Disclaimer: These two guys are not mine. If they were, I wouldn't be sharing them.
The King's Braid
Chapter Five
Aragorn paced backwards and forwards across the study, waiting for Boromir. He was terrified he wouldn't be able to pull this off - that Boromir would know he was lying. But there was a part of him that wanted to fail, because then he wouldn't have to say those words. "I don't love you." Even thinking them made Aragorn's gut wrench. Briefly, he considered just blurting out the whole situation to Boromir, thereby keeping him in Minas Tirith. But Aragorn knew that he wouldn't.
The rattling of the doorknob caught his attention, and he looked up to see Boromir entering the room, shutting the door behind him. At the sight of him, Aragorn's heart leapt into his throat. Boromir had obviously come from dealing with a wilful horse in the stables, for his skin was flushed, and his shirt untucked as if he had hastily put it back on. And his hair, which must originally have been in its customary braid, had escaped from its fastening and was falling down around his face. Boromir's whole person was in disarray, but to Aragorn he was beautiful, and he had to exert every ounce of willpower and self-control to keep from taking the Steward into his arms there and then and kissing him until he had no breath left in his body.
For a few seconds Aragorn was at a loss for words. But while his heart was in danger of being overwhelmed, his head took matters into its own hands and took charge. "Good afternoon," Aragorn heard himself saying. "Thank you for replying to my summons so promptly."
Boromir looked a little confused at Aragorn's formal tone of voice, but then obviously decided that this was some sort of game, and he would play along. "Do not mention it," he replied. "I believe there was an important matter that you wished to speak to me about?" His lips curled up in a slight smirk, which quickly died when Aragorn did not return it.
"That is correct," said Aragorn. He tried desperately to think of a tactful way to open the subject, but no words of inspiration sprang to his mind. His misery increased ten-fold when he realised he would have to be painfully blunt. He swallowed, turning away from Boromir as he did so. He could not let Boromir see how much it cost him to say the next words. "What I wish to say is…I find I have grown tired of your presence," he threw back over his shoulder, keeping his voice as cold as he possibly could.
A confused silence greeted his words. Finally, Boromir answered. "What?" he whispered, his voice weakened by shock and disbelief. Another pause. "But you love me," he continued, his voice barely audible. "How can you say such a thing, even in jest?"
"Love you?" Aragorn let out a hard laugh. "I do not love you. I may have said the word a few times, but I needed to tell you something to keep you happy. I do not jest, Boromir, son of Denethor. You were nothing more than a convenience. Someone to keep my bed warm. But I am bored of you now. There is not really the need for a Steward for the kingdom of Gondor. There are plenty of officials in my court who could do your job just as easily as you." Aragorn hated himself more with every word he spoke. But he knew he had to keep up the pretence, and so he had to let Boromir see he was serious. So turned round to face the other man again, dreading what he would see.
What he saw in Boromir's face, however, dealt him a blow that was almost physical in its force. Aragorn had expected to see anger, but instead utter despair was written across it. Aragorn had never expected to see someone's heart breaking in front of his very eyes, but he knew he was seeing it now. He would have preferred anger. He would have preferred Boromir to leap across the room and wrap his hands around his throat. He would have preferred anything to seeing such defeat. He could see that Boromir was struggling to hold himself together. He almost succeeded, with the sole exception of a single tear that trickled down his cheek. At the sight of that, Aragorn felt his own heart break. Or to be more accurate, shatter into a thousand pieces. He longed to leap across the room himself, and gather Boromir into his arms and tell him that the whole thing was a lie – that it was indeed a horrible jest.
But he couldn't. His body felt numb, and his feet felt glued to the floor. All Aragorn could do was complete his terrible task and watch as Boromir's world crashed down around him. "That is all I have to say," he finished, the cold and haughty tone of his voice still in place even though his heart and mind were both protesting vehemently. "You may go."
Boromir's gaze was directed at the floor. "As you wish," he replied quietly, although his voice shook slightly. Turning slowly away, he left the room.
As the door closed behind Boromir, Aragorn's whole body sagged, and he crumpled slowly to the floor. Tears streamed silently down his face. Blindly, he reached out his hand, groping for something that was no longer there. "Boromir," he whispered. "I am sorry."