Under the cover of the night

Title: Under the cover of the night (5/?)
Author : Mimine (mimine101@hotmail.com)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: Overall NC-17, PG-13 for this chapter
Summary: movieverse. Aragorn and Boromir set aside some of their differences.
Warning: Spoilers for FoTR Extended Edition.
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien’s. Perhaps it’s better that way.
Author’s Note : Some dialogue is lifted straight from the movie.
Beta read by Roman who did a great job, as always. She is one of the main reasons this fic is going on with her thorough beta reading and constant encouragement.

The sun wakes us all kindly with its warm rays. I look around me at my companions. I only really see one of them. He’s sitting, still as though petrified, by the remains of the fire where he had been standing guard. I go to him and place one hand on his shoulder. With my other hand I offer him an apple.

“What am I? A horse?”

“I am afraid we have run out of eggs and sausages,” I mock him gently. I press the apple into his hand. “Take it. Your only other choice is lembas.”

He makes a face. According to him the elven delicacy tastes like sawdust. Perhaps it is a dislike borne of his general attitude towards the elves. He did not endear himself to them much in Rivendell, nor in Lothlorien. Yet Legolas seems fond of him.

I remember the two of them having whispered conversations in the darkness of Moria. Boromir listening as Legolas spoke of his home. He had sensed the elf’s distress, which had been far greater than the distress the rest of us had been feeling while traