Aragorn/Boromir ficlet
Jan. 18th, 2004 09:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetTitle: In Dreams
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R, for sexual situations
Summary: Aragorn dreams of what he believes is lost.
Archive: rugbytackle, my LJ, anyone else who might like it please ask.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. All I claim to having created is this ficlet.
Warnings: none really, a bit of angst, but it’s really all about the sap.
Note: many thanks goes to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seleneheart and zasjah for beta. Any and all mistakes or general weirdness belong to me.
Feedback: would be lovely, but isn’t required
~*~
The rich, sharp scent of wood smoke was strong where it curled all around Aragorn. The fire that breathed the smoke into the cool night air crackled near his feet, casting a blanket of warmth against his naked skin and pushing a wavering brightness against the insides of his closed eyes. With slow moving, soothing fingers sifting through his hair, Aragorn lay still beneath them and knew that if he wished this moment to linger he must not open his eyes, yet in the same instant, knew he could do nothing else.
He had been there before, ensnared in this peaceful drifting contentment, in this dream, this desire that would not pass into memory and he knew it to be untrue. He knew it, and recognized it now as it always began the same way, with the warmth of a kind fire against his skin that kept the chill nighttime air at bay, with slow moving fingers gliding through his hair.
It was impossible not to want to open his eyes and see the man that he knew waited for him, that would wait for him no matter how long Aragorn lay still and feigned sleep. In the past he had never been able to resist the desire to look, and now was no different, and so as always, Aragorn gave in to the lure of the dream.
He gave in, and drawing in an imagined breath, opened his eyes.
As he knew it would be, the fire was nearby, snapping hotly among the kindling, flinging a dancing net of brightness and flickering shadows among the overhanging limbs of the trees and throughout the surrounding brush. As all the times before, there was no breeze, so the fire’s smoke, specked with wafting embers that glowed red before fading to ash, twined straight up to slip through the interlaced tree limbs overhead. It drifted up and away, disappearing into the deep dark sky, pricked here and there by the cold glint of stars.
As Aragorn knew he would be, Boromir sat looking down at him, fingers drifting slowly through Aragorn’s hair, watching him patiently with a soft smile that held a question.
“Did you dream?”
Aragorn smiled, though sadly for he knew this reverie, knew its promises would not be kept, could not be, and as ever he was unable to keep that sadness from his voice as he offered his familiar answer.
“Only of you, Boromir. Always of you.”
As ever, Boromir’s gaze turned sharp, delving. He shook his head, and as he did so firelight danced along the strands of hair that fell about his face. Where he looked down at Aragorn, it fell golden over his bare shoulders, where the fur trimmed cloak had long since fallen away.
“Dreaming of me seems not to please you. If anything, you sound, regretful. Do I cause you to feel these things?”
Aragorn rose up and moved closer, close enough to gather Boromir in his arms, to coax the cloak down even further, to turn that searching green gaze away from him as he had done countless times before. And as before he wondered, was this a comfort or a torture that visited him? Perhaps it was both, for he was no longer able to parse one from the other. The skin beneath his hands felt so warm, the muscles firm and, as always, Aragorn would greedily take what solace he could in this place, however unreal.
“No,” he whispered against Boromir’s tangled hair. “I regret nothing that has passed between us, never that.”
The words he spoke were not lies and never had been, not in all the times he’d offered them, though they always cost him much to speak them. In his past dreamings Boromir had always believed them, and in his belief would lie with Aragorn there by the fire, beneath the trees, watched only by the stars, and make love to his King. Yet, this time something shifted and changed for Boromir did not move to lie down, nor did he pull Aragorn down with him and the departure from the expected sent a sharp shiver of apprehension arrowing through Aragorn.
Suddenly, the fire’s warmth lessened.
After a moment spent in silence warm breath gusted over Aragorn’s neck, Boromir’s frustrated sigh.
“I do not think that you believe your own words. Of what else do you speak of falsely, Aragorn?”
