Forbidden Hope

Forbidden Hope

Posted: November 2004
Title: Forbidden Hope
Author: Liz (Elisabeth)
Type: FCS
Characters: Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Tolkien's world, I just play in it
Warning: character death.
Author's Notes: challenge fic

Summary: Boromir despairs of ever getting what he wants

*****

It was a beautiful place, even one such as Boromir had to admit. So different from Minas Tirith with stone walls and hard metal, Rivendell flowed with elven magic and waterfalls. The very air was softer here, with musical undertones that were absent from his own white city. The Gondorian was torn between admiration of such a peaceful place and resentment that his people were suffering while others lived in luxury, knowing no fear or doubt.

But even a beautiful place has its darkness, even when it is the traveller's who bring it there. It had been three nights since he had slept peacefully in his foreign bed, and dark circles had begun to appear on his face. Nights that were filled with unspoken thoughts and desires, things that before arriving in Rivendell had never been taken seriously by the Heir of Gondor before. Things that were now haunting him with every step and breath that he took.

He had thought nothing of it at first, for what soldier has not on occasion taken pleasure from another in times of war? Campaigns could last for years, and women were few and far between as the men travelled long distances on patrol. But Boromir found after the first three days that the thought had no left him, had refused to be dismissed into the dark waters of unfulfilled wants and desires. The idea trailed through his mind every so often, and increased each time Boromir saw him. Saw this damnation and end of his honour walk by him without a second glance in his direction. Which infuriated him all the more.

There was nothing shameful about taking a fellow soldier to bed in the dark and cold, with his shieldbrothers' silent tongues and blind eyes. No man in the army discusses with his wife what happens during those nights, when the loneliness and pain are too heavy to bear for one heart alone. But this was not Gondor, and there was no excuse for what the Gondorian was thinking. Despite being a human, he had seen many elven maidens smile at him in the same way that the noblewomen and whores of Gondor would smile. There were warm beds besides his own for the sharing yet he spent his nights alone.

No, not truly alone for there were always the thoughts of what could be. Thoughts that sang to him even stronger than the ring and all it's malevolent beauty. It was a music of sweat and a hard thrusting rhythm that needed no guidance from anyone. No words, no soft whispers and touches in the dark. Just the hard plain of a man's chest sliding smoothly against his own in between cool elven sheets.

That song kept him up at night, splashing cold water on his face and and neck. He would lie awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling while memories of other nights would drift through his mind's eye. Of other's hands on his body, of lips and thighs and parts of men that grazed wet skin in the darkness. Boromir has not slept well for almost a week, and he wonders why it is he has been cursed with these memories. Things that have surfaced after being buried for so long; though he can explain that readily enough perhaps. Aragorn himself is of a lineage that has been buried for almost a thousand years, and has just now been uncovered. That thought is another that keeps Boromir awake at night.

Aragorn; whose name both pulls him and repels him. How it is that one man can be both a saviour and a doom at the same time perplexes the Gondorian. Here, in this foreign place full of strangers, new friends and bewitching evils he has found something that can be used to save his people. But only by destroying his family in the process, and here Boromir has no doubt. When his father learns of this, and he will eventually for he always does, it shall destroy him. For how will Denethor, Steward of Gondor bow and scrape to a ragged ranger? Denethor is no willow like his little brother to bend in the wind and remain unbroken in the line of time. No, Boromir's father is of a different sort and as a stern oak will either bend the wind or shatter in the storm. Aragorn repels Boromir with fear for his family; a family which could well be shattered in this uncrowned king comes to Gondor.

Aragorn pulls Boromir as well; pulls him with a passion that is disturbing for the High Warden of Gondor. For he has never felt such a pull for another man before, not even when Faramir came to him late one night that time so long ago. Even with Faramir, who mixed tears with the blood of lost innocence, Boromir felt no pull this strong. For Aragorn is not a man who will kneel, will open for another man's insistant need. Faramir is strong man; and a stronger man for he can bend when he needs to. But Aragorn can make Boromir bend, and if the Gondorian is truly honest with himself he admits that bending is what he wishes to do. Aragorn pulls Boromir with passion for following a born leader, and also for being made love to in the sweet elven night.

There is a problem however, and this is why Boromir now avoids the mirror in his bathing chamber. Aragorn is not a man who will lay with another man for there is no need for him. Not when he has her; Arwen. The most beautiful woman in the world and indeed what man would possibly want to lay with another man when he has an elven princess waiting for him in his bed? Boromir has seen the two of them together, and for one sickening moment was unsure of whether he desired her at all when she stood next to her betrothed. But it passed, and the Gondorian does lust after her like all others here. He is safe in his lust for her, his desire for pale elven flesh for it shall never happen. The impossibility of it makes him safe.

It is morning now, and the Homely House begins to stir again after a soft and deep sleep. Boromir watches dawn rise on the horizon before the golden rays begin their smooth path over the paving stones of Lord Elrond's garden. Already the smell of baking has begun to filter through the air, and Boromir breathes in the warm air that brings the promise of fresh bread; and hungry hobbits.

He had met them on his first day here, when Pippin and Merry had gone searching for mushrooms and had dashed out in front of his horse. It had been sheer luck that he had controlled his horse in time, and while Pippin insisted that ‘the Big Man has saved us from that wild horse Merry!' He still shudders at what could have happened. Although the two hobbits have quickly become closer to him than any of the elves, they would not understand about his desires towards Aragorn. Even Boromir does not understand.

There; Boromir shifts uncomfortably as his breeches become too tight yet again. Aragorn stands below him in the garden, standing barefoot, feeling the fresh grass beneath his feet. The grass will soon be dying as autumn is soon.

*****

THE END

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