showing to me that no matter what happens next, if anything, I'm in charge. It is a strange position to be in, considering that I can feel the swollen head of his manhood against my entrance.
I break the kiss. I cannot do this. I cannot just offer myself like this... Why? Why won't he take me? I'm frustrated to near tears. It is not that the lacks experience, rather that this proud soldier by day is completely different at night. A cryptic remark Gandalf had made becomes clearer. He has secrets the wizard had said. Secrets that bear on him, prey on his mind. He wishes to unburden himself. He wishes to be lead. How crazy the words had sounded then... I'd been convinced that the warrior had wanted nothing more than to get me out of the way and secure his stewardship.
Not true. I know that now. Perhaps he'd despised me at first but that is no longer how he feels. I join my lips to his again and turn, still atop him, until we're face to face. A muffled curse tells me I didn't manage to do that without elbowing him in the stomach. Instead of an apology I reach and take a hold of his erection. Steel sheathed in velvet. The position is awkward yet it might as well be myself I was pleasuring. He arches into my touch. I do not need to look at what I'm doing so I focus on his face instead. So beautiful, eyes half closed, lips parted and the soft sounds he makes... Music to my ears. He squirms, arching his lower body and I quicken my pace. I'm propped up over him, one hand in the cold water while the other pleasures him. It is not a comfortable position but I do not want to smother him or force him to keep us both over the water. He does not seem to worry about that. He raises his upper body slightly, the muscles on his flat stomach appearing firmly with the strain. He takes a hold of the hand I'd been propping myself with and puts it on him. He has raised his legs. Even without an erection he wants me to mount him again.
I use my fingers to enter him while my other hand does not slacken its rhythm on his hardened manhood. I suppose it is a twin pleasure for him to arch into my fist then slam back to my penetrating fingers. I have four in his tight heat and stroke him on the inside in time with my fist sliding on his erection. He's crying out now and I have no third hand to clap over his mouth so I try to silence him with words. I wish I could kiss him but I cannot reach him without breaking the rhythm of my hands on his body.
He curls up and tries to muffle his cry on my shoulder. His inner muscles clamp against my fingers, his whole body tense as a wound bowstring. He finds his release sobbing against me. He's trying to be quiet like I told him but I have no doubt that Legolas has heard the cries, if not everyone at the campsite with the certain exception of Gimli who sleeps like a log.
After another, much quicker wash, we both walk back to the campsite. Boromir drops on his sleeping place without a word, covers himself with his cloak and appears to fall asleep within seconds. I cannot help thinking that he is naked, that the morning will find him naked, and soft and warm and quite possibly sore. He doesn't seem to mind. We are among males, after all.
I do, however, turn my back to Legolas as I quickly dress, keeping the inadequate cover of my cloak on my shoulders. I can feel his eyes on my back. I cannot turn to face him. I sense his presence next to me. What does he want? I can't discuss it...
"I was wondering when this would happen."
His kind tone infuriates me. He knew, intelligent, superior Firstborn that he is. He looked down upon us with amusement, knowing what would happen before we did.
I feel his hand on my wet hair.
"Estel..."
"Let me sleep," I say harshly. "I did not mean to endanger us all by... neglecting my watch. Thank you for covering for me. Now let me be."
I can feel his sad smile. He pats my back through my cloak and leaves my side. I hear his soft whisper to Gimli. As usual, the dwarf wakes up with a start no matter how gently we try to rouse him from his deep slumber. I try to remember whether it was so before our passage through Moria and I think it wasn't though I cannot be certain.
Moria comes to my mind again, a memory that accompanies the darkness, the moments when I strive to find some peace. Moria and Gandalf... had he known too? That the antagonism between Boromir and myself would develop into something else? Is that what he had been trying to tell me when he spoke of Boromir? Did I reject his concern, then, the way I rejected Legolas', now?
Can I lead Boromir? Can I be what he needs? I try to dismiss what has just happened between the two of us as something casual, no different than all the other times I've lain with men. Eventually sleep claims me although I haven't quite managed to convince myself of that.
