Title: Guarded
Author: Sasjah Miller (zasjah@arandurmine.slashcity.org)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: yes, please
Website: Arandur Mine (http://arandurmine.slashcity.org)
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkiens.
Summary: "You don't really know for sure why you took the
vambraces from his arms."
---------------------------------------------------------
You don't really know for sure why you take the vambraces
from his arms; his body lying limp and deadly white in the
little Elven boat, the one that had brought him here, to his death,
to his redemption.
You take them anyway, at the last moment, just before Legolas
begins to push the boat away from the shore to send him on his
journey down the Anduin. You bend over and a tear that you
did not know had formed falls on Boromir's lips, on his mouth,
now closed and still forever. The grief inside you is a raging
animal, clawing and biting into your soul and you know that
long after it has become dumb with age, caged by the progress
of time, the scars it has carved in your heart will still be there,
still threatening to rip open at every opportunity. Finally, you
understand why Elves can die of grief. You would do the same
if you were free of the bonds that tie you to this world and its
fate, and to the promises you have made.
But you won't die. Not because of this. Because you promised.
So you take his hand, colder now than when you were trying to
scale Caradhras' treacherous flanks, and you look at his face,
his eyes closed, the darkness behind them deeper than that of
Moria's mines. Somewhere in the back of your mind you make
the decision. Because you promised.
You remove your own bracers, the ones you'd had made in
Bree when you were there on a reconnaissance trip with
Halbarad and life was simpler then, or so it now seems, and
you lie them on the ground, kneeling to do so, kneeling for him.
You gently undo the clasps of Boromir's bracers, only now
truly noticing the design; the White Tree tooled into the tough
leather, its silver leaves still shimmering through the blood and
grime that covers the crest.
It hits home. Hard. Boromir had been born under the shadow of
the dead White Tree of Gondor, had lived there all his life,
defending it and all that it stood for, had even gone to search
for seedlings with Faramir in the mountains to replace the
withered tree. But he will never see the White Tree in bloom:
both of them dead now. And you will never be able to resurrect
either of them.
Another tear glides down your face; you feel it trail over your
cheeks, mingling with the blood that has dried there, sticky Orc
blood, as well as your own. You cry in silence as you pull the
vambraces tight around your wrists, almost enjoying the pain
this causes as the sturdy leather presses against the bruises
from the fight with the Uruk-Hai that slew Boromir. Nothing
broken, nothing that time will not mend. The bruises will fade,
the aches will go away, the cuts will scab over and heal, and
probably leave scars on your body; adding another silvery
white line to the map of your past. But you don't care; those
are not the wounds that matter, this is not the pain that will
remain. The pain that you will feel from now on; every time
you lie awake at night, the campfire crackling softly, the
embers casting an eerie glow on Legolas or Gimli as one of
them keeps first watch and you pretend the soft pressure of the
vambraces are Boromir's strong hands gripping your wrists as
he bends over you and claims you with his hungry kiss. And
your hands will work their way furtively and shamefully into
your breeches while you try to pretend that they are Boromir's.
Afterwards you will fall asleep because you have to, lying on
your side, your head resting on your arm, the leather of the
bracers warm and soft against your skin, the White Tree
leaving a mark on your cheek, and the fading scent of Boromir
enfolding you like lover's arms.
The End
Author: Sasjah Miller (zasjah@arandurmine.slashcity.org)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: yes, please
Website: Arandur Mine (http://arandurmine.slashcity.org)
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkiens.
Summary: "You don't really know for sure why you took the
vambraces from his arms."
---------------------------------------------------------
You don't really know for sure why you take the vambraces
from his arms; his body lying limp and deadly white in the
little Elven boat, the one that had brought him here, to his death,
to his redemption.
You take them anyway, at the last moment, just before Legolas
begins to push the boat away from the shore to send him on his
journey down the Anduin. You bend over and a tear that you
did not know had formed falls on Boromir's lips, on his mouth,
now closed and still forever. The grief inside you is a raging
animal, clawing and biting into your soul and you know that
long after it has become dumb with age, caged by the progress
of time, the scars it has carved in your heart will still be there,
still threatening to rip open at every opportunity. Finally, you
understand why Elves can die of grief. You would do the same
if you were free of the bonds that tie you to this world and its
fate, and to the promises you have made.
But you won't die. Not because of this. Because you promised.
So you take his hand, colder now than when you were trying to
scale Caradhras' treacherous flanks, and you look at his face,
his eyes closed, the darkness behind them deeper than that of
Moria's mines. Somewhere in the back of your mind you make
the decision. Because you promised.
You remove your own bracers, the ones you'd had made in
Bree when you were there on a reconnaissance trip with
Halbarad and life was simpler then, or so it now seems, and
you lie them on the ground, kneeling to do so, kneeling for him.
You gently undo the clasps of Boromir's bracers, only now
truly noticing the design; the White Tree tooled into the tough
leather, its silver leaves still shimmering through the blood and
grime that covers the crest.
It hits home. Hard. Boromir had been born under the shadow of
the dead White Tree of Gondor, had lived there all his life,
defending it and all that it stood for, had even gone to search
for seedlings with Faramir in the mountains to replace the
withered tree. But he will never see the White Tree in bloom:
both of them dead now. And you will never be able to resurrect
either of them.
Another tear glides down your face; you feel it trail over your
cheeks, mingling with the blood that has dried there, sticky Orc
blood, as well as your own. You cry in silence as you pull the
vambraces tight around your wrists, almost enjoying the pain
this causes as the sturdy leather presses against the bruises
from the fight with the Uruk-Hai that slew Boromir. Nothing
broken, nothing that time will not mend. The bruises will fade,
the aches will go away, the cuts will scab over and heal, and
probably leave scars on your body; adding another silvery
white line to the map of your past. But you don't care; those
are not the wounds that matter, this is not the pain that will
remain. The pain that you will feel from now on; every time
you lie awake at night, the campfire crackling softly, the
embers casting an eerie glow on Legolas or Gimli as one of
them keeps first watch and you pretend the soft pressure of the
vambraces are Boromir's strong hands gripping your wrists as
he bends over you and claims you with his hungry kiss. And
your hands will work their way furtively and shamefully into
your breeches while you try to pretend that they are Boromir's.
Afterwards you will fall asleep because you have to, lying on
your side, your head resting on your arm, the leather of the
bracers warm and soft against your skin, the White Tree
leaving a mark on your cheek, and the fading scent of Boromir
enfolding you like lover's arms.
The End