Without waiting for a reply Boromir tensed, pulled away, leaving Aragorn’s arms empty and in the wake of his words Aragorn did not follow, but sat frozen, laid low by the hurt that filled him. He could not speak, but could only watch Boromir and ache, for to look upon Boromir was to ache. Aragorn ached to touch the flushed, fair skin, to lay hold of his lover and wring sounds of pleasure from his lips. Aragorn ached for his lover who appeared and felt and smelt so real, yet was only a dream; it was only in dreams that he could have Boromir.
In truth had he not laid his Steward upon the river, and sent him away?
“I am no dream.” Boromir declared with sudden, startling fierceness.
“I wish you to tell me why you persist in this, this gloom!”
Aragorn heard the dismay in Boromir’s voice, saw it in the set of his jaw, the tense line of his back, in the depths of his eyes, but knew not how to soothe it. He could not explain the truth to this Boromir that his weary heart had conjured, he could not explain the cruelty of having Boromir in his dreams and knowing that to wake would be to lose him, again.
“What troubles you so that even now when we are alone and free to,” Boromir paused, cheeks flushed but his darkened eyes kept steady on Aragorn’s as he searched and found the words, “to love, you keep hold of this sadness? I see it day by day, it is a weight upon you and for what reason?”
When Aragorn still could offer no answer Boromir drew away from the fire, from Aragorn, and as he did tugged the cloak higher around his waist and finally dropped his eyes. He gazed down at the cloak wrapped around him, long fingers absently stroking the glossy fur fringe.
“But perhaps I know. Is there...perhaps you do you regret what we’ve-“
Aragorn moved swiftly before Boromir could even speak the last words. He shoved the cloak away, pushed Boromir into the nest of blankets they’d fashioned on the leaf cushioned ground among the gnarled roots of a sheltering, old oak. He stretched out atop Boromir, pressed his body tight against the hard, yet soft planes of muscle and warm skin and wanted to sink into his lover the everlasting way the roots of the oak sank deep and mingled into the earth.
“No. Never. There is no regret. Never doubt that, my Steward.”
The words were whispered harshly against Boromir’s unsmiling lips and sealed with a kiss that sought to steal the breath from his lungs, leaving both men nearly heaving after Aragorn reluctantly released his mouth. Boromir lay still beneath his King with closed eyes, and said nothing.
Aragorn wound a hand into fair hair that glinted in the firelight, cradled the back of Boromir’s head. “Look at me, Boromir. Let me see your eyes and know that you see the truth in my words.”
Even if the moment was counterfeit Aragorn wanted the words, wanted the memory of them for after he woke from this fantasy.
When met with stillness, Aragorn’s fingers tightened. “Look at me.”
The words were nearly whispered but no command had ever been clearer. Boromir slowly opened his eyes and Aragorn stared into their green, darkened depths and was touched by wonder at the strength of his need for this man, his Steward.
His.
It was unfair, completely unfair, yet this was only a dream, and so the words flowed from Aragorn’s lips like song. “Tell me you will belong to no other.”
Boromir matched Aragorn’s gaze, held it, answered, voice husky and laced with heat. “No other.”
“Tell me I will be the only one who lays hands upon you.”
Eyes sliding shut briefly, Boromir groaned deep in his throat and bowed up against Aragorn, hands sliding up the curve of Aragorn’s spine, fingers raking over the jut of shoulder blades, palms pressing Aragorn tight against him.
“No other.”
With everything that he was Aragorn wanted to believe Boromir’s words, wanted to set them down and make them law but the memories, always the memories of his loss at Parth Galen could not be put aside. He had the answer he wanted yet it was not enough, it was never enough, and so he let his weight sink down upon Boromir, pressed his face into the sweet juncture of Boromir’s neck and shoulder and breathed in the scent of his sweat warm skin.
Softly, “No other.”
Boromir’s hands ghosted over Aragorn’s bare back in long, mapping strokes. Aragorn shivered beneath the roving touch and imagined remaining this way, dreaming, laid out atop his lover, letting the autumn turning leaves overhead fall and blanket them, cocoon them in warmth and hiding them from the sleepless, prying eyes of duty and fate evermore.
Yet Aragorn knew he could not shelter here long. He held tight to his Steward and wished that act alone could make some difference and knew that it would not.
“Aragorn, you brood far too much. You must cease.”
The smile in Boromir’s voice sent an ache into Aragorn sharp enough to chip bone, yet all the same he knew he would willingly remain in this fantasy for as long as was given him.
