Title: Trust
Author: Sandcat, sandcat12@aol.com
Pairing: Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: NC17 
Summary: Boromir is conflicted. Aragorn tries to help. 
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I receive any compensation 
for their use. I write these stories for my own enjoyment and for anyone else 
who wishes to read them. 
Warning: Mixed movie and book cannon, but mostly movie. 
Author’s Note: This is not a “hearts and flowers” romantic kind of story.
If Boromir had survived, it’s possible that he and Aragorn might have become 
rivals for the throne of Gondor, despite his dying admission at the end of 
the FotR. 


Trust

When he first arrived at Imladris, Boromir’s thoughts were filled with hope 
and dread, his expectations high but tempered with doubt. His soul was 
troubled by the strange dream which he and his brother Faramir had shared, 
and which he hoped the elven lord Elrond would help him decipher. It was said 
that Elrond was wise beyond human knowledge, and that his memory ran deep in 
time. And as Boromir and his brother suspected that their dream held the key 
to Gondor’s survival, it was decided that he should make the difficult 
journey to Imladris to seek the elf’s counsel.

Boromir had not expected to find other visitors at Elrond’s ancient dwelling, 
especially not the three hobbits. Halflings were not unheard of in Minas 
Tirith, though they were creatures more of legend than fact. Fascinated, he 
stared at the three diminutive beings, knowing it was rude but unable to stop 
himself. Only the arrival of the Ranger later identified as Aragorn, 
Isildur’s heir, finally drew his attention away from the hobbits. 

The man was tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes the color of the sea. At 
first Boromir thought him less than impressive, certainly not what he’d 
expected as the descendant of kings. But when he spoke it was with quiet 
conviction, and his words made sense in Boromir’s mind even if they stirred 
resistance in his heart. For here was the man who would someday take his 
beloved Minas Tirith for his own and sit upon the throne of Gondor. The man 
who would have his father step aside and steal Boromir’s destiny. 

“Gondor has no king,” Boromir said, speaking harshly. “Gondor needs no
king.”

So it had been, and so he believed it should be. Yet he knew truth when he 
heard it. His family’s rule was coming to an end. It was a difficult thing 
for Boromir to accept, even more difficult than accepting the fact that the 
young Halfling, the one called Frodo, was deemed fit to carry the One Ring 
into Mordor and cast it into the Cracks of Doom.  How could such a small, 
fragile creature be strong enough to resist the Ring’s power? And yet, Elrond 
had given his consent to this, deciding that eight of the council members 
should accompany Frodo on his journey and naming them the Fellowship of the 
Ring.

Aragorn, too, accepted this idea. A waste, Boromir thought. A terrible waste 
of something that might be used to defeat the Enemy. Aragorn had said that 
none but Sauron could wield it. Boromir knew this was likely true, but he 
wanted to at least try. The Ring was Isildur’s Bane, as spoke of in his 
dream-vision. It seemed only fitting that the thing which had been Isildur’s 
downfall should now be put to use to save Gondor and all Middle-Earth.

Boromir retired to his rooms, shaken by what had passed. Elrond’s 
interpretation of his dream did not sit well with him, and he decided to put 
it from his thoughts for the time being. He did not attend the lavish dinner 
Elrond ordered prepared in their honor. Instead, he sat in his chamber 
brooding and drinking wine from a silver cup inscribed with elvish runes.

He dozed a while, waking when someone knocked sharply on the door. He 
blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. It was late, 
and the room was very dark. 

“Come in,” he called, thinking that someone had finally arrived to light the 
fire and the lamps. But it was not a servant who stood framed in the 
gracefully arched doorway.

“Boromir,” Aragorn said, stepping into the room. 

“What do you want?” he said, not bothering to keep the irritation from his 
voice. His eyes were bloodshot and his words were slightly slurred.

“Nothing. You were missed at dinner. We were concerned, that’s all. We 
thought you might be ill.”

Boromir smiled without humor. “I’m fine, as you can see. Now if that is all 
you want to know, you may leave.” 

Aragorn sighed and shut the door quietly behind him. He searched for a flint 
and striker, then lit several of the lamps placed about the room. 

“But you are not all right, my friend” he said, sitting down across from 
Boromir. He was dressed in rich blue velvet robes, embroidered at the collar 
with an intricate silver leaf design. His long dark hair was combed and his 
beard was neatly trimmed, giving him a much more noble appearance than he’d 
displayed earlier. 

Boromir tensed with anger at the sight of him, the easy grace with which he 
moved. How arrogant he was, to invade his room like this, calling him his 
friend when he knew quite well that they were, in fact, rivals. 

“Are you a physician, then?” he asked, reaching for more wine. He didn't 
offer any to Aragorn, who did not appear offended, but merely watched him 
steadily. Boromir chafed under the calm, assured gaze. 

