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alex_quine
Jul. 31st, 2010 03:31 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wordsontongueTitle: Sight
Author:caras_galadhon
Characters: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Beta:savageseraph
Request: Characters - Aragorn, Boromir; Prompt(s) or general mood(s) - oil & water
Disclaimer: Aragorn, Boromir, Middle-earth and related characters and settings are property J.R.R. Tolkien and the Tolkien Estate. No infringement intended.
Summary: Boromir would no longer stand for the Ranger's tricks.
Author's Note: I hope it's to your liking, Alex!
This would no longer do.
Since the moment the party left Rivendell -- No, before then, since the moment they had met, the Ranger had been campaigning to usurp Boromir's leadership.
Time after time, the man had inserted himself between Boromir's suggestions and others' eager ears, and each time his words had won out over Boromir's own, some borrowed Elvish trick overriding sense with nonsense. Why, what was he but some ragged Ranger of the North, one of an unruly band of vagabonds, claiming ancient noble lineage that had long since crumbled into dust? Without a doubt, he did not have the knowledge nor the experience that Boromir could boast, and years lost in the wild could not compare to living in the shadow of the Nameless One.
And now here they were, consigned to a foolish quest, eight hearts fixed on destroying the only true weapon against the Enemy. Eight thick heads, eyes and minds clouded by words of witchcraft, following the wandering heir of a broken line.
And only Boromir was left with the clear sight to see beyond such foolhardy notions.
He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. The halfling was too deep in Aragorn's thrall, and would not see the reason Boromir offered; the wizard was not meant to be trusted, for that was the nature of all sorcerers; and the elf and dwarf were too consumed with their own quarrels to rise above footsoldiering and scouting.
Boromir's gaze flickered across the campfire's flames to the figures just beyond its dying light. The halfling called Sam was once again urging Frodo to eat even as the two others, Merry and Pippin, squabbled over a piece of bread. Gandalf, sitting upright on a fallen log, appeared to be asleep, his chin nodding lower and lower to rest upon his chest and beard, though Boromir knew better than to believe such a ploy. Legolas and Gimli were at odds and on first watch -- doubled up as a precaution against whatever master the crebain belonged to -- but the Ranger himself was naught to be found.
If there was a moment in which to confront Aragorn and bring to light his folly, it was now.
Waiting until he was sure no eyes were on him, Boromir rose and walked the few steps away from the firelight, conscious of the moment at which darkness enveloped him enough to all but make him disappear. From there, it was simply a matter of following his nose and the stomach churning scent of westmansweed.
Not far from their camp, a wisp of smoke curled around a low-hanging branch, the sickly-sweet stench of burning herbs signalling that Boromir was on the right track. Yet while he looked around the small stand of trees, he could not see hide nor hair of Aragorn.
That is, until a tap on his shoulder had him wheeling around, ready for attack.
"Calm yourself, Boromir," Aragorn murmured, grasping Boromir's wrist before he could fully draw his sword, "there is nothing to fear here but neekerbreekers and the Great Spiders' tiny cousins."
Boromir could feel his hackles rising at no more than the sound of the man's voice. "I fear nothing," he growled, shaking off Aragorn's hand, "but what madness you steer the Fellowship towards."
The mild look on Aragorn's face only served to enrage Boromir further. "We each agreed to follow the Ringbearer, Son of Gondor. He is the star by which we pilot our ship, not I." Aragorn casually leaned against the trunk of a tree, body lithe and muscular, expression relaxed and open, for all the world acting as if they were discussing the weather, not the fate of all the Free Peoples and Gondor itself.
"I have watched you, Ranger. You are the hissing voice in his ear. You counsel him to march towards certain death. The death of us all." Boromir's fists clenched at the thought of Minas Tirith toppling, crumbling under the might of the Enemy. Blinded by visions of blood and pain, he lashed out, shoving at Aragorn, and was rewarded with a quiet grunt and the rustle of leaves.