Torture and comfort, they had become one in the same here in the pathways of fantasy.
“Rest, my King. Lay aside your cares and know I will watch over you, that I am with you, always.”
His face still pressed into Boromir’s neck, Aragorn heard the words, felt the weight of them reach through his very flesh and he wished them true.
Once again fingers slow and soothing threaded through his hair with care.
“Rest, Aragorn, when you wake you will find me waiting.”
Though he fought not to, Aragorn’s eyes drifted closed, Boromir’s voice and touch an elixir that calmed his body and mind, salved his heart and gave the promise of hope that even a dream could become real.
“Rest...”
And inside his dream Aragorn obeyed the soft command of his Steward, and slept.
~~**~~
When he woke he was sitting up with the bed linens tangled around his legs and the remembered smell of wood smoke in his nose. Sunlight was bright in the tall narrow windows of the tower, touching the glass panes with a clear golden glaze that blazed warm inside the chamber and pushed the lingering shadows to the far corners.
There was warmth along his left side, and as Aragorn turned and looked he fell still.
Boromir lay dozing, naked skin fair and brushed in sunlit gold. His tangled dark blond locks clung to the pillow, and Aragorn remembered suddenly that it was his own questing fingers during the night that had tousled them so. During the night...before he had slept, had dreamt. A sound left Aragorn’s lips, a bare exhalation of relief and love in the face of such riches, but it was somehow enough to rouse Boromir from his slumber.
Green eyes opened, blinked sleepily, and Boromir smiled at his King.
Aragorn fell upon the smiling mouth and met with a warm welcome, thrust his tongue inside, greedy and desperate for the taste of his lover. His hands sought out Boromir’s wrists and snaring them in a grip tight enough to slow circulation, drew them up to the pillow on either side of Boromir’s head. He pressed Boromir’s wrists into the pillow so that he could delve deep into his Steward’s sleepy mouth and see his own fingers where they held tight and binding, where they were being allowed to hold, to bind.
When finally he drew away, lips wet and tingling, both were breathless, and Aragorn knew the dream had passed, that this was real.
Boromir, held down by Aragorn’s weight, bound by Aragorn’s hands, held in place by Aragorn’s very gaze, licked his swollen lips and made to speak, but the playful words stalled at the dark gleam in his King’s eyes.
“You’ve dreamed again.”
Aragorn held Boromir’s eyes, unwilling to look away, and slipped his fingers from the wrists he held to lace them with Boromir’s own.
“Yes.”
Boromir drew back against the pillow as his fingers curled around Aragorn’s, and as he had in the dream, gazed steadily into his King, all trace of sleep gone. “It was but a dream. I have not left you.”
They were the steady words Boromir always spoke in the wake of Aragorn’s dark dreamings, and Aragorn tightened his fingers around and between Boromir’s and answered as he always had.
“And you will not.”
He brushed a reverent kiss to Boromir’s lips. “Be they mere dreams,” -he pressed his lips just above Boromir’s eyebrow-“or glimpses of a fate avoided, you are here, and here,” -he pressed his lips to the center of Boromir’s forehead-“you will stay.”
“Yes,” Boromir whispered, and Aragorn felt Boromir’s breath feather warmly against his neck, heard the promise and devotion in that one word and it broke something open inside him, a scorch, an undeniable burn.
“Yes,” he echoed, making the word a promise for both of them, and sinking down onto Boromir as he had in his dreaming, sighted his own need mirrored in gleaming green eyes. Such beautiful eyes.
Aragorn leaned down and brushed his lips over Boromir’s, a kiss designed to tease, then rose up with a grin, his heart undeniably light as he trailed greedy, questing fingers across Boromir’s naked chest.
“I am done with sleeping this day. Let us be awake.”
Beneath him Boromir laughed, the sound husky and delightful and real, and Aragorn forgot dreams of desire and sadness as he drew down to take in body what he already possessed in spirit, Boromir, and Boromir’s love.
~*~
I didn’t want to spoil it by including this in the header, but this ficlet is set in an AU universe where Boromir survived his wounds of Parth Galen, is very much alive, and serves as Aragorn’s Steward. Alas, you’ll find no mention of Arwen here.
