Stem the Flood
Author's Note: Response to a challenge. Lord of the Rings Aragorn-centered fic, containing the words hardship, missing, and clarity.
He had survived many battles, had survived many comrades' deaths. He should be able to take this blow as the others, as just another face, another name, another warrior. He couldn't, though, for Boromir the Fair was no plain face and no common name. The Son of Gondor had been far more than a friend through their journey, throughout every hardship. They nine had been bonded in fellowship, but these two more closely joined in quiet nights when the rest were sleeping, when the One lie heavily about the Ringbearer's neck.
For it was then, when there was naught else to occupy the warrior's mind, that his thoughts turned to that one cursed ring. It was then that he turned to Aragorn to distract his idle thoughts and his weakening body. For though his muscles did not deteriorate, his resolve was fading. Aragorn feared that he would soon give in, that the temptation would prove too great for the man. Hearts of men were weak and easily turned. Tainted blood, weak blood, flowed in his own veins, but he strove daily against it. He would let his blood if it would remove him of the poison.
Boromir's hands would shake in their fists, he would quiver in the darkness and he battled with demons within. At Aragorn's fingertips he found his only comfort, his only escape from the phantoms that haunted him. Cool hands rested on his fevered head, brushed away sweat-soaked hair. Warm lips covered his own, redirecting his twisted lust to the ranger bent over him, where it became something different, something simpler.
They joined thus in the nights, in Lorien when he feared for his own mind and further on when the temptation became to great for Gondor's Son to bear.
But Aragorn's touch could not stop the flow of Mordor's power, not over the heart of Boromir. Perhaps Denethor's influence had been too great before they parted, or perhaps the fellowship the Ranger offered was too little to stem the longings of power. Whatever the cause, Boromir fell and the Ringbearer fled to an end of which none were certain.
In the days following, Aragorn felt deeply the loss of his comrade. There was something missing in the nights, and his own hands trembled sometimes when he forgot himself.
"Have you seen the White City, Aragorn?"
He looked upon it now from the hilltop, upon the Heart of Gondor, and did so with a new clarity. A second horse rode up beside his, and Faramir reached out from the beast to lay a hand on Aragorn's arm. "Shall we go down to the White City, my Lord?"
"They will be waiting," he said with a sigh.
"It has been a long time."
Aragorn Elessar gave a faint smile as his searching eyes found an old friend in the face of the Prince of Ithilien. "Aye, Faramir," he said softly, "that it has."
END