Shriven
by Lullenny
email: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
*
Till my guilty soul be shriven. --Longfellow.
*
Boromir shifts restlessly on his seat as the Fellowship drifts down
the river in elven boats. He hears a fell voice say his name, but
it is only the wind hissing in the rushes, the thin cry of a bird,
water lapping the gray wood of the boat's hull. The near shore
seems never to change, and dreary hours drag amidst winter-dead
vegetation that passes by like corpses, and yet he starts at every
noise, muttering like a man taken by a brainstorm of madness, so
much so that Merry and Pippin notice. The young hobbits trade
glances from time to time, unnerved. Boromir can see unease in the
thoughts that pass their clear faces, where before he had seen
nothing but hero-worship and trust in their eyes.
Boromir counts each dip of his paddle, trying to steady his
thoughts, yet he finds himself digging the oar deep, driving close
his boat to the bow of the next where the Ringbearer drowses.
Samwise looks up suddenly, and his glance is not kind. Boromir
frowns, ashamed to have been caught, though what it is he has been
caught at eludes him. He lifts his paddle from the river. Water
drips, small plashes lost in the steady pulse of the river, and the
Ringbearer's boat moves ahead, leaving Boromir behind. Though
Merry and Pippin speak softly together, he does not comprehend
their words: their voices drone like insects to his ears. He is
defenseless, he thinks, despite the weight of the sword on his back
and the horn on his chest. He is alone on the river. He is
exposed under the unremitting sun that glares blearily through the
haze like an unblinking eye.
Frustration grows, a gnawing hunger. By the time they camp for the
night, Boromir would welcome an army of orcs to battle. He would
face any foe rather than waiting. Though he knows he came to
Imladris for counsel and not battle, the desire to meet the enemy
is rooted deep within him. Better, he thinks, that Faramir came in
his stead, for his younger brother welcomed such patient
challenges. Boromir throws the thought aside: he is bitten by
sudden jealousy for his brother's intellect and the feeling that he
is the wrong person for this quest. Boromir wants only the means
to protect Gondor; he wants only the opportunity to defeat the
Enemy.
He has neither. Nor will he ever, he suspects, and his heart
quails at the thought of Gondor's defeat -- until the burning want
for a weapon worthy of Denethor's first son grips him once more.
It is Minas Tirith he would save as soldiers flocked to his banner.
It is Gondor he would protect from the Enemy. Yet even as the
banners flutter in his mind's eye and the cheers of his army ring
in his imagination, bile rises and leaves a bitter taste in his
mouth.
How could this desire feel wrong? All he wants, thinks Boromir, is
the chance for victory for his people. And the confusion between
heart and mind abrades his spirit. The motley group leaves the
river, and while the others unload the boats, he broods, his eyes
following Frodo as he patters about the camp. His view is cut when
Aragorn steps between him and the Ringbearer. Aragorn looks at the
Halfling and then at Boromir, a question in his expression. Rather
than answer, Boromir offers to fetch firewood and departs without
waiting for the setting of a watch. He hopes solitude might soothe
him.
It does not. The Fellowship put their boats on the shore by a
small wood, the trees winter-sleeping where they are not dead,
drowned from the river. The Sun has touched the horizon, and the
shadows are thick about the gray boles. Boromir finds dead wood
aplenty: many trees have been blown over in some terrible wind; he
climbs over and under trunks both thin and thick, looking for dry
wood with which to build a fire. He finds the thought of fire
oddly disturbing, as if the small lick of a campfire could reveal
him like some great, sentient light, yet he wants badly to watch
the flames leap like living things with thought and purpose.
Nothing, it seems, brings him comfort since they left the Golden
Wood: nothing but watching the Ringbearer, which brings not comfort
but a trembling that feels like a deep itch that scratching
initially eases, but then makes worse.
