(no subject)
Title: untitled no#227
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragon/Boromir
Disclaimer: the author of this fan fiction owns nothing, and is making no profit
It's useless,' he thinks shouldering his saddle pack, 'bloody useless, can't tell the north from the south.' The sky is clear from what he can see, no chance of rain. He as been riding for several days now heading towards Bree to meet with his younger brother to bring him home from his summer with Gandalf. He's worried about his brother, worried about what stories Gandalf has been feeding him, had seen the fear and disgust in his father's eyes when Faramir had come to him with the idea but he'd agree anyway and Boromir could tell he was hoping to creating distance between them in more than one sense.
He shifts his pack on his shoulder, mentally calculating the distance that he must still ride and the nearest town is more than a days ride. He's still thinking it over when he comes upon them. A thin reed of a boy, whispering to his horse.
"Is she yours?" Boromir eyes him, before nodding and the young lad smiles at him, running his fingers over Willowraith's neck, "She's a beautiful horse. You must care greatly for her." Boromir nods again, sliding his saddle pack onto the horse's back carefully, "the inn keeper told me that you are travelling to Bree, is that correct my good man?"
"It is My Lord and the inn keeper would do well to mind his own buisness." the boy's smile widens and Boromir is beginning to think that he is older than he first looked, something about the way his eyes crinkle speaks of a wisdom that is older than Boromir himself.
"That is indeed true, but if you're heading to Bree you've journeyed too far... My Lord." it sounds like an insult from the dry, cracked lips. He frowns at the man, takes in the limp, greasy hair and the dirt and blood caked to his nails. He doesn't look at all frightened or frightening, looks nothing more than a dirty common born in need of a hot bath and good meal.
"And what would you know of it, boy?" he gets no reply just a small smirk that seem to brighten the young dirty face, "you'll forgive me if I do not take the advice of someone of your... dubious character." the young man laughs softly and pats his horse's neck like Boromir had caught him doing moments before.
"Well that is your choice m'lord but you have been warned. Your fate is your own. May the gods watch over you." It seems like he is talking to Willowraith rather than to Boromir but she seems to be pleased, butting her nose against the young lad's shoulder and he smiles at her, pressing his head against her's and whispering softly until she whinnies, tossing her head and the youth laughs, "May your journey be prospeous." he bows and Boromir can barely fight back the sneer that tugs at his mouth, nodding his head before mounting and setting off a slow trot.
OoOoOoOoO
It's barely been half a day when the rain sets in and Boromir grits his teeth, steering Willowraith deeper into the forest despite her protests and he wonders if that boy cast a spell on her to spook at the smallest noise, although that might have more to do the Fanghorn than any common born magic although he is sure his younger brother would laugh with glee at the idea. The trees offer some protection from the torrent of rain water but the ground soon muddies and Willowraith's pace slows to an almost stop and Boromir curses under his breath as the sound of rain only gets louder.
He stops after half an hour of getting no where and leads the way through the forest, half blinded by over grown bushes and grass, stumbling over rocks and roots. It's his own carelessness that he slips, but it's the land that plays him a fool and before he can even fathom a thought he is looking up at Willowraith, gripping tightly to the reins and a loose root. Willowraith tries to toss her head but Boromir's weight stops her and she stamps her feet lossening dirt like rain on to him.
"Easy girl," he tightens his grip on the root and places his feet against the dirt edge and moves to pull himself up, but the root gives and Boromir finds himself looking at a green canopy of leaves and tasting blood as his vision blurs and darkens.
OoOoOoOo
He awakens to the sounds of rain and birds and the soft humming of a voice that he just can't place. His head hurts and his vision swims when he opens his eyes. His vision finally focuses on thick black waxed cloth , stretched between two trees not that Boromircould really care with the pain in his head. He's leaning against a tree, wrapped in a thick blanket but he can still feel the cold in his bones, making him shiver.
"You're finally awake I see." The voice is paired with movement behind him, a sounds of a horse and he smiles to himself to think that Willowraith is close by. The voice moves into his vision, and he almost groans at the sight of long greasy hair and old as time eyes, "I need to bind your ankle before it swells anymore." He leans over Boromir, pulling at the bandage in his head, "the bleeding has stopped but you need to rest."
They sit in silence as the boy starts binding his foot, the bruising deep blue to black, and Boromir winces looking at it and thinking of his brother waiting for him to arrive. Silence settles over them and Boromir finds it unbareable, to be nursed by a boy who's name he doesn't even know and had looked down on because he simply thought he was better.
