Title:  Refuge 
Author:  Sandcat, sandcat12@aol.com
Pairing(s):  Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: R 
Summary:  Boromir receives an urgent message from Aragorn.
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em, make no claim that I do.  I write for 
entertainment and because I love the characters. I make no profit whatsoever 
and intend no harm or infringement.  Any and all errors in logic or 
continuity are my own.
Warning:  None, really.  Movie verse.  The steamy bits occur near the end of 
the story, if you want to skip ahead.
Authors Note:  When I first wrote "Trust" I didn't intend for it to go any 
further.  But sometimes the story just hijacks your brain and makes you keep 
writing.  So I wrote "In Imladris" just to get it out of my system.  And 
once again, I just couldn't leave well enough alone.  So here is absolutely 
positively the last Aragorn/Boromir story I ever hope to write.  At least for 
a while.
Feedback:  Lay it on me.
   

Refuge

The sun was pale in a dead grey sky, barely visible behind a ragged layer of 
clouds.  Heavy rainfall during the night had turned the air thick and dank.  
Tree limbs dripped, sodden.  The soft, muddy ground was treacherous beneath 
the horse's hooves, forcing Boromir to proceed at a much slower pace than he 
would have liked.

The forest was dark and forbidding, a strange world of grey and black, washed 
of color by the constant drizzle.  The trail he'd been following was barely 
visible, even in good light.  It was entirely possible that he had missed the 
eastern branch he'd been instructed to take and was now a good distance 
beyond it.  He sighed and reigned the horse to a stop.   

From his tunic he drew out a scrap of paper, limp with moisture, the ink 
running slightly but still readable.  Aragorn had a fine hand, not unlike 
Faramir's.  A good thing for a king, he supposed, frowning a little.  He was 
still not used to the fact that the tall, often disheveled ranger was 
Isuldir's heir.  His back stiffened at the thought of Aragorn on the Throne 
of Gondor, and he quickly put the image from his mind.  Now was not the time 
to dwell on such things.

He glanced down at the directions, then gazed about, keen eyes searching for 
the landmarks described in the note.  And there it was, a large outcrop of 
black volcanic rock in the shape of an eagle, along which ran the eastern 
fork of the trail.  

It was only by chance that he had stopped here, or he would indeed have 
ridden past it.  Or was it merely chance?  He rode an elven horse, black coat 
glossy as onyx in the rain.  A fine mare, tall and powerful, but not as broad 
as the horses of Rohan which Boromir was used to.  And she had an almost 
preternatural ability to sense hidden danger, as Boromir learned that morning 
when she suddenly snorted and sidestepped something invisible in the middle 
of the path.  

Curious, Boromir had dismounted and went to investigate the source of the 
mare's distress. Expertly disguised beneath the fallen branches and leaf 
litter he found a deep pit, at the bottom of which long, rough-hewn wooden 
spikes waited to impale the unwary and the unfortunate.  The stench rising 
from the slimy depths indicated that some poor traveler had recently met his 
fate here.  Peering down, Boromir thought he could still see traces of blood 
and viscera on several of the spikes.  Orcs or brigands, he thought grimly, 
and went quickly on his way.

Satisfied that he was going in the right direction, he urged the horse down 
the eastward trail. He was grateful to Elrond for lending him the mare.  
Elrond knew that Boromir would be traveling some way out of Rivendell's 
relative safety, but nothing more.  Aragorn had expressly warned him not to 
speak of the journey to anyone.  Indeed, Boromir knew little himself, since 
Aragorn's note only said to come at great haste to an inn in a certain town, 
then went on to describe the fastest route.

Damn the Man, Boromir thought.  He had written nothing of what peril he might 
be in, nor why he needed only Boromir's assistance when he might summon all 
of Rivendell to his aid.  But that was not how rangers did things.  They 
preferred to act quietly, secretly, drawing as little attention to themselves 
as possible.  They did what they had to do, then melted away into obscurity 
without earning credit for their deeds. 

Aragorn's ways were utterly foreign to Boromir.  In Gondor, warriors fought 
openly and honorably, not hiding in the shadows.  
But that wasn't fair, Boromir thought.  It was easy to fight in the open with 
an army at your back, and rangers did not have the luxury of either honor or 
an army.  

