Alleviation
He thinks he needs...
He glances at Aragorn, and what he needs becomes sharp and vivid in his mind.
"Are you well?" Aragorn asks. Immediately Boromir thinks to ask him to rub his
sore back, but he is too proud to make such a demand; Aragorn would know his
meaning instantly, and might scoff at him.
Instead Boromir glares meaningfully around at the other members of the
Fellowship. "Perhaps we should look for firewood," he suggests—pointlessly,
as they have plenty. But he hopes that perhaps Aragorn will take his hint.
Indeed, Aragorn says at once, "I will walk with you." He looks at the merrily
crackling fire, and adds, "We do need more wood. Legolas? We are going to look
for firewood."
"Enjoy yourselves," the Elf replies cryptically, and Boromir is certain that he
is smirking.
The Ranger waves in the general direction of the river. "Let us look over
there." Boromir thinks that he could not possibly have made his desires more
transparent to the entire Fellowship, but at least Aragorn does not seem to be
objecting. He strides off quickly toward the river, into the trees. Aragorn
follows along behind him, chuckling quietly.
"I think it is safe to assume that Legolas knows," he says.
"Knows what?" Boromir asks defensively, though he is fairly certain he knows of
what Aragorn speaks.
"About us," Aragorn replies easily. He falls into stride with Boromir, standing
very close.
Boromir clears his throat, kicking a pile of leaves away from his boots. He
wants to know exactly what Aragorn means by "us" but is unsure how to broach the
subject. "Legolas wants us to believe that he knows everything before we do," he
says instead.
"He's very perceptive," Aragorn says. "Elves often are. And Men can be painfully
transparent."
"What do you mean by that?" demands Boromir, whirling to look at the Ranger. He
thinks to point out that it was, after all, Aragorn who started this, no matter
how poorly he hid his own feelings.
"He has known how I have...desired this...almost this entire time."
"Has he indeed," murmurs Boromir while he considers this. He is unsure whether
Legolas and Aragorn knew one another before recently in Imladris, though he is
certain that they must have known of one another through Arwen and other Elves.
In any case, he would not have expected Legolas to approve of Aragorn dallying
with anyone else—certainly not another Man, let alone the son of Denethor.
"Yes." Aragorn wanders to the edge of the river and sits down, staring out over
the water. "I'm not entirely certain what he thinks of it, all things
considered, but he knows." Boromir sits beside him at what he considers a safe
distance. It is possible that the Ranger chose to walk with him merely so that
they might converse; he does not know what is safe to presume.
Aragorn peers over at Boromir, a slow, wicked little grin crossing his face. "I
would not be surprised if he can smell you on me."
Heat flares in Boromir's face and in his groin. "Are Elvish senses really so
strong?" If this is so, then Legolas must have known about every dream he had
about Aragorn, about every night he crept away from camp to relieve his
tension...is it possible that the Elf told Aragorn?
Aragorn swings one leg over the log so that he can press against Boromir's side.
He smiles, ducking his head to taste the side of Boromir's neck. "Elves have a
very delicate sense of smell. I'm sure you've noticed that. I'm also sure he
knows what we do when we part from the group. And I am not ashamed of what we
do, Boromir."
Boromir urgently wants to ask about Aragorn's Elvish intended, but the tongue
against his throat is sufficient distraction to make him forget his concerns.
Instead he pulls Aragorn closer.
"Are you ashamed, Boromir?" Aragorn asks against Boromir's throat. "Do you
regret being with me?"
The second question is much less difficult to answer than the first, and perhaps
answers the first: "No. I do not." What he is feeling is not shame but something
less easily definable, and perhaps less easily assuaged. "What would they think
of this, between us, among the Elves?"
"It would depend on the Elf. I think Legolas is amused. Others might see it as a
sign of the weakness inherent in all Men."
Boromir ponders this as he lets his nose nuzzle in Aragorn's hair. "Do you
believe that all Men are weak?" Perhaps this is why Aragorn is willing to
indulge with him: a belief that this is inevitable, if regrettable, and that
another would do in his absence.
"Not all," Aragorn responds, his arms slipping around Boromir. "Not all,
Boromir..."
Tonight, Boromir decides, he does not care if this is weakness. He wants
it...wants Aragorn. Turning, he captures Aragorn's mouth with his own.
