przed | Fic: Of Memory and Dream (LotR, A/B)

Title: Of Memory and Dream
Author: P.R. Zed
Characters/Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Notes: Written for

just_ann_now, who requested a sequel to Chance Encounter in response to the Time Stamp meme. Thank you so much for kickstarting my Gondorian muse after a break of far too long. Thanks also go to

runriggers for helpful beta duties.

Of Memory and Dream

They are one week out of Imladris when he remembers.

It is long past midnight and he is standing watch over their company, ensuring no Orcs or other fell creatures find their camp and bring their evil to the little ones in their care.

There is a snap of a twig and he whirls, sword drawn, only to find the Ranger and would-be king approaching. Aragorn gives a slight smile, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the crescent moon. Boromir does not return the smile, only nods in acknowledgement as he sheaths his sword.

They stand in silence, shoulder to shoulder, attention focussed outward, senses straining for signs of the Enemy and his minions, both determined to keep the Fellowship safe. Boromir allows himself a glance in Aragorn's direction and it is then that he has a flash of memory. Of himself as a foolish boy, escaping the care of his uncle and being caught by a company of Orcs. Of being cut down by the one creature he could not defeat. Of waking in a forest at night, watched over by a grey-eyed saviour.

Estel.

Aragorn.

He wonders that he has not made the connection until now. For months after, he had talked of little else but the Ranger who had saved him. He had spoken constantly of the man's bravery and gentleness and judgment. He had only stopped openly sharing tales of Estel when his father chided him for holding such an exalted opinion of a mere Ranger of the North. Even then he continued to secretly impart Estel's tales of Gondor to Faramir, sprinkling the tales of times past with his own speculation about the present of the mysterious man who had saved him.

But mysterious no longer. Now he stands beside Boromir, both sworn to protect the Ring Bearer, both determined to protect the peoples of Middle Earth.

Boromir risks another glance in Aragorn's direction, wondering if Aragorn remembers his rescue of a foolish boy. If he'd made any impression at all on a man who had already lived a lifetime when the Steward's son had been only a callow youth.

Boromir lets his gaze linger on the Ranger a few seconds. A few seconds too long. Aragorn turns to face him, and Boromir sees long hidden knowledge revealed in those grey eyes.

"How long have you known?" Boromir asks, the words a mere whisper falling from his lips.

"From the moment you arrived at Rivendell," Aragorn replies, his voice a dry, quiet rasp. One corner of his mouth is drawn up in a wry smile, his expression part amusement, part something that, to Boromir, almost looks like regret.

"And you said nothing?" Boromir is unsure why there is a sting of betrayal in his voice.

"What was there to say?" Aragorn shrugs.

"You could have claimed my sword." Boromir swallows, remembering clearly his parting from Estel on the plains before the White City. "I pledged it to you then."

"And have offered it in the Ring Bearer's protection now. A more noble cause, surely."

Boromir looks away, uncertain how to reply, overwhelmed by a sudden tightness as he swallows, by a burning in his eyes.

"Boromir?" Aragorn says, putting a hand on the shoulder of the Steward's heir. Boromir can feel the heat of that hand, even through the layers of clothing and mail. He raises his own gloved hand to place it over Aragorn's, but cannot complete the movement and lets his hand fall back, leadenly, at his side. He is aware now, as he was never before, what he would rather have pledged to Estel so many years before. What he might still give to Aragorn. A gift that pride prohibits him from ever proffering.

"I should check the other side of the clearing," Boromir says, moving away, feeling the chill as Aragorn's hand leaves his shoulder. Then Aragorn grabs his elbow, halting his progress and turning Boromir to face him.

"You have stood watch long enough," the Ranger says. "You should sleep. I will take watch now."

Boromir can only nod, turn, and walk back to where he has left his shield. He knows, though, that he will not sleep this night. Not with such thoughts as have begun to haunt him tumbling through his mind, making his heart pound and his skin burn.

He lies awake, cloak pulled tightly around him, listening to the soughing of the wind in the trees and the breathing of his sleeping companions. If he listens intently enough, he can hear the tread of a Ranger pacing the borders of their camp, ensuring the members of the Fellowship, Man and Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, and Wizard, are disturbed by no more than unquiet dreams.

As Aragorn watches Boromir walk away, a frown creases his brow. He is struck, and not for the first time, by the changes he sees in Boromir from that time, over twenty years ago. Poised at the brink of manhood, Boromir had been proud and determined, but also compassionate and full of hope. There had been much of Finduilas in his bearing and in his words. Aragorn smiles as he remembers the gentleness of the Steward's lady and the joy Thorongil had seen in her face at the birth of her first son. As a youth, Boromir had been full of that same joy.

Now, there is more of his father in him. Joy is gone. Pride overwhelms compassion, and fear of the Enemy's victory has subdued hope in the Steward's heir. Aragorn mourns these changes, as he mourns the rift between them.

