Switches between Boromir and Aragorn's POV. The two met before the Council of Elrond, but in a way that didn't suit either of them.
I know it says Boromir arrived in the "gray morning" and that Aragorn was introduced to him during the Council of Elrond, but I tweaked that part.
Yes, Boromir does do more than his fair share of blushing. I wanted it to be kind of like a bad habit for him, like nail-biting or twiddling your thumbs.
This is a oneshot.
Thanks to Catching Fireflies for once again Beta-ing!
The son of Denethor bent his head respectfully to the Lord of Imladris. "I am pleased that you have accepted my presence, Lord Elrond of Rivendell." Bowing his head, Boromir still felt like he was towering over Lord Elrond. Elrond was much shorter than he would've imagined by the other Elves' descriptions of him. Although he was shorter than Boromir, Lord Elrond had an unnerving knowing quality about him the Man knew he himself lacked.
"You are welcome to take a meal in the dining hall, Lord Boromir," said Elrond. His gray eyes pierced Boromir's own, and he looked as if he was reading his soul. Boromir inwardly shuddered at the expression of scrutiny, but outwardly nodded.
"I shall do so. I thank you once again," Boromir said, taking his leave. He found the dining hall purely by chance. He heard lilting Elven-voices and fought both a scowl and a smile of wonder off his face. He himself did not care for Elves. He was biting back a smile for his brother. How Faramir would love to see this place! he thought. Comforted by the thought of his younger brother, Boromir stepped inside.
Aragorn sat down on a chair beside his bed as a bath was drawn for him. He felt weary and completely exhausted. His long legs that had given him the nicknames 'Longshanks' and 'Strider' were aching in such a terrible way he wished he could chop them off with a sword. He was covered in dirt and sweat from his journey with the hobbits and Glorfindel to Rivendell. He did not sit on his pristine, white bed, because he knew it would become extremely dirty.
Lord Elrond had walked in on him drawing his own bath and was taken aback. "Estel," he had said, "you must get used to not doing everything yourself, if you are to be King of Gondor." Aragorn did not think he could live up to the title of King, but he supposed not being so independent would help. His foster father had gotten an Elf to draw the bath for him. Aragorn did not argue with Elrond's hospitality.
The Elf that drew Aragorn's bath was not known to him, so he sat quietly as they chattered on about something-or-other. Words went in one ear, out the other. Suddenly, a word caught in his mind. 'Gondor.'
"Gondor?" he asked. "Would you be so kind as to repeat that?" The Elf turned from Aragorn's bath to look at the man himself.
"I was saying, I can only hope that the Last Homely House should be hospitable enough to a Man of Gondor," the Elf told him, hands busy at work.
Aragorn settled back in his chair, keeping the towel tight around his waist, and raised an eyebrow. "A Man of Gondor?" he said. "I assume you are not speaking of me."
The Elf laughed merrily, adding scented oil to the bath. "No, I am not. Your bath is ready." The Elf stepped out of the way to the marble tub. Aragorn walked toward it, dropped the towel, and slid into the warm water. He gave a quiet sigh of happiness, though dirt quickly clouded the pristine water. Gentle warmth flooded through his body. He only realized how much he had missed the Last Homely House as soon as he was in his bath. Aragorn had not had the delight of a warm bath since he had stayed at Bree.
"Who is this 'Man of Gondor'?" asked Aragorn to the Elf. He took a bar of soap and started scrubbing the dirt off himself.
"Boromir son of Denethor the Steward," answered the Elf, pulling up a stool beside the bath. "He seeks counsel from Lord Elrond, and will be present at tomorrow's Council."
Aragorn's hand froze, and the soap nearly slipped out of it. "Indeed," he said after a pause, and resumed his scrubbing. He felt rather troubled. How would this Steward-son react to him? Would he laugh in his face? Would he spit at his feet? Would he -and Aragorn banished this thought to the back of his mind quickly- kneel at his feet?
"He does not seek the last of House of Elendil, to my knowledge," the Elf said. "Although he has mentioned Isildur." Aragorn set his mouth in a grim line as he attempted to clean his hair. "Isildur's Bane, to be exact." The Ranger felt his stomach contract. Though this Boromir most likely did not know it, Isildur's Bane was around the neck of a Halfling, right in Rivendell.
"Does he seek to take Isildur's Bane to Minas Tirith?" asked Aragorn.