Author: Archet
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R, for sexual situations
Summary: Aragorn dreams of what he believes is lost.
Archive: rugbytackle, my LJ, anyone else who might like it please ask.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. All I claim to having created is this ficlet.
Warnings: none really, a bit of angst, but it’s really all about the sap.
Note: many thanks goes to the lovely
seleneheart and zasjah for beta. Any and all mistakes or general weirdness belong to me.Feedback: would be lovely, but isn’t required
~*~
The rich, sharp scent of wood smoke was strong where it curled all around Aragorn. The fire that breathed the smoke into the cool night air crackled near his feet, casting a blanket of warmth against his naked skin and pushing a wavering brightness against the insides of his closed eyes. With slow moving, soothing fingers sifting through his hair, Aragorn lay still beneath them and knew that if he wished this moment to linger he must not open his eyes, yet in the same instant, knew he could do nothing else.
He had been there before, ensnared in this peaceful drifting contentment, in this dream, this desire that would not pass into memory and he knew it to be untrue. He knew it, and recognized it now as it always began the same way, with the warmth of a kind fire against his skin that kept the chill nighttime air at bay, with slow moving fingers gliding through his hair.
It was impossible not to want to open his eyes and see the man that he knew waited for him, that would wait for him no matter how long Aragorn lay still and feigned sleep. In the past he had never been able to resist the desire to look, and now was no different, and so as always, Aragorn gave in to the lure of the dream.
He gave in, and drawing in an imagined breath, opened his eyes.
As he knew it would be, the fire was nearby, snapping hotly among the kindling, flinging a dancing net of brightness and flickering shadows among the overhanging limbs of the trees and throughout the surrounding brush. As all the times before, there was no breeze, so the fire’s smoke, specked with wafting embers that glowed red before fading to ash, twined straight up to slip through the interlaced tree limbs overhead. It drifted up and away, disappearing into the deep dark sky, pricked here and there by the cold glint of stars.
As Aragorn knew he would be, Boromir sat looking down at him, fingers drifting slowly through Aragorn’s hair, watching him patiently with a soft smile that held a question.
“Did you dream?”
Aragorn smiled, though sadly for he knew this reverie, knew its promises would not be kept, could not be, and as ever he was unable to keep that sadness from his voice as he offered his familiar answer.
“Only of you, Boromir. Always of you.”
As ever, Boromir’s gaze turned sharp, delving. He shook his head, and as he did so firelight danced along the strands of hair that fell about his face. Where he looked down at Aragorn, it fell golden over his bare shoulders, where the fur trimmed cloak had long since fallen away.
“Dreaming of me seems not to please you. If anything, you sound, regretful. Do I cause you to feel these things?”
Aragorn rose up and moved closer, close enough to gather Boromir in his arms, to coax the cloak down even further, to turn that searching green gaze away from him as he had done countless times before. And as before he wondered, was this a comfort or a torture that visited him? Perhaps it was both, for he was no longer able to parse one from the other. The skin beneath his hands felt so warm, the muscles firm and, as always, Aragorn would greedily take what solace he could in this place, however unreal.
“No,” he whispered against Boromir’s tangled hair. “I regret nothing that has passed between us, never that.”
The words he spoke were not lies and never had been, not in all the times he’d offered them, though they always cost him much to speak them. In his past dreamings Boromir had always believed them, and in his belief would lie with Aragorn there by the fire, beneath the trees, watched only by the stars, and make love to his King. Yet, this time something shifted and changed for Boromir did not move to lie down, nor did he pull Aragorn down with him and the departure from the expected sent a sharp shiver of apprehension arrowing through Aragorn.
Suddenly, the fire’s warmth lessened.
After a moment spent in silence warm breath gusted over Aragorn’s neck, Boromir’s frustrated sigh.
“I do not think that you believe your own words. Of what else do you speak of falsely, Aragorn?”
Without waiting for a reply Boromir tensed, pulled away, leaving Aragorn’s arms empty and in the wake of his words Aragorn did not follow, but sat frozen, laid low by the hurt that filled him. He could not speak, but could only watch Boromir and ache, for to look upon Boromir was to ache. Aragorn ached to touch the flushed, fair skin, to lay hold of his lover and wring sounds of pleasure from his lips. Aragorn ached for his lover who appeared and felt and smelt so real, yet was only a dream; it was only in dreams that he could have Boromir.