He hears stealthy movement in the brush behind him, someone
approaching as softly as one of the Halflings. He turns, hopeful,
and stops gathering fuel to search the trees; elven cloaks are hard
to track for they fool the eye. It is not Frodo who emerges from
the shadows in the gloaming, but Aragorn. The ranger stands close
and touches Boromir's arm. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing," replies Boromir, and he looks down at the dead wood in
his arms.
Aragorn casts a skeptical glance at him. "Come. Even the young
hobbits noticed your unease. Tell me."
Boromir sees both entreaty and command in Aragorn. This is a
leader of men: a mighty captain and doughty comrade-in-arms.
Boromir has traveled long with Aragorn, and better, he has fought
with him. He knows the man has a will of mithril and steel at his
core, true and strong as his re-forged sword. Yet Aragorn does not
command his friends; he brings about in those around him the desire
to do as he would have done, and Boromir responds to the entreaty.
To his surprise, honesty emerges from him. "I want what I cannot
have."
Aragorn regards him patiently, and Boromir is angered by the other
man's endless serenity. He knows it shows on his face; he can feel
his features draw into a frown. Aragorn offers a queer smile that
reaches past Boromir's anger and touches something forbidden and
exciting Boromir hid during all these months of the quest: he
admires Aragorn and has from the first time they met in Rivendell.
Soldiers sometimes share with each other desires considered wrong
among common folk. It is that desire he feels, Boromir abruptly
decides: desire for the feel of hard muscle under his hands, a
beard-roughened jaw under his mouth, dark eyes shuttered closed in
rude pleasure. It was Aragorn he paddled close to in the river,
thinks Boromir, not the Ringbearer. Small and soft as a child,
Frodo should rouse no such passion in Boromir's heart, and he
ignores the harsh whisper that claims take him, take him!
"I want," says Boromir as he looks at Aragorn's scarred mouth,
"what has been promised to another."
Aragorn's face changes in the failing light, and he seems at once
open and resolute. "What do you ask of me, soldier of Gondor?"
Boromir knows Aragorn calls him soldier with intent, and he
asks with his eyes. They sample Aragorn's chest and loins and
sturdy thighs before they rest once again at his mouth. Boromir
will not allow his request to be so stealthy, for his honor will
brook no such cowardice. He meets Aragorn's dark regard and says,
"I ask for the closeness soldiers steal in the bivouacs on the eve
of battle. It is not for me to ask for such liberties from you,
but that is the temper of my desire. I want what I cannot have."
Aragorn's voice is softer this time, thick with comprehension.
"There are understandings on the battlefield that do not need
explaining off it." Aragorn's gaze falls to Boromir's mouth, and
Boromir is lit within by heat. It is at once like the feverish
desire he felt on the river with its bite of shame, yet more
honest.
This heat is blind.
Boromir drops the wood, pulls Aragorn close and kisses him roughly.
Aragorn's mouth is hard under his before it warms, opens, and draws
Boromir in. Boromir stumbles on the deadwood under his feet, and
Aragorn steadies him with strong hands on his upper arms. Aragorn
steps back and turns him even while they kiss. They are not many
days from Lorien so Aragorn's hair still smells cleanly of forest
and soap. He tastes of smoked meat and the unpleasant tang of
pipeweed. Hunger that stalked Boromir the length of the river no
longer traps him under a pitiless regard brutal as flame. He
burns, and the heat comes pure and hot from his own flesh.
Aragorn breaks from the kiss. His breath comes hard. Boromir
clutches his shoulder and demands, "Do not deny me this." Aragorn
smiles, a hard little twist of his scarred lips, and he replies, "I
am going nowhere. This could be the final night we share in peace.
For both our sakes, I would have this last." His hands come
together at the fastenings of Boromir's surcoat and one by one they
part. "We have ridden with death at our side throughout the quest;
now we stand on the very edge of doom. I would take what closeness
I can, while I can, now that I know your mind."