Aragorn sighs against Boromir's mouth. His fingers splay over Boromir's back as
he urges him closer, until he is pressed between Aragorn's legs. "I need this,"
he whispers, and licks Boromir's lip. "Need you."
Boromir sighs and relaxes into the embrace, content for a moment simply to be
touched so intimately. Most of the soldiers he has known were rough with their
hands and rarely used their mouths. He enjoys how freely the Ranger kisses him
and uses his tongue for pleasure. When Aragorn touches his lip again, he opens
his mouth in welcome.
Aragorn eagerly tastes Boromir's mouth—teeth, tongue, palate, taking care to
tease and touch all that he can with his tongue. He works his hands forward,
beginning to loosen Boromir's many layers. "You wear far too much," he complains
when he breaks the kiss to breathe.
Boromir's clothes are his most direct connection to home and family on this
journey—the sword was his father's, the armor his uncle's, and he cannot look
at the White Tree on the gauntlets without thinking of his brother. Nonetheless
at the moment he agrees with Aragorn; his cock is pressing uncomfortably against
the laces of his breeches and he is far too warm. He tugs at his own vest with
one hand, at Aragorn's with the other.
Aragorn pulls away Boromir's hand, lifts it to his mouth, kisses his knuckles.
Then he slips from the log to kneel between Boromir's legs, reaching up to push
away each layer, until Boromir is bare-chested, his breeches open. Aragorn
reaches up and brushes his fingers down Boromir's cheek. "So lovely," he
whispers, and presses a kiss to the middle of Boromir's chest.
Boromir is not comfortable with this sort of admiration, more the way he thinks
a man should talk to a woman than to another man; these are not words that he
can imagine himself saying, though he wonders whether that will bother Aragorn.
Perhaps the Ranger only says the words because he believes they will make
Boromir do his bidding. It would be so easy to encourage him to lower his head,
but Boromir thinks that perhaps he should not let Aragorn take the initiative
yet again. "You are still dressed," he points out.
"Indeed, I am," Aragorn agrees, trailing his mouth down Boromir's chest and
belly. His hands rest on Boromir's hips, holding him still as his tongue follows
the trail of his lips back up Boromir's torso.
Boromir catches his waist as soon as he can reach it, tugging upward on
Aragorn's tunic with one hand while he fumbles at the laces of his breeches with
the other. The grass is cool and damp, but his cloak is heavy and the thick
lining is soft and warm; he thinks that he would like to lie down, to take
things more slowly this time.
Aragorn lets out a noise of protest. "I was enjoying myself," he says, but does
not try to stop Boromir. Rather, he takes the opportunity to help.
"You will enjoy yourself more in a more comfortable position." Boromir stumbles
to his feet, pulling Aragorn with him. While the other man drops his tunic onto
the ground, he spreads his cloak out and sits again, tugging off his boots.
"I'm glad we don't actually need firewood." Aragorn grins, and finishes removing
his clothing, stretching out on Boromir's cloak. His feet dangle onto the grass.
Boromir guesses that if they return with no firewood, Gandalf is certain to
remark upon that fact; he reminds himself to bring back a few logs, if he can
remember. He wishes there were a fire here; he would like to be able to see
Aragorn better than what he can glimpse in the scant light filtering through the
trees, the man stretched invitingly before him as he lies beside him, head
raised on an elbow.
Aragorn slips his hands behind his head, smiling up at Boromir. "Now this," he
says, "is a sight to which I could grow accustomed."
"I cannot see so well as I would like," Boromir says before he can stop himself.
In order to forestall further conversation, he leans over and latches his mouth
onto one of Aragorn's nipples.
Aragorn moans shamelessly, his fingers tangling in Boromir's hair. "I would have
you in a proper bed, if I could," he whispers, eyes slipping closed. "With
candles burning..."
He could have had him in a proper bed, in Imladris, thinks Boromir, though he
does not voice the thought. Or perhaps Aragorn could not have, staying in the
house of his intended's father, with her sleeping under the same roof. And
Boromir is not certain himself how he would have responded those weeks ago,
under more formal circumstances...then Aragorn's knotted fingers tug gently at
his hair, and he focuses instead on making him shiver.
Aragorn traces circles on Boromir's shoulder as his body shakes appreciatively
under Boromir's mouth. "With wine," he adds, "and firelight and—ohhh—I
would...would..." His voice trails off with a soft moan.