Yet before he could draw back and away, he felt a hand tighten around his throat, and another at his shoulder, an impressive amount of force thrusting his whole body back a handful of steps until an oak stopped all movement. Boromir bit down on his bottom lip, muffling the cry that threatened as a sharp pain spiked up his spine. He pushed against Aragorn's hold, scrabbling to wrest his hand from his neck, but Aragorn's fingers simply tightened until black spots danced in front of Boromir's eyes, his ears ringing, his lungs aching. Boromir's grip failed him, his hands slipping to his sides, but just as his knees and vision threatened to give out entirely, Aragorn's hold loosened, and blessed air rushed back into Boromir's lungs. He gasped, gulping down the cool night, his whole being focussed on fighting off the desire to simply collapse at Aragorn's feet.
As the ringing in Boromir's ears subsided, he caught snippets of sound that resolved themselves into words. "...watched you, little lord, and have seen what you yourself will not. I know you look upon me with far more than suspicion. I have seen that look in many a soldier's eyes. You do yourself no good by pretending it is not there."
Boromir blinked and swallowed, struggling to regain his bearings. He felt as if the fight had drained out of him, yet there stood Aragorn, close enough for Boromir to feel the heat of his breath, angrier than Boromir had seen him in all the days they had travelled together. "No. No, I sought you out because I fear for our Fellowship, not for any prurien--"
"Enough."
Boromir's protest curled up and perished on his tongue.
"You sought me out for the selfsame reason I allowed myself to be found: you desire no audience, no airing of griefs, merely time alone with a fellow warrior. Time in which to feel one another out, to breach defences." Aragorn's hand slid from Boromir's shoulder down the long line of his arm to shift and settle on his hip. "What other reason would have you waiting until nightfall, until all the rest of our company are engaged to come to me?" His thumb pressed lightly against Boromir's windpipe before stroking gently across his skin.
An involuntary shudder ran through Boromir. The Ranger's words were lies, more poison poured into a willing ear, oily conceits that mixed not well with the waters of Boromir's body. Yet like a hanged man made erect by the pleasure of his own demise, Boromir's flesh began to respond, hardening, filling, turning traitor on its own master.
Aragorn's breath was sweet against Boromir's cheek. "I have known you longer than you have known yourself. I have known your desires far longer than any other." The rough prickle of stubble drew a soft groan from Boromir's treasonous lungs. "Your eyes hide little that I do not see." He shifted, nudging his knee between Boromir's thighs, brushing cloth aside until he could settle his palm against the front of Boromir's breeches.
Gathering the shreds of his wits, Boromir finally found the wherewithal to lift his arms, fully intending to push Aragorn away. Yet as Aragorn's clever fingers curled and squeezed his heated flesh, Boromir found himself encircling Aragorn's back, resting his hands against Aragorn's shoulderblades even as his hips rose, pressing the length of him against Aragorn's hand.
He heard rather than saw the smile on Aragorn's lips, caught as he was in the crackle and snap of sensation through his being. "Deny my words now, Boromir. Tell me your body lies even as your voice cracks with the truth."
Boromir swallowed, wet his lips, marshalling his forces for one final defence. He parted his lips, waiting for the protest that was still to come, praying it would not linger much longer when Aragorn's mouth at last came down on Boromir's own, the taste of sweet herbs and salt overwhelming him.
There was no gentleness in that claiming kiss; Boromir moaned as Aragorn explored his mouth, all tongue and teeth and a hunger that rivalled Boromir's own. He could feel it rising, desire hot and thick in his throat, and he found himself pressing ever forward, grinding his hips against Aragorn's.
Elation rushed through him as Aragorn pressed back, his own prick unmistakeably hard against Boromir's thigh. This was more than he dared to hope for, more than he had considered, even in the darkest depths of the night, when none but the Ring whispered to him, promising the safety and security of those he loved. If Aragorn wanted him, if he needed him, perhaps there was hope for them after all. Perhaps Aragorn would listen to his counsel, and if he would not turn Frodo from his path, perhaps he could be persuaded to join Boromir and travel to the White City. There, the two of them would lead the charge against the Enemy: twin warriors, twin beacons; two halves of one whole.
