Forbidden Hope

Forbidden Hope

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 shield brothers' 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 its
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
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
insistent 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. Obviously the ranger in his
blood has come to the forefront of this interaction with nature. The
Gondorian watches the silent communion with nature that occurs below
him; watches Aragorn's thighs slowly bend and the muscles under the
skin bunch and stretch as the ranger kneels down in the soft dry
grass.

He imagines that Aragorn now smells of the earth, of the late summer
plants and he yearns to rub his face against those long limbs to see
if he is correct. It is at this moment that time ceases to exist as
Aragorn has turned around and meets Boromir's eyes before nodding his
head. Faintly nodding as well, the son of Gondor feels strangely
lightheaded and wishes to make a retreat back to his rooms. Where it
is safe and lonely. That is not to be however, for now the man below
him has beckoned him to join his company. Despite all rational
thought telling him that this is a foolish and possibly insane idea
Boromir walks over to the other man.

Silence sits awkwardly between them as Aragorn maps Boromir's face
with his eyes, while the Gondorian desperately tries not to give away
how tight his breeches are. How wet they are becoming, how flushed he
is. With those thoughts the closes his eyes and thinks of home. Home
where there is a family and a decision to be made; here where there
is a temptation greater than he had ever encountered and a decision
as well. But it hardly matters now, for only one thing is certain and
that there can only be on Heir of Gondor. Boromir is so lost in these
musings that Aragorn's words take him by surprise.

"Do you know who you remind me of?" The lost king whispered to
Boromir. "You remind me of myself, a long time ago. When I had walked
from the hall of fire in this house, with the song of Beren and
Luthien singing in my head. I did not get far for I saw in front of
me Luthien herself as described in the song. An elven woman of
impossible beauty, one that broke and remade a man's heart while
damning him to an eternity of fruitless longing. That was the first
time I beheld Arwen, and that night I took no shame in shedding
tears."

Boromir hung his head, ashamed beyond words that this noble man had
found out about the lust he held in his heart for him. It was only
when Aragorn's gentle insistence that he look him in the eyes did the
Gondorian raise his gaze from the ground. The gentle compassion
Boromir found in the ranger's eyes nearly undid him before the pride
of the House of Hurin steeled him against it. "You are no woman,
Aragorn son of Arathorn." He murmured coldly.

To which the ranger only smiles sadly, not quite reaching out to
comfort this lonely and miserable young man. For Boromir is very
young, in Aragorn's eyes. Young and foolish, while trying desperately
to save a land that he may well have to give up in the end. His heart
ached for the Gondorian, ached for he could not help him. He had
given himself to Arwen, given everything to his elven betrothed and
there was nothing for anyone else; ever. "No, indeed I am not. Yet I
cannot help but grieve that I am the cause of your pain. If I could
help you I would, but alas you know that I cannot. There is another,
one to which I am bound and there will be no other."

A short nod from the other man, acknowledging what could never be.
Boromir was too proud to beg, indeed to proud to even ask. It was
this that broke through Aragorn's restraint and pulled the younger
man into his arms, letting the Gondorian weep over things that could
never be, upon his shoulder. There was love in his heart for this
man, this misguided and over proud man. It was not enough, and it
would never be enough but for this day he would comfort Boromir.
Would let him rest in this morning after a restless night; and
perhaps it would give him strength. Yet Aragorn knows deep within
himself that somehow strength of heart will not be enough to save
this weeping man from his pride and desperation. Aragorn's love is
not enough to save Boromir from himself.

Autumn has come at last to Rivendell, and with it the cold refreshing
air that blows from the north. With it comes a calm resignation that
washes from Boromir memories of a lost summer day. One of a man's
touch that is forbidden on many levels. A healing touch for it gives
strength to Boromir that he has known Aragorn on many levels now. A
healing touch for he has rinsed the cloying regret with tears of
guilt and relief. A damning touch as well; for he has lain with the
man who is coming to Minas Tirith to destroy his father and take the
title of Heir of Gondor from Boromir. Yes, Aragorn's touch was a
forbidden one and that soft summer day he had reveled in it. Starved
for it like a whipped cur starving for a gentle hand. Boromir had
gotten more than just a hand and for that he is content; for now.

The ring has begun to call to him, and with it different dreams keep
him up at night. Dreams of hot flesh between wet elven sheets; of
elven women who disappear and never return. Thoughts of how strong
Aragorn is, and how a ranger could endure much physical duress
without need of rest. Thoughts of Aragorn, and Boromir, together once
more. When the Gondorian catches sight of Arwen he no longer thinks
of soft and cool elven hands soothing him. He thinks of what it would
take to force Arwen to take ship with her kin and go to the Undying
lands where she could be happy; without her betrothed. Those thoughts
freeze his blood far colder than even the iciest north wind.

What it was about Rivendell Boromir could never say. He knew as he
left it with the fellowship that he would never go back, and never
forget what happened there. The memory would be traveling with him,
dressed in ragged leather and carrying a pendant of pre-ordained love
around his neck. A barrier that he could not pass to touch the rough
and loving skin that lay beneath it.

So it began; a golden malice settling in and taking root in his heart
whispering softly of hard thrusts and possession. Of loving looks
that could never be and a city where his father stepped down
gracefully to let his new king and steward take their rightful places
as lords of Gondor. Where there was no more war, and his gentle
brother could spend the rest of his days happily buried under a
mountain of scrolls and books.

It was no surprise to him then, as he lay dying on the ground after
months of the ring's poison that he had failed. Had failed at
everything for did he not tell Aragorn, as they both lay panting and
covered in the fluids from the morning's activities, that he would
not love him? Not fill his mind of pathetic fantasies, wishing for
anything that would signify a returned interest; a glimpse, a look, a
gesture. Nothing that would let him into Aragorn's heart, which was
reserved only for the cool Elven princess of his.

Though death filled him like water fills a cup there was enough of
Boromir to realise that Aragorn was kneeling over him, love finally
in his eyes; love for him. He knew he was a fool and a large one at
that to jeopardize everything for power. Yet Aragorn kissed him
anyhow, and told him that he had not failed his people. The same
hands that had trailed down his naked back gave passed him his sword
one final time as the son of Gondor grew cold. With blurring vision
and a failing heart Boromir told his lover he loved him one last time
before growing still. Boromir of Gondor had passed beyond the veil,
and the love that he bore his king lay still in his breast.

End.