He rode on, watching for the signs mentioned in Aragorn's note.  He glanced 
at the sky, when he could see it through the thick branches and threatening 
clouds.  By late afternoon, the drizzle stopped and a thin mist began rising 
from the low ground. Ahead of him loomed a dense stand of pines, black in the 
oppressive gloom.  The town, according to Aragorn's directions, lay just 
beyond this point.  He should have been relieved at the sight of the dark 
trees, but something made him suspicious.  The elven mare paused without 
being told.

"So you feel it, too," Boromir said, hardly aware that he spoke aloud.  The 
horse tossed her head and snorted in response.  It was a trap, an ambush.  He 
could feel the eyes of the watchers hard upon him, waiting patiently for him 
to enter the snare.  He didn't even consider going around the pines.  The 
trail was the most direct route.  He had no idea how long it would take him 
to find another path, and he liked the idea of fighting his way through the 
dense undergrowth even less than facing an enemy head on.  

"How many do you think there are, eh?  Five?  Six?  A dozen?  There's only 
one way to find out."

Boromir slid his shield onto one arm and drew his sword. Taking in a deep 
breath, he pressed his heels into the mare's side.  At once she sprang 
forward, hooves slipping a little on the wet ground.  For a moment Boromir 
feared she might falter, but the soil here was a thin layer over solid rock, 
and the mare soon found her footing.  

He charged toward the trees, sword ready.  A black fledged arrow shrieked 
past his ear, quickly followed by half a dozen more.  Dark shapes moved 
quickly among the trees.  Metal flashed in the half-light.  Voices called, 
low and guttural, and Boromir recognized the Black Speech.  Orcs, then.

Grimacing in revulsion, he cried out savagely as two Orcs rushed him, 
brandishing long knives.  Boromir struck with the speed and precision born of 
hard-earned experience, cleaving the head of one attacker nearly in half, 
then using the sword's pommel to crack the skull of the other.  Reeking Orc 
blood soiled his sleeve and stung his skin.  A twisted shape clawed at his 
leg, and he used his shield to smash the creature's face in.  Bones crunched, 
and the Orc fell away, howling in pain.  The horse reared and stamped in 
fury, crushing another attacker beneath her iron shod hooves.

It was over quickly.

One of the Orcs barked a harsh command, and those few still able to run 
retreated into the forest, scattering like startled insects.  Four bodies lay 
on the ground, none of them moving.  Breathing hard, Boromir took a moment to 
survey the dead Orcs.  They were scrawny, pitiful creatures, close to 
starvation.  Most likely it was these Orcs who had dug the pit, murdering and 
plundering the bodies of their unsuspecting victims to  make their living.  
But a trained warrior had proved too much for them.  They were in extremely 
poor condition, or Boromir was sure they would have stayed and tried to 
finish him off.  

He almost felt sorry for them.

****

Night veiled the land slowly, deepening by degrees until Boromir could hardly 
make out what was directly in front of him.  Fortunately, there were no more 
Orcs or other obstacles to slow his progress, and soon the lights of the town 
beckoned in the distance.

He passed into a broad, flat expanse of farmland, open beneath the night sky. 
 He was only too happy to escape the forest's dark embrace.  The mare, too, 
seemed eager for rest, picking up her pace at the same moment that relief 
finally filled Boromir's heart.  He only hoped he was not too late to aid 
Aragorn in whatever trouble he'd found here.

The town was called Bridgewater, for it was bisected by a wide, shallow 
stream that provided the inhabitants with a reliable supply of fresh water.  
At least, Boromir thought, when the weather was fair.  The stream was muddy 
and fast flowing from the heavy winter rains, dangerously close to 
overflowing its banks.  The streets were hardly better, and soon Boromir and 
the mare were brown with spattered muck.  

It was a large town, as farming communities went, and for a brief moment 
Boromir found himself confused as he rode through the dark tangle of streets. 
 Though nowhere near as large as Minas Tirith, it was unfamiliar, and he 
wondered how difficult it would be to find the inn mentioned in Aragorn's 
note.