Perhaps Aragorn is taunting him, after all, decides Boromir. Well, no matter: he
will take what he desires here, and he desires this. His lips slide lower,
tongue tracing patterns on the warm skin, and his hands slide up Aragorn's
thighs.
"Boromir." Pushing himself up on his elbows, Aragorn looks down at him. He chews
on his lip, briefly, perhaps to keep from moaning aloud. "Would you care for..."
Still Boromir continues to flick his tongue toward the Ranger's cock, and his
voice trails off along with his thoughts. "Water," he says finally. "Bathe."
Boromir glances up from the thick patch of hair that descends into Aragorn's
groin. He has been ignoring the smell of sweat and dirt on both their bodies,
which is no deterrent to his desire. But the thought of slipping into the
current with Aragorn, of touching him under the water, sends another jolt
through him. "Yes," he agrees.
A bright smile crosses Aragorn's features. "Good," he says, and rises to his
feet after squirming out from underneath Boromir. Still smiling, he reaches out
and grips Boromir's hand, tugging him up and guiding him to the water's edge; he
walks backward, stealing kisses. Boromir feels his feet sliding on the slippery
grass and lurches into Aragorn's arms, propelling them both clumsily down the
bank and ankle-deep into the river.
It is chilly, but not painfully cold, and Aragorn's hands are hot around
Boromir's waist. The Ranger laughs softly, wrapping his arms around Boromir to
steady him. "Careful," he admonishes, continuing to lead them deeper into the
water. He shivers a little and presses close, ducking his head to press a kiss
to Boromir's shoulder.
Boromir aches from the contrast of the cool river and the heat still swelling
his groin, making him ache where he is crushed against Aragorn. With one hand he
reaches down to cup water in his palm, letting it spill over Aragorn's back and
buttocks. Aragorn shivers and gasps, arching his back. He strains towards
Boromir to capture his mouth. His own hand dips into the water, then comes up to
drip water into Boromir's hair.
It would be best, Boromir thinks, to get this over with quickly. He throws his
weight forward, knocking himself and Aragorn both flat in the water. Aragorn
comes up sputtering, wiping his hair from his eyes. He gives Boromir a
mock-ferocious glare. "Now your hair is clean," Boromir grins.
"Indeed it is," Aragorn agrees, grins back, and splashes a handful of water at
Boromir, who steps forward as if he will embrace Aragorn again. But at the
moment their hands touch, his leg pulls at Aragorn's under the surface. Aragorn
quickly reaches out for Boromir as he allows himself to topple backwards,
pulling them both under the water.
This time Boromir comes up laughing, cold all over and not so fiercely aroused,
though his skin tingles briskly and the ache for contact has not left him. His
hands travel over Aragorn's submerged chest, not washing so much as exploring
it. Aragorn shivers and presses close again, sliding his hands down Boromir's
back and lower. "You do not smile nearly enough," he whispers, pressing a kiss
to the corner of Boromir's mouth.
"Perhaps I need to bathe more often." Boromir knows that he is smiling too
widely, like a besotted fool, but he cannot help himself. His fingers move into
the thick hair surrounding Aragorn's cock, then below, cupping the balls now
retreated tightly beneath cold skin.
Aragorn groans softly, kissing Boromir again. "Perhaps," he agrees, and shivers.
"But for now, I think I would like to try to get warm."
"Wait." Boromir tilts his head back into the water, until his hair is completely
submerged and he can run the fingers of one hand through it, untangling the
knots and snarls. He sees Aragorn looking down at him and licks his lips,
wondering if Aragorn is thinking of having him on his knees like this. Aragorn
reaches out and lets his hand join Boromir's, carding through the wet hair. He
smiles, his eyes warm and happy. He appears about to speak, but then stops
himself, dropping his eyes from Boromir's face.
Boromir rises slowly, weaving his fingers into Aragorn's hair in turn and
tugging gently at the knotted ends. "Turn around."
Aragorn smiles and turns obediently, pressing his back against Boromir's chest.
He rests his head on Boromir's shoulder and sighs softly. "Like this?" he asks.
Boromir's hands move under the water, nudging Aragorn's thighs apart from
behind. He strokes with his fingertips between the Ranger's legs. When he
encounters the puckered hole, he rubs it gently while his other hand moves
around the front, dipping into the crevices where Aragorn's legs meet his groin.
Aragorn moans, lifting a hand to cup the back of Boromir's head. "Oh...very
nice," he says approvingly.
