Title: Ten Thousand Fathoms Author: wildemoose (KrazyActor@aol.com) Pairings: Aragorn/Boromir Rating: NC-17 Summary: Aragorn is sad. Boromir wants his body. We all know how this is going to end. Disclaimer: Don’t own them, never heard of them, haven’t seen them. Archive: Library of Moria, all others please ask Warnings: none Author's Note: Movieverse. Boromir’s POV. Just a little PWP to satisfy an itchy plot bunny, or rather a quotation which can be found below. Somehow I think Auden would have approved of slash… A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear; Although I love you, you will have to leap; Our dream of safety has to disappear. --W.H. Auden The darkness is all around me. Even the stars, it seems, have closed their eyes and hidden themselves from us; the only lights that could pierce through this blackness are the steady lights of Lothlorien on the other side of the hill. It looks so close, deceptively close, but we could have reached it in a few hours if we had tried. The nightfall, though, weakened the company’s resolve to push on, and the hobbits, already weary with fright and grief, had refused to stir another step. I had rolled my eyes, but complied with Aragorn’s decision—with Gandalf so newly lost to us, it was not the time to question his authority. Still, I wonder what the man is thinking. It had seemed to me that he and Gandalf had shared a special bond, each knowing what the other was thinking without the burden of speech. I had imagined them to be close, and yet the wizard’s death seems to have left Aragorn cold. His eyes, always steely, betrayed not even a hint of grief, and his voice was steady as he ordered the hobbits to their feet, not allowing them the luxury of weeping for a fallen comrade. I had wondered at this, had spoken out, only to be sharply rebuked—no doubt he was right. We must keep moving. And yet, and yet…to be entirely emotionless…I do not understand. I do not want to understand this man, this enigmatic Dunedain who claims my city for his own. It is so dark. Aragorn has taken the first watch, but I lie with open eyes, unable to relax my guard for even a moment. I never imagined it could be too dark to sleep, but this strange blackness unnerves me as the mines of Moria never did. My companions do not seem affected, however; the hobbits are curled together at my feet, all four of them, their faces still streaked with tears. From time to time one or the other will emit a little hiccupping sob in his sleep, and I will start, reaching instinctively for my sword. Every sound echoes in the absence of sight, in the night air that is so dark I imagine I can grasp it in my hands, as if it is something solid. The noise of Gimli’s snores, too, sets me on edge; I can even hear the Elf’s soft breaths as he succumbs to sleep. And then, suddenly, I am aware of another sound. It is the sound of weeping, heartbreaking sobs that send a chill down my spine. At first I imagine it to be the wind, but then I realize who is crying so. It can be no one else. It is Aragorn. Against my will, my heart melts in sympathy. Of course he could not show his grief before the company. He has forced himself to stay strong for the hobbits, for all of us, for—no! I realize where my thoughts had almost led me. He need not support me. I need nothing from him, not his help, not his compassion, not his strength. Let him carry the hobbits when they are weak. Let him cry—he need not save his tears for the darkness when he thinks no one can hear. Let him show them all his weakness. I creep over to the man, letting him hear my approaching footsteps so as not to startle him, not sure what I am intending to do. Maybe speak to him; maybe comfort him; maybe kill him, the thought suddenly occurring to me as my hand finds my sword hilt in the darkness. I do not know what I intended; but whatever it was, I did not intend to kiss him. I touch his shoulder, and suddenly his hand is on mine, my arms are around him, and my lips are pressed to the face I cannot see. His own lips eagerly search for mine, frantically moving across my face before making contact, the sudden shock of the kiss making us both gasp for air. It has surprised us both, I am sure, and it seems that neither he nor I know what to say. “Tell me why you weep,” I murmur finally. “I weep for Gandalf,” he whispers. I can feel the tears still wet on his cheeks, and he catches my hand in his as I reach up to wipe them away. “For us all. I despair for us all.” “Do not so. There is yet hope.” “Hope there may be, son of Gondor, but alas, I see it not. Nor can I tell where to look for it.” “It is here,” I find myself saying. “Our hope. It lies in you.” I do not know why I feel compelled to tell him this, this man that I hate, this man that I love. I succumb to the attraction that has always been there, since first I laid eyes on him as he stood in the house of Elrond, proud and strong against the setting sun. He must have seen what I tried to hide in gruff words and aloof ways. He must have known. My lips seek his once again, but he averts his head, pulling away from me. “Do not, Boromir, you must not.” “Why must I not, Aragorn?” “I do not deserve your touch. I am a weak man, weak and foolish.” “Do not believe it. If you were what you say, I would not—” I cut myself off before I say the words that have been forming in my heart for weeks. “Would not what?” I am silent, and he asks again. “Would not what, Boromir?” “Would not love you as I do.” The words come out in a rush and I curse myself, fearful of his reaction, knowing that I will die if he pushes me away. In this moment, I am so close to him. He is so near. I want this man more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. He knows that there is no need to answer as he pulls me to him, his rough kiss leaving me breathless and trembling. I am losing myself in this man, the warrior strength that I have worked so hard for growing more distant with every second that passes—and I do not care. I have waited for this. I need this. “Please,” I am whispering, “please…” “Oh yes,” comes his answering sigh. “Boromir, yes…” Somehow our hands have been searching for each other, throwing clothing and weapons to the ground until we both stand bare-chested, relishing the