He needn't have worried.  Following the widest street to the commercial 
center of town, it wasn't long before he spotted a battered wooden sign 
bearing the name of the Dragon's Head Inn.  A barefoot young woman, skirts 
hitched up in a largely futile attempt to keep them clean, lit a lantern and 
hung it in the recessed doorway of the inn.  She glanced up as Boromir 
paused, her frown giving way to grudging approval.  

"Good evening, sir," she said.  "Looking for a place to stay?"

Boromir smiled down at her, then gave the inn an appraising look.  It was a 
rambling two story building of grey stone, with a stable in back and a small 
garden alongside.  He wondered where Aragorn was.  He wanted to ask the girl 
if she'd seen anyone matching Aragorn's description, but was unsure what to 
say.  Not knowing the situation, Boromir decided against asking.

"Perhaps." 

"Well sir, you won't find any better lodging than the Dragon's Head,"
she 
boasted.  "And as I can see you're a man of quality, you'll appreciate
what 
I have to offer."

"Which is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  She stepped closer and ran a hand 
gently along the mare's gracefully arched neck.  The horse nickered softly in 
approval.

"If you're wondering at my meaning," she said, "then let me divest you
of 
any misconceptions you might have.  The Dragon's Head is my place.  It is not 
a brothel.  I run a decent establishment, sir.  My rates are reasonable.  But 
in your case, you won't have to worry about compensation."

Boromir blinked.  He had not anticipated her last comment.  "Oh, and why is 
that?"

"Because you're expected, that's why."  She spoke slowly, as if
addressing 
a half-wit.  "I mean, it's all been taken care of.  Now if you'd be so
kind 
as to dismount, I'll have one of my boys see to your fine horse.  And never 
you fear, sir, we care for beasts here almost as much as our two legged gu
ests."

Too surprised to reply, Boromir did as she said.  She yelled a name, and a 
young boy came scurrying to take the mare to the stable.

"Good.  Now come with me, sir," she said, picking up a small lantern to 
light their way.  Smiling, she muttering something under her breath that 
sounded like, "He said you were a bit thick, but I reckon you caught on soon 
enough."

Before Boromir could ask her what she meant, she turned and headed toward the 
back of the inn, plainly expecting him to follow.  She stopped and looked 
over her shoulder when he didn't.  His hand rested on his belt, close to the 
hilt of his sword.

"A typical soldier, I see," she said, tilting her chin up and putting one 
hand on her hip in a challenging stance.  She was pale skinned and dark 
haired, with bright blue eyes that even the darkness couldn't dim.  Despite 
the mud on her clothes and hair made stringy from the drizzle, she was quite 
attractive.  "What do you think, that I'm leading you into an ambush?"

Boromir didn't know.  He only knew that she was not taking him to the front 
door, but to the rear of the building.  He shifted uncomfortably under her 
questioning gaze.

"What's back there?" he asked.

"The bath house," she said, as if that explained everything.

"Bath house?"

"Yes, sir.  Did you think I'd let you in my place with your muddy boots and 
all?  I told you, I run a clean establishment and I'd like it to remain that 
way.  So if you want to stay here, you'll have to take a bath."

"All right," he said, amused.  He supposed he could use some cleaning up.  
Aragorn would just have to wait.  "Will you be assisting me?"

"That would cost extra," she said and gave him an appraising look. "Not
that 
I'd mind.  But there's someone else waiting for that honor."

"Not as attractive as you, I'd wager," he said.

The woman laughed as if he'd said something exceptionally funny, and turned 
without another word.  This time, Boromir followed.

****

Inside, the air was warm and languid with steam.  Boromir immediately felt 
drowsy after riding all day in the cold, stinging rain.  He started to ask 
the innkeeper a question, but stopped when he realized that she wasn't there. 
 She had let him in, then slipped stealthily out, closing the door silently 
behind her.  Still suspicious, he opened the door a crack and peered out into 
the night.  For a moment he watched her back as she picked her way across the 
muddy ground, lantern light dancing on her slender form.  She really was 
quite attractive.  Too bad she wouldn't be staying, he thought, then shut the 
door and gazed around.  