Chapter Three
He has stayed under the blanket of his cloak longer than he usually does. Not that I have made a habit out of watching Boromir's waking up routine, but I'm certain of it. Legolas stares at me and follows my gaze, which is still on the other man of our company. Boromir sits up abruptly and shakes sleep away. His hair catches the sunlight, gleaming gold in the warm morning. His muscular chest and sculpted back are naked. He turns and smiles... my heartbeat quickens but the smile is not directed to me but to the two grinning hobbits who have just brought him his breakfast. He laughs and jokes with them as he quickly slips into his breeches under his cloak, then springs upright. He leaves us, walking briskly, presumably to answer a call of nature.I cannot tear my eyes away from his retreating figure. The play of muscles on his back as he raises his hands to stretch. The curve of his buttocks, shifting under the soft material of his breeches. His is a manly beauty, not ethereal, elvish like Arwen's or... if I am to be honest since I have noticed it and lusted for it... Legolas's. Not deceptively frail looking. Not feminine. Yet all I want to do is protect him. Hold him and make everything that's bad in this world disappear for him.
I have heard of it. I have heard of men who refuse to take a wife but show interest only in others of their own sex. I've always thought them weak. There is no good to come out of a union between two males. It is pointless. Unnatural. Wrong. I can understand it when there are no females around, but men who engage in it even when there is an alternative have always held my contempt. And now I'm staring at Boromir like a love struck youngster and in my mind we're at Minas Tirith enjoying each other on a very large, very comfortable bed. It is a little late in life for such a discovery about oneself.
I try to think of Arwen. Pure, sweet, devoted but not... this. His fire, his bravery, his wry sense of humour. His pain, his fear, his compassion, his... humanity. I've spent very long seeing myself as another of those Firstborns that I was raised but my blood knows differently. My blood yearns for him as though he is the only lover I have ever known. It is a disconcerting feeling and I shake my head as if this simple action will deny it.
The sun has nearly set. We have just dragged the boats out of the water and are looking for a place to camp. I had tried to avoid staring at Boromir while we journeyed downriver. Even when his boat overcame mine for a little while, I did my best not to look at him at all. To the point that my boat ended up hitting his. Frodo and Samwise looked up to me in alarm. I could swear I heard soft, elvish laughter from my right. I paddled faster and passed the small boat and its distracting passenger. Boromir's eyes met mine for a moment when that happened. I looked away abruptly.
We're sitting around our small fire now, eating our humble dinner and I cannot stop my gaze from landing on him. He stares back at me and lets a slight smile grace his lips. I nearly answer the smile but stop myself. This is not acceptable. Gandalf has left me the leader of this expedition. All my efforts must be directed at the success of the mission and not at romancing the only other man.
I turn to the others and we decide upon who will take first, second, third and fourth shifts. Once more the hobbits insist they also stand guard but we do not allow it. Only Frodo no longer puts up even that token resistance. He looks tired and soon retreats to be quickly joined by Samwise.
I wake up and from the position of the moon I can tell that it is too early. Boromir has taken first shift. I discern his form, sitting next to the remains of the fire. I get up and join him. I feel my heartbeat quicken as I get closer to him. It is too late to stop and retreat now. I have reached him and I have nothing to tell him.
"Your shift doesn't start for a while now," he says quietly.
"I couldn't sleep."
A brief flash of white in the dark makes me realise I've missed one of his rare smiles.
"I think you're not the only one," he says.
I frown. "I don't understand..." I start to say then see him place his finger on his lips. I stay quiet and I hear it too. Muffled cries. Very close to the sound of someone in pain. Coming from the two small bundles which contain our hobbit companions.
"That is..." I feel my ears burn. I realise what it is. I've heard it before but it was in Moria and I'd really thought that Frodo was weeping and Samwise was trying to comfort him. But Meriadoc and Peregrin are cousins! I swallow hard.
First watch. That is why I've hardly ever heard it. I never take first watch. I remember how I'd thought that Boromir must see the hobbits as children. Yet he must have known all this time... I feel like such an idiot.
"Had you not realised that we got our hobbits in pairs?" he says with wonder.
"I do not... concern myself with such things," I say slowly. The hobbit cries from Merry and Pippin's bundle reach a crescendo. A little further away the bundle containing Frodo and Sam is moving rhythmically. Our Ringbearer and his gardener are a lot quieter.
"Apparently, our heavy breathing yesterday is hardly new to the Fellowship," he mocks me gently. "You could say it was a matter of time. I wonder whether Legolas and Gimli might get any ideas."