sensation of skin on skin as we press against one another. I can feel his hardness pressing into me, as well as the familiar feeling of my own stiffening member. His hands cup my backside and pull me even closer in, sending flashes of light through me as our groins rub together. I know what he wants from me, and I am desperate to give it to him, give him anything he wants to relieve the pain I know he is feeling. I drop to my knees before him; one strong tug is enough to pull his breeches to his knees and release his cock. I know my hands are cold, but I wrap them around the shaft, and he groans and strains into them. I relish the power that he has given me, the power to give him pleasure, and I give his cock a few quick, hard strokes just to tease him, before taking him into my mouth. He makes a low sound—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—and presses his hands to the back of my head, making love to my mouth, to my throat. At first I try being gentle, making delicate motions with my tongue and lips, but soon I realize that tenderness is not what he wants, not what he needs, so I relax my jaw and let him do as he likes with me, knowing that each hard thrust makes him forget everything that has been causing him so much pain. His entire body tenses as he nears his release, and he hardly makes a sound as the warm saltiness fills my mouth, only a soft sigh and stifled groan as his body jerks and twitches. I feel the tension drain from him as he sinks to the ground, closing his eyes. I think I hear him say my name. I try not to let him see how I want him, how I am aching for my own release, but he must be as aware as I am of the hard bulge in my breeches. He takes only a few seconds to rest before snaking his hands down my chest to my hips, untying with clumsy fingers the lacings that are already straining. “You don’t have to…” I murmur, my body betraying my desire as my hips try to thrust toward his hands. “I want to…I need to…” And then my cock is in his hands, warm and cold and hard and soft all at the same time, and I fear that I will not be able to exercise the same vocal restraint as he did, because I am already moaning. “You’ll wake them,” he whispers, sounding worried. “I don’t care. Let them know. Please…please…” I don’t know how I came to be lying on the ground, but I am, and he is on top of me, stroking me, undoing me. When his mouth closes around me, through the haze of ecstasy I realize that I will follow this man to the ends of the earth. Not just for this—but because he is my captain. My rightful king. I see that now. I am so close to climax, and his tongue is like nothing I have ever imagined. He has done this before, he must have—he knows just what to do to keep me from coming, when to pause, when to go faster, where to touch. And suddenly I cannot hold it off any longer and I am there, the waves sweeping over me, faster and faster, for longer than I had ever thought they could. I am gasping and writhing and calling his name, trying desperately to be quiet but failing miserably. And all too soon it is over. I am sweaty and shaken, covered in dirt and leaves but not caring a bit. Aragorn lies on top of me and presses his lips to mine, sweetly, a lover’s kiss. I smile against his mouth, and he grins back at me. For a moment we are giggling like schoolboys, forgetting for that instant our danger, lost in each other. Then his face turns serious. I have never considered his age, but as the lines appear on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, I see that he is old, much older than me. My heart breaks for him, at the knowledge of how much more this journey will age him before it is completed. “Thank you,” he says solemnly. “You have lightened my heart this night. You have relieved me of a great burden.” “And you have done the same for me. I was…I was wrong to doubt you, Aragorn, I—” I am ready to swear fealty to him, forever, but he must see what I am about to say, and stops me with a motion of his hand. “Do not, Boromir. I cannot accept your pledge. Not yet.” I nod. “I understand.” He smiles at me and, brushing the matted hair from my brow, kisses me gently on the forehead. His lips are so tender, so soft; and I know that if I remember nothing else, I will never forget the look in his eyes at that moment. Even if he would not hear me say so, I have pledged my life to him, and I am his. I am leaning against a tree, the sharp bark cutting into the back of my head. Strange, it occurs to me, how the thick black arrows no longer hurt me, but the tree is giving me pain. It all happened so fast, my reeling mind is still five steps behind, but a thought hits me, its clarity giving me a physical jolt—this is what it feels like to die. This is how it feels to die alone. And then Aragorn is leaning over me, like somehow I knew he would be, his hands on me, the hands of a king, the hands of a healer, moving frantically across my body, hands that have never before not known what to do. He moves to pull out an arrow, and I reach to stop him. It is too late. “Leave it.” I am surprised at how steady my voice is. It hurts to speak. It hurts to breathe. For the first time, his eyes meet mine. Gray eyes, dry eyes, full of pain. Ah, Aragorn, you wept for Gandalf in the black night—when will you weep for me? “I have failed you all. It is over. All will come to darkness, my city to ruin…” I hardly know of whom I am speaking—failed him? Failed myself? I will never see the White Tower again, my father, my brother…I feel the familiar weight of my sword in my palm, and my fingers weakly grasp the hilt. I can feel my eyes closing, my strength draining from me, but there is one more thing I must say. He would not take my pledge as we lay together in the darkness, as we lay as lovers in each other’s arms, but maybe he will take it now, now that it is too late. “I would have followed you,” I whisper. “My brother. My captain. My king.” And now the dark mist is too strong to fight off, so I do not see his eyes as he kisses my forehead for the last time, as I remember how they looked shining out of the dark, as they looked at me full of love. As blackness overtakes me, I feel a single tear fall on my face, Aragorn’s tear. He loved Gandalf. He loved me. And we are both gone.