Wounds This journey has been riddled with disaster,
turning worse with each move we make. And now
we've landed ourselves in these wretched mines,
filled with death for friend and foe alike.
I hate this place: we should have taken our
chances at the Gap of Rohan. Mountains are to
be scaled, not burrowed through, and I have
this strong feeling that something terrible
will happen here. I may not have the farseer's
sense of the Kings of old my father possesses,
but I have not survived in battle for so long
without developing a keen sense of danger.
Aragorn and I have walked together, forming the
rear through no other arrangement than our
shared sense of dread. And now we've finally
found a relatively safe resting place where we
can take care of our wounds, prepare some food
and maybe even get a chance to sleep for a
while.
We both have been hurt in the fight with the
monster, as have the little ones, but Gandalf
has already taken care of them. I have taken it
upon me to take care of Aragorn, to check his
wounds and dress them with the things we have
at hand: torn and dirty cloth, tepid water from
our flasks, some salve from our packs. And he
will do the same for me in return. It is only
natural for us, seasoned warriors, to take care
of each other, to touch another man's body after
a battle, making sure that your comrade in arms
does not die from his wounds after all.
He doesn't want to at first, claiming he will
take care of himself, and that there are far
more pressing matters than a few scratches. But
I have seen that the kraken had its tentacles
wrapped firmly around his neck when we attacked
it to free Frodo. And I know that he must have
sustained wounds from those horrible suction
pads. I have seen the red welts in his neck. I
tell him it will eventually incapacitate him if
he doesn't have them taken care of.
This convinces him, if only barely, and as if
by unspoken agreement we move out of view from
the others, who are already busying themselves
with food and sleeping arrangements. We find an
outcropping near the side of the cave where we
have halted and he sits down before me, silent,
closed up, negating my presence. Suddenly
hesitant, I carefully pull up his shirt and
over his head, and lift up his hair to check
his neck and I draw in a deep breath: the
wounds are worse than I thought. The tentacles
have left their grisly markings on him: deep,
round patches of blistered skin cover the back
of his neck. It must hurt terribly.
But I also note his strong back, his well-formed shoulders that show years of sword
practice and living off the land. He is of a
slighter build than the men of Gondor, but this
only adds to the effect he has on me. He is
different, and yet so like me. I shake myself
inwardly, cursing myself for feeling this
strange attraction to the man that I should be
hating with all my heart and I force myself to
concentrate on his wounds. I must not fool
myself: Aragorn does not need my affection, he
just needs my attention. I pour some water over
a piece of cloth and start to wipe the wounds
clean, gently, carefully. His tensing body
tells me that my actions cause him pain.
And yet...
He does not flinch from the touch of my hands
the way one does if a touch is merely painful.
Wishful thinking, perhaps, but I feel his body
lean into my touch ever so slightly and I dare
not think about the implications. I force
myself to resist the urge to let my head rest
against his, to let my hands explore further,
to make him mine. I do not know where this urge
comes from, but I know I have wanted to touch
him ever since I felt his gaze on me in the
halls of Elrond, scrutinizing me, dissecting
me, laying me bare and filling me with want and
need.
I have finished dressing his wounds and I pray
they won't start to fester. We cannot miss him.
I cannot miss him.
"You will be fine now," I say as I stand up and
hand him his upper clothes, averting my eyes. I
do not want to frighten him. He takes them from
me, but lays them aside, almost thoughtlessly,
and then he takes the flask and salve from me.
My gaze is drawn to his naked torso, even if I
try to fight it and I take in every muscle,
every inch of bare skin, wanting to save this
view for the rest of my life.
"Turn around and sit down, Boromir."
His voice is still husky from all the dust we
inhaled when the entrance of the cave collapsed
and I feel a shiver run down my body, my whole
being revolting against being commandeered so
brusquely and yet so sensuous. And I do not
want to turn around because I want to keep
looking at him forever. But I obey, seeing the
wisdom of the words as I have spoken them
myself.
I turn my back towards him and rid myself of my
vestments, gingerly favoring my left arm.
During the fight the monster wrapped one of its
tentacles around it, pressing the chain mail
into my flesh leaving bloody markings all
around my upper arm. Now I am exposed to him
and again I feel like he is seeing right
through me. I do not like this and yet I yearn
for his gaze on my body. But I yearn not only
for that, but for his hands as well, even if
they only touch me to dress my wounds. I try to
relax, to not let on what I feel, but the
moment his hands, warm fingertips coated in
cool salve touch the fleshwounds on my arm, I
can barely control my reactions.
I have had my share of battlewounds, and in
healing masters' hands have soothed my injuries
countless times, nursed me back to health in
Gondor's Houses of Healing, readying me for the
next battle. But never have I been so aware of
the sensation of skin touching my skin, of
rough hands administering tender care. To feel
his hands on me, his long fingers touching my
bloodied flesh, is almost more than I can bear.
I have lain with men before. Fevered couplings
before a battle: celebrating life in the face
of death, but it has never been more than that.
A meeting of bodies, glistening in the light of
burning campfires in the open field, men acting
on impulses stronger than themselves. But
somehow it is different now. This is more than
lust or want. I need him even if I do not want
it. And I want him even if I don't need it.
His deft but gentle ministrations assure me
that I will sustain no lasting damage from the
deep fleshwound and that I will regain the full
use of my arm. But I know he will not be able
to take care of that other wound. The invisible
one, the one that will not heal even with the
best of care. For my heart is a gaping dark
hole inside me, created the moment Legolas
hotly informed me in the council of Elrond that
this man whose touch is turning sensible
actions into sensual sensations was Aragorn,
son of Arathorn, and the legal heir to the
kingdom of Gondor. His words broke my heart.
I do not doubt it, though. I realized it was
true the moment I heard Legolas speak those
words, but it goes against everything I grew up
believing in. I grew up believing that the
Kings had gone forever, never to return; that
the Stewards would continue to rule Gondor as
they had for countless years and that I would
become Steward when my father would finally lay
down his burden. I would be Boromir the Second,
Steward of Gondor, surpassing all others in
justice and might, defending our people and all
the other lands of Middle Earth against the
shadow of Mordor. And then, with a mere
sentence, the Woodelf destroyed all the future
and past I ever had. I would never rule Gondor
now, and my claim that Gondor had no King, that
Gondor needed no King rang false in my ears the
moment I uttered those words.
His hands have stopped their ministrations and
now they rest on my shoulders, kneading them,
easing the sore muscles that have tensed up
during the fight. Warm spots that seem to draw
all the energy from my body and at the same
time return it manifold. This is beyond
endurance. I find myself turning around, facing
him on my knees on the cold hard rock. His
hands have slid from my shoulders by my
movement and I keenly feel the loss, the
absence of warmth turning into a deeper cold
than I thought possible.
Dirty, unshaven, matted hair, clothed in dirty
leather and torn rags. To me he is the epitome
of beauty and valor.
I say nothing, my mouth is dry, I have no
words. This is the pivot around which my whole
existence now turns.
A hint of a smile, the tiniest wrinkling around
the eyes and I am undone. I reach out and grip
his shoulders, feeling his strong muscles,
feeling the salve I have put on his wounds. My
hands slide upward, until they rest against the
sides of his head, my thumbs lying on his
cheeks, an unspoken question. He does not move,
but I feel like I have been given permission by
the merest hint of relaxation, a smile
broadening just the tiniest bit. I pull him
towards me, into a soaring kiss.
Our mouths meet, and a hunger inside me that I
have only guessed at is roaring inside me now.
I kiss him, turning it into a battle as I have
done with all the things in my life. But now I
have a worthy opponent. I am no longer the
eldest Steward's son, the Captain of the Guard,
the highest in among Gondor's men. If anything,
I am an equal at best.
And he knows this as well, acts upon it
accordingly. His mouth captures my own,
returning the battle call. His left hand grips
my hair, pulling me backwards and with his free
hand he reaches down into my breeches, finding
me hard and ready. He takes me firmly in his
hand, his thumb gliding over the moist tip and
I suck in my breath, sharply, suddenly,
painfully. It's been over four months since I
have felt a hand other than my own on me. I
tense up, not wanting this, not knowing what I
want.
But I cannot deny that it is this I want. His
hand on me, his mouth on my throat, his body
pressing me down against the cold hard rock. I
don't feel the rocks, do not feel the soft
vibration beneath me of living rock hewn by
dwarves, I only feel him against me, on top of
me, wanting him in me, and I struggle to turn
over, because I cannot ever give in to him.
I partly succeed, wringing myself from under
his body and putting one of my legs over his,
and I turn him over using my body weight,
landing him on his back. I grab his wrists and
put them above his head, pressing him down on
the hard stone, using my weight to hold him
down. He grins, relaxing for a moment,
seemingly giving in and I gloat, feeling
victorious, as I start to reach down and kiss
him once more.
Until he suddenly lifts his hips, works his
knee between my leg and lifts me up, turning me
around on my back in one fluid motion, now
gripping my own wrists and crossing them above
my head, taking advantage of my momentary shock
of having his knee shoved up forcibly between
my legs.
He mutters something unintelligible as he
trails kisses down my body, and I shiver,
trying to put up a token resistance, but
failing miserably. My body is betraying my
mind, rising up to meet his lips and hands. I
manage to free my hands from his grip and reach
down and around his body, working my way into
his trousers, cupping his ass. But he glides
down over my legs and my hands slip upwards,
losing their grip. He slowly yet urgently pulls
down my trousers and sits up between my legs,
pausing momentarily.
His hands are resting on my stomach as he gazes
down on me, a look on his face which can be
only described as admiring and I feel torn
again: I crave this attention and at the same
time I strive with all my might to deny it.