In truth had he not laid his Steward upon the river, and sent him away?
“I am no dream.” Boromir declared with sudden, startling fierceness.
“I wish you to tell me why you persist in this, this gloom!”
Aragorn heard the dismay in Boromir’s voice, saw it in the set of his jaw, the tense line of his back, in the depths of his eyes, but knew not how to soothe it. He could not explain the truth to this Boromir that his weary heart had conjured, he could not explain the cruelty of having Boromir in his dreams and knowing that to wake would be to lose him, again.
“What troubles you so that even now when we are alone and free to,” Boromir paused, cheeks flushed but his darkened eyes kept steady on Aragorn’s as he searched and found the words, “to love, you keep hold of this sadness? I see it day by day, it is a weight upon you and for what reason?”
When Aragorn still could offer no answer Boromir drew away from the fire, from Aragorn, and as he did tugged the cloak higher around his waist and finally dropped his eyes. He gazed down at the cloak wrapped around him, long fingers absently stroking the glossy fur fringe.
“But perhaps I know. Is there...perhaps you do you regret what we’ve-“
Aragorn moved swiftly before Boromir could even speak the last words. He shoved the cloak away, pushed Boromir into the nest of blankets they’d fashioned on the leaf cushioned ground among the gnarled roots of a sheltering, old oak. He stretched out atop Boromir, pressed his body tight against the hard, yet soft planes of muscle and warm skin and wanted to sink into his lover the everlasting way the roots of the oak sank deep and mingled into the earth.
“No. Never. There is no regret. Never doubt that, my Steward.”
The words were whispered harshly against Boromir’s unsmiling lips and sealed with a kiss that sought to steal the breath from his lungs, leaving both men nearly heaving after Aragorn reluctantly released his mouth. Boromir lay still beneath his King with closed eyes, and said nothing.
Aragorn wound a hand into fair hair that glinted in the firelight, cradled the back of Boromir’s head. “Look at me, Boromir. Let me see your eyes and know that you see the truth in my words.”
Even if the moment was counterfeit Aragorn wanted the words, wanted the memory of them for after he woke from this fantasy.
When met with stillness, Aragorn’s fingers tightened. “Look at me.”
The words were nearly whispered but no command had ever been clearer. Boromir slowly opened his eyes and Aragorn stared into their green, darkened depths and was touched by wonder at the strength of his need for this man, his Steward.
His.
It was unfair, completely unfair, yet this was only a dream, and so the words flowed from Aragorn’s lips like song. “Tell me you will belong to no other.”
Boromir matched Aragorn’s gaze, held it, answered, voice husky and laced with heat. “No other.”
“Tell me I will be the only one who lays hands upon you.”
Eyes sliding shut briefly, Boromir groaned deep in his throat and bowed up against Aragorn, hands sliding up the curve of Aragorn’s spine, fingers raking over the jut of shoulder blades, palms pressing Aragorn tight against him.
“No other.”
With everything that he was Aragorn wanted to believe Boromir’s words, wanted to set them down and make them law but the memories, always the memories of his loss at Parth Galen could not be put aside. He had the answer he wanted yet it was not enough, it was never enough, and so he let his weight sink down upon Boromir, pressed his face into the sweet juncture of Boromir’s neck and shoulder and breathed in the scent of his sweat warm skin.
Softly, “No other.”
Boromir’s hands ghosted over Aragorn’s bare back in long, mapping strokes. Aragorn shivered beneath the roving touch and imagined remaining this way, dreaming, laid out atop his lover, letting the autumn turning leaves overhead fall and blanket them, cocoon them in warmth and hiding them from the sleepless, prying eyes of duty and fate evermore.
Yet Aragorn knew he could not shelter here long. He held tight to his Steward and wished that act alone could make some difference and knew that it would not.
“Aragorn, you brood far too much. You must cease.”
The smile in Boromir’s voice sent an ache into Aragorn sharp enough to chip bone, yet all the same he knew he would willingly remain in this fantasy for as long as was given him.
