Title: Brothers in arms Author: The fair one. Lottie_83uk@yahoo.co.uk Pairing: Boromir/Aragorn Rating: NC 17 Summary: Boromir is feeling out of place in Rivendell, Aragorn provides some security. An unbreakable promise is made. Disclaimer: They aren’t mine (sob!) in fact this pairing aren’t even my favourites (i’m usually a Merry/Pippin girl) Anyway not my property, they belong to Tolkien and at some points to NewLine. No infringement intended, i’m just borrowing them for the sake of a story. I’m not making any money, just doing it for love! Warning : My first fic! Authors Note: I thrive on feedback, give it to me people! (email address above), but be gentle it is my first time! And if you like it let me know or there won’t be any more! Brothers in Arms The halls of Rivendell, so light, so shining, so unlike Gondor. Boromir instinctively distrusted the ancient elven place; just as he instinctively trusted the white city. For Gondor was the stronghold of men, mortal, home, it’s walls as familiar to him as the contours of his own flesh. But Rivendell, Rivendell was as strange as the race that walked it’s halls; the fair folk, the shining ones. No matter what the title the elves filled Boromir, great man of Gondor, with heart numbing dread. For that reason only, he was grateful to have encountered none of their number as he wandered that night. As was their custom the elves were gathered to tell tales and exchange songs, or else soothed into sleep by the tune of falling water and melody. The peace of Rivendell was legendary, yet it would bring the warrior no rest. Agitated and overwhelmed by an unexplainable feeling of unease, he has risen and gone in search of the shards of Narsil. Craving any connection to his people in the strangeness of this place. Believing himself alone he allowed the wonder of the swords history to overwhelm him. Lifting it with reverence from it’s resting place he brandished the broken hilt, marvelling at the feel of it; smooth, hard, unyielding. "The shards of Narsil," he whispered, unable to keep the note of awe from creeping into his voice. "The blade that cut the ring from Saurons hand." Reaching out he touched the edge with an ungloved finger, starting in pain as the metal sliced the callused flesh of a fingertip. Boromir watched entranced as a shining globule beaded on his skin, catching it with his tongue as it broke and streamed down. "Still sharp," he remarked, sucking at the wound. It was then he became aware that the was not alone. The ranger, silent as the blasted elves by whom he’d been raised was watching him; eyes raised from the book open across his lap. Aragorn said nothing, but Boromir was suddenly uneasy and embarrassed under the steady gaze. "But no more than a broken arrow," he said hurriedly dropping the hilt. It fell to the floor, the ringing seeming to resound all across the valley. Aragorn rose and replaced the sword on it’s bed of velvet, Boromir watched him. When the ranger seemed uninclined to either turn or speak, Boromir felt obliged to break the heavy silence. "Could you not have left it? Let the elves see to their relic, it has little meaning for men any longer." Aragorn sighed, the movement causing the muscles of his back to ripple beneath the cloth of his cloak. He turned slowly, and Boromir was again caught by the power of the mans gaze. "Nothing elvish can stand iron, it blinds them, blinds them all over. Inside the body of an elf there are the normal five senses that we as men understand. But to the elven people they are all subordinate to the sixth, they use it to know exactly where they are. Men are always slightly lost, it’s a basic characteristic, it explains our primitive fear. Elves are never lost, Elves have absolute position. The flow of the silvery force dimly outlines their landscape. All things which are mortal and so draw living breath generate it, and become perceptible in the flux.." here Aragorn paused. Without taking his eyes of the man of Gondor he took one step, the another, closing the gap between them. Boromir was suddenly aware of the heat of the air as Aragorn stopped, his body barely inches away. "Our muscles crackle with it," he said, his voice almost silky as he ran his hand palm up down Boromir’s arm. "Our minds buzz with it" he withdrew the intimate touch, and Gondor’s warrior found himself strangely grieved by the loss. "For those who learn how...," Aragorn continued, "Even thoughts can be read by the tiny changes in the flow." Boromir swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. There was an intensity in the room now, his pulse throbbed with it. With some surprise he felt his cock begin to harden and strain against the confines of his britches, yet he could not look away. "For an elf the world is something they can simply reach out and possess.." "Yes," Boromir broke in softly, "that’s how elves see things, when they are in the world, everyone else is on the bottom." "Except for iron...," Aragorn said slowly. "Iron drinks the force and deforms the flow. It blinds them, deafens them and leaves them lost and more alone than most humans could ever be." "Most?" Boromir managed the sound hard against his dry throat. Aragorn didn’t answer him, but the look in his deep brown eyes answered the question //most, except you and I. You are like me man of Gondor, you understand the pain of loneliness. Perhaps too you comprehend being lost, not simply to your people but to yourself. In that we are kin.