"So beautiful," he whispers as his hand reaches
up to stroke my cheek while the other one holds
me again firmly in his grasp. He bows down, and
takes me in his mouth, his hair falling before
his face and I nearly explode from feeling his
lips around me. It's been so long, so long, and
I hear myself starting to moan. I cannot help
it even though in the back of my head I know I
am endangering all of us with my utterings and
Aragorn realizes it too.
His right hand, his swordhand covered in worn
leather like a second skin, slides upwards
again, brusquely covers my mouth in an attempt
to stifle my moans while he takes me in even
further. It is the final push. I fall, deeper
than I had ever thought possible, until I reach
the bottom of a deep black pit and know that my
redemption lies in his hands.
Afterwards we lie together, under my blanket,
my back pressed against his stomach, feeling
for once on this miserable journey warm, sated,
content. I know we have to get dressed, ready
ourselves again for any possible fight, but I
want to linger just a little longer. My head
rests on his arm, my cheeks still hot against
his cool flesh. His hand lies against my lips
so I kiss them, enjoying the feel of calloused
fingertips against my bruised lips. I sigh
softly, almost inaudibly. My hand reaches
backwards, finding his hip, caressing his skin,
sliding slowly, very slowly down his legs. I
feel his long muscles under my hands, the soft
hairs on his legs, his skin still damp from our
exertions. I close my eyes, wanting only to
feel him, pretend we are lying in my room in
the White Tower, not wanting to be distracted
by the dismal surroundings in which we find
ourselves.
I feel on the side of his leg an old scar, not
unexpected in a warrior, even one as fierce and
valiant as Aragorn, but still it stops me in my
tracks. I turn over, slowly, not wanting to
lose even the slightest contact with him, and
I face him, my hand still on his shank,
propping myself up on my elbow, his arm still
around my shoulders.
"What's this, then, did I miss a spot when
attending to your wounds? How inattentive of
me", I say smiling as my fingers gently stroke
the scarred flesh.
He glances at it, occasionally, as if it isn't
a part of him. And maybe it isn't. He is silent
for a moment.
"Ah yes. That one, Boromir. A wild boar tried
to skewer me, long ago in the lands of
Ithilien. I was young then, and feeling
almighty. Growing up around Elves does that to
you, you know. They make you feel like you will
live forever, cannot be hurt, cannot die."
I nod, knowing what he means: being the
Steward's son and surviving as many battles as
I have, gives the same false sense of
immortality. He pauses ever so slightly, gazing
at me, gauging my nod, then continues his tale.
"I upset a boar with young, straying too close
to her lair and she attacked me, speared me
right there in my leg, hurtling me against an
oak tree. I managed to crawl behind it,
bleeding and hurting with only my dagger to
defend me, but fortunately she quickly lost her
interest in me. The wound, however, turned bad
and started to fester. I lay in the woods for
three days, not knowing whether I would live or
die. And then I was found by a reconnaissance
party of Gondor, and brought back to Minas
Tirith, nursed back to health by your
grandfather's healing masters."
"So the hands of the king do not always have
healing power", I say, a half smile on my face,
my hand still cupping the once wounded flesh,
stroking it with my thumb, feeling the ragged
edges.
He looks at me intently, trying to guess the
meaning of my words, whether I make fun of him,
taunt him, deny him what is rightfully his. But
I don't. In all honesty I can say that I don't.
I think I did mean my words in jest, a
challenge even, but as they leave my mouth I
know that they are true and that Aragorn is my
king. He was my king long before I knew he was
the true and sole heir of the throne of Gondor.
He became my king the moment I met his eyes in
the halls of Elrond when I picked up the shards
of Narsil and cut myself, my blood flowing from
the wound, showing him my humanity. Only until
now I was afraid to admit it.
His gaze scrutinizes me, and he knows what
drives me, what is hidden deep inside me, what
moves me beyond all.
Then he smiles, suddenly, and he looks
incredibly young. Almost playfully he grips my
hand and guides it to his lips, kisses the tips
of my fingers, pressing them against his lips.
"No, they don't, my Arandur. Sometimes it is
only the hands of the king's most trusted
steward that will do the trick."
And then he moves even closer and he kisses me
once more, commanding my servitude, claiming
his birthright. A fleeting, unbidden thought of
what will happen when he will claim the throne
of Gondor threatens to tear open the scab that
has formed over the wound in my heart, but I
choose to ignore it. Right now I have no past,
nor a future, only the present. The darkness
has been driven away, I am whole. I feel myself
becoming aroused once more; and as Aragorn sets
my hands and mouth and body to good use, for
once in my life I do not fight for dominance.
For now I live only to serve my King.
End
by Sasjah Miller
t's been a full day now since we escaped
the watcher in the lake and fled into the mines of Moria. A full day of
oppressive darkness, of listening without end to sounds and whispers in
the dark, waiting for that one sound that will tell us they know we are
here.