Torture and comfort, they had become one in the same here in the pathways of fantasy.
“Rest, my King. Lay aside your cares and know I will watch over you, that I am with you, always.”
His face still pressed into Boromir’s neck, Aragorn heard the words, felt the weight of them reach through his very flesh and he wished them true.
Once again fingers slow and soothing threaded through his hair with care.
“Rest, Aragorn, when you wake you will find me waiting.”
Though he fought not to, Aragorn’s eyes drifted closed, Boromir’s voice and touch an elixir that calmed his body and mind, salved his heart and gave the promise of hope that even a dream could become real.
“Rest...”
And inside his dream Aragorn obeyed the soft command of his Steward, and slept.
~~**~~
When he woke he was sitting up with the bed linens tangled around his legs and the remembered smell of wood smoke in his nose. Sunlight was bright in the tall narrow windows of the tower, touching the glass panes with a clear golden glaze that blazed warm inside the chamber and pushed the lingering shadows to the far corners.
There was warmth along his left side, and as Aragorn turned and looked he fell still.
Boromir lay dozing, naked skin fair and brushed in sunlit gold. His tangled dark blond locks clung to the pillow, and Aragorn remembered suddenly that it was his own questing fingers during the night that had tousled them so. During the night...before he had slept, had dreamt. A sound left Aragorn’s lips, a bare exhalation of relief and love in the face of such riches, but it was somehow enough to rouse Boromir from his slumber.
Green eyes opened, blinked sleepily, and Boromir smiled at his King.
Aragorn fell upon the smiling mouth and met with a warm welcome, thrust his tongue inside, greedy and desperate for the taste of his lover. His hands sought out Boromir’s wrists and snaring them in a grip tight enough to slow circulation, drew them up to the pillow on either side of Boromir’s head. He pressed Boromir’s wrists into the pillow so that he could delve deep into his Steward’s sleepy mouth and see his own fingers where they held tight and binding, where they were being allowed to hold, to bind.
When finally he drew away, lips wet and tingling, both were breathless, and Aragorn knew the dream had passed, that this was real.
Boromir, held down by Aragorn’s weight, bound by Aragorn’s hands, held in place by Aragorn’s very gaze, licked his swollen lips and made to speak, but the playful words stalled at the dark gleam in his King’s eyes.
“You’ve dreamed again.”
Aragorn held Boromir’s eyes, unwilling to look away, and slipped his fingers from the wrists he held to lace them with Boromir’s own.
“Yes.”
Boromir drew back against the pillow as his fingers curled around Aragorn’s, and as he had in the dream, gazed steadily into his King, all trace of sleep gone. “It was but a dream. I have not left you.”
They were the steady words Boromir always spoke in the wake of Aragorn’s dark dreamings, and Aragorn tightened his fingers around and between Boromir’s and answered as he always had.
“And you will not.”
He brushed a reverent kiss to Boromir’s lips. “Be they mere dreams,” -he pressed his lips just above Boromir’s eyebrow-“or glimpses of a fate avoided, you are here, and here,” -he pressed his lips to the center of Boromir’s forehead-“you will stay.”
“Yes,” Boromir whispered, and Aragorn felt Boromir’s breath feather warmly against his neck, heard the promise and devotion in that one word and it broke something open inside him, a scorch, an undeniable burn.
“Yes,” he echoed, making the word a promise for both of them, and sinking down onto Boromir as he had in his dreaming, sighted his own need mirrored in gleaming green eyes. Such beautiful eyes.
Aragorn leaned down and brushed his lips over Boromir’s, a kiss designed to tease, then rose up with a grin, his heart undeniably light as he trailed greedy, questing fingers across Boromir’s naked chest.
“I am done with sleeping this day. Let us be awake.”
Beneath him Boromir laughed, the sound husky and delightful and real, and Aragorn forgot dreams of desire and sadness as he drew down to take in body what he already possessed in spirit, Boromir, and Boromir’s love.
~*~
I didn’t want to spoil it by including this in the header, but this ficlet is set in an AU universe where Boromir survived his wounds of Parth Galen, is very much alive, and serves as Aragorn’s Steward. Alas, you’ll find no mention of Arwen here.