"I have heard that it is safest to wash meat before eating it," Boromir teases,
pressing down harder with his fingers and letting his lips graze Aragorn's neck.
"Oh," Aragorn says eloquently. His head drops forward, eyes closing as he pushes
back against Boromir's hand. "I hope that I can provide enough to satisfy your
hunger."
Boromir raises one hand up Aragorn's torso, trailing chilly water, until his
fingers find a hard nipple to squeeze. "I am not concerned about that."
"I am," Aragorn replies. "I am concerned that I may embarrass myself if you keep
doing this." Yet he doesn't try to move Boromir's hands away.
It makes Boromir smile to know that even waist-deep in cool water, he can excite
Aragorn. Chuckling against pliant skin, he asks, "What would you like me to do?"
"I would like very much if you took me back to dry land." Aragorn strokes the
back of Boromir's head.
"Come, then." Boromir cannot resist a parting tug at Aragorn's cock before
stepping away. An unhappy sound escapes Aragorn's throat, despite the fact that
he was the one who had wanted to get out of the water. He follows Boromir,
keeping very close.
They have nothing with which to dry off save their clothes; Boromir glances at
his velvet sleeves, decides that some making do can't be helped on a journey
such as this, and blots some of the wetness first from his body, then from
Aragorn's. Aragorn kisses him, stroking flesh wherever he can, making Boromir's
work more difficult. "You are impatient tonight," he observes.
"I want you," Aragorn replies, as though this explains everything.
And maybe it does. "Then have me," Boromir suggests, sitting back on his cloak
and pulling Aragorn down beside him.
Aragorn's finger trails down Boromir's chest. "How shall I have you, Boromir?"
In your mouth, Boromir wants to ask, but he thinks that perhaps Aragorn will not
wish to wait for him. Instead he suggests, "Now you are clean, I can finish what
I was doing before, if you wish."
"Mm," Aragorn replies, thoughtfully. "You certainly could..." He pushes Boromir
onto his back and his mouth latches onto a spot low on his neck, sucking
insistently. His hand trails down Boromir's side.
"I can do little if you have me trapped under you," groans Boromir, arching and
writhing at the touch.
"Yes, that's a very good point." Aragorn slides over Boromir, his knees on
either side of one of Boromir's legs. "That is a pity," he adds, smiling, his
tongue sliding over and around Boromir's collarbone.
With another groan, Boromir thrusts upward, knowing that he could probably flip
the Ranger with his weight but not in a hurry to do so. "I will give you another
bath," he threatens.
A wide, wicked smile crosses Aragorn's features as he lifts his head to look up
at Boromir. "Do you promise?" he asks.
Boromir reaches to find one of Aragorn's hands on his skin, drawing it toward
his swollen cock. "See for yourself."
"Oh, most impressive," Aragorn teases as his fingers close around the hot flesh.
Then he slides down Boromir's body, pressing kisses to his torso along the way,
until he is on his belly between Boromir's thighs.
"I thought...you were going to let me...do this to you," Boromir manages to get
out between gasps.
Aragorn glances up. "You don't want me to...?"
"Of course I..." Boromir squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, unable to bear the
sight of Aragorn between his legs. "Turn around beside me."
Aragorn licks his lip, and then moves over to Boromir's side, facing the
opposite direction, and tugs him close. "Like this?" he asks, and his breath is
warm against Boromir's cock.
Instead of answering, Boromir lifts one of Aragorn's legs over his shoulder and
moves to nuzzle Aragorn's thigh. "Oh," Aragorn says in response, and trails his
tongue along the length of Boromir's cock. In this position Boromir cannot quite
reach with his tongue to lick Aragorn's hole, but he slides a hand there as his
mouth travels backward, laving around the base of Aragorn's erection while his
nose nudges the damp curls. He feels himself throb against Aragorn's lips.
"Touch me," Aragorn gasps. He takes the head of Boromir's cock into his mouth,
holding him there a moment before his tongue starts to move over, around, all
teasing lost from his touches. Boromir swallows down as much of Aragorn's cock
as he can manage while he presses a damp fingertip past the resisting muscle and
into the hot softness beyond. He is suddenly very close, on the verge of
exploding into Aragorn's mouth.
Aragorn grunts, his body stiffening. Then his fingers tighten on Boromir's hip
as he moans around Boromir's cock, spurting between his lips. As the tremors
subside, he pulls away, gasping, "I'm sorry. Couldn't...hold back."