"He knows it dwells here," the Elf said. "And, if I may say so in present company, the minds of the race of Men are corrupted swiftly."
"You may say so," Aragorn said. "You are suggesting that he shall attempt to take the Ring?"
The Elf looked down at Aragorn with a raised eyebrow. "I said naught of that."
"You spoke of corruption," the Ranger said. "The Ring corrupts, it ensnares the hearts of many. When near it, I can hear it whispering to me, and I must admit, it is a challenge to not be corrupted by it."
There was a small silence. Water dripped from Aragorn's dark, sodden hair into the tub-water, and small splashes hit the sides of the tub. Finally the Elf spoke:
"Quite a somber topic for a night of feasting and joy."
"Indeed," Aragorn said, "But it soon shall be a topic spoken of by all of Rivendell."
As he resumed soaping himself, he silently worried about the Steward's son. About his attraction to the Ring that he may or may not be able to fight, about what counsel he sought, and about what Boromir might think of his King.
As the water-glasses were replaced with liquor-glasses, Boromir inwardly felt delighted. As he had eaten his meal, he was astounded by the lack of alcohol. Back in Gondor, at every meal excepting breakfast, he had a deep glass of wine. He had been slightly concerned for himself, thinking that the Elves simply never drank any alcoholic beverages.
When a liquor-glass was set in front of him, Boromir raised it to his mouth and took a large gulp. Suddenly, he throat felt like he had just attempted to breathe fire. The poor Man gagged on the Elvish liquor, and he spat it all over his plate. The water-glass being gone, he kept coughing up the stuff until he felt as if he could go through the proper motions of breathing again.
Looking up from his plate, Boromir saw all that most Elves were staring at him. His face turned hot, and he knew he was blushing terribly. His ears and neck felt hot also, and he uncomfortably fiddled with his shirt collar.
One of the Elves -Boromir remembered he had introduced himself as Glorfindel- laughed, his own glass held in his hand. "Do the Men of Gondor never drink?"
"Wine, yes," Boromir gasped hoarsely. "Liquor, yes- what is this brew, anyway?"
The Lord Glorfindel laughed again, and Boromir felt himself turning even redder in mortification. "This is straight Elven liquor, Lord Boromir. Of course, I am not laughing at the fact you cannot properly indulge in it, for that matter I am sympathetic. I am laughing because you looked like young Estel taking his first drink." Several other Elves laughed with him. Boromir did not know who Estel was, but the words 'first drink' made him more than a bit irked.
He took his glass in his hand and inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool air. Then he poured all of the liquor in his tall glass down his throat. Boromir felt his gag reflex again as the alcohol went down, but he managed to keep it in check. He pressed a hand to his collarbone as he swallowed the last of it, but he did not cough it back up.
There was an appreciative clap from Glorfindel, who, by the tinge of his pointed ears, had drank a fair amount of liquor himself. "Very good, Lord Boromir! Perhaps there is hope for Gondor after all!" Another collective laugh from the Elves.
"Indeed there is!" Boromir shot back as his glass was refilled. He downed that, too, just to spite the Elf-lord. His head felt very foggy, and his stomach felt like a battle was being fought in it.
"Perhaps you should not drink that much, Boromir," Glorfindel said. Boromir startled, realizing Glorfindel had moved to sit close to him. He realized he had not been paying attention to his surroundings, and he laughed. I thought only Faramir could daydream like that! he thought to himself.
"Ah, I will be fine!" he said. "I have had a long journey here, and this comforts me."
"If it does so, then feel free to indulge," Glorfindel said.
That was around when the fog in Boromir's mind overtook him, and all he knew was that he kept drinking.
One of the things Aragorn always remembered about his room in Rivendell was the smell. It was like pine boughs, and it was everywhere. Even burying his face in his pillow, Aragorn could smell it. It was soothing, and it reminded him of the Wild somehow.
He laid face-first, sprawled out, on his bed, tired limbs upon the cushion of his mattress. The fabric of his dressing-gown was warm and comforting. A smile of pleasure was on his face. He felt like a small boy again, settling down for a night's sleep in those very same chambers. If he closed his eyes, he felt as if he was in a boat, rocking side to side in a peaceful way. As if he was in a boat that smelled of pine, floating over the great Sea...