The size of the room amazed him.  He had expected nothing better than a shack 
with a wooden tub full of murky, tepid water.  But this was a bath house 
indeed, one fit for a king.  A natural hot spring, in fact, over which a 
large extension of the Dragon's Head had been built.  There was a door in the 
side wall, which he guessed led directly into the inn.  Apparently the whole 
reason the inn was here was to take advantage of the spring.

Great iron lanterns suspended from a high ceiling, shedding dim light 
throughout the room.  Candles burned in numerous niches, adding to the 
vaporous atmosphere, while braziers filled with aromatic herbs infused the 
air with subtle aroma.  The rim of the spring had been set with marble so 
that bathers could enter and exit with ease.

Puzzled, Boromir looked around.  The innkeeper said there was someone waiting 
for him, but Boromir saw no one.  And on a raw night like this, he would have 
expected there to be others taking advantage of this natural wonder.  He was 
thinking of leaving when the inner door opened and Aragorn stepped into the 
room.

"Ah, Boromir," he said, grinning.  "Here at last.  Have any trouble
finding 
the place?"

Boromir, surprised to find Aragorn looking so perfectly at ease, felt 
alternately awkward and embarrassed.  A blush crept hotly across his face, 
and he was glad for the dim light.

"A few Orcs, that's all."   

"That group in the pines?  They are all that's left of a raiding party sent 
to sack the town.  I killed most of them several months ago, for which the 
town was quite grateful.  This," he said, spreading his hands to indicate the 
spring, "is my reward.  And I wished to share it with you.  We will not be 
disturbed."

Boromir ignored the meaning implicit in Aragorn's words.  "What was so 
urgent that you insisted I ride here in all haste?"

"You," Aragorn said, his grin slowly widening into a smile.  

"Me?" Boromir frowned.  Sweat broke out on his forehead and ran freely down 
his face.  The room was becoming more oppressive with every passing moment.  
"I've ridden a long way and I'm in no mood for riddles, Aragorn.  What
need 
have you of me?"

"I have need that you be here," Aragorn replied.  

"You mean," Boromir said darkly, "that you find it necessary to  remind me 
that when our quest is complete, you will be king of Gondor while I will be 
only your steward."

A soft light danced in Aragorn's eyes.  "No, of course not.  You could never 
be only my steward, Boromir.  You have misread my intention, as usual."

"Since I'm so thick-headed," Boromir said, "perhaps you should spell it
out 
for me."  

"Perhaps I should," Aragorn agreed, "but I think that first you should rid 
yourself of those heavy clothes before you succumb to heat stroke.  I do not 
think our hostess would appreciate one of her guests expiring in her fine 
establishment."

Boromir had noticed that Aragorn was wearing only a white cotton robe, held 
together at the neck by a silver clasp.  It clung to his skin in the damp 
air, defining every contour of his thin but smoothly muscled body.

"This is a bath house, after all."  He tossed Boromir a matching garment. 
"Here, put this on if you're shy."

"Shy?"  Boromir laughed.  "I think you know me better than that,
Aragorn."

"Indeed," Aragorn said, undoing the robe with a flick of his wrist.  Before 
it had a chance to settle on the flagstones he turned and plunged into the 
water as cleanly as a knife, leaving Boromir to wonder his remarkable 
agility.  

Flinging the robe onto an ornately carved stone bench, Boromir unclasped his 
cloak and set about removing his clothing.  No doubt a life spent in the 
wilderness had made the ranger an accomplished swimmer.  But Boromir had 
grown up beside the Great River, and he too was strong and impressive in the 
water.

Naked, he jumped in.  The feel of the water made him gasp, stinging his 
windburned skin and instantly suffusing his tired muscles with a pleasant 
lassitude.  He drifted, eyes half closed, lost in the almost decadent 
sensation of water and scent and warmth.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"  

Boromir started.  Aragorn had surfaced just behind him without making a 
sound.  The man was sleek as an otter, Boromir thought, impressed despite 
himself.  

"Yes, it does,"  Boromir admitted.  He turned and used his fingers to comb 
an errant strand of hair from his eyes.  "But I don't understand.  Why am I 
here?  Why are we here?"