"What do they call you?"
"They call me Strider."
"Who on this great earth would name a child Strider?"
"I never said it was my name, it is simply what they call me." Boromir smiles despite himself.
"And how did you come to find me, Strider?"
"You took a fall, it was lucky I was close by, Willowraith was able to find me and lead me here before you passed," he finishes binding Boromir's foot, before pulling him into a seating position and wrapping a second blanket around his shivering frame, "here drink this." he holds a chipped wooden bowl, steaming and filled with hot broth to Boromir's lips. It tastes salty, and only holding some flavour but Boromir still manages three bowls before turning his head away. The boy smiles softly, before placing a hand on Boromir's forehead, "you have a fever," he sits back on his heels frowning before pulling off his leather jerkin, "we need to keep you warm until morning."
"Only rangers patrol these lands."
"Then a ranger I am," He pulls his shirt over his head, before his fingers work on his boots, "the fire will die soon, we'll have to share body heat if you are to make it to the morrow." He slies under the blankets and presses himself to Boromir's side, "you should try to sleep some more."
They lay in silence, rain beating down heavily all around them. Boromir shifts towards Strider, wanting more heat to warm his chilled skin.he can smell the sweat of the other man, mixed with a head spiciness that the blood in Boromir's veins heat and stir. He shifts again, closer still and he can feel the blood rushing in his ears as his cock hardens against his leg.
There is a soft sigh next to him and the sounds of fabric being peeled away from skin. Strider sits up, looks back at him, face half casted in shadow before moving to straddles Boromir's lap, cock sliding wetly across Boromir's stomach.
"Do not worry yourself m'lord, I will take care of your needs." it is comforting almost, but he still finds himself running his hands down Strider's back, thumbing at sharp hip bones, guiding this body to exactly where he wants it.
He places a hand on the small of Strider's back, digs in nails when he rocks his hips, sweat rolling in thick beads down his spine and over Boromir's fingers. His hips jerk upwards and Strider whimpers, grinding down again and shuddering fully.
"This is might not have been such a good idea, m'lord." It doesn't sound convincing with the way he shudders and rocks his hips.
"Then perhaps we should stop." But Strider's answer is lost in a moan and Boromir grips him tighter, hips working in a steady pace against the youth's own. They come like that, with small sounds that get choked off and lost in the rain. Strider slumps against him, sticky and trembling, moving only to pull covers over them so that they can finally sleep.
OoOoOoOoO
Morning finds them dry and the sunshining harshly through the gaps in the tree's canopy. Strider is already dressed, moving around quietly and Boromir can see the skills his possesses as a ranger.
"I do hope you were wise enough to at least bring spare clothing, your shirt appears to be ruined." He doesn't look up from his task of heating water and stirring in leaves of some kind. They eat and dress in silence, Strider rebinding his foot before helping him with his boots.
"I can lead you out of the forest, Bree should be no more than a day and half ride from there." Boromir nods, resting a hand on Willowraith's neck, stroking the fine hair to sooth himself more than her.
They journey in silence, coming to the edge of the forest faster than Boromir had expected, and with gentle instructions and a swift bow Boromir is left with only a memory of a boy with eyes as old as the hills.
OoOoOoOoOo
Rivendale is especially beautiful at this time, or so he has been lead to believe, having never set foot on this land. The leaves fall about them as they argue back and forth about The Ring. He hears it sing to him and but he can only half hear it's call, gaze locked on the rugged looking man across from him, the one he knows intimately.
There's a shower of raised voices, his own amoungest them, until he hears it those words that every heir and steward of Gondor fears to hear.
"This is no mere ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
"Aragorn? This... is Isildur's heir?" His throat tightens around the words and it is that foolishness that leads him to volunteer himself for this mission, not just for the pride of Gondor and his father but his own selfish reasons as well. To be close to this man once more.
The cut on his finger has clotted the blood staining his palm and knuckles. Aragorn comes to him in the courtyard, the trees hanging over them low, leaves falling around them like burning ash.
'You should have told me." Aragorn laughs, soft smile reaching those eyes that crinkle with wisdom and age.
"Would you have believed me, would you have believed the word of a ranger? Do you even believe me now?" Boromir frowns, looks away from that handsome face, away from the king of kings.
"Do you expect me to bend the knee to you and except it?"
"Hardly," He turns away, "the road ahead promises to be filled with battles. We shall know who we truly are by the end of it."