I shudder at the image. "Dwarves frown upon these things. Gimli does hold an elf dear in his heart but it is a female one. Anything else would be unthinkable for a dwarf." My mind goes back to what Legolas said yesterday. I was wondering when this would happen. Did everyone know apart from me?
"Was... yesterday, something you would be willing to repeat, Boromir?" I challenge him.
"Not while either of us is supposed to be standing guard."
"Perhaps a certain person who was standing guard wouldn't have been distracted had another certain someone not started snivelling."
He shrugs in the darkness. "So, it is all my fault. I start to weep in the throes of a horrible nightmare and then I'm accosted by an amorous Ranger pretending to be comforting me..."
"Accosted! That is not how I remember it!" I hiss, a chuckle threatening to ruin my mock indignation.
"What choice did I have but to give in?" Boromir's impersonation of a maid who's been tricked into surrendering her virtue is nothing if not amusing.
"I must say that you were unexpectedly... receptive," I say lightly.
"Oh, what else could I do? I could hardly presume to mount my future King."
Heat coils in my middle at the mention of last night's activities. His mocking tone hurts my pride, however. My legacy is not something I take lightly. I thought Boromir had accepted me as his rightful King, he'd given me that impression in Lothlórien, at least but his jest makes me choose my next words with care.
"And how about you? Does it takes a King to mount you? I wonder who you've deemed worthy enough, before. There is a shortage of kings in Gondor but that was no virgin I had yesterday."
He is very still for a moment, his eyes shining hard in the darkness. "No, not a King. Even the lowliest of soldiers can have me, if he wants. I'm their Captain by day and their whore by night. Yet each and every one of them would give his life for me. Do you think that one day you'll be able to say the same, Aragorn?"
His brittle tone unnerves me. "I have no desire to be anyone's whore," I reply brusquely.
He laughs at that. It is a mocking laughter which fills my chest with a dull ache. I suppose that's where I keep my pride. He reaches and trails his index finger down my face. "Then it is a role I will gladly assume again, my Ranger," he says softly. "Join me after your watch is over."
A look up on the silver disc of the moon tells me that my shift has started. Boromir gets up and goes to his sleeping corner where he drops unceremoniously. I gear up my ears to hear his soft snore but it doesn't come. He stays awake for my entire shift. I go to wake up Legolas, unflinching at the sight of his glassy open eyes. The hobbits and Boromir said they couldn't bear to look at him when he's asleep for he reminded them too strongly of a corpse. It is not an unusual sight to me.
Wordlessly, Legolas assumes his position by the fire. I drop in my sleeping place. I still can't hear the light snore from where Boromir lies. Still awake. Still waiting for me. I wrap my cloak firmly around me trying to stop thinking how warm he is and how much better the rest of my night would be if I spent it in his arms. I turn my back to him. After all, I do not come from a line of men famous for their wise decisions.
Chapter Four
The morning comes. He looks haggard. He doesn't smile back to the hobbits who once more bring him his breakfast. Pippin looks crestfallen. As Merry leads his cousin away, my gaze connects with Boromir's. He stares past me then covers his face with his large hands giving out a heavy sigh.I can understand it, I think. We're getting closer and closer to Minas Tirith. I've called it my City often enough but I'm not really her child, not the way Boromir is. He longs to go back. His desire strengthened in Lothlórien and is consuming him. To what extent will he go? I have seen the way he looks at Frodo. I can only pray to whatever deity might be willing to hear me that I will never have to raise my sword against Boromir to protect the Ringbearer.
I echo his heavy sigh, stubbornly refusing to accept that his sadness has affected me. We start for our journey downriver again and I paddle vigorously, ignoring my screaming muscles. The pain is strong at first but then lowers to a burning ache. I do not turn to look at Boromir at all, and avoid another kind of ache, one located in my chest.
We camp again. Boromir leaves straight away to gather firewood. Legolas points in his direction and says that someone should help him, at the same time holding down Gimli who had been ready to volunteer. Gimli stares at me in confusion at first but then his expression hardens. I wonder whether I have offended the dwarf's sensibilities. He motions for me to go after Boromir then turns to Legolas and shakes his head. I note the camaraderie between them and for once it fails to please me for I suspect they are both secretly laughing at me.
I find him hacking savagely at a tree with his sword.
"This is no way to treat your weapon, Boromir."