// "That is why son of Gondor I had to replace the sword, for no elf could have touched it without great pain. It is for that reason that they scarcely come here. But you are wrong Boromir, it has meaning for men still; if only for you and I. It is a part of our lineage, and so part of our destiny. You cannot escape that, things cannot be altered for the pleasure of the few." Boromir was suddenly angry. The close proximity of the other man was intoxicating, arousing; but his manner was too assured, too proud. He felt not like the son of Gondor but as a child, and he disliked it intensely. "Except if you are one of the few?" he challenged. "Of what do you speak?" Aragorn asked, his face wearing a glaze of genuine bewilderment. "I speak of Elrond’s heir, the lady Arwen whom you have condemned to a mortal life." "I condemned nothing, she chose her fate. It is written in our history, she returns my love as I give her mine." Aragorn’s stance changed, defensive, hard, his fingers toying with the hilt of his blade." "But do you truly love her? Or is it simply because she is an elf? When people look at them they see beauty, they see something they want to please, something they long to love, yet it’s all illusion." "No," the ranger hissed "she is beautiful. She has style, beauty, grace. That’s what matters. That is what people will remember. That is what I love" This too angered Boromir, the way the other man lept to defend his elf. Yet with growing clarity he recognised the emotion within him, though he couldn’t understand it. He was jealous, wanting to possess the ranger; have him lavish that intense gaze upon him as their limbs intwined. Driven by this vision he lashed out at the other with a cruel tongue. "Elves aren’t like that. They’re cruel for fun, and they cannot comprehend notions like mercy. They just can’t understand that anything aside from themselves might have feelings. She is mortal now, and to a creature not born subject to time, it must be a sensation akin to falling. You say they fear iron, but the fear mortality more. See how beautiful, and graceful she is when paralysed by the fear of feeling her body dying all around her." Boromir paused breathing hard, but satisfied to see the tiniest glimmer of doubt upon the rangers face. Then suddenly he closed the gap between them, practically crushing Aragorn’s lips beneath his; in a hunger akin to madness. He felt shock in the body against his, but Boromir wrapped his arms about Aragorn’s shoulders preventing his escape. With all his warrior strength he plundered the smooth lips, tongue questing entry. At first the ranger resisted, his mouth closed and hard; then suddenly he submitted. Body softening, lips opening. Their tongues met, the slick flesh duelling, tasting. Boromir revelled in the taste of Gondor’s reluctant king, and the strength of the body in his arms. So unlike a women, all firm planes and male scent, yet no less intoxicating. Aragorn’s hands were beneath his tunic, seeking bare flesh, frustrated by the layers of cloth between them. Boromir broke the kiss, gasping sweet Rivendell air as Aragorn’s lips met his flesh. The sensation of mouth on skin was maddening, he shuddered as a hot wet trail marked from navel to nipple. Here Aragorn took the already hardened nub into his mouth, circling with his tongue, teasing, extricating soft moans from Gondor’s son. This assault on his senses was proving almost too much, his knees trembled and threatened to give way beneath him. His cock throbbed painfully against the leather of his britches. The need for release was desperate, driving him insane. With one smooth movement he hooked Aragorn’s legs out from beneath him, catching the ranger as he fell; and bringing them both down onto the cold stone floor. Now the positions were reversed, and Boromir wasted no time in taking advantage. He straddled the rangers hips, pressing his throbbing manhood against Aragorn’s thigh. He gasped as the man beneath him growled and thrust back against him, his arousal hot and hard. Boromir could wait no more, and unsheathing his knife cut the rangers clothing from neck to crotch. Aragorn laughed, a deep throaty sound and pulled the warrior down across him. His flesh was hot and damp with perspiration, his straining erection caught between their prostrate bodies. "If we are to be brothers in arms son of Gondor" Aragorn gasped " then should your flesh not be mine" so saying he grasped the hand holding the knife hilt, and guiding it rid Boromir of his clothing. What followed was a moment of silence, aside from hard erratic breathing as both men adjusted to the strange joy of flesh on flesh. Then, unable to contain his desire for a moment longer Boromir began to thrust against the body beneath him. Manhood on manhood, straining against the delicious friction. "it is not enough" he gasped, tears of desperation spilling from his closed lids as he bore down mercilessly. Aragorn’s fingers came up to his face, stroking with such gentleness and soothing that Boromir could not help the quiet sob that escaped him. "then peace Boromir" he whispered drawing his lips up against the warriors cheek "and let me take you" Aragorn’s tongue darted out, punctuating the final word with an agonisingly slow lick to the curve of his ear. Then he rolled bringing Boromir with him, their limbs tangled, Aragorn’s weight hot and heavy as the floor was hard and cold. The rangers hand slid between his thighs, kneading the full sack slowly, drawing pleasured gasps from between