"May our journey be prosperous."
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragon/Boromir
Disclaimer: the author of this fan fiction owns nothing, and is making no profit
It's useless,' he thinks shouldering his saddle pack, 'bloody useless, can't tell the north from the south.' The sky is clear from what he can see, no chance of rain. He as been riding for several days now heading towards Bree to meet with his younger brother to bring him home from his summer with Gandalf. He's worried about his brother, worried about what stories Gandalf has been feeding him, had seen the fear and disgust in his father's eyes when Faramir had come to him with the idea but he'd agree anyway and Boromir could tell he was hoping to creating distance between them in more than one sense.
He shifts his pack on his shoulder, mentally calculating the distance that he must still ride and the nearest town is more than a days ride. He's still thinking it over when he comes upon them. A thin reed of a boy, whispering to his horse.
"Is she yours?" Boromir eyes him, before nodding and the young lad smiles at him, running his fingers over Willowraith's neck, "She's a beautiful horse. You must care greatly for her." Boromir nods again, sliding his saddle pack onto the horse's back carefully, "the inn keeper told me that you are travelling to Bree, is that correct my good man?"
"It is My Lord and the inn keeper would do well to mind his own buisness." the boy's smile widens and Boromir is beginning to think that he is older than he first looked, something about the way his eyes crinkle speaks of a wisdom that is older than Boromir himself.
"That is indeed true, but if you're heading to Bree you've journeyed too far... My Lord." it sounds like an insult from the dry, cracked lips. He frowns at the man, takes in the limp, greasy hair and the dirt and blood caked to his nails. He doesn't look at all frightened or frightening, looks nothing more than a dirty common born in need of a hot bath and good meal.
"And what would you know of it, boy?" he gets no reply just a small smirk that seem to brighten the young dirty face, "you'll forgive me if I do not take the advice of someone of your... dubious character." the young man laughs softly and pats his horse's neck like Boromir had caught him doing moments before.
"Well that is your choice m'lord but you have been warned. Your fate is your own. May the gods watch over you." It seems like he is talking to Willowraith rather than to Boromir but she seems to be pleased, butting her nose against the young lad's shoulder and he smiles at her, pressing his head against her's and whispering softly until she whinnies, tossing her head and the youth laughs, "May your journey be prospeous." he bows and Boromir can barely fight back the sneer that tugs at his mouth, nodding his head before mounting and setting off a slow trot.
OoOoOoOoO
It's barely been half a day when the rain sets in and Boromir grits his teeth, steering Willowraith deeper into the forest despite her protests and he wonders if that boy cast a spell on her to spook at the smallest noise, although that might have more to do the Fanghorn than any common born magic although he is sure his younger brother would laugh with glee at the idea. The trees offer some protection from the torrent of rain water but the ground soon muddies and Willowraith's pace slows to an almost stop and Boromir curses under his breath as the sound of rain only gets louder.
He stops after half an hour of getting no where and leads the way through the forest, half blinded by over grown bushes and grass, stumbling over rocks and roots. It's his own carelessness that he slips, but it's the land that plays him a fool and before he can even fathom a thought he is looking up at Willowraith, gripping tightly to the reins and a loose root. Willowraith tries to toss her head but Boromir's weight stops her and she stamps her feet lossening dirt like rain on to him.
"Easy girl," he tightens his grip on the root and places his feet against the dirt edge and moves to pull himself up, but the root gives and Boromir finds himself looking at a green canopy of leaves and tasting blood as his vision blurs and darkens.
OoOoOoOo
He awakens to the sounds of rain and birds and the soft humming of a voice that he just can't place. His head hurts and his vision swims when he opens his eyes. His vision finally focuses on thick black waxed cloth , stretched between two trees not that Boromircould really care with the pain in his head. He's leaning against a tree, wrapped in a thick blanket but he can still feel the cold in his bones, making him shiver.
"You're finally awake I see." The voice is paired with movement behind him, a sounds of a horse and he smiles to himself to think that Willowraith is close by. The voice moves into his vision, and he almost groans at the sight of long greasy hair and old as time eyes, "I need to bind your ankle before it swells anymore." He leans over Boromir, pulling at the bandage in his head, "the bleeding has stopped but you need to rest."
They sit in silence as the boy starts binding his foot, the bruising deep blue to black, and Boromir winces looking at it and thinking of his brother waiting for him to arrive. Silence settles over them and Boromir finds it unbareable, to be nursed by a boy who's name he doesn't even know and had looked down on because he simply thought he was better.
