Lord of the Rings, Boromir/Aragorn, gentleness
It was two nights since Gandalf had fallen into the abyss. Boromir and Aragorn were keeping watch over their camp. The night was quiet but Aragorn’s spirit was troubled.
There in the in the still and darkness he felt the full weight of what he must do closing down upon him. His responsibilities not just to his friends, but to all of Middle Earth pressed upon him as did the knowledge of the engulfing horror that would come if he were to fail. With Gandalf gone how could he not fail?
To think of these things was too much, so instead he thought of her, of Arwen, and at the thought of her an aching emptiness filled him, so strong it took his breath away. He gasped, and Boromir turned. Aragorn’s face betrayed none of his distress, but it must have shown in his eyes. Boromir stepped forward and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder.
Aragorn pulled away. He was at heart a hawk, lofty and solitary. What he felt was not meant to be shared.
“I am meant to be your Steward, King of Gondor,” Boromir said enfolding Aragorn in his arms. “Let me care for you.” There was in his embrace a genteelness Aragorn had never imagined in a man as fiercely proud as Captain of the White Tower.
Pressed to Boromir’s chest Aragorn felt, for the first time since leaving Arwen, that he was not in darkness and utterly alone, that he was a man and not an hawk.
Boromir was stroking his matted hair, kissing his cheeks. They were wet. He hadn’t realized he was crying. He hadn’t realized he could cry. Somehow Boromir’s gentleness turned everything Aragorn thought he knew upside down. He clung to Boromir to keep his balance but lost it anyway and they were sprawled on the grass, kissing, Boromir carefully undressing him. Then were naked, entwined, wrapped up in each other.
“Be gentle,” Aragorn whispered and surrendered to Boromir, surrendered his body, his crown, hawk’s high lonely nobility and melted into Boromir’s caresses.