He doesn't turn to face me. "Better a tree than one of you," he replies through clenched teeth.
I approach him enough to put my hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off.
"Boromir, about last night..."
"No!" he cuts me off. "This is not about last night." hack This is not about you!" hack "It's..." He breathes in heavily and throws his sword on the ground. "We're so close, Aragorn. So close I can almost smell home. And my people are in danger. They do not know of Saruman's treachery. Does it not worry you that there might be nothing of your Kingdom by the time you decide to grace it with your presence?" He turns and spits the last words to my face.
Before I knew what I wanted to do myself I grab him and slam him against the tree he'd been attacking. "Let me tell you something," I hiss. "I didn't ask for this. Any of it. But it is my legacy and I will fulfil it. I cannot promise anything to you. I cannot promise that we will march in Minas Tirith victorious," his eyes widen and brim with tears as I mention his words in Lothlórien. My resolve abandons me. "You can leave if you want," I say tiredly. "You can go back to Minas Tirith but do not ask of Frodo to come with you."
"Or you," he adds softly.
"Or me. It is not my time yet. You have to understand that."
"I can't leave," he murmurs, lowering his eyes. "I do not know why anymore." He leans towards me until his forehead is touching my shoulder. "Perhaps it is because of you," he whispers.
What am I doing to him? How have I mislead him so?
"Do not count on me, Boromir. Do not read more into the release we found with each other. I'm promised to Lady Arwen..."
His soft laughter cuts me short.
"I did not ask of you to make me your Queen." He raises his head from my shoulder to face me, eyes harsh and dry now.
"I care for you, Boromir," I say quietly. "And I care about our people..."
"Do not speak of them. You have no right!"
I push him hard against the tree again. "I have every right, you whining cub," I growl. "Do you think you will do them some great service by stealing the Ring? It will lead you straight to Sauron!"
"Your Ringbearer can barely stand upright most days and you think that he will fulfil his mission? I will not use the Ring, Aragorn..."
His eyes have the feverish quality of a drunk's eyes promising not to drink again. "Do not think of it," I say softly, cutting him off. "Do not let it consume you. Do not confuse your lust for it with lust for me."
He flinches at my last words. He is flustered and a look at the front of his breeches gives me a good explanation. "I assure you that it is you I lust for right now, not any piece of metal," he whispers bitterly.
I swallow hard. I cannot deny my own arousal. I lean forward until our lips touch and from then on I no longer control my actions. My tongue seems to have developed a will of its own as it explores his mouth. It's bitter, not fresh and flowery and making me think mine must stink like week old fish, which is always the case when I'm kissing Arwen. I revel at the newfound freedom. My hand wanders south and finds the bulge in his breeches. I press gently and he moans in my mouth. I break the kiss, still stroking him, enjoying how his hips thrust forward to press his warm flesh against my hand. He quickly drops his breeches and leads my hand to his weeping erection. It is so hot I feel the outline even before my fingers have closed around it. I pleasure him slowly, ignoring his grunts of frustration. We both drop in front of the tree in a fluid motion. He rests his back against the trunk, biting on his lip not to cry out. I stroke his cheek with my free hand and it is my turn to stifle a cry when his mouth sucks in my exploring fingers. He licks them and gently bites the pads and the action is so suggestively erotic that my breath hitches. I let go of his erection. His hips arch towards my retreating hand and a moan of frustration is stifled against my fingers.
I lower my head over his hardened manhood, the heady scent intoxicating me. I dart my tongue and get a taste. He exhales against my palm giving out a small whimper. Perhaps there is pleasure to be attained from this action. I've always accepted it very gratefully in the past but never reciprocated it. My lips close around the purple tip and I tease it with my tongue. I'm careful not to scrape on the sensitive skin with my teeth. I sit back on my heels, one hand still against Boromir's face and the other holding on his manhood so I can explore it with my mouth. Instinctively I rub my thighs together. I'm so hard it hurts but I focus on Boromir's pleasure.