“I am a healer,” Aragorn said, “of sorts.”

“It appears that you are a great many things,” Boromir said, draining his 
cup. “A ranger, Isuldir’s heir, and a healer. Of sorts. Unfortunately, I 
have no need for any of those things.”

He expected Aragorn to take the hint. When he made no move to leave, 
Boromir’s temper erupted and he threw the silver cup across the room, 
narrowly missing Aragorn’s head. The Ranger didn’t flinch.

“By the Valar, man,” Boromir said, getting to his feet, “will you let me
be!”

Aragorn stood, ready to meet his anger. “No, my friend. Not until I am sure 
you will be all right.”

Boromir took a step forward, fists clenched, before he gained control of 
himself. “I would have you leave,” he said in a low voice. “Now, before I
do 
something I will come to regret.”

“Then we must make sure that you do nothing that will cause you
regret,” Aragorn said softly.

Boromir snorted. “You speak as if you think there is agreement between us.”

“I know better than to think that,” Aragorn admitted. “But that does not 
mean there cannot be peace between us. Indeed, the success of our mission 
depends upon it.”

Boromir’s laughter filled the chamber. “It has very little chance of success 
as it is, Ranger.”

“Then why did you agree to be part of the Fellowship?” Aragorn’s voice
held 
a slight note of reproach.

Suddenly Boromir felt very tired, as though all the anger had drained out of 
him. His broad shoulders slumped. He raised his arms, then let them fall to 
his sides. He did not want to admit that his true reasons were unclear, 
preferring to leave his motives buried for the moment. The wine made him 
unsteady on his feet, and he felt the floor tilting beneath him.

“Because,” he said at last, “very little chance is better than no chance
at 
all. And I have never declined to undertake a dangerous task, if it be in the 
interest of the people of Gondor.”

“You are brave and passionate indeed,” the Ranger agreed. “But you’ve
had 
too much to drink and your passions are misplaced. We will speak of this 
another time. Come, let me help you.”

Aragorn reached out to touch Boromir’s shoulder. Boromir seized his wrist in 
an iron grip, and with a speed that was startling.

“I do not need your help,” Boromir growled.

“I disagree. We must learn to help each other, if we are to survive.”

“I trust you not, Ranger,” Boromir said.

“But I trust you,” Aragorn said. 

“Then you are a fool.”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, I know you to be a man of honor, and you would not 
spill another man’s blood without good reason.” His sea-green eyes slid to 
the hand holding his wrist. “Nor break the bones of a man offering his hand 
in friendship.”

Aragorn was surprised to see a small smile pulling the corners of Boromir’s 
mouth.

“We will never be friends,” he said, releasing his hold. 

“As long as we are not enemies,” Aragorn said, rubbing his wrist, “it will 
be enough.”

Boromir drew in a deep, uneasy breath. He didn’t like the turn their words 
had taken. He wanted very much to hate this man, and was deeply surprised to 
find that he didn’t. Certainly he hated what this man would do if he survived 
the journey and the war they both knew was coming. As he often did, Boromir 
wondered why his ancestors were content with the title of Steward of Gondor, 
when they were king in all but name.

He should be the mortal enemy of Aragorn. He was a threat to everything that 
was important to Boromir. And yet, the man himself...

Boromir’s head swam, and cursed himself for not eating something before 
drinking so much wine. He shook his head, unable to clear thoughts of the One 
Ring from his mind. How seductively it had gleamed in the sunlight, 
whispering to him of victory and glory for Gondor. And for him, as well.  It 
took all his concentration to force the shining golden image from his 
thoughts.

“Please leave now,” he said. “I am very tired.”

“You look ready to drop,” Aragorn said, a mere second before he actually 
did. 

Overcome with wine and anger, Boromir felt his legs give under him and 
prepared himself for the fall. But rather than meeting the hard floor, he 
felt strong hands catch him. He heard a sharp intake of breath as Aragorn 
bore the unexpected weight, staggering a little as he slid his arms under 
Boromir’s. 

“You are very heavy,” he said, grimacing as he heaved Boromir onto the high 
mattress. “For once I wish elves weren’t quite so tall. And elven wine not 
so potent.”

Half conscious, Boromir fell onto his back, then felt his legs being lifted 
and swung onto the bed. 

“Well,” Aragorn said, “I suppose the least I can do is make you as 
comfortable as possible.”

He set about pulling off the travel-stained boots, then removed the fine 
tunic of dark red velvet and the linen undergarment, placing them on a nearby 
table. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should do anything else. 
Intrigued despite himself, his eyes lingered over Boromir’s supine body.