He bucked against Aragorn, moaning into his mouth, Boromir's blunt nails catching in the cloth at Aragorn's back. It had been so very long since Boromir had been able to take pleasure in another man's body, and even longer since he had considered that pleasure and affection might be the first rooting of something more. He let his hands drift lower, tugging at Aragorn's tunic, searching for bare skin.
Abruptly, Aragorn pushed him back against the trunk of the oak. He reached for Boromir's wrists, gripping them firmly as he untangled himself from Boromir's embrace.
"What...?" Boromir strained to regain contact, arching and shifting and meeting nothing but empty air. He searched Aragorn's face for some clue, but Aragorn's expression mirrored his own, his chest heaving, desire plain in every movement.
Aragorn shook his head, the passion that had so recently gripped him seeming to fade even as he raised Boromir's wrists to his lips, kissing each one before releasing them. "Shh. Someone is approaching." Boromir strained his ears, catching the distant snap of a tree branch and a short burst of sound; sure markers that hobbits were on their way.
At that, Aragorn stepped back from Boromir, and a moment later he was gone, only the echoes of quiet footfalls on grass a marker of his passing.
With the loss of the Ranger, silence settled back into place, not a murmur to be heard but for the thundering of Boromir's heart.
Embarrassment blooming hot on his cheeks, Boromir closed his eyes, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He tasted iron and shame in the back of his throat, testament to how easily he allowed the Ranger to sway him from his path, seduction overriding sense.
The man was clever, that was certain. He had seen into Boromir's heart, sized, weighed and judged him to be a man of action, and had known exactly how to manipulate his emotions, to neatly sidestep the overwhelming question: how to turn their party from their folly before they were all made corpses by the orcs that were even now surely on their heels.
Boromir straightened his clothes, tucking and tugging everything back into place, finding his own dignity returning to him little by little. Once he was feeling more himself, he strode back towards camp, resolved to confront Aragorn at the next opportunity. The Ranger could no longer be allowed to take the lead, not when he was so assuredly foolish, not when he so obviously did not know his own mind. None of this could be allowed to stand; the folly of his companions, the blinded guidance of this inexperienced, sightless, stunted Ranger was leading the lot of them to certain doom. No, none of this could be tolerated for one moment more.
Indeed, this would no longer do.
Author:
caras_galadhonCharacters: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Beta:
savageseraph Request: Characters - Aragorn, Boromir; Prompt(s) or general mood(s) - oil & water
Disclaimer: Aragorn, Boromir, Middle-earth and related characters and settings are property J.R.R. Tolkien and the Tolkien Estate. No infringement intended.
Summary: Boromir would no longer stand for the Ranger's tricks.
Author's Note: I hope it's to your liking, Alex!
This would no longer do.
Since the moment the party left Rivendell -- No, before then, since the moment they had met, the Ranger had been campaigning to usurp Boromir's leadership.
Time after time, the man had inserted himself between Boromir's suggestions and others' eager ears, and each time his words had won out over Boromir's own, some borrowed Elvish trick overriding sense with nonsense. Why, what was he but some ragged Ranger of the North, one of an unruly band of vagabonds, claiming ancient noble lineage that had long since crumbled into dust? Without a doubt, he did not have the knowledge nor the experience that Boromir could boast, and years lost in the wild could not compare to living in the shadow of the Nameless One.
And now here they were, consigned to a foolish quest, eight hearts fixed on destroying the only true weapon against the Enemy. Eight thick heads, eyes and minds clouded by words of witchcraft, following the wandering heir of a broken line.
And only Boromir was left with the clear sight to see beyond such foolhardy notions.
He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. The halfling was too deep in Aragorn's thrall, and would not see the reason Boromir offered; the wizard was not meant to be trusted, for that was the nature of all sorcerers; and the elf and dwarf were too consumed with their own quarrels to rise above footsoldiering and scouting.
Boromir's gaze flickered across the campfire's flames to the figures just beyond its dying light. The halfling called Sam was once again urging Frodo to eat even as the two others, Merry and Pippin, squabbled over a piece of bread. Gandalf, sitting upright on a fallen log, appeared to be asleep, his chin nodding lower and lower to rest upon his chest and beard, though Boromir knew better than to believe such a ploy. Legolas and Gimli were at odds and on first watch -- doubled up as a precaution against whatever master the crebain belonged to -- but the Ranger himself was naught to be found.
