Title: In Imladris Author: Sandcat, sandcat12@aol.com Pairing(s): Boromir/Aragorn Rating: R Summary: Bory is a man of action, and waiting around in Imladris is making him more temperamental than ever. Disclaimer: They belong to Tolkien and Jackson, not me. I only borrowed them because I love them, and intend no disrespect or copyright infringement. Warning: Violence Authors Note: A follow-up to my story, "Trust." I just couldn't leave well enough alone. (You don't have to read "Trust" to follow this story; it stands well enough on its own.) Feedback: Always a good thing. In Imladris Part One - In the House of Elrond At dinner in Elrond's vast feasting hall, Boromir was surprised to find that Aragorn had returned. A few days after their first encounter, Aragorn had gone away without a word to anyone, except possibly Elrond. At first Boromir was glad of his absence, but as the days stretched into weeks he secretly began to fear for him. He heard rumors that Aragorn was with other Rangers, scouring the land south of the Greyflood for signs that the Enemy was stirring. Boromir felt useless and frustrated. He kept himself as busy as possible, roaming far in the trackless wilderness, hunting, practicing his swordsmanship, or simply staring at the ethereal beauty of Elrond's hidden realm. He even visited Elrond's impressive library, idly paging through ancient volumes and admiring the work of the elven scribes even though he understood little of what he read. Yet never was he able to completely banish Aragorn from his thoughts. And if the days were dull, the nights were pure agony. Alone in his chamber, he could not so easily fend off the memory of what he and Aragorn had done in the very bed he lay upon night after endless night. He slept fitfully, awakened by terrible dreams, tossing and drenched in sweat. Sometimes he dreamed of the Ring, and of the renown he could achieve with such a weapon, his name spoken in reverence, like the names of the kings of old. More often it was his other desire that disturbed his sleep, and the images that lingered in his mind were even more powerful and seductive than those inspired by the Ring. For a moment Boromir considered leaving the hall. But it was too late. Elrond had already acknowledged his presence. Leaving now would only insult his host, and Boromir was only too well aware what the elves thought of him. Instead, he sought out a place as far from Aragorn as possible, refusing even to look at him. Boromir steeled his heart, fearing that once their eyes met, his resolve would melt like ice under the warm rays of the spring sun. He would not permit Aragorn to ensnare him again. He knew that he would give himself to Aragorn, gladly and without a moment's hesitation, if only the circumstances were different. Boromir's jaw tightened unconsciously as images of their night together flashed through his mind. He had been weak, drinking too much wine and allowing himself to be used. Pleasantly used, but used nonetheless. He did not know how he would deal with Aragorn on their journey to Minas Tirith. Alone in the wilderness with the other members of the Company, avoiding him would be difficult. Dread filled him at the thought, yet not for a moment did he consider withdrawing from the Company. It was unthinkable. He had given his word as a Man of Gondor, and there was no taking it back. Boromir sighed and gazed about the marvelous hall. Above them soared a vaulted ceiling intricately carved to resemble the intertwined branches of trees and brilliantly lit by the light of thousands of candles. Around them tall, graceful elves glided, bright as the jewels they wore. Nearby, the halflings sat eating and drinking as if they hadn't a care in Middle-Earth. Boromir listened to them a while, wondering at their carefree attitude. Didn't they realize the dangers that lay ahead of them? Their journey would be long and arduous, yet they laughed and sang silly songs as if they were about to take a stroll through the Shire. And the youngest one - Pippin, he was called - seemed to have deeveloped a curious fascination with Boromir, following him around like a lost puppy and plaguing him with questions at every opportunity. He quickly looked away when Pippin's blue eyes sli hopefully toward him. He turned his attention to Elrond, sitting with his daughter on a dais at the head of the hall. He was a a gracious and charming host, if aloof and vaguely superior. Boromir found that while he admired the elves for their skill as warriors and their undeniable beauty, he didn't really care for them as individuals. Whenever they spoke to him their eyes held a trace of contempt. Their words were respectful, yet spoken with an undertone of disdain, as if associating too closely with him somehow tainted their icy perfection. A hand fell on his. Startled, he nearly spilled the cup of wine he held in his other hand. He