"Because you need it," Aragorn answered, swimming a little away.  His wet 
skin gleamed in the lamplight.  A stab of guilt twisted Boromir's gut as he 
glimpsed the faded bruises that marred the ranger's body.  Valar, he'd 
almost killed the man.  If not for Elrond's healing, he doubted Aragorn would 
be able to walk, much less swim, for at least another month. 

"Need what?"  Boromir asked, treading water.  

"Relaxation," Aragorn said.  "You've been tense as a bowstring since you 
arrived in Rivendell.  I'm worried you will make yourself ill, and we need 
you fit, Boromir.  I need you fit."

"I have never been unfit for duty," Boromir said, vaguely offended.

"Ah, but this isn't ordinary duty, is it?  I mean no insult.  There is no 
doubt as to your fitness, at least physically.  But we are all of us under 
great stress, and the journey we are about to undertake will be arduous 
indeed."

"The halfling will soon be well enough to travel, then?"  Boromir asked, 
unable to keep the hint of scorn from his tone.  He did not believe Frodo 
strong enough to carry the Ring safely to Mordor, and he had made no secret 
of his opinion on this matter.  He had accepted Elrond's decision, but in his 
heart he still harbored much doubt.  

Aragorn nodded.  "It has been decided.  We leave Rivendell two nights
hence."

"Good," Boromir said, glad that at last the long wait was coming to an end.  
He turned and began swimming for the side of the spring.  "I'll be ready."

At once Aragorn was beside him.  "Where are you going?"

"Rivendell," Boromir said.  "I've had my little swim, and you've told
me 
what I've been waiting to hear for weeks.  If I leave now I can be back by 
morning."

"No," Aragorn said, "you won't."

Before Boromir could protest, the ranger spun him around and pushed him up 
against the side of the pool.  Seizing his shoulders, Aragorn held him firmly 
in place.  At once the anger flared in him, but he willed himself to 
stillness and regarded the ranger calmly.  He could see the half healed wound 
on the Aragorn's lower lip where his fist had split the tender skin.

"Aragorn," he said in a low tone, "we've come to an understanding, have
we 
not?  Must we dredge up what has already been decided?  Please, let it be."

"This isn't about us, my friend," Aragorn replied carefully.  "It is
about 
you."

"So you have said."  Boromir sighed, watching the way droplets of water 
glittered in the ranger's lashes like tiny jewels.  "I do not understand 
you, Aragorn.  What more do you want of me?"

Slowly, Aragorn slid his hand down Boromir's chest until it came to rest over 
his heart.  "I want you to be happy, Boromir.  Or at least, if that is not 
possible, to be at peace within yourself."

"You don't ask for much, do you?"  Boromir's lips twisted in a wry
smile.  
"And I thought it was merely my body you wanted."

Aragorn glanced down at Boromir's nakedness, eyes lingering on his lean, 
muscular form.  "You were right about me that first night in Rivendell.  I do 
desire you.  You are like a great golden fortress, full of bright treasures 
and dark, hidden passages."

Boromir laughed, a harsh sound in the soft air.  "A fortress you intend to 
take by storm?"

"To take refuge in," Aragorn countered gravely.  "I would that you were my 
refuge, Boromir, my haven in the storm.  All my life I've been alone, unable 
to share what is within my heart with another living soul.  Indeed, I have 
never before had need to share my feelings with any other.  But now, with 
what lies before us, I find that my mind is troubled, and I am often 
uncertain in what I must do.  The blood of Isildur flows in us both, and 
perhaps that makes me believe that together we will defeat the Dark Lord."

"And what of Lady Arwen," Boromir said, surprised to hear Aragorn confess 
that he suffered from such doubt.  He had thought the ranger somehow above 
the frailties that tormented other Men.  "Is she not your true soul mate?"

"Yes," he admitted, "though I cannot say with any certainty that we will 
ever be together. I won't deceive you, Boromir.  I have loved her since I 
first saw her many years ago, but neither can I ignore what my heart tells me 
now, at this moment, when I look at you."

Boromir held himself utterly still.  Eyes veiled in the half light, he stared 
at the other man, wondering if Aragorn felt the hammering of his heart 
against the palm of his hand.  How easily Aragorn dealt with this strange 
feeling that had afflicted them both since first they'd met.  It frightened 
him deeply, how thoroughly Aragorn melted his resolve, something no one else 
had ever been able to do.  He was a complete enigma, a mystery Boromir knew 
he would never fully unravel.     