Boromir’s swollen lips. The man of Gondor arched, his cry swallowed by Aragorn’s kiss as the other man wrapped his hand firmly around his engorged flesh and began to stroak. The rangers fingers were skilful and as agonising as fire, exploring from the soft tight curls at the base to the velvety head wet with beads of pre come. Aragorn massaged his cock, the rhythm perfectly matched by the movement of his tongue in Boromir’s mouth. The warrior was torn, walking a razor edge between agony and ecstasy; the pleasure and pain so entwined there was no separation possible without tearing his body apart. He bucked against the weight upon him, thrusting into the delicious sheath of Aragorn’s hand. He felt the beginnings of release, heat rising in a wave; spreading up until he couldn’t breath. And then he was coming, sobbing the rangers name as his seed coated his hand and all the flesh between them. As soon as he was able Boromir opened his eyes, shuddering at the touch of hands on flesh already so sensitive; the nerves screaming. Yet Aragorn would not wait, he felt the weight of the rangers need pressing against him. He looked up to find the rangers eyes upon him, a silent question. "yes" he whispered "yes" That it seemed was all the reluctant king needed and he nodded, breathing laboured as he sought to maintain control. He felt Aragorn’s fingers on his abdomen, dabbling in his own rapidly cooling seed. Then with a wicked smile he positioned himself between Boromir’s thighs, pushing the warriors knees up and back; exposing the place he most desired. With agonising slowness he felt Aragorn push a finger inside, unable to stifle a gasp at the tender intrusion. "is there pain?" the ranger asked his face a mask of concern "no, do not stop" Boromir begged. Reassured, Aragorn inserted another finger then a third. Slicking him, stretching. Boromir bucked against him writhing as the mans skilful finger glimpsed the sensitive place within him, making him hard in a moment, gasping in two. "ready" Aragorn asked, though the glazed look on the rangers face told him that his reply scarcely mattered. Then the mans swollen head was pressing at his entrance gaining entry, filling him, stretching until his flesh felt aflame. he cried out and was kissed, Aragorn’s hands on his weeping cock feverish. "you are so tight". Boromir could neither think nor speak to reply. Aragorn was rocking into him, his thrusts exquisite, stroking him deep. In turn Gondor’s warrior arched against his king, pressing his buttocks back onto his wonderful cock. His own throbbing manhood skilfully worked, hand stroking in unison with thrust. The world sparkled, the heat and light of the room blinding. Boromir felt himself falling, lost, then found again. Aching in each moment when manhood was withdrawn, flooded with relief as he felt his lover slam home again. Aragorn was everywhere and everything, his senses were terrifying in their intensity, nerves ragged. Boromir felt as though he may be torn apart by the force of the ecstasy, and knew in his heart that he cared not. Cared not for power, nor for the quest. Cared not that the ring may not be destroyed and all middle earth may be eclipsed by the forces of darkness. Nothing mattered so long as Gondor’s primary sons were here, together, entwined in their coupling. Boromir’s legs clasped about Aragorn’s waist and Aragorn’s cock buried deep within him. "my king" he gasped "you have my allegiance" and with that he let the wave crash over him again, the world exploded and carried him away into a blissful darkness. Seeing Boromir pass out beneath him, feeling his seed upon him and the hot flesh in which he was embedded contract about him was too much. Aragorn came, filling the powerful body beneath him. He paused long enough to place a final kiss upon the mans soft lips, before collapsing sated upon his companion. Moments later Boromir lay trembling in the arms of the ranger. Surrounded again by the erie darkness of Rivendell, he felt secure at the touch of his fellow man. Slowly Aragorn disentangled himself enough to reach up and again remove the legendary blade from it’s resting place. Boromir watched in silence as he used it’s edge to open a wound upon his palm, bright red beads springing up along the line. "give me your hand" he said softly, Boromir gave it without question, scarcely noticing as an identical cut was revealed upon his own skin. Then the ranger clasped his hand in his own, their blood mingling and running slowly down both wrists. Leaning he kissed Boromir once, chastely upon the lips. "there." he whispered against the warriors ear. "whatever I give to another, this night shall always be yours, this.." he squeezed Boromir’s hand in his own "shall always be yours. We are bound, brothers in arms. We share the same fate you and I." Boromir smiled "and with this bond between us, I have nothing to fear from elves" Aragorn laughed. ~~*~~ Some time later...... The pain was growing, becoming a white haze behind his eyes. He was dying, but it scarcely mattered. Aragorn was here. "my king......" he’d made this pledge before, but that night seemed so long ago now. His strength was flowing out of him, Aragorn saw it. Slowly the ranger drew his palm to his lips tracing the scar with his tongue. He looked up locking Boromir’s fading gaze with his own. Holding up his own scarred palm, he bent to kiss the wounded warrior. "we will always have this.." and with that Boromir let the darkness come, but not the dispair.