The son of Denethor was as beautifully proportioned as any statue in 
Imladris, an image of masculine perfection. If the skin was marred by more 
than a few pale battle scars, the form was flawless. Boromir was lean and 
well muscled, though not heavily so. His gaze traveled the length of the 
long, powerful arms to the large, calloused hands, the fingers slightly cur
led on the coverlet. No wonder his wrist still stung. The man was probably 
strong enough to strangle a horse. For a brief moment he allowed himself to 
wonder what that skin would feel like, if he were to run his hand lightly 
over it...

Just then Boromir’s eyes opened, focusing on his with sudden clarity, and a 
stab of guilt shot through him. For a fleeting moment, he had the impression 
that Boromir knew exactly what he’d been thinking about.

“What are you doing?” Boromir asked. 

“Putting you to bed,” Aragorn said, obviously ill at ease. “You’ve had
too 
much to drink.”

“I know.” Boromir smiled again, amused. He was displeased with himself for 
failing to hate the man, though it didn’t lessen his enjoyment at making the 
Ranger feel uncomfortable. “Why don’t you join me?”

Aragorn stood very still for a long while. “I don’t think that would be a 
good idea.” 

“Why not?” he asked. “I recognize the look in your eye. I’ve been around 
soldiers long enough to know it’s meaning.”

“The wine has addled your wits.”

“No doubt it has,” Boromir sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. 
“Still, if you are afraid...”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re doing.”

Boromir raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“You feel threatened by me because I am Isuldir’s heir,” Aragorn said,
“and 
you are trying to scandalize me, since you are too drunk to fight.”

Boromir laughed, flashing white teeth in the lamplight. “Need I remind you 
that it was you who sought me out, claiming concern for my health. What am I 
to think when you refuse to leave my room, though I’ve asked you several 
times to do so. And now I wake to find you’ve undressed me, and stand there 
looking at me with desire in your eyes. Tell me, which of us is trying to 
intimidate the other?”

“I seek only your friendship, Boromir.”

“And I have offered you something else instead. Accept my offer, or go now 
and leave me alone.”

“I think you would be surprised if I accepted.”

“It would be a mistake to underestimate me, Aragorn.”

“Very well,” he said. “I accept your offer.”

Boromir grinned, watching as Aragorn undressed slowly and deliberately, never 
once taking his gaze from the other man’s. When he was naked, Aragorn slipped 
onto the bed next to Boromir, who took his time admiring the Ranger’s long, 
lean body.

“Finish what you started,” Boromir said, indicating his breeches. Aragorn 
gave him a hard stare, but complied. He sat up and undid the breeches, 
smiling a little when Boromir raised his hips to let him slide the garment 
down his legs.

Aragorn dropped the garment to the floor. He started to say something else, 
but stopped when Boromir’s hands gripped his shoulders and slammed him 
roughly onto the bed. A moment later Boromir lay half on top of him, holding 
him down and throwing one leg over the Ranger’s as if though he thought 
Aragorn might suddenly change his mind and flee.

“You trust me, do you?” Boromir breathed into his ear.

“The Valar help me, but I do.”

“Then we shall find out how far your trust extends.”

Slowly, making a game of it, Boromir took the lobe of Aragorn’s ear between 
his teeth, biting just hard enough to make him wince. He moved his lips 
lightly over Aragorn’s neck, tongue licking the sensitive skin, pausing now 
and then to administer another bite. At the same time his hand slid down over 
Aragorn’s belly, caressing the lean, sinewy hip before closing his fingers 
around the throbbing shaft between his legs. 

“You are quickly aroused,” Boromir chuckled. “Has it been long since last 
you were pleasured?”

“It must have been very long ago indeed,” Aragorn said, “if you are able
to 
stir my blood so.”

For a moment Boromir drew back, surprised. Then he laughed and kissed Aragorn 
full upon the mouth, hard and deep. Aragorn responded in kind, savoring the 
taste of sweet wine on Boromir’s tongue. Soon both men were damp with sweat, 
their breath coming fast and rough.

“You give as good as you get, Ranger,” Boromir said when they parted for
air.

In answer, Aragorn snaked an arm around Boromir’s neck and forced him down 
for another kiss. It didn’t last long. Boromir broke away, though Aragorn did 
not allow him to go easily. 

“It seems we are to be rivals in all things,” Aragorn said, smiling wryly.

“You talk too much,” Boromir said. 

“No more words, then,” Aragorn agreed.

With that, the Ranger escaped Boromir’s hold. As expected, the larger man was 
unwilling to let him go. The struggle was brief and intense, ceasing only 
when Aragorn managed to pin Boromir to the bed. Then he quickly bent down and 
closed his mouth firmly around the tip of Boromir’s manhood. At once his body 
stiffened in resistance, then relaxed into the intense sensations Aragorn’s 
lips and tongue roused in him. Boromir had no choice but to surrender to his 
rival’s attentions. He writhed, moaning, hands clutching the mattress in an 
agony of unexpected pleasure. 