If there was a moment in which to confront Aragorn and bring to light his folly, it was now.
Waiting until he was sure no eyes were on him, Boromir rose and walked the few steps away from the firelight, conscious of the moment at which darkness enveloped him enough to all but make him disappear. From there, it was simply a matter of following his nose and the stomach churning scent of westmansweed.
Not far from their camp, a wisp of smoke curled around a low-hanging branch, the sickly-sweet stench of burning herbs signalling that Boromir was on the right track. Yet while he looked around the small stand of trees, he could not see hide nor hair of Aragorn.
That is, until a tap on his shoulder had him wheeling around, ready for attack.
"Calm yourself, Boromir," Aragorn murmured, grasping Boromir's wrist before he could fully draw his sword, "there is nothing to fear here but neekerbreekers and the Great Spiders' tiny cousins."
Boromir could feel his hackles rising at no more than the sound of the man's voice. "I fear nothing," he growled, shaking off Aragorn's hand, "but what madness you steer the Fellowship towards."
The mild look on Aragorn's face only served to enrage Boromir further. "We each agreed to follow the Ringbearer, Son of Gondor. He is the star by which we pilot our ship, not I." Aragorn casually leaned against the trunk of a tree, body lithe and muscular, expression relaxed and open, for all the world acting as if they were discussing the weather, not the fate of all the Free Peoples and Gondor itself.
"I have watched you, Ranger. You are the hissing voice in his ear. You counsel him to march towards certain death. The death of us all." Boromir's fists clenched at the thought of Minas Tirith toppling, crumbling under the might of the Enemy. Blinded by visions of blood and pain, he lashed out, shoving at Aragorn, and was rewarded with a quiet grunt and the rustle of leaves.
Yet before he could draw back and away, he felt a hand tighten around his throat, and another at his shoulder, an impressive amount of force thrusting his whole body back a handful of steps until an oak stopped all movement. Boromir bit down on his bottom lip, muffling the cry that threatened as a sharp pain spiked up his spine. He pushed against Aragorn's hold, scrabbling to wrest his hand from his neck, but Aragorn's fingers simply tightened until black spots danced in front of Boromir's eyes, his ears ringing, his lungs aching. Boromir's grip failed him, his hands slipping to his sides, but just as his knees and vision threatened to give out entirely, Aragorn's hold loosened, and blessed air rushed back into Boromir's lungs. He gasped, gulping down the cool night, his whole being focussed on fighting off the desire to simply collapse at Aragorn's feet.
As the ringing in Boromir's ears subsided, he caught snippets of sound that resolved themselves into words. "...watched you, little lord, and have seen what you yourself will not. I know you look upon me with far more than suspicion. I have seen that look in many a soldier's eyes. You do yourself no good by pretending it is not there."
Boromir blinked and swallowed, struggling to regain his bearings. He felt as if the fight had drained out of him, yet there stood Aragorn, close enough for Boromir to feel the heat of his breath, angrier than Boromir had seen him in all the days they had travelled together. "No. No, I sought you out because I fear for our Fellowship, not for any prurien--"
"Enough."
Boromir's protest curled up and perished on his tongue.
"You sought me out for the selfsame reason I allowed myself to be found: you desire no audience, no airing of griefs, merely time alone with a fellow warrior. Time in which to feel one another out, to breach defences." Aragorn's hand slid from Boromir's shoulder down the long line of his arm to shift and settle on his hip. "What other reason would have you waiting until nightfall, until all the rest of our company are engaged to come to me?" His thumb pressed lightly against Boromir's windpipe before stroking gently across his skin.
An involuntary shudder ran through Boromir. The Ranger's words were lies, more poison poured into a willing ear, oily conceits that mixed not well with the waters of Boromir's body. Yet like a hanged man made erect by the pleasure of his own demise, Boromir's flesh began to respond, hardening, filling, turning traitor on its own master.