Had any other Man spoken to him this way, he would have judged him weak, at 
best.  But this wasn't just any Man, this was Aragorn, his future king, who 
spoke so plainly of what was in his heart.  He wanted to pull away, disgusted 
by his own cowardice, but he was frozen to the core of his being.  He wanted 
to give in.  He would give in, even knowing that once their quest was 
completed and their passion spent, Aragorn would leave him for another.  It 
could end no other way.

A long moment passed before Aragorn finally broke the stillness.

"I think you know what I am willing to sacrifice for you, Boromir."

"I know," he said, barely able to speak above a whisper.  He remembered the 
point of a sword a hair's breadth from Aragorn's throat, and could scarcely 
believe that it was his own hand that had held it there.

"If you ask it of me - "

"No!" Boromir said sharply, laying his fingers gently over Aragorn's lips.  
"No.  Once, I would have demanded it of you.  But now I cannot even bear to 
hear you speak the words.  See, my liege, how you have tamed me?"

"Boromir of Gondor, tamed?"  Aragorn laughed.  "I think not.  Rather, say 
that you are learning to accept that which you cannot change.  As I have had 
to accept what I cannot change."

Boromir traced the contours of Aragorn's mouth with his fingertips, brushing 
lightly over the cut on his lower lip.     

"I wanted to hurt you," Boromir said.

"You did," Aragorn replied, drifting slowly closer.

"I almost killed you."

"Very nearly."

"I'm sorry," Boromir said, feeling awkward again.  "You were right about 
me.  I was too proud."

"You are still too proud," Aragorn said, caressing a length of Boromir's 
hair with his fingers.

"You expect too much of me." 

"You expect too much of yourself."  

Aragorn leaned forward and pressed his lips to the heated skin of Boromir's 
neck, licking gently.  Boromir caught the faint scent of smoke and leather in 
the ranger's hair, heightening the sensations that Aragorn's tongue stirred 
in him.

"I expect," Boromir groaned, shivering a little, "that by now we must be 
clean enough to be allowed in the Dragon's Head.  Ah..."

"In a moment," Aragorn murmured, hands gently kneading Boromir's
shoulders.  
"There is still too much tension in you."

"That is your fault."

"Be quiet."

Suddenly, Boromir pulled Aragorn's head back and closed his mouth on the 
ranger's throat, biting none too gently.  Aragorn winced, but made no attempt 
to move away.

"Just remember," Boromir whispered, kissing the place he had just bitten, 
"that within the breast of even the tamest beast may beat a savage heart."

Aragorn drew away just enough to focus his gaze on Boromir.  Blue eyes held 
green, sapphire and jade, each taking the measure of the other.  

"Ah, Boromir," he said softly, "I would have it no other way."

Boromir smiled, satisfied that Aragorn would not take his acceptance for 
granted.  He would relinquish Gondor to it's true heir, but he would be no 
mere servant, no lap dog awaiting the master's command.

Their lips met, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, the kiss 
slowly deepening until Boromir thought he would be torn apart by the 
intensity of it.  He slid his arms around Aragorn and pulled him close, back 
arching as the other man's hardness pressed against his own.  There was no 
test of strength, no attempt at domination.  He knew instinctively that 
Aragorn would follow his lead, returning touch for touch, gentleness for 
gentleness.  This time, Boromir thought, they would come together as equals, 
not as master and servant, king and steward.  

And if their uneasy bond survived the test, what then?  What would happen 
when Aragorn took Gondor's throne, and wed his beloved Arwen?  Surely they 
would no longer be lovers.  Would he still want Boromir as his steward?  
Would he want Boromir at all, or would he become an unpleasant reminder of 
something best left in the past?  

He decided he would think about it tomorrow.  Outside the world was cold and 
unforgiving, and they were fortunate to have this brief moment together.  For 
tonight, nothing else existed, nothing else mattered, except the luxury of 
the warmth, the soothing caress of the water on his skin, and Aragorn's 
supple body against his own.  

For tonight, it was enough.

The End