Aragorn was jolted out of his near-sleep by loud, unsteady footsteps. He sighed into his pillow. His first thought was that it was a Dwarf. He had promised to meet with Gloin of the Lonely Mountain, but his promise had been for them to meet after the Council. When the footsteps ceased for a split second, he nearly fell back to sleep.
And suddenly, something fell onto him! Something falling with all of its weight, something with hair, something with flesh. Aragorn was pushed right off the side of his bed with the force of it. He fell smack dab onto the stone tiles on his backside, and he bit back an undignified yelp of pain. That was sure to bruise. He looked up angrily to see who had incited such an incident, and found...
What was that, anyway? It surely was not a Dwarf or a Hobbit, for it was twice their size. It looked as tall as he himself was. It was not an Elf, for it was quite muscular. Was it another Man?
Aragorn stood up with a wince and looked over the figure that had all but jumped on him. His eyebrows crept up his forehead. Indeed, it was a Man- and one with Numenorean blood, nonetheless! The Man had dark brown hair down to his shoulders, much like Aragorn's own before it started to become streaked with gray. He had light skin and was very muscular. The Ranger could not see his face, for he was lying upon it. Aragorn was reminded of someone all of a sudden.
But no, it couldn't be! he told himself. What a terrible notion, Aragorn! This Man is most certainly not Denethor the Steward of Gondor!
He looked at the Man's clothes. He -because, certainly, the person was a he- wore day-clothes of Gondorian finery. The Seven Stars, Seven Stones, and White Tree were stitched painstakingly on his purple shirt, and the fabric was of a kind only the rich could afford to buy.
The Steward-son! Aragorn realized with a jolt, remembering the discussion at his bath. The Man is Boromir of Gondor? Aragorn thought with a doubt. He smelt the pleasant odor of pine boughs being clouded by something else- the scent of Elven liquor fumes. Surely no son of Gondor would be so drunken! It must not be him, then, but someone else from the White Land.
The Ranger realized that the Man was asleep in his bed. He also knew he must wake the Man up, even if, by some insane chance, he had a noble title, because he had came into chambers that were not his own.
He bent over the Man lying on his bed and shook his shoulder. The person startled awake and turned over to see him. He had a serious face, but there were smile wrinkles beside his eyes, so Aragorn knew this was a Man that often laughed and grinned.
"And who-" the Man started to ask, but then shut his mouth. His face, already slightly pink from apparent alcohol consumption, turned crimson.
"I am sorry to have woken you," Aragorn said sincerely. "But you are not in your chambers." The Man, having presumably already realized this, got up quickly off Aragorn's bed. His neck and ears had turned red, too. Aragorn felt a bit bad about causing him so much embarrassment.
The Man opened his mouth to apologize. But instead of saying "I take my leave" or "I apologize", the Man bent double and vomited all over the tiled floor. He clutched at his stomach and groaned, muttering curses between retches. He wiped his mouth and straightened up, his face yet redder.
Aragorn couldn't help but think, Definitely Elven liquor. He stood their with an eyebrow raised, feeling an odd desire to laugh.
"Forgive me, my lord-?" the Man started, tentatively backing toward the door. "I did not intend to- well- jump on your bed, or vomit on your floor-"
"My name is Aragorn," the Ranger said. "There is no need to apologize, for I have overindulged in Elven liquor far too many times to ask forgiveness of someone who has done the same." He wondered how he was going to deal with the mess, both physical and not. As he studied the Man, he saw that he did indeed look much like Denethor the Steward of Gondor. His gray eyes were piercing, even clouded by drink. But it surely could not be the Steward's son.
Surely, no Steward-son would be so clumsy...
Boromir felt himself sway on his feet. His vision was blurring, and small squares of blackness floated in front of his eyes. He saw Aragorn -if indeed the other Man had given his correct name- stride over the vomit-covered tiles. Aragorn caught him mid-fall, and Boromir saw the Man nearly buckle under his weight.
"I apologize," he choked out. His stomach was churning again, and he feared he would get sick on this Man.
"There is no apology needed," Aragorn said kindly, though the exasperated set of his mouth said otherwise. "You look quite ill." He seemed to be pondering something. "Go to the tub, for I have no better place for you to be sick in."