I lick him awkwardly, with broad swipes then try to take him in but cannot go much farther than the head. It is not that he is uncommonly endowed, just about as big as me, I should think, a thought that somehow makes my cheeks burn. This is no time for shame, however. I admire once more how well he had managed it when he was servicing me, how he'd taken me all the way in until I had hit the back of his throat. I slide down a little but I immediately choke and my eyes water. I focus on the tip again, sucking and probing with my tongue. He has pulled my fingers in his mouth again and is licking and gently sliding his mouth up and down. I finally understand that he means to show me what he'd like me to do to him. I take him in as far as I can go then pull up again until he's almost out of my mouth. I cover my teeth with my lips to make sure I will not hurt him and repeat the movement. He gives out a strangled cry and I know that I'm finally doing something right. I establish a rhythm. His hand tangles in my hair and strokes gently. A whine leaves his lips. His hands yank at my hair to give some sort of warning. He is close. I can taste his bitter essence on my tongue.
I quicken my rhythm on him, almost forgetting that I need to breathe in the midst of all that is happening. He stifles a cry against my palm as he fills my mouth. I pull back a moment later, gasping and trying to swallow his juices with little success. I wipe at my mouth fighting a very strong urge to spit. I liked his needy cries and the way his body trembled under my ministrations but this is not a part of the experience that I would hurry to repeat.
Boromir is still giving out soft moans. He leans and kisses my hair. Reluctantly I raise my head to face him, very much aware of how undignified I must look. Adoration shines in his eyes.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs and leans to clean my face with his tongue, lapping at me like a very large, very enthusiastic kitten. My cheeks burn in humiliation as I wonder what possessed me to do this. Arousal extinguishes it, born of his gentle touches, his warm breath against my skin and most of all, how his deft fingers stroke me as they quickly work to lower my breeches. I sit up on my knees to rub against his hand.
"No, don't waste it," he purrs. He drapes a leg around me, leaning his weight on the tree. He takes once more my hand in his mouth, moistening my fingers. He then leads them to his more private entrance. I breach him hesitantly. He gives out a hiss as he pulls my fingers in.
"Do it," he whispers breathlessly and I pull out my fingers and slowly lower him on top of me. We have become a tangle of limbs as I thrust shallowly in his tight heat. I stifle my moans with difficulty, my face buried in his shoulder. He does the same, sobbing and whimpering against me. I trust he will stop me if I'm hurting him. Going by the sounds he makes I should probably have stopped already but he is holding me tight, his hands running down my back then up again to stroke the nape of my neck, my hair... I thrust harder and harder until I see nothing but white light. His legs have closed around me in a vice-like grip and his whole body is trembling... or is that me? I can't tell where I end and he begins anymore.
I withdraw slowly and we untangle from each other. I gasp at the sight of a thin trail of blood down his thigh.
"You... you are bleeding," I murmur. "I'm sorry."
He gets up. "It is nothing," he says softly. "I just need to wash up."
"Let me... I have an ointment that would help."
He shakes his head and leaves, walking a little further up the river. I want to follow him but something stops me. I walk to the river for a quick wash. I welcome the shock of cold water on my flushed face.
He comes back and finds me sitting down, staring at the river. I look back to him. Am I imagining the slight hesitancy in his step? He is holding an armful of firewood and it occurs to me that this is supposed to be the reason why we left our companions. Quickly I also gather some twigs and follow him back to the campsite.
We find a fire, it would have been too much to expect of our companions to wait for us to bring the wood. I feel Legolas's gaze on me as I sit by the fire. Boromir settles down close to Merry and Pippin, opposite me. He is rather subdued, smiling wanly to the hobbits, who joke with him, trying to lighten his mood. Eventually they abandon the effort and retire to their corner.
Gimli asks for first watch, Legolas takes second and I leave last to Boromir. He drops on his sleeping place. I inch closer to him and reach to trail a finger down his coarse cheek. He shies away from my touch.
"Are you alright?" I whisper to him.
He nods in reply. "I'm tired," he whispers back. "That is all."
I feel that there is more than that but I say nothing. I listen until I hear his light snore. It is a comforting sound which lulls me to sleep.
I awaken from Legolas's gentle touch on my shoulder. He smiles to me as I raise my face from Boromir's back. I wonder how I ended up spooned against the other man and how tired indeed he must have been not to wake up.
Legolas sits next to me as I assume my watch.
"Did you manage to sort things out at all?" he says softly.
I rub tiredly at my forehead. "I don't think so," I reply. "I think things have become even more complicated."