Aragorn's breath was sweet against Boromir's cheek. "I have known you longer than you have known yourself. I have known your desires far longer than any other." The rough prickle of stubble drew a soft groan from Boromir's treasonous lungs. "Your eyes hide little that I do not see." He shifted, nudging his knee between Boromir's thighs, brushing cloth aside until he could settle his palm against the front of Boromir's breeches.
Gathering the shreds of his wits, Boromir finally found the wherewithal to lift his arms, fully intending to push Aragorn away. Yet as Aragorn's clever fingers curled and squeezed his heated flesh, Boromir found himself encircling Aragorn's back, resting his hands against Aragorn's shoulderblades even as his hips rose, pressing the length of him against Aragorn's hand.
He heard rather than saw the smile on Aragorn's lips, caught as he was in the crackle and snap of sensation through his being. "Deny my words now, Boromir. Tell me your body lies even as your voice cracks with the truth."
Boromir swallowed, wet his lips, marshalling his forces for one final defence. He parted his lips, waiting for the protest that was still to come, praying it would not linger much longer when Aragorn's mouth at last came down on Boromir's own, the taste of sweet herbs and salt overwhelming him.
There was no gentleness in that claiming kiss; Boromir moaned as Aragorn explored his mouth, all tongue and teeth and a hunger that rivalled Boromir's own. He could feel it rising, desire hot and thick in his throat, and he found himself pressing ever forward, grinding his hips against Aragorn's.
Elation rushed through him as Aragorn pressed back, his own prick unmistakeably hard against Boromir's thigh. This was more than he dared to hope for, more than he had considered, even in the darkest depths of the night, when none but the Ring whispered to him, promising the safety and security of those he loved. If Aragorn wanted him, if he needed him, perhaps there was hope for them after all. Perhaps Aragorn would listen to his counsel, and if he would not turn Frodo from his path, perhaps he could be persuaded to join Boromir and travel to the White City. There, the two of them would lead the charge against the Enemy: twin warriors, twin beacons; two halves of one whole.
He bucked against Aragorn, moaning into his mouth, Boromir's blunt nails catching in the cloth at Aragorn's back. It had been so very long since Boromir had been able to take pleasure in another man's body, and even longer since he had considered that pleasure and affection might be the first rooting of something more. He let his hands drift lower, tugging at Aragorn's tunic, searching for bare skin.
Abruptly, Aragorn pushed him back against the trunk of the oak. He reached for Boromir's wrists, gripping them firmly as he untangled himself from Boromir's embrace.
"What...?" Boromir strained to regain contact, arching and shifting and meeting nothing but empty air. He searched Aragorn's face for some clue, but Aragorn's expression mirrored his own, his chest heaving, desire plain in every movement.
Aragorn shook his head, the passion that had so recently gripped him seeming to fade even as he raised Boromir's wrists to his lips, kissing each one before releasing them. "Shh. Someone is approaching." Boromir strained his ears, catching the distant snap of a tree branch and a short burst of sound; sure markers that hobbits were on their way.
At that, Aragorn stepped back from Boromir, and a moment later he was gone, only the echoes of quiet footfalls on grass a marker of his passing.
With the loss of the Ranger, silence settled back into place, not a murmur to be heard but for the thundering of Boromir's heart.
Embarrassment blooming hot on his cheeks, Boromir closed his eyes, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He tasted iron and shame in the back of his throat, testament to how easily he allowed the Ranger to sway him from his path, seduction overriding sense.
The man was clever, that was certain. He had seen into Boromir's heart, sized, weighed and judged him to be a man of action, and had known exactly how to manipulate his emotions, to neatly sidestep the overwhelming question: how to turn their party from their folly before they were all made corpses by the orcs that were even now surely on their heels.
Boromir straightened his clothes, tucking and tugging everything back into place, finding his own dignity returning to him little by little. Once he was feeling more himself, he strode back towards camp, resolved to confront Aragorn at the next opportunity. The Ranger could no longer be allowed to take the lead, not when he was so assuredly foolish, not when he so obviously did not know his own mind. None of this could be allowed to stand; the folly of his companions, the blinded guidance of this inexperienced, sightless, stunted Ranger was leading the lot of them to certain doom. No, none of this could be tolerated for one moment more.
Indeed, this would no longer do.
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