turned, glowering. Silver-blue eyes caught his, freezing the anger in his heart. Elven eyes, oddly tilted, deep and wise. "What is wrong, my lord?" the elf woman asked, her voice like soft music, low and soothing. "Has someone here done something to displease you?" "No," Boromir said, more harshly than he intended. "Why do you ask?" "This hand has been clenched into a fist all evening" she said. "And the other has not once let go of the wine cup. You have barely touched your food. You stare at first at Estel, then frown at the other guests. If you are not displeased now, I would not care to see you when you are." Boromir gazed at her in amazement. Had she been sitting next to him all the while? He had not even noticed. She was as luminous and stunning a woman as he had ever seen. Her long hair was dark as a raven's wing, held in place by a circlet of tiny, interlocked silver leaves. She wore an indigo gown sewn at the neck and sleeves with tiny sapphires. Her pale skin glowed in the warm candle light. Not so very long ago he would have been delighted to be in the company of such a magnificent woman, elf though she was. But no longer. Aragorn had deprived him of even this simple pleasure. "Forgive me, lady," he said, struggling to regain his composure. "I have been rude and thoughtless." She smiled at him. Boromir saw none of the elven haughtiness he'd come to expect. What saw was an expression uncomfortably similar to that in another pair of haunting sea blue eyes. "Perhaps it is you who should forgive me," she said. "Few in Imladris know the ways of the outside world. It is none of my business, but I would know if you are the one called Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor." "I am the son of Denethor, yes," he said, regaining his sense of decorum. At this she drew back a little, a spark of curiosity dancing in her eyes. Quickly, he asked, "And you? May I have the honor of your name?" "I am called Miriel." "Like a jewel," Boromir said without forethought, more to himself than to her. She was indeed well named. "You know Sindarin, then," she said. Miriel worked her fingers into Boromir's fist, gently forcing his hand to open to her touch. "Alas, my command of that language is rudimentary, at best. My skills lie elsewhere." He risked a glance in Aragorn's direction. The Ranger was watching them over the rim of his wine cup, his lean face shadowed and unreadable. He had put aside his plain clothing and was dressed in soft silver-grey, elegant as any of the elven lords around him. He looked, Boromir thought grimly, every inch a king. "Which of them has earned your disapproval?" Miriel asked, drawing his attention away from Aragorn. "What do you mean?" Boromir asked. "The Halflings, or Elrond's foster son? My guess is the latter." "I would rather not speak of disapproval to so lovely a lady," Boromir said. "Of what would you speak, then?" she asked. Her hand lay in his, cool and slender against his calloused palm. Boromir glanced around. Elrond had descended from his dais and had engaged Aragorn in conversation. The halflings were quite drunk, Pippin leaning against his cousin Merry, barely able to keep his eyes open. Elven servants moved smoothly among the diners, refilling cups and taking away dishes. No one was paying the slightest attention to them. "Again I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Miriel" he said. "I am not accustomed to spending my days in idleness, and my mood suffers on account of it." "We are all of us anxious in these dark days, Lord Boromir," she said. "Yet we have no choice but to wait on the health of the Ringbearer. I am sure, however, that he will soon be fully recovered, and you will be able to put Imladris behind you." "I did not mean to sound so unappreciative of Elrond's hospitality," Boromir said curtly. The spark of anger that had been smoldering beneath the surface flared anew, and before he could stop himself he snatched his hand from hers. "Perhaps I should excuse myself. I am not fit company this night." "Nor any other, judging by the amount of time you spend alone." "What concern is it of yours how I spend my time?" "None at all, my lord," she replied cooly, adding, "It is common knowledge that you are miserable because things are not to your liking. I had no idea Men could be so disagreeable." Her calm demeanor infuriated him even further. Aragorn had displayed the same attitude that night in his room. The Ranger had, Boromir thought, lived among elves far too long. He was more like them than his fellow Men. "If I am so disagreeable," Boromir demanded, "why then do you pursue me?" His words rang in the hall. Before she could answer, he stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. Conversation faltered and trailed off. Heads turned toward them. Aragorn half-stood, held back by Elrond's firm hand on his shoulder. A moment latter, Miriel