Chapter Five
The sun wakes us all kindly with its warm rays. I look around me at my companions. I only really see one of them. He's sitting, still as though petrified, by the remains of the fire where he had been standing guard. I go to him and place one hand on his shoulder. With my other hand I offer him an apple.
"What am I? A horse?"
"I am afraid we have run out of eggs and sausages," I mock him gently. I press the apple into his hand. "Take it. Your only other choice is lembas."
He makes a face. According to him the elven delicacy tastes like sawdust. Perhaps it is a dislike borne of his general attitude towards the elves. He did not endear himself to them much in Rivendell, nor in Lothlórien. Yet Legolas seems fond of him.
I remember the two of them having whispered conversations in the darkness of Moria. Boromir listening as Legolas spoke of his home. He had sensed the elf's distress, which had been far greater than the distress the rest of us had been feeling while traversing that endless tomb. I knew Legolas would suffer, being an elf. Boromir's compassion had come as a surprise to me. To Legolas as well, I think.
And when he was not with Legolas, I remember Boromir walking next to Gimli in silent companionship. He would know whenever the dwarf fell behind and go back to get him, walking next to him, his hand on his shoulder, kindly urging him on as they would tread over the bodies of the dwarf's people. No one else had been able to reach Gimli then.
He has endeared himself to us all. Only Frodo seems to dislike him now, as does Sam on Frodo's account.
The hobbits in question wave to me. They have already started to pull our boat in the water.
Resentment washes over me. Not against Frodo and Sam. It is against the fates, against who I am, against the burden sitting squarely on my shoulders. Or perhaps I am just tired. I am not the only one. It is a while before Boromir gets up, putting down the half-eaten apple and reluctantly walks to his boat.
The day passes and once again it is time for us to take our rest. A heavy silence has fallen as we pull our boats outside. We are all so weary that even talking to each other would be too taxing. We settle down in a small cave by the water. The sun has not set yet. It gives us a glorious sunset that none of us is in the mood to appreciate.
Boromir leaves the company. I follow him, though what for, I am not sure. He stops by the water.
"It is Gollum," I answer his silent question. "He has tracked us since Moria. I thought we would lose him in the river but he's too clever a waterman."
He worries about the strange creature possibly alerting our enemies to our whereabouts. I do not think it is likely. I do not think it is really what he fears, he has simply found an opening to urge me to lead the company to Minas Tirith again.
I refuse. He knew I would.
"You were quick enough to trust the elves! Have you so little faith in your own people?" he says and the bitterness, the childlike hurt in his voice pierces my heart. I have heard him say that he is not good at persuading others with the force of his words, yet I feel myself falter and just for a second consider going to Minas Tirith. No doubt to write the final chapter of my family's history as Isildur's true successor.
"There is weakness. There is frailty. But there is also courage and honour to be found in the race of men." His words ring true. He has proven his courage and his honour beyond any doubt. His voice breaks. I see despair in his eyes as he grabs me forcefully and pulls me to him.
"You are afraid! All your life you have hidden in the shadows! Scared of who you are! Of what you are!"
What am I to him? His King? His hope? Or something else that I refuse to name, even in my mind? He accepted me in Lothlórien. He let himself trust me and now I disappoint him. The ring chose its champion well. I cannot bear the hurt in his eyes. My weakness shames me.
"I will not lead the ring within a hundred leagues of your City." I say thickly.
His city now. As if Minas Tirith is not my concern. His City, his people, his pain.
He pales. I want to leave him but his eyes will not let me. I want to take back my harsh words. This cannot go on. My weakness for him has affected my judgment.
"Aragorn..."
His voice is soft now. Pleading. He reaches and strokes the nape of my neck with the tips of his fingers. My traitorous body responds immediately. My mind refuses to follow.
I slap away his hand. "Do not whore yourself anymore. Nothing will change," I hiss.
He stares at me speechless with shock. The moment lasts for an eternity. His silence ends abruptly with an inhuman cry. It is like the cry of a wounded animal. He lunges at me in blind rage, blind pain. I avoid his fists easily. Too easily, and I have more than my ranger's reflexes to thank for that. Even in his rage he is careful to not truly hurt me. I do not move to the offensive, I have hurt him enough with words already.
To my shame, our companions have heard us. Legolas pulls him away from me. Boromir struggles in the elf's strong arms but eventually sags, boneless and slides to the ground when Legolas lets go of him.