Aragorn pushes Boromir against a stout tree hard enough to force a
surprised noise from him. Aragorn kisses him, forcing his lips to
part. Boromir dislikes the taste of pipeweed but his jaw drops,
and he opens wider. He writhes against Aragorn; the exposed rings
of Boromir's mailshirt snag along Aragorn's tunic, clutching like
odd burrs as his gloved fingers scrabble on Aragorn's back.
Pinned between the tree and Aragorn, Boromir struggles not for
freedom but for space to remove his gloves. He backs from
Aragorn's mouth long enough to bite the fingertips of one glove and
savagely pull it free; the leather groans, and his spit dampens the
ends. His freed hand digs at the opposite wrist and peels back the
second glove. They fall, forgotten. Aragorn clasps fistfuls of
Boromir's hair and retakes his mouth. Boromir struggles again,
this time working his hands between their bodies and unknotting the
leather belt at Aragorn's waist. His sword falls and hits the
ground with a dull sound.
Aragorn is unarmed; with Boromir well inside his reach, distracted
by pleasure, he is defenseless, nearly as easy to take as one of
the Halflings. An image of Frodo helpless under him, a glint of
gold at his white throat, flashes in his mind and Boromir feels
himself harden to painful rigidity.
Sweat breaks cleanly, a prickle of heat all over his skin. Aragorn
rests his forehead against Boromir's, and then his fingers busy
themselves cleverly at the fastenings of Boromir's breeches. He
reaches past the folds and takes Boromir out into his hand; Boromir
gasps and seeks Aragorn's mouth. This is nothing new to him; in
fact, he has preferences, and there is one he wants urgently. He
draws back, brings Aragorn's empty hand to his mouth, and suckles
in the first two fingers, showing what he wants. Then he presses
down on Aragorn's shoulder.
Aragorn's eyes hood and he smiles lazily before he falls gracefully
to his knees. The heat and skill of his mouth pleasures Boromir
greatly. When Boromir closes his eyes and imagines how easily this
very act could be done by one of smaller stature, he feels his
hardness jump on Aragorn's tongue, eager for release. He gasps, a
fish on the shore smothered by lust; his thighs splay; he twists
locks of Aragorn's hair into rings around his fingers. He bangs
his head on the tree hard enough to find a measure of control even
as Aragorn's hard hands pin his hips and ruin any illusions Boromir
might have about who takes him into the hot, wet depths of his
mouth.
Boromir cannot last. Too many months has he endured without
release even from his own hand, and too long has he burned with
craving under the sun this very day. But Aragorn lets him slip
from his mouth, the air cool on his wet length, and Boromir can
draw a sane breath again.
Aragorn scrambles to his feet and presses Boromir into the tree
again. Boromir smells his own musk on Aragorn's breath as he says,
"This is how you usually take it from your lieutenants, isn't it?"
"Aye."
"That is not how I give it, Captain of Gondor," Aragorn rasps. He
slides his hands flat down Boromir's breeches and pushes them off
his hips to mid-thigh before he turns Boromir suddenly around and
presses him into the tree. The rough bark scratches his face and
Boromir feels a long, hot ridge nestle flat along his cleft.
Aragorn's hips shove forward, and the sensitive wet skin of
Boromir's hardness drags on the bark as well. He clamps his mouth
tight over a cry as much passion as pain.
"Yes, yes," Aragorn hisses. "This is the ardor that frees us; this
is the fury we can take for ourselves, that we don't take it
elsewhere."
Aragorn's words call to some shred of rational thought deep in
Boromir and he recalls the darkest lessons of leadership: how to
control the violence of the fighting man, that he does not turn it
to rape and destruction off the field of battle. The lesson means
little to me, thinks Boromir, for I would never stoop to rape.
His mind laughs at him and throws up an image of Frodo, his clothes
ripped, his tender flesh bare from throat to thighs, his eyes tear-
stained and his red mouth bleeding. The vision hangs in front of
him like reality: Boromir can hear the Halfling's sobs, smell his
own spill, and should he reach out, he knows he could feel the
bruises rise up from beneath the pearly flesh under a hand heavy
with a burden like molten stone on one finger. Shame and lust rend
his mind.