He watches as Boromir settles himself down on a bed of leaves, wrapping himself in his cloak for warmth, and is struck by a need to comfort the man as he comforted the boy. He wishes he had claimed Boromir's sword when he first arrived in Rivendell. Wishes he'd renewed their acquaintance. No, their friendship. Wishes he'd... No, there are some things he cannot wish for. Not in his position. Not however much he may want them.

But will alone cannot stop Aragorn's thoughts. He recalls the feel of Boromir's shoulder under his hand, the firm strength of the muscles, the straightness of his back. He considers the skittishness the other man displayed, like a Rohirrim colt in halter training. He imagines the feeling of Boromir grasping his hand, the sensation of trailing a finger across the Gondorian's cheek, his chin. His lips.

He shakes his head to clear his mind of such thoughts and swallows once. They must work together, he and Boromir. He cannot let his desires interfere with their duty. Cannot let his wants risk the well being of all Middle Earth.

Setting his jaw, he turns and begins to walk the perimeter of the camp, determined that none shall harm the Fellowship while he bears the responsibility of keeping them safe.

He is eighteen again, and once again facing an implacable company of Orcs. But this time, as soon as he dispatches one enemy, ten more spring up to take his place. And this time, when he is finally cut down himself, there is no grey-eyed Ranger there to save him.

Boromir wakes with a start, his heart fluttering like a wild thing in his chest, his breath catching harshly in his throat. But he is not alone. Aragorn is beside him, one strong hand grasping Boromir's forearm where his vambraces protect him during the day, the other hand stroking his cheek with the tenderness of a mother gentling her infant.

"It was but a dream," Aragorn says, his voice low and soothing. "Nothing but a nightmare sent to disquiet you."

Boromir feels the tension, the fear, leave his bones, his sinews, his mind. He allows his muscles to ease, his breathing to slow. Aragorn must note the change, for he begins to let go of his arm, to draw his hand back from Boromir's face. And all at once, that is too much to bear, the loss of Aragorn's warmth.

Without thinking, Boromir, reaches out and captures Aragorn's face with his hands. Then he does what he wishes he'd had the courage, the self-knowledge, to do when he was so much younger: he kisses Aragorn.

He puts into the kiss everything he is feeling. The gratitude and the fear, the need and the dread. And the want that suffuses every pore of his skin, every drop of his blood. Aragorn does not respond at first, the kiss is only the touching of lips in the cool night air. But then Boromir feels Aragorn shift, feels him move in closer, and the Ranger's mouth opens to him. Their tongues meet, and Boromir is surprised at the coolness of Aragorn's mouth, at the strength of his response.

Thought becomes action and he wraps his arms around Aragorn's body, pulls him on top of himself, surrenders to the surge of passion that buffets him as the surf at Dol Amroth buffets stray flotsam on the beach.

But such heat cannot last, not in the cool of this night. It is Aragorn who pulls away first, the regret clear on his face even in the dim light of the moon and stars. He looks down at Boromir, the shadow of a sad smile on his face, as he brushes a stray bit of hair from Boromir's eyes.

"I cannot," Aragorn says simply.

"Was this, then, nothing but a dream?" Boromir asks, not entirely able to keep the hurt and disappointment from his voice.

"A good dream,"Aragorn says, placing his hand on Boromir's chest so that Boromir can feel that strength of the man behind it. "A pleasing dream, but one that cannot survive the light of day."

"I could bear that," Boromir says, so softly he is not sure Aragorn can even hear him until the Ranger shakes his head in response.

"I could not. Nor should you." Aragorn grasps his hand firmly, then leans forward and kisses Boromir, chastely, on the forehead. "Sleep, Captain of Gondor. And may no more bad dreams disturb your sleep."

Boromir watches as Aragorn leaves, heading to the far side of the camp. It is only when Aragorn has disappeared behind a stand of trees that he squeezes his eyes shut, willing sleep to come and take from him this unasked for desire. But for the second night running, sleep evades him.

The Fellowship is near its breaking point. They have survived Caradhras and the Watcher, survived the Cave Troll and Goblins, but Gandalf is now lost, fallen in fire and ash into the depths of the world. He was the wisest amongst them, a friend and mentor. Without him, Aragorn fears they will lose their way in this impossible quest.

He sees the cracks beginning to show in their company. Frodo is silent and keeps apart from the others, even Sam. Pippin is devastated by Gandalf's death, and not even Merry can comfort him, nor convince him he was not responsible for the Grey Pilgrim's death. Gimli has become reticent and even Legolas shows signs of grief for a mortality he does not share.

And then there is Boromir...

Though they are safe in the heart of Galadriel's realm, Boromir finds no rest here, no peace. On more than one night, Aragorn has found him, face tear-streaked, fearful for the survival of the White City. And during the day, he keeps to himself, more even than Frodo.

In part, Aragorn sees the influence of the Ring in Boromir's despair, but that is not the whole of it. In his eyes, Aragorn see the memories of the night Aragorn turned away from Boromir's offer of his body. This should be no surprise. That night has shadowed Aragorn's thoughts as well.

