TITLE: Unquenchable Flame

AUTHOR: Prophecy

RATING: PG

PAIRING: Arwen/Boromir

DISCLAIMER: The characters and events refered to in this story belong to the estate of J. R. R. Tolkien, and probably some dudes at New Line Cinema.

FEEDBACK: Please: feed my muse!

SUMMERY: Reunited and rejected by an old lover, Boromir muses upon the past and the future...

And yes, my timeline diverges from Tolkien a little; I'm not math-y.

Unquenchable Flame
by Prophecy

The City of Rivendell is every bit as beautiful as she led me to believe... and yet it seems but half-real. Serene and still to a degree that would seem tomb-like, if not for the very real sorcery that crackles in the
moist air. And even the very air is legend in a place like this. And it is a fitting home for her; part dream, too lovely to be real.

She arrived in Gondor many years ago, my twenty-first summer. Proud, rather haughty and simply glorious: the most exquisite woman I had ever seen before or since. None could begin to compare with her, no woman of flesh and blood and no phantom conjured by poets' words.

They said she was descended from a line of Elven Kings and Queens. They said she was the highest-born Lady in all of Middle-earth, a goddess among women, too high above any to be won over, or even wooed. They said even I, the heir and eldest son of Steward of Gondor, was said to be beneath her.

And when they said that I swore that I would have her. That I would see the Lady Arwen Undómiel beneath me, writhing and panting, all of that maddening Elvish arrogance gone from her, and my touch as her whole world.

I wanted to possess her, body and soul: for desire's sake, and for the pride of Gondor. It would send a message - no one is 'above' the people of Gondor.

And yet somewhere in the brief time that she was mine, those intentions were left by the wayside. She was not supposed to captivate me and eclipse all others; I was not supposed to be enthralled by so lovely an elf-witch, destined to live forever, who had walked Middle-earth with my ancestors, and would continue to do so with generations of my descendants...

Arwen claimed to have found another identity in Gondor, another self with me, and the reverse was also true. I'd been raised as a soldier, trained to make war and to battle Orcs since childhood - with her, for a time, I lived a vicarious lifetime of 'what if'. What if that world was mine? A world centered around a beautiful, loving woman, not focused on preparing for a battle that Middle-earth may not win... What if I were allowed to live, not spend my days preparing to die well...?

She was a force of nature when we were alone; restless as the wind, mercurial as the ocean and the sky, burning me and burning for me with unquenchable flame. The aloof ambassador was left at the doors to my chambers or hers, or was shed like her diaphanous gowns wherever we found privacy and time enough to make another memory.

So many memories... Her face has haunted me throughout the years that have past. She is the one whom all others are measured against, the impossible standard to meet...

I prayed the entire long journey from Gondor that she would be here... I prayed that she sometimes (I dare not hope for 'often') thought of the young mortal whose heart she stole so many years ago... I spent most of yesterday evening wandering among the art and the architecture of the Elven city and not truly appreciating their loveliness as my heart was been seeking Lord Elrond's most precious jewel...

And when I found her, she shattered my heart like so much glass.

Her eyes held the mirror of wordless longing that filled me upon seeing her again. As expected, she had not changed at all. Ageless, just as exquisite as ever and completely shocked to see me. So shocked, in fact, that her whole equilibrium appeared to be compromised - I took it as a good sign, a sign that I still affected her. Until she stammered something about 'why now' and that she was betrothed...

Betrothed! To Isildur's heir, the legendary son of Arathorn, Aragorn. Aragorn, whose name was whispered in Gondor like a promise, but who has yet to show his face and shed his blood with us in our struggle against the Enemy and the power of Mordor... Well, now I know what has him delayed - who would willingly leave the arms of Arwen Undómiel?

Not this man before me, a man who has lived as a Ranger; whom the elf-boy defends and claims my loyalty for... Aragorn, so you do exist. And if you desire my loyalty, claim it yourself. And tell me why you are worthy of all that has been handed to you! The White City and it's valiant people are not in need of the dominance of a Warlord King who would rather stay in the Haven of Rivendell than shed his blood for our people...

Isildur's Heir and Isildur's Bane both stand before me. The dark man and the golden ring - he would take it himself if Lord Elrond would allow it, of that I have no doubt. The noble words his mouth forms do not fool me; like his ancestor he would take the Ring and use it to reclaim his kingdom. I am my father's heir, and my family has been loyal and true to our Stewardship since the Kings fell. We love Gondor, we serve Gondor - it is in our blood and it cannot be denied.

And the Lady Arwen... this is the man she would choose over me? He is older, certainly... I wonder if she has let him touch her, hold her, make love to her? Or if she plays the coy Elf-maid, blushing and shy? Why does she deny me, deny what we shared? That is also blood: blood and passion...

Why should Aragorn be allowed everything, be given everything upon a silver platter? Everything that could have been mine - should have been mine... Everything that WOULD have been mine, save for him.

But Arwen and Gondor could be mine again. So easily. All that is precious to me can be restored... if the One Ring were mine...

END