also stood, swiftly and with fluid grace. She was as tall as he was. Her eyes were hard, shards of silver sparking in their depths. "You esteem yourself very highly, my lord," she said, leaning close and speaking too softly for anyone but Boromir to hear. "A pity. I had hoped to pass a pleasant evening with you, for I have heard much of your valor and nobility. But I see that you are too engrossed in your own despair to consider the feelings of others. Good evening, Lord Boromir." Miriel turned and walked from the hall with cool elegance, leaving Boromir to stare in amazement after her. "You fool!" Boromir whirled, looking to the source of the voice. Gimli sat across the table, grinning and shaking his head. "Your skull must be dense as granite." Pippin snorted, waking himself from a wine-induced nap. His eyes grew round as an owl's when he saw the expression on Boromir's face. "What's going on?" he asked, blinking. Sam and Merry were staring at him in surprise, open-mouthed. Gimli couldn't repress his growing amusement. "This Gondorian clod has just ruined the best chance he's ever had with an elf-lady, that's all. Though only the Valar know what she saw in him." Laughter rippled throughout the hall. Gimli and his dwarven companions roared in glee. Boromir felt the heat rise in his face. He looked at Aragorn, not caring if everyone saw the truth in his eyes. The Ranger wasn't laughing. Elrond's mouth was a thin line of disapproval. No doubt the Lady Miriel was someone of importance in Imladris, someone he should not have affronted. Humiliated, Boromir turned and strode from the hall. He would tolerate no scorn from them, nor pity from Aragorn. Especially not Aragorn. In Imladris Part Two - Under the Hunter's Moon Boromir sat by the edge of a pond and casually tossed stones into the dark, still water. He smiled sadly, thinking of long ago summer days spent in the forests of Gondor with Faramir. How distant those days seemed, and how rare. As Denethor's heir, he'd spend most of his time learning the art of war. He could hardly remember a day not devoted, at least in part, to arms and armor and hours spent in the practice yard. Practice it was, but it was serious. Gondor's safety was foremost, and his father never allowed him to forget it. Gondor was the reason he sat idle in Imladris. He missed Faramir. Faramir would fit in here, he thought. Taken to it like a bird to the air. He would never have insulted Miriel, nor been so thoughtless in his words. How he envied his younger brother his diplomatic skills. Perhaps he had made a mistake in taking the journey upon himself. Perhaps Faramir would have been a better choice, after all. Boromir sighed and shook his head. Right or wrong, the die was cast. He had no choice but to go on. A Hunter's Moon rose slowly over the eastern hills, casting an unearthly silver light over the forest. A chill wind blew from the Misty Mountains in the east, heralding the approach of winter. A sound came from the trees, barely more than a soft rustle of falling leaves. Most would have dismissed it as inconsequential, the furtive sound of a mouse or a hunting owl. During his long journey from Gondor to Imladris, Boromir had grown familiar with the noises the forest made at night. He knew he was being watched. Instantly he was on his feet, hand falling to his belt, searching for the hilt of his long sword. He cursed when he realized that he had brought no weapon with him. He had left the feasting hall quickly, too embarrassed to think of stopping for his sword. "Who's there?" he called. "Show yourself." At once a familiar form emerged from the deep shadows between the trees. "Miriel," he said. Moonlight gleamed on her black hair and pale skin, transforming her into a vision of ethereal beauty. Boromir caught his breath. "What are you doing here?" "I might ask the same of you," she replied, gliding up to him. "This is my favorite place in Imladris. I often come here at night, when it's quiet and the moon is full. I was already here when you arrived. Seeing you were still upset, I withdrew into the trees." "To spy on me?" he asked, frowning. "To give you some privacy, and to see what you would do, if you would call that spying. But in truth I believed you would not remain long and that I would be able to return to my meditations." "I see," Boromir said. "You were here first. I am the intruder, it seems. I will leave." Her hand fell on his arm, fixing him in place. "I misjudged you earlier, my lord. I did not realize, at the time, the depth of your torment." "And now you do?" "Yes. Elrond had spoken to me of your unhappiness here. And having thought on it, I see that it is much more than mere impatience, or unfamiliarity with the ways of elves. Your burden is much greater than it appears." "You arrived at that conclusion all on your own?" Boromir said, unable to keep a trace of sarcasm from