Aragorn had hoped that Boromir would find respite and healing here, but now there is no more time. They are to leave on the morrow, using borrowed Elven boats to make for the falls of Rauros, speeding them on their journey ahead of the Enemy's forces.

If Aragorn is to mend the breach between himself and the Steward's heir, it must be tonight.

He waits until the others are asleep, bedded down in the pavilion provided by the Elves of Lothlorien, and then he goes in search of Boromir. He finds him in a grove of mallorns, seated at the foot of one of the great trees, his back against the trunk and his eyes cast down to the earth.

Aragorn is perhaps twenty paces away when Boromir hears his tread. Green eyes look up to meet his own, and though there is no sign that he has shed tears this night, still Aragorn sees a great sorrow in Boromir's eyes, in his mouth, in the set of his shoulders.

It is Boromir who speaks first. "Should you not be sleeping?" he asks, a slight frown on his face.

"I could ask the same of you." Aragorn tries to keep his tone light and free from reproach, but Boromir's frown still deepens at his words.

"You are not my keeper, Ranger." Boromir pushes himself to his feet and makes to leave, his expression shuttered and forbidding. He should appear intimidating, and yet there is a vulnerability in him that Aragorn, at first, cannot explain. And then he notices that this night Boromir wears neither mail nor leather nor even his burgundy overtunic, but only a simple tunic, breeches and boots. It is the most exposed he has seen Boromir since that time, over twenty years ago, when Aragorn nursed his injuries. It is this exposure, this openness, of dress if not of bearing, that urges Aragorn forward.

"Wait." Aragorn puts out one hand and grasps Boromir's well-muscled forearm. He experiences a jolt down his spine as skin meets skin, warmth meets warmth. He deludes himself that he sees an answering shudder in Boromir's frame "I did not mean to chase you away."

"Then what was your meaning, Ranger?"

Aragorn searches for the words that will heal the rift between them, and finds all his words are spent. But he knows he must speak, must do something, or there will always be this gap between them.

He thinks of the kiss Boromir had bestowed upon him, how the heat of it had nearly melted his resolve to remain untouched by the attraction between them. How he has regretted his resolution ever since. How such a meeting of their bodies might yet heal the Man before him.

He reaches out and takes Boromir's hand within his own. Bringing it to his lips, he kisses Boromir's callused palm with all the tenderness he can muster. Boromir flinches and tries to retrieve his hand, but Aragorn will not allow it. Instead, he moves in closer, then closer still, till there is no more than a hair's breadth between them.

He feels the brush of Boromir's breath on his cheek, can see the trembling of his lip. Taking a deep lungful of air, he leans forward ever so slightly and places his lips on Boromir's.

It is a tentative kiss, a slight contact between them, but it promises so much more. He can feel Boromir's breathing speed up, feel the quivering of his limbs, even as he can feel his own heart race. Finally, regretfully, he pulls back, only to find Boromir staring at him with both longing and caution.

"I thought you could not do this," Boromir says, his voice as unfathomable as his face.

"I was wrong," Aragorn says simply. "For good or ill, I can."

The frown is gone from Boromir's brow, but beyond that Aragorn still cannot read his expression. But then he reaches out and places his hand over Aragorn's heart. "For good, I hope," he says, and then his hand is behind Aragorn's neck and drawing him closer.

Aragorn's nerves ignite at the touch. He moves closer for a kiss that is neither tentative nor chaste, that has them both tasting blood as teeth clash with lips. He inhales sharply as Boromir licks the line of his jaw, and allows himself a low moan when the Man of Gondor bites at his shoulder. Then all thought is gone as Boromir's hands are on his back, drawing him closer and closer still.

He moves his own hands under Boromir's tunic, unsurprised at the heat of his skin, at the passion of his response. He kisses Boromir's throat as he lets his hands map the unknown terrain of his body, until Boromir loses his balance and they both fall, tumbling to the soft grass entangled in each other's arms.

They laugh at their mutual loss of grace, and Aragorn thinks how seldom he has seen Boromir like this: smiling, happy, all care forgotten. Beautiful. He places his lips on Boromir's, entwines his fingers in blond hair, only to find laughter silenced and passion reignited. They struggle with clothing, baring hot skin to the cool night air. Lips and hands seek out secret places. Aragorn throws back his head and stifles a moan as Boromir's tongue begins to coax him to climax. Biting his lip, he shifts and does the same with hands and lips.

When they are both spent, Boromir drifts to sleep in his arms, and Aragorn lets him. Boromir has had little enough rest in this place, and Aragorn cannot grudge him a moment of it.

It is a fragile thing, this peace they have made between them, forged in flesh, tempered in sweat. There is much that still might come between them, not the least of which is a small ring on a chain around a Hobbit's neck, but there is still hope in Aragorn's breast. And while he has hope, there is yet a chance that all will be well.

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From:

caras-galadhon.livejournal.com

This is lovely and hopeful and sad, all at once. I really got that sense of hope as tenuous here, and as much as Aragorn and Boromir have found a measure of peace, I wonder how long it will last. Very lovely.

From:

Fic: Of Memory and Dream (LotR, A/B)

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