Boromir's ears flamed in embarrassment again- he felt the heat of it. He quickly walked to the Man's bathtub and knelt down by it, feeling quite foolish. There was an awful twisting feeling in his gut, and he threw up into the marble tub. To his shock, he felt a hand on his back, rubbing his tensed-up muscles as he retched. His long hair fell in a curtain over his face, and the ends were quickly sodden by vomit. Boromir felt the hand grasp his hair and pull it back in one swift motion.
When it was over, he spat a few times, and looked up. Aragorn was crouched beside him, a concerned look on his face. "Exactly how many glasses did you partake in?"
"More than I am able to remember or count, Lord Aragorn," Boromir managed. A new shade of red came over his face and ears.
"I see. That explains much," Aragorn said. His eyes, gray like Boromir's own, surveyed the mess in his tub, and he quickly looked away. "Do you know the way to your chambers?"
"No," Boromir admitted. "As you have seen." Aragorn chuckled a bit, and straightened up. He extended a hand to Boromir, who did not take it. He pushed his body off the ground by himself and took in a deep breath.
The other Man seemed to be thinking. Boromir felt rather uneasy. His head was starting to throb painfully, and he cursed it dozens of times over. What would Father think? Boromir thought to himself. Guilt made his stomach churn a bit more. Perhaps, when I return to Minas Tirith, I shall purposely fail to mention this incident.
"Then mayhap you should stay in my chambers for the night," Aragorn decided. "This is not a good night to go staggering through the Last Homely House." He sounds as if he knows the place well, Boromir thought. He studied the Man. Surely he was not an Elf. He had the characteristics of one of Numenorean descent- a tall frame, dark hair, light skin, and gray irises. But no, he could not be Numenorean, for why would a Numenorean be sitting in Rivendell, clad in naught but an Elvish-made dressing-gown?
"If you do not mind," Boromir said carefully, "then I shall." Aragorn nodded his consent and turned to his wardrobe.
"I shall spare you a dressing-gown for tonight," Aragorn said, pulling out a long white garment. He appeared to be surveying it. "Well, it may be a little tight around the shoulders, but I daresay it shall do."
Boromir took the dressing-gown and said, "I thank you, Lord Aragorn." He detested the feel of Elven fabric on his skin, but he could not very well sleep in his travel-worn clothes. Aragorn turned his back. Boromir quickly changed, casting aside his Gondorian-made clothes into the corner of the room.
"Could you spare a quilt?" asked Boromir to Aragorn. The other Man's eyebrows shot up. "It will be rather cold tonight, I think." He gestured toward the chair near the bed. Aragorn seemed to realize what he meant, and he turned around.
"You shall sleep on the bed," Aragorn said firmly. "It is rather uncomfortable for one to sleep in a chair, and even more so when one is as hungover as you shall be."
Boromir felt rather embarrassed again, and said, "I cannot do so. I have done enough rude things." His gaze strayed to the floor and the rumpled covers on the bed, and he felt himself turn pink.
"I insist," Aragorn told him kindly. Boromir could not help but give in at that. He wandered over to the bed, feeling very awkward. He moved aside the covers and laid down. He moved the covers over his body and closed his eyes, falling into a realm of peaceful, pine-scented sleep.
The Man fell asleep as soon as he shut his eyes. Aragorn watched him to make sure he was really asleep. He slept on his side, breathing evenly. Aragorn, satisfied, pulled on his boots and went off to find something to clean up the vomit on his floor.
Evidently, though, his quiet footsteps were not so quiet on the stone. "Estel, what are you doing wandering the halls in night-clothes?" a familiar voice asked from behind him. Aragorn spun to face Lord Elrond. The Lord of Imladris was wearing day-clothes, and looked alert.
"I have a slight... problem," Aragorn admitted. "Someone -someone who has drunk quite a lot of liquor- has wandered into my room. As he was rather lost, I insisted he sleep in my chambers. He was sick on my floor." The whole incident sounded preposterous to Aragorn's own ears, and he inwardly winced.
"I shall come with you, along with a mop," Elrond said. There was a smile in his eyes, though his mouth was set in a line.
"I thank you," Aragorn said. "I fear it shall be quite a long night." Elrond left to gather a mop. When he returned, the two started walking back to Aragorn's chambers, their feet-falls echoing on the stone.
"Who is this person that is in your room?" inquired Elrond as they approached the threshold.
"I do not know," Aragorn said. "I had forgotten to ask his name." As they stepped through the door, the smell of vomit and liquor hit Aragorn's nostrils, and he cringed. Without a word, Elrond handed his foster-son the mop. The Ranger felt an amused smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the gesture, and took the mop.