Aragorn was pitiless. He drove Boromir to the brink of orgasm again and 
again, always stopping just before the crucial moment to enjoy his conquest. 

“Please,” Boromir gasped, not caring that it was humiliating for the son of 
the Steward of Gondor to beg. “Finish it.”

“When I’m ready,” Aragorn said, tongue flicking over taut, silky skin.

Boromir groaned in despair, knowing that Aragorn was determined to wring 
every last ounce of pride out of him. He lay shuddering, drenched in sweat, 
until at last he could endure no more. Aragorn let him come, smiling as he 
watched his seed burst into the air in a hot, white jet of sticky fluid, 
covering them both. 

Only Aragorn wasn’t through with him yet. Taking advantage of Boromir’s 
temporarily weakened state, he wrestled him onto his stomach.

“No!” Boromir cried, realizing what Aragorn intended. 

Ignoring his protest, Aragorn leaned forward and whispered into Boromir’s ear.

“You are a man used to being in control. But you are not in control now, not 
even of yourself. Yield, Boromir. There is no shame in this.”

Furious, Boromir renewed his efforts to escape Aragorn’s embrace. Even 
half-drunk and exhausted, he put up a valiant fight. But the Ranger had 
learned many things in his years of roaming the world, ways of fighting that 
Boromir was unfamiliar with. He could not escape, no matter how he tried. 
Finally, no longer willing or able to resist, he sank down into the mattress 
and lay still. 

He closed his eyes as Aragorn slowly entered him. There was pain at first, 
but he forced his muscles to relax and was soon moving in response to the 
thrusts, faster and faster until Aragorn gasped and fell, spent, onto 
Boromir’s back.

Boromir lay silent, ashamed not so much at the pleasure he’d experienced, but 
at the fact that it was at the hands of this particular man.

“Get off of me,” Boromir said at last, his voice rough.

Aragorn slid aside, pushing strands of damp hair from his face. Before he had 
a chance to recover his breath, Boromir struck him hard in the face, knocking 
him from the bed. Stunned, Aragorn touched his mouth and found his fingers 
wet with blood. His lip was split, and no doubt his jaw would ache for 
several days.

“You may have won this particular battle, Aragorn,” he said darkly, “but
you 
have not yet won the war.”

“Is there war between us?” Aragorn asked, shaking his head sadly. “I have 
only done what you would have done to me. And far more gently.”

Boromir didn’t deny it. Had he been able, he would have inflicted as much 
pain as pleasure on Aragorn, as punishment for awakening such feelings within 
him. His throat tightened at the sight of Isildur’s heir, sitting naked on 
the floor, blood dripping from his chin, gazing up at him with such 
compassion in his eyes. Compassion, and something else.

“Boromir, I -”

“Don’t,” Boromir hissed, closing his eyes.

Nodding, Aragorn stood and began gathering his clothes. Boromir also got up 
and dressed quickly, not risking so much as a glance at the other man.

“Will you go now,” he said, “since you have obtained what you came for?”

“Have you have learned nothing, Boromir?” Aragorn asked. “I would be your 
friend, and more, if your great pride would allow it. We should be allies, 
not rivals.”

“You ask the impossible. We will never be friends. Allies, perhaps, as needs 
must until we reach Minas Tirith. But nothing more.”

“I only thought to ease your pain a little,” Aragorn said softly.

“Indeed?” Boromir sneered. “I think you meant to tame me, Ranger. Show me 
who is the lord and who is the servant. Well, you have done so. Now leave me.”

Aragorn lowered his eyes, accepting Boromir’s words. They did not look at 
each other as Aragorn left, nor did they speak. There was, Boromir thought, 
nothing left to say. 

Alone, he sat before the cold, empty hearth and held his head in his hands, 
silently despairing. How could he have fallen in love with this man, this 
Ranger who was also heir to Gondor’s throne? For love was what he felt for 
the tall man with the sea-green eyes; love, and much more besides. 

They had a long and difficult journey ahead of them. He was a warrior, and he 
knew how to fight an enemy he hated. But how to fight an enemy he loved? How 
to deal with a man he wanted to both caress and wound in the same moment?

He sat wakeful until nearly dawn, pondering what to do. In the end he decided 
that he would keep his sentiments buried deep in his heart, alongside the 
pain and bitterness that dwelt there. He would only secretly acknowledge 
Aragorn as his brother, his lover, and his king. To speak of this was 
unthinkable, and he vowed he would never say the words Aragorn wanted to 
hear. 

Not while there was life within him. 


The End