He was miserable.
Where in hell was Gandalf?
The fellowship was already beginning to break, with Gimli and Legolas
arguing every god-forsaken second of the day. When they didn't argue, they
stayed at least five feet away from each other, which didn't solve
anything. The night offered no relief.
The fact that Legolas slept with his eyes open was just too freaky, even
for a ranger. Aragorn hadn't slept much himself since they started out. Too
worried about Frodo.
He sat by the fire every night, tending the flames and keeping silent watch
over everyone, not reassured by the elf's keen sight. The hobbits slept
peacefully; Frodo had few nightmares anymore. Sam's constant presence
soothed him. Aragorn wished for someone like that. But there was no one for
him. Not even Arwen. He didn't deserve her as much as she thought he did.
Movement at his back made him stiffen up, hand inching sneakily towards his
longsword. Someone touched his arm, gently, and he took a small breath.
"And does your right hand want to kill me, Aragorn?"
Boromir, son of Gondor, sat down next to the ranger, smiling as he looked
down at the sleeping hobbits. "They're very peaceful, when they sleep."
Aragorn nodded, his thoughts interrupted by a sudden, loud snore from
Gimli.
Boromir tilted his head towards the grove of trees they camped near, about
twenty-five feet from the sharp edge of green that contrasted with the
brown farmlands they traveled. "Perhaps it would be quieter amongst the
trees."
"Perhaps it would be quieter if we just threw Gimli into a hole and buried
him."
The blond laughed, then grabbed Aragorn's right arm and hauled him to his
feet,
eliciting an indignant noise from the ranger.
"Oh, do be quiet, Aragorn," Boromir grinned cheekily. "You'll wake Gimli
up."
He grunted. An accepting, if somewhat disgruntled, noise. With that,
Boromir dragged him off towards the trees, and Aragorn heard keenly the
sound of Legolas snickering.
He was going to hurt that elf someday, the fellowship be damned.
Boromir ran his fingers through the ranger's dark, curly hair, laying against him on a bed of moss beneath a great Hawthorne. "It would be nice if we could spend all day like this." Aragorn sighed in response, wrapping his arms around the only slightly smaller man and kissing him roughly. Boromir laughed into it, tickling Aragorn's sides. They had spent a lot of nights like that, happy to just be in each other's embrace, and to feel the warmth of a welcome body. Many nights. The mines of Moria loomed ahead of them, and Aragorn was not afraid. Not as long as he had Boromir by his side.
The orcs ran; they ran for their lives, as Aragorn, Isildur's Heir, charged among their ranks, splitting them open and spilling their entrails over the ground. Some distance away, there was the trumpeting of a horn. Boromir. Aragorn ran as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the sound, and the orcs became a mere distraction. But he was too late. He leapt over a moss- covered log to find a clearing, strewn with the bodies of dead and dying orcs and goblins alike. And, in the middle of them all, stood Boromir, his Boromir, covered in the blood and sweat of his foes. Covered with the blood that dripped from the many wounds of arrows that punctured his chest. Boromir fell, his last energy spent, and Aragorn hastened to his side, cradling his body. Boromir spoke, something about the ring, he had tried to take the ring. "I love you Aragorn." There. Those were the only words he cared about. "I love you too, Boromir." And Boromir smiled, and everything Aragorn had ever done, every hurtful or wrong thing, seemed meaningless, because Boromir had smiled for him. Then his chest stopped rising, and his heart refused to beat again. Aragorn wouldn't cry. Closing his eyes with two fingers, the ranger leaned down and kissed Boromir, one last time, on the forehead. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor. My love goes with you. Always." He looked up then to find Legolas and Gimli, watching him sadly. They had heard the call of Boromir's horn, but too late had they arrived. With a heavy heart, Aragorn got to his feet, standing tall and proud as a king should. The fellowship had to go on. One love did not matter in the face of the death of millions. He had to go on. That night, Aragorn cried; for the first time in almost ten years.
Boromir ran his fingers through the ranger's dark, curly hair, laying against him on a bed of moss beneath a great Hawthorne. "It would be nice if we could spend all day like this." Aragorn sighed in response, wrapping his arms around the only slightly smaller man and kissing him roughly. Boromir laughed into it, tickling Aragorn's sides. They had spent a lot of nights like that, happy to just be in each other's embrace, and to feel the warmth of a welcome body. Many nights. The mines of Moria loomed ahead of them, and Aragorn was not afraid. Not as long as he had Boromir by his side.
The orcs ran; they ran for their lives, as Aragorn, Isildur's Heir, charged among their ranks, splitting them open and spilling their entrails over the ground. Some distance away, there was the trumpeting of a horn. Boromir. Aragorn ran as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the sound, and the orcs became a mere distraction. But he was too late. He leapt over a moss- covered log to find a clearing, strewn with the bodies of dead and dying orcs and goblins alike. And, in the middle of them all, stood Boromir, his Boromir, covered in the blood and sweat of his foes. Covered with the blood that dripped from the many wounds of arrows that punctured his chest. Boromir fell, his last energy spent, and Aragorn hastened to his side, cradling his body. Boromir spoke, something about the ring, he had tried to take the ring. "I love you Aragorn." There. Those were the only words he cared about. "I love you too, Boromir." And Boromir smiled, and everything Aragorn had ever done, every hurtful or wrong thing, seemed meaningless, because Boromir had smiled for him. Then his chest stopped rising, and his heart refused to beat again. Aragorn wouldn't cry. Closing his eyes with two fingers, the ranger leaned down and kissed Boromir, one last time, on the forehead. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor. My love goes with you. Always." He looked up then to find Legolas and Gimli, watching him sadly. They had heard the call of Boromir's horn, but too late had they arrived. With a heavy heart, Aragorn got to his feet, standing tall and proud as a king should. The fellowship had to go on. One love did not matter in the face of the death of millions. He had to go on. That night, Aragorn cried; for the first time in almost ten years.