Elrond wandered over toward the bed as Aragorn attempted to mop up the vomit. Aragorn looked up from the floor when Elrond made a startled sound.
"Is there aught amiss?" he asked, leaning against his mop and trying to breathe in as little as possible.
"Naught," Elrond told him. "I merely find it odd that a future King must give up a bed for his future Steward." Aragorn, in the middle of the careful process of breathing in without inhaling the scent of vomit, was so shocked he left his mouth a bit open.
"This man is Boromir son of Denethor?" he asked, making sure he had heard Elrond correctly.
"Indeed," the Lord of Imladris said. "A most curious meeting, is it not?" Aragorn nodded, dumbfounded. He looked over at the bed. The Man in it was sleeping so soundly he looked almost dead. His mouth was curved into a smile, and his arms were curled up beside him. The Man was breathing softly and steadily, and the hair that had fallen into his face blew into the air an inch or so as he exhaled. He looked nothing like a Steward's son.
"Did you tell him your name?" Elrond inquired. "Your real name," he added with a slight smile, knowing of Aragorn's many names and aliases.
"I did," Aragorn said, "but perhaps in the morning he shall not remember it."
Boromir's peaceful sleep was slowly being interrupted by a pounding in his head. Valar curse it, I feel like a kettle-drum being hit with a stick! he thought. Boromir rolled over in the bed, trying to fall back to sleep. To his shock, he felt another human beside him. He propped himself up on his elbows and saw the Lord Aragorn, the Man that had let him sleep in his chambers. Boromir scooted quickly away from the Man, settling under the comforters.
The Gondorian closed his eyes and pictured the White Tree, standing valiantly in Minas Tirith. He remembered Faramir saying, as Boromir left for Imladris, "The White Tree shall wither in your absence -more so than it has already- and start to rot."
And curse my intelligent brother! Boromir could not help but think. Faramir was sometimes unnervingly wise, and Boromir could not help but feel intimidated at the words that echoed through his mind. Faramir truly thought that, without Boromir in the White City, commanding troops and fighting hard to keep those who served Sauron out of the White Land, Gondor would fall to ruin.
It was a thought that made Boromir shiver. He burrowed yet more under his borrowed covers and tried to think of cheerful things.
Aragorn was woken by the soft chattering of birds outside. He smiled at the familiar noise, silently identifying the types of birds. It sounded almost as if he was resting in a glade out in the Wild. The thought comforted him.
He carefully rolled out of bed, making sure not to disturb the Man sleeping on the other side of it. Aragorn had started the night sleeping in his chair, but his weary body found it oppressively uncomfortable. Sometime in the night, he had climbed into his bed beside Boromir. The Ranger walked quietly with bare feet across the tiles, grateful for the cleanliness of them. The room was quite chilly, Aragorn noticed, when one was not under the covers on the bed. He moved to the stone fireplace and made to light a fire.
"Do not!" cried a voice behind him, so sudden that he reached for a sword that was not there. He whirled around to see Boromir. The Man had jumped out of the bed and was very much awake. His hair was tousled with sleep, his dressing-gown was tangled about his legs, and he had taken several blankets to the floor with him. Boromir's eyes were wild with panic, and he looked as if he was facing Sauron himself.
Aragorn raised an eyebrow in silent question. He did not know why Boromir had this sudden aversion to fire.
The man of Gondor rubbed the back of his neck nervously and muttered something Aragorn could not hear, and frankly was glad he did not.
"Why do you not want a fire, Boromir?" Aragorn asked the Man. He realized he had used the Man's name only after the Steward's son cringed.
"How do you know my name?" he said in a defensive voice. To Aragorn's ears, he sounded rather paranoid. The Ranger was reminded painfully of Denethor.
"I only heard that you were coming to Imladris to seek counsel from the Lord Elrond," Aragorn told Boromir.
Boromir sighed. "It matters not, anyway, that I do not wish for fire," he said. "Just a foolish nightmare I had..." Boromir's eyes were intense and troubled. Aragorn recognized that look. He had seen it too often as he stared in the looking-glass.
The Ranger sat down in his chair. "The things that seem most foolish sometimes matter the very most," he said. "Go on, Boromir."