his voice. "You are hardly discreet in your tempers, my lord." He stared at her, his green eyes hard as stone. "I have no idea what you're talking about." "The Ring torments you," she said. "Almost as much as the other desire that burns in your soul. I speak, of course, of Estel." "By the Valar!" Boromir cried. "Is it so obvious? Am I that transparent?" Miriel laughed again, but this time Boromir found no anger in his heart. "It is obvious to me," she agreed. "And to Estel. Elrond suspects, knowing his foster son as he does. But to the others, you appear much as they have come to know you. I suspect they think you are merely a little more ill- tempered and impatient than usual." "How very reassuring," Boromir said, smiling wryly. She gazed at him, her expression softening. "Shall I speak plainly, my lord?" "You seem unable to speak any other way but plainly," Boromir said. "Very well," she said. "I would help you, if you will let me." He narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious. Had he not heard the same words from Aragorn's lips? This could not be coincidence. It was some elven trick, he was sure of it. "How would you help me?" he asked. "I do not know," she admitted. "As I said, I know little of Men, save what news those few of my people who still journey far bring home with them. Tales of Boromir, son of Denethor, have reached even here. Boromir the Bold they name you, a Man of valor and honor. I wished to see for myself how close to the truth the tales came, to know why Men hold you in such regard." "And have you found the tales true?" Boromir asked, intrigued. "No. I find you are arrogant and short-tempered, unable to face your desires and making yourself intolerable to others. Yet Elrond chose you to be among the Fellowship, so I must believe that there is more to you than what I have seen tonight." Now it was Boromir's turn to laugh. "You speak plainly indeed. And now that I have satisfied your curiosity, I will bid you good night, Lady Miriel." "Wait, my lord," she said. "Will you go somewhere with me?" "No," he answered, taking joy in denying her. "You said it yourself. I am intolerable." "I would show you something that might help you," she said. "Why should I believe you?" Miriel laid a hand on Boromir's cheek, fingers bushing his beard. "How different you are from elven men. How full of conflict and strange desires. Come, Lord Boromir, trust that where I take you will ease your suffering." "Such pretty words," he said, even as his doubt was eclipsed by curiosity. "I do not trust you at all, my lady. I will go with you, though it is with reluctance. Lead on." He followed her out of the forest, to the House of Elrond, through ancient doors and twisting corridors, until they arrived at a part of the house Boromir had never before seen. Like the rest of Elrond's dwelling, it was beautiful beyond the work of mortals. They passed through a garden filled with rare flowers and exquisite statuary turned to silver by the waxing moon. Each room they entered was surpassed by the next in magnificence and artistry, so dazzling that Boromir soon ceased trying to keep track of where he was. At last she opened a door, and Boromir followed her warily into momentary darkness. Soon enough, his eyes to the pale moonlight pouring in through tall windows. He was in a large, airy chamber with a vast bed and a ceiling so high it was lost to shadow. Her room, he thought, guessing he knew how she planned to help him. Elves had a reputation for open sexuality, or so it was said in Minas Tirith. And if this was her way of helping him forget Aragorn, if only momentarily, then he was more than inclined to go along with it. Yet elves were not entirely trustworthy, and he still suspected some trickery. "I warn you, Lady Miriel," he said, his voice husky, "do not play games with me." "I am not playing a game, I assure you," she replied. She indicated a chair before the moonlit window. "Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable." "You would make me wait longer than necessary, I see," he said, falling into the chair. "As you wish. We can begin here." He reached up and put his arms around her waist, gently but firmly pulling her down into his lap. It happened too quickly for her to resist, and he was rewarded by a look of utter surprise on her face. Placing his hand behind her head, he brought her lips to his and kissed her. Lightly at first, then deeper and more forcefully until at last her lips parted beneath his. But his advantage didn't last long. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself away, amazing him with her strength. He made no attempt to stop her. "No, my lord," she said, breathless. "This is not why I brought you here." "No? Why else does a woman bring a man to her chamber?" "This is not my chamber," she said, moving quickly out of his reach. "Please wait. My purpose will be made clear in a moment." Bewildered, he watched as she disappeared through yet another door. Damn these elves! Who could possibly understand their motives? Nothing was ever as it seemed with them. She said this was not her chamber. Why then bring him here? Whose chamber was it? Striking the arms of the chair in frustration, he decided he would not wait around to find out. He stood and turned, nearly running into a tall, grey-clad figure. Stunned, he found himself staring into eyes the color of the sea in summer. "Leaving so soon, Boromir?" Aragorn asked softly. In Rivendell - Part Three Sorrow Unmasked Boromir said nothing. He had no words to describe the anger welling up in him, threatening to erupt into a burst of uncontrollable violence. Yet he felt cold to the core of his being, as though he were frozen from inside out. Had he his sword, he would have killed the Ranger on the spot. Snarling in frustration, he started to step around Aragorn, stopping when he felt the pressure of a hand on his chest. A light touch, but he found he could not brush the hand away. “Boromir,” Aragorn said. “Stay. Please.” “I do not like being tricked,” he managed to say after a moment. He could not look at Aragorn. He stared at the floor instead, shaking with indignation as much as the feel of Aragorn’s hand upon him. “I regret that trickery was necessary,” Aragorn said. “But you would not have come here otherwise. Fortunately, Lady Miriel was gracious enough to offer her assistance.” “I might have suspected as much,” Boromir said. “Tell me, Ranger. What did you offer her for participating in this sordid deception of yours? What could a mere Man offer an elven lady, even if that Man might someday be King of Gondor?” “Nothing,” Aragorn said. “Miriel is a noble and compassionate lady. She saw your suffering and her wish to help you was genuine.” “So she led me to you,” Boromir said. “How kind of her. Now stand aside. I have endured enough.” For the first time, a flare of anger lit Aragorn’s eyes. He pushed Boromir back a step, smiling at the look on the Gondorian’s face. “You are not the only one who has endured much, Boromir,” he said with quiet force. “Understand me, I do not make light of what you and the people of Gondor have suffered. But it is no more than many others have borne over the years, beside which our personal sorrows pale in comparison.” “Save your grand speeches for more appreciative ears, Ranger,” Boromir said. “We are not at Elrond’s council now.” “No,” he agreed, “we are not. We are alone, you and I, and before you take leave of me we will deal with what lies between us.” “Really?” Boromir raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “And what exactly lies between us? A single night of misguided passion? You must think me truly weak-minded to imagine that it meant anything to me. Or to you.” “Boromir,” Aragorn sighed, shaking his head. “Do you not see what is happening? You are a warrior, a survivor of many battles. You know as well as I do that you must face your fears in order to conquer them.” “I am not afraid of you, Ranger,” Boromir said with a harsh laugh. “It isn’t me you’re afraid of,” Aragorn agreed. “It’s what I represent.” “You have lived among elves so long that you are beginning to sound like one,” Boromir said, his tone derisive. “Tell me, what is it you want? I have already agreed to be your ally, at least until we reach Minas Tirith. Do you need an admission that you have had the better of me? Very well, I admit it. You gave me pleasure. I enjoyed it. Does that satisfy you, Ranger?” “You are deliberately twisting my words, Boromir.” “I’ll ask you once more to stand aside. Let me pass, or I will not be responsible for the consequences.” “No,” Aragorn said. “Not until we resolve this situation.” “As you wish,” Boromir said. Aragorn saw the blow coming, but he did nothing to evade it. Boromir’s fist caught him on the cheek, knocking his head back and sending him reeling. Another blow split his lower lip. A fine spray of blood speckled Boromir’s face. He licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood and sweat. “Defend yourself,” Boromir said. His words carried the authority of one used to being obeyed, but Aragorn was resolute. “No.” Boromir struck again, aiming for the Ranger’s stomach. Aragorn gasped and doubled over in agony. Boromir’s rammed his knee into Aragorn’s face, feeling the crunch of bone against his leg. This time Aragorn collapsed on the floor, writhing in pain. “Get up,” Boromir ordered. Aragorn was barely on his feet when another strike drove him to his knees. More followed, so many that both Men lost track. Boromir did not hold back, but set upon Aragorn with a savagery fueled by long repressed rage. Finally Aragorn could take no more. He groaned and fell hard onto his back, sick with pain and shock. Breathing heavily, Boromir knelt beside him and surveyed