Boromir cannot speak, in part because of the seed flowing out the side of his
mouth and in part because he is aroused past his ability to endure from
Aragorn's sudden yielding. He exhales with a moan, shifting his hips toward
Aragorn's warm breath. Aragorn rolls onto his back, taking Boromir with him.
"Please," he says, his voice thick, and draws Boromir's cock into his mouth
again. His arms go around Boromir's waist and he holds on tight as he sucks
greedily.
Boromir knows that if he thrusts too forcefully at this angle, he will choke
Aragorn, but neither can he control the forward momentum of his body when he
slides down into the heat of that mouth; he throws back his head to bellow a
warning. Aragorn's fingers splay over Boromir's buttocks and he breathes harsh,
panting little breaths through his nose. He nearly gags as Boromir thrusts hard
into his mouth, his fingers squeezing reflexively, but he does not push Boromir
away.
Boromir pulls out, collapses over Aragorn's chest and comes hard, spraying down
his belly and leaving a puddle in the hollow of his ribs. He groans over and
over, continuing to thrust even when he is spent. Aragorn lightly strokes
Boromir's back, waiting for him to ride out the intensity of his orgasm.
"You," Boromir begins, and then cannot remember what it was he intended to say.
"Yes?" Aragorn asks, his fingertips tracing words in Elvish on Boromir's back.
"Your mouth is..." But Boromir realizes that Aragorn may think he is taunting
him, comparing him to a whore, which is the last thing he wishes to suggest. It
is himself, Boromir thinks wryly, who has become shameless. "I enjoyed that," he
admits instead.
Aragorn presses a kiss to Boromir's hip. "My mouth is...?"
"Warm," Boromir says helplessly. To forestall further conversation, he turns and
kisses Aragorn, letting him taste his own seed in Boromir's mouth. Aragorn sucks
on Boromir's tongue, moaning softly, and pulls him against him, though they are
going to be very sticky, very soon. "You are very wet," Boromir sighs with
sudden amused approval. "Legolas will be able to smell me on you again."
"Mm, yes, he will," Aragorn says and pushes Boromir onto his back again. He
starts to slide down his body, licking at him. "I suppose he will just have to
cope with it. It isn't as though the hobbits don't do such things under their
blankets at night. And he doesn't complain about them."
Boromir laughs; he has heard the noises coming from Merry and Pippin's bedrolls,
but thought that perhaps he had misunderstood their meaning, for he did not know
how such things were regarded in the Shire. "Perhaps we should wash again,
anyway." Aragorn hums in agreement, swirling his tongue around Boromir's belly
button and making him squirm, ticklish. "If you keep that up, I am only going to
want you again."
"That would be a shame." Aragorn eases back up Boromir's body, flicking his
tongue against the nipples. His fingertips move feather-light over Boromir's
sides. Boromir shudders. It is too soon for him to become erect again, but his
groin is full of uncomfortable heat and his entire body feels oversensitive, as
if he has had too much of some potent pipeweed. When Aragorn sits back on his
thighs, looking down at him with a smile, trailing his fingers through the seed
on Boromir's belly and then lifting those fingers to his mouth, Boromir closes
his eyes and groans, "You will kill me."
"That is not my intention," Aragorn insists. He offers a finger to Boromir, who
flicks out his tongue, sucking the bitter taste of himself from Aragorn's skin.
He is slightly overwhelmed, fearful of saying things he does not mean...or
things he does mean but should not say. Then Aragorn speaks again. "You are—I
could have you, again and again, and not tire of it. You."
"Nor would I," Boromir manages, brushing his lips against the now-clean finger
danging beside his face. He glances at the single item Aragorn still wears, the
necklace around his throat, and reaches up to touch the sharp point of the
jewel. "I am glad to have you while I can."
Aragorn wraps his fingers around Boromir's wrist but does not pull his hand
away. "So am I," he says softly. "Boromir..." And he leans down, still holding
Boromir's hand to his chest, and kisses him tenderly. Boromir lets his hand
drift into Aragorn's hair, cupping his head. He will be exhausted on the march
the next day if they continue, yet he cannot stop as Aragorn stretches out on
top of him, rubbing his own hardening cock against Boromir's. "I cannot resist
you," he whispers.
Boromir is a bit surprised that Aragorn has recovered so quickly; the man is,
after all, considerably older than himself. "Are you always so eager for more?"
he jokes.