Gimli, who had sat on my chest to ensure that I will not attack our comrade in arms, gets up, apparently thinking no one would attack Boromir in his current state. He stares at Boromir's bloodied face. A split lip... I had not realised how it happened... probably my elbow as I was protecting my face from his fists. I have no visible injuries.
"What is this foolishness?" the dwarf growls.
I have no answer. Boromir wipes the blood from his face with his sleeve, shrugging off Legolas' concern. He too is silent.
Hot shame fills my heart and makes my cheeks burn. I want to crawl to Boromir and beg forgiveness. I blink back sudden tears very much aware that I will not do that. It is over.
Do not whore yourself anymore. How easily I cheapened his affection! I hadn't known myself to be capable of such cruelty.
Our small companions pretend not to have noticed anything is wrong as we all rejoin them. There is an uncomfortable silence. The hobbits speak to each other in whispers as though afraid of disrupting the big people. Merry and Pippin slowly form a protective huddle around Boromir. Legolas and Gimli are also nearby. Frodo sits close to me. He is the only one to do so. Boromir's camp has heavily outnumbered mine tonight. Even in Sam's honest face I read reproach, though his devotion to Frodo leaves no doubts as to whose side he eventually chooses.
How much did they hear? What they must think of me... of all men, after seeing we could not solve our differences without coming to blows.
Boromir moves from between the hobbits, wordlessly taking first watch as we all start settling down to sleep. Gimli slowly walks to him and places his hand on the warrior's shoulder. Standing Gimli is about the same height as Boromir sitting on the ground. The Man turns to the stout figure.
"Rest tonight," Gimli says quietly. "That insufferable elf would not let me paddle and I have energy to spare."
Boromir shakes his head stubbornly, his unkempt hair obscuring his face.
"That was not a request, Boromir," the dwarf says gravely.
"I do not need to rest."
"I will not let you put us all at risk. Your mind is too troubled for you to be of much use tonight." I can almost feel Gimli's eyes fall on me as he says that, even though I am carefully keeping my own eyes half-closed to feign sleep.
"Do you think me weak?" Boromir's voice is hoarse with more than anger.
Gimli is quiet for a moment. "You are brave and noble and I am honoured to call you a friend. As a friend I shall ask you again to take some rest, Boromir of Gondor."
There is silence for a while. "Then as a friend I shall thank you for your concern and follow your advice," Boromir says softly. He leans on the dwarf as he is getting up and Gimli covers his hand with his briefly and looks up to him. I expect Gimli to pronounce me a cad, unworthy of Boromir's affection, any moment now. Hysterical laughter rises in my chest at the thought and I just barely manage to suppress it.
I wake up to find that Legolas has extended me the same courtesy that Gimli extended Boromir. Between them, elf and dwarf have kept watch almost the entire night.
I ask Legolas why he didn't rouse me.
"It was not for lack of trying," he says sourly.
My conscience was not so troubled over what happened with Boromir that I failed to sleep like an ox, it appears. I should be more troubled about the fact that I would have been of very little use should there have been an attack tonight. I had overestimated my endurance, it appears. I get up, noting that for the first time since we left Lothlórien no muscle in my body complains. I walk to where Legolas is sitting.
"You could sleep now, if you want. I am well rested."
Legolas shakes his head. "It will be dawn soon. Go back to sleep, Aragorn."
I cannot sleep. I tell him that. His gaze falls to Boromir's sleeping place. Only the warrior's hair is visible from where we are. Legolas shakes his head sadly.
"Gimli did not hear your last comment. I did not tell him for then I am sure he would lose all respect for the race of men. All respect for you, for what you said and all respect for Boromir, for letting you live." Legolas' speaks quietly, his voice remaining musical and sweet as he hits me with the harsh truth.
I shake my head. "I do not expect you to understand, Legolas," I say tiredly.
"I understand more than you think," he retorts.
A soft sigh is heard from Boromir's corner. He curls tighter into himself. I do not think he has awaken but I motion to Legolas to be silent.
The elf's hair flutters, shining silver in the moonlight as he shakes his head sadly. "He has been like that for most of the night."
I avoid Legolas' accusing gaze. I say nothing more and neither does he. We wait in silence, staring at the rising sun. I would like it to be a sunset I was watching. I would like for this day to have never happened at all.