his handiwork. Blood streamed freely from Aragorn’s nose and lips. Both eyes were bruised. Most likely they would be swollen shut by morning. A deep cut cleft his left cheek, which was darkening rapidly. Much of the damage remained unseen beneath Aragorn’s clothing, but he was sure it was substantial. Satisfied, Boromir prepared to deliver the final blow. As Boromir drew back his fist, a gleam of metal flashed in the shadows. A shaft of moonlight fell upon Aragorn’s sword, laying close by beside the leather scabbard. With a growl of triumph he seized the hilt, hefting it to get the feel of the blade. It was a fine sword, beautifully balanced. Not Narsil reforged, no, but still a weapon fit for a king. Standing, he lowered the blade until the tip hovered above the hollow of Aragorn’s throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice railed against what he was about to do, but the rage was too strong. He saw nothing but an enemy before him, and the means to destroy that enemy. At last he would be rid of this threat to Gondor, and to him. “Finish it, Boromir,” Aragorn rasped, taking the blade in his hands and guiding it to his throat. The blade cut his hands until his blood ran freely down the dark, cold metal. Boromir’s shoulders tensed as he readied himself for the killing thrust. His grip on the hilt tightened, his hands flexed. His face was a mask of fury and bloodlust. Yet he hesitated, held back by something he could not name. He had slain many opponents in battle, some with great delight, all without remorse. As a warrior, it seemed dishonorable to take the life of a man who was not trying to kill him at the same time. “Finish it,” Aragorn repeated, reaching out a blood-stained hand toward Boromir. “And know that I give up my life and my claim to the throne of Gondor to end your torment.” Boromir went still as death. How long he stood holding Aragorn’s life at the end of a sword he did not know. He only knew that something shattered in him then, some point of deep resistance, and he was released from the grip of madness. “I cannot,” he whispered in a strangled voice, fighting the racking sobs that threatened to overwhelm him. “The Valar help me, I cannot...” The sword clattered to the floor. Dropping to his knees, Boromir gathered Aragorn into his arms, rocking him as though he were a child and burying his face against the bruised, bloody neck. “Forgive me, Aragorn,” he said, no longer able to hold back the tears. “I have been a fool. Forgive me...” In response Aragorn took Boromir’s hand and gently kissed the bruised and bloody knuckles, then clutched the hand to his chest. “Our blood is mingled,” Aragorn said hoarsely. “We are truly brothers, Boromir.” “No,” Boromir whispered, “do not say so, for my blood would only diminish yours.” A series of spasms shook Aragorn, and Boromir drew back in alarm. It took him a moment to realize that the Ranger was laughing. “Quite a statement from Boromir the Proud,” Aragorn said, grimacing. “Damn you, Aragorn,” Boromir said, but there was no rancor in his words. Carefully, he lifted Aragorn in his arms and carried him to the bed. “An interesting turn about,” Aragorn said, coughing a little as sank thankfully down on the soft mattress. “The last time we were alone, it was I who put you to bed.” Boromir grunted. “Be quiet. You still talk too much.” Aragorn closed his eyes and allowed Boromir to remove his tunic and shirt. He winced as Boromir explored his ribs, probing softly but thoroughly. “Nothing broken,” Boromir announced. “But you are very badly bruised. I don’t think you’ll be fighting orcs any time soon.” “Thanks to you,” Aragorn said, grinning crookedly. “You should have fought back,” Boromir replied. “You might even have defeated me.” “I might have,” he agreed. “Rest now,” Boromir said, brushing a clump of blood-soaked hair from Aragorn’s face. “I’ll be back soon.” Aragorn reached up and took hold of his arm. “Where are you going?” “To find Elrond. If he saved the life of a halfling wounded by a Nazgul blade, he should have no trouble healing your wounds.” “I would have you stay.” “But your injuries require attention,” Boromir said, frowning. “You have need of what I cannot give you.” “No, Boromir. You have exactly what I need. Stay with me, at least until morning. Would you have me beg?” “No,” he said at last, “I would not.” He slid reluctantly into bed beside of Aragorn and, mindful of causing any more pain, took him gently into his arms. “I will stay with you until morning.” A ghost of a smile formed on Boromir’s lips as Aragorn’s head found rest on his shoulder. One day he would very much like to hear Aragorn beg. But not now, and not just for his company. Not when there still difficulties between them. Only the first wall had been breached. There were other barriers to overcome, though for the first time they did not seem quite so formidable. The End