"What do they call you?"
"They call me Strider."
"Who on this great earth would name a child Strider?"
"I never said it was my name, it is simply what they call me." Boromir smiles despite himself.
"And how did you come to find me, Strider?"
"You took a fall, it was lucky I was close by, Willowraith was able to find me and lead me here before you passed," he finishes binding Boromir's foot, before pulling him into a seating position and wrapping a second blanket around his shivering frame, "here drink this." he holds a chipped wooden bowl, steaming and filled with hot broth to Boromir's lips. It tastes salty, and only holding some flavour but Boromir still manages three bowls before turning his head away. The boy smiles softly, before placing a hand on Boromir's forehead, "you have a fever," he sits back on his heels frowning before pulling off his leather jerkin, "we need to keep you warm until morning."
"Only rangers patrol these lands."
"Then a ranger I am," He pulls his shirt over his head, before his fingers work on his boots, "the fire will die soon, we'll have to share body heat if you are to make it to the morrow." He slies under the blankets and presses himself to Boromir's side, "you should try to sleep some more."
They lay in silence, rain beating down heavily all around them. Boromir shifts towards Strider, wanting more heat to warm his chilled skin.he can smell the sweat of the other man, mixed with a head spiciness that the blood in Boromir's veins heat and stir. He shifts again, closer still and he can feel the blood rushing in his ears as his cock hardens against his leg.
There is a soft sigh next to him and the sounds of fabric being peeled away from skin. Strider sits up, looks back at him, face half casted in shadow before moving to straddles Boromir's lap, cock sliding wetly across Boromir's stomach.
"Do not worry yourself m'lord, I will take care of your needs." it is comforting almost, but he still finds himself running his hands down Strider's back, thumbing at sharp hip bones, guiding this body to exactly where he wants it.
He places a hand on the small of Strider's back, digs in nails when he rocks his hips, sweat rolling in thick beads down his spine and over Boromir's fingers. His hips jerk upwards and Strider whimpers, grinding down again and shuddering fully.
"This is might not have been such a good idea, m'lord." It doesn't sound convincing with the way he shudders and rocks his hips.
"Then perhaps we should stop." But Strider's answer is lost in a moan and Boromir grips him tighter, hips working in a steady pace against the youth's own. They come like that, with small sounds that get choked off and lost in the rain. Strider slumps against him, sticky and trembling, moving only to pull covers over them so that they can finally sleep.
OoOoOoOoO
Morning finds them dry and the sunshining harshly through the gaps in the tree's canopy. Strider is already dressed, moving around quietly and Boromir can see the skills his possesses as a ranger.
"I do hope you were wise enough to at least bring spare clothing, your shirt appears to be ruined." He doesn't look up from his task of heating water and stirring in leaves of some kind. They eat and dress in silence, Strider rebinding his foot before helping him with his boots.
"I can lead you out of the forest, Bree should be no more than a day and half ride from there." Boromir nods, resting a hand on Willowraith's neck, stroking the fine hair to sooth himself more than her.
They journey in silence, coming to the edge of the forest faster than Boromir had expected, and with gentle instructions and a swift bow Boromir is left with only a memory of a boy with eyes as old as the hills.
OoOoOoOoOo
Rivendale is especially beautiful at this time, or so he has been lead to believe, having never set foot on this land. The leaves fall about them as they argue back and forth about The Ring. He hears it sing to him and but he can only half hear it's call, gaze locked on the rugged looking man across from him, the one he knows intimately.
There's a shower of raised voices, his own amoungest them, until he hears it those words that every heir and steward of Gondor fears to hear.
"This is no mere ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
"Aragorn? This... is Isildur's heir?" His throat tightens around the words and it is that foolishness that leads him to volunteer himself for this mission, not just for the pride of Gondor and his father but his own selfish reasons as well. To be close to this man once more.
The cut on his finger has clotted the blood staining his palm and knuckles. Aragorn comes to him in the courtyard, the trees hanging over them low, leaves falling around them like burning ash.
'You should have told me." Aragorn laughs, soft smile reaching those eyes that crinkle with wisdom and age.
"Would you have believed me, would you have believed the word of a ranger? Do you even believe me now?" Boromir frowns, looks away from that handsome face, away from the king of kings.
"Do you expect me to bend the knee to you and except it?"
"Hardly," He turns away, "the road ahead promises to be filled with battles. We shall know who we truly are by the end of it."
"May our journey be prosperous."