"I want what I must not have!" cries Boromir.
"Attend to me, Boromir," commands Aragorn as he turns him around.
"Attend to me!"
Light dazzles him, heatless and without source, and Boromir hears a
voice full of worry and love calling to him. Through mist Boromir
senses a masterful presence seeking him, but he is not afraid: it
is the one with such love in the words that roll from his tongue.
It is one who brings hope.
Boromir is no longer lost. Vision returns to Boromir's open eyes
and there are no phantoms. He sees a king staring at him with a
gaze piercing as an arrow that with pain brings comfort. He is
grateful beyond words that the hateful apparition of his violence
on Frodo has passed, and his eyes slam shut.
Boromir is in the dark, but he is not alone: Aragorn is with him,
giving him hope and leading him into passion without taint.
"I am yours, my Captain," whispers Boromir. He finds Aragorn's
scarred lips and rough stubble with his mouth and blindly seeks
reentry. Aragorn accepts him. All of Boromir's limbs submit to
the will of his king, a glorious surrender, and he worries not what
Aragorn might take from him, even as Aragorn leads him a few
stumbling steps to a fallen tree that rests in the fork of another,
nearly horizontal and high as Boromir's gut, and bends him over it.
Boromir's breeches are still around his thighs. Aragorn leans
along Boromir and bites his neck. His hardness jerks against
Boromir's lower back, painting him with sticky wetness that cools
quickly. He turns Boromir suddenly, kissing him hungrily, jaw
working slowly to open him wide and delve wetly, deeply. Boromir
rhythmically pushes his aching erection against Aragorn's bare hip
as he cups Aragorn's, bringing moans from deep in his throat. When
they break, panting, Aragorn asks, "Your tin of grease: where is
it? Do you have it?"
Boromir's thoughts are hard to gather and he grinds up into Aragorn
harder.
"The grease for your leather -- do you have it?" repeats Aragorn.
"Yes," says Boromir, and he fumbles out a small battered tin from a
pocket inside his surcoat.
Aragorn turns him again. He puts his hand on the back of Boromir's
neck like a collar and pushes. When he removes his hand, the skin
there feels cold: a loss. Boromir forgets it instantly when that
same hot hand slides greasy and slick over his lower back and down.
He is broached with two long fingers. He clenches his teeth and
shivers. The plane of Aragorn's other hand steadies his hip even
as the fingers twist.
Pain is pleasurable. Boromir bites his leather gauntlet. The hand
on his hip snakes under and encircles his aching shaft that hangs
stiffly below. Leather creaks as Boromir bites harder. He
clenches around the intrusion.
Aragorn withdraws his fingers and lets go with his other hand.
Boromir cries out, protesting.
"Peace," Aragorn whispers. "Patience."
He is not sufficiently prepared for Aragorn, but he rides the pain,
shoving with his feet and rising up on his elbows as he slowly
takes the entire length. Aragorn draws back gently before he
pushes in hard, a brutal ecstasy that impels a naked cry from
Boromir. He feels Aragorn's hand is around him once more, slick
with grease that heats quickly as he strokes. Aragorn's movements
lack grace and he makes throttled noises above Boromir -- this
cannot last long, and Boromir no longer wants it to. He has been
seeking oblivion, though he did not realize until Aragorn freed him
from his odd compulsion, and oblivion waits, he knows: a brief, hot
moment gathering along the lines of his body, shooting to his groin
with ever-quickening sparks of increasing bliss.
Aragorn chokes; his rhythm falters, and he slams forward, a
punishing pace that lasts only a few thrusts as he pulls brutally
on the aching shriek that juts up between Boromir's legs.
As before, white light enraptures Boromir. He is neither lost nor
found: he is unmade. For long moments feels nothing, and it is a
relief.
*