"Well," Boromir said, "During my journey to this place, I had a nightmare. I have learned to pay heed to nightmares and dreams, as one brings me here. So I keep thinking of it..." He broke off and appeared to be thinking. Aragorn wondered what he meant about a dream bringing him to Rivendell. "In the dream, I saw a pyre. It was alight, and I saw my father's face. And Faramir's." Boromir gripped his hands together with white knuckles.
"Pardon me," Aragorn interrupted, "but who is Faramir?"
"My younger brother," Boromir said. Aragorn could not help but wonder what was so terrible about this dream. The Steward and his second son sitting beside a hearth-fire was nothing to fear.
"What is so terrible about that?" Aragorn asked aloud. "Sitting by a fire is a simple pleasure of many."
Boromir shook his head anxiously. "No, no! You do not know. My father the Steward, and Faramir- they were not by the fire, they were in it!" he cried. His voice rang on the stone walls.
Aragorn did not know much of Boromir, but he could see that he was a Man quite concerned about the state of his family, and Gondor. He leaned back in the chair, a hand on his chin in the pose he usually adopted whilst thinking. "Quite a nightmare," he said quietly.
"So, you see," Boromir said, "I did not mean to startle you. I was merely thinking of the dream." Aragorn nodded, and he stood. He strode over to Boromir, and, with a small smile, clapped him on the shoulder. The Steward's son looked a bit shocked, but returned the smile in a second. "If I may ask one more favor of you, Lord Aragorn..." he said in a bit of an ashamed tone, "...can we both agree that we shall not speak of this?" Aragorn saw Boromir's ears turn red.
"Certainly," Aragorn said. He laughed, and it sounded a bit ashamed, too. "I believe both of us did not live up to our titles. We have gotten off on... the wrong foot, you may say." When he thought of someone worthy to bear the title, 'the Heir of Isildur', he thought of a proud Man with a haughty look about him and a gift for both sword-fighting and diplomacy. He most certainly did not think of a rumpled-looking Ranger wearing a dressing gown, rubbing the back of the Steward's son as he vomited.
Boromir chuckled, a hearty, rich sound. "I agree. If I may suggest, perhaps we should act as if we have never before met." He looked at the newly-mopped floor and his ears turned redder.
"That shall do," Aragorn said.
"I believe I said I had one favor left to ask," Boromir said. "I was wrong. I have another... can you help me find my room?" He spread his hands, grinning. "As you can see, I am rather lost."
No one present in the Council, save Elrond, even harbored the thought that Boromir of Gondor and Aragorn son of Arathorn had met. Aragorn remained silent most of the time, without, seemingly, a second glance at Boromir. Boromir interrupted frequently, speaking of Gondor, and the dream he had. Aragorn realized what he had meant that morning.
When Elrond introduced the two, no one saw the smile in his eyes. The Half-elf knew, of course, of the two Men's meeting, having visited Aragorn's chambers in the night. Before the Council's start, Aragorn had taken him aside and asked him to act as if he did not know Boromir, for the sake of their dignity. Elrond had obliged.
Aragorn realized he had told Boromir a lie, without even speaking. He saw the hurt in the Steward-son's eyes when Aragorn's real title was given. There was a bit of reproach, and a bit of astonishment mixed in.
I should have inquired about his dream, Aragorn thought. Or at least I might have revealed my title to him. Now he is offended, shocked, and even more mortified than before. Boromir did not show these expressions, but when Aragorn saw him out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the Man's ears were red, and his brow furrowed.
Still, no one knew that the two were introduced, though not formally. Boromir did his part with the acting. Of course, it did help that he had not known Aragorn's real title. Aragorn did his fair bit of acting, too, though the pang in his chest was very real as the Steward's son scowled at him with the expression of one who has hurt his pride.
There was almost no sign that Aragorn and Boromir knew each other, unless one was to look at their faces closely for a long while. If one was to do so, they would see that the two had shared an experience together- one they both wanted to forget.
Occasionally, Boromir would shift in his chair uncomfortably, and he would wind both arms over his stomach as if it ached. Sometimes, his hands would go to his temples, and he would rub them with a grimace.
Aragorn would look at the Man with a half-smile on his mouth. Then he would think of the wrong he had done Boromir and he would avert his gaze.
At the sight of Aragorn's half-smiles, Boromir would hope to the Valar that his long hair hid his ears: they turned a violent shade of red as he remembered the incidents of the previous night.