"From you?" smiles Aragorn. "Oh, yes."
"I wish we had done this in a proper bed, when we had nowhere to be in the
morning," Boromir smiles back. He arches up for another kiss.
Aragorn shivers, and brushes his lips teasingly over Boromir's. "As do I. But I
fear I would have been far more demanding of you." He sucks at Boromir's bottom
lip. "I would have asked you to make me scream, Boromir. To ride me until I
begged you for mercy."
"You would have asked me to ride you? In Imladris?" Boromir's breath catches and
his cock surges. Aragorn swallows, pressing his face against Boromir's neck as
he nods. "You should have done so," Boromir whispers, holding Aragorn's head
with one hand, his waist with the other, as his hips move in a restless rhythm.
"Oh," Aragorn gasps, rubbing himself against Boromir again. "Boromir." He
reaches down to grasp his hip, and lifts his head to look down at him. "I—am
sorry I let the opportunity...mmmescape."
Boromir nods against the ground, thrusting back more vigorously. "I think...if
you screamed..." He imagines half the Fellowship coming through the trees with
weapons drawn, and laughs.
"I could...stay quiet. Oh. Ohh..." Aragorn shudders, slipping a hand between
their bodies, wrapping his fingers around both of them and making Boromir groan.
"Perhaps I could not." One of them must be prudent, now, thinks Boromir, for in
a moment, he, at least, will have no mind left. "Do you think...it would be
wise?"
"Probably not. Oh!" Aragorn groans, loudly, his fingers tightening briefly
around their cocks. "Boromir!"
A red haze covers Boromir's thoughts as Aragorn clutches them together; it is
not unlike being in the presence of the Ring, though vastly more pleasurable,
sending fire shooting through his groin. "You...aaah!"
Aragorn kisses Boromir, cries out into his mouth as he comes, sweet wet heat
spreading between them. He shudders, and does not move his hand away. Boromir
lies still, shaking, embarrassed at how quickly the Ranger has undone him,
twice, in a single night, yet unable to regret it. He squeezes a hand between
them and covers Aragorn's fingers with his own. The Ranger lets out a soft noise
that borders on a whimper as he rains kisses down over Boromir's face.
"You are trying to kill me," Boromir manages to whisper when he is unable to
capture Aragorn's mouth with his own.
"Never," Aragorn promises. "Never."
Boromir groans and rolls, taking Aragorn over to his side with him. They are
dripping onto the fur collar of the cloak, but he does not care; it will be
stiff and matted, a reminder against his skin, all the next day. "I would like
to sleep like this," he murmurs. It is strange, for usually after pleasure he
craves his own space. "But we should clean. And go back." He wonders whether the
wizard or the Elf would say anything if they moved their bedrolls together; he
thinks he does not care. "Do you want to come to the river with me, or should I
dump a bootful of water over you?"
"Mm. I'll come." Aragorn stifles a yawn against Boromir's shoulder, and gives no
sign that he plans to move. Boromir sits then, hauling Aragorn upright with him.
He has a sudden, disorienting memory of waking with his brother after a
mock-fight in the mud that left them both filthy and too tired to walk down to
the water until after they had napped, exchanging guilty, happy smiles when they
finally crept away. He thinks that it has been far too long since he had a
friend...a peer.
Aragorn leans against him, kissing the side of his neck. "Need to do this
again," he mumbles sleepily, stifling another yawn before he gives Boromir what
can only be described as a silly grin. Boromir cannot help but return it. The
thought that he can have this, night after night until they reach a point in
their journey when it becomes impossible, fills him with pleasure.
Then Aragorn tugs on his hands: "Now take me to the river or I'll fall asleep
here." Boromir leads him quickly to the water's edge, where he washes Aragorn
off with quick splashes of the cold water. The chill clears his head a little,
but does not shake off the relaxed tired feeling that seeps into his bones.
They finish washing, and dry off as best they can, and dress. Aragorn sneaks
another kiss before they return to camp. And, ignoring an arch look from
Legolas, he moves his bedroll closer to Boromir's.
"We need to keep warm," Aragorn announces to no one in particular.
"Yes," Boromir agrees with a smile, rolling his eyes in the direction of the
trees. "We looked everywhere, but couldn't find any firewood."
by Your Cruise Director and Ashinae
t is late, after a long day of hiking through rough woods. Boromir's muscles
are sore and his head throbbing, though not with pain.
