He had a dream about his father, as he
often had had before. The same figure who was his father but
also not, a husk with hollow eyes and skin like dry, cracked
soil and though it was his father, it was also somehow
Gondor, all the splendor of his city trapped in this corpse.
As he watched the figure sank before him, crumbling away and
though he tried to piece it back together it simply crumbled
into dust and yet this time it was different, this time the
dust turned to blood and ran from his hands in rivers, an
ocean of blood staining him and he could hear his father's
voice, calling him traitor.
The taste of his own tears was fresh in his mouth as he
woke, and he startled to see the figure crouched above him,
a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. For the first time
since this began he was tempted to ignore the unspoken
request, yet if he did, he had no doubt Aragorn would take
his comfort in the arms of the Elf and he was shamed at the
bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.
Better to rise and follow him a short distance, to allow
Aragorn to strip him of his clothing and press him to his
knees, his fingers slick and cool as they prepared him, and
he accepted it, accepted everything Aragorn offered until
suddenly, oddly, he stilled.
"Where are you?" Aragorn breathed into his ear and Boromir
tried to twist away, annoyed by the foolish question because
where else could he be but where he was? Such an idea was an
Elvish foolishness like that Aragorn was prone to, foreign
to his people and was this creature supposed to be a Man
they could call King? He should be relieved that Aragorn had
no intention of going to his city, that his purpose was
elsewhere even if it meant the destruction of the Ring.
A brief image of it, as compelling and golden as fire,
flashed before his eyes before it was lost, splintered by
Aragorn's fingers in his hair as they shook him painfully.
"Where are you?" Again, harshly this time. "Because you are
not here with me, where you belong."
Where he belonged, like a possession, a sword or a horse or
perhaps a piece of jewelry and it sparked something within
him, molten fury, and he was so tired of belonging to
anyone, to anything.
"You do not own me," he hissed, trying to pull away and
these matters should have ended ages ago when he realized
what it was doing to him. How it was changing him. Yet
Aragorn was strong and had the leverage to hold him down,
and though Boromir could still free himself, he could not do
it without hurting Aragorn and it was his burning shame, his
weakness that he could not bear to do it.
"You are so very certain?" Softly, a breath against his ear
and he could feel it when Aragorn smiled. "Very well, I do
not."
Just as his grip was starting to turn painful, Aragorn
released him and Boromir felt suddenly too-light without his
weight. Uncertainly, he turned to see Aragorn sprawled
easily next to him, brazenly stroking himself. He looked at
Boromir through half closed eyes and gestured idly back to
the camp. "Feel free to leave. As you said, I do not own
you."
Boromir sat as though frozen, unable to tear his eyes from
Aragorn thrusting into the channel of his own fist and even
looking away gave him no peace, his soft sighs and murmurs
of pleasure were inescapable. It was with a humiliated cry
that he threw himself gracelessly forward, collapsing on his
knees, tearing Aragorn's hand away so that he might lap at
the bead of moisture glistening at the head of the shaft and
savor the sour taste of it. Aragorn's startled gasp was
nearly as satisfying and he thrilled to hear it.
He needed this, more than he ever wished to admit and when
Aragorn moved beneath him, fighting his way out of Boromir's
grasp, he nearly snarled his frustration to the night sky,
scrabbling to hold him down with an uncertain grip. Yet
Aragorn persisted until the sudden heat of his mouth
surrounding him had Boromir choking on a gasp of his own,
struggling to mimic the sweet rhythm of Aragorn's tongue.
That anyone could have such a skilled mouth and Boromir
could only attempt to give back a portion of the bliss
Aragorn visited upon him.
There should have been shame in enjoying this, though
Boromir could not feel it, for how could there be shame at
the feel of this Man trembling beneath his fingertips, the
sudden, slick, heavy taste in his mouth that came with his
pleasure and Boromir shuddered in his own ecstasy, felt
Aragorn swallowing greedily around him and how could he feel
shame if Aragorn did not?
Shaken, moreso than he would ever say, Boromir collapsed
back on the blankets beneath them and when Aragorn shifted
to lean over him, he met his eyes without words.
"I do not own you, Boromir of Gondor. No more than you own
me." Cryptic, so like the Elves who raised him yet it
relieved him to hear, even as it sent a shaft of
crystal-sharp pain into his heart. A lie, but a sweet one
and he would accept it as the comfort it was meant to be.
They did not linger too long, dressing in careful silence
before making their way back to the camp, and if Aragorn's
bedroll was nearer to his than any other, none of the others
in the Fellowship would make mention of it.
There were still many hours of darkness for sleep, and
before he sought it, Boromir closed his eyes and sent a
silent apology to his father, one he knew would be rejected
in disgust were it spoken to him and when he dreamed again
of his father, of Gondor, the dream found itself changed yet
again, the withered appearance of both made radiant by a
flash of gold and Boromir smiled in his sleep and did not
let himself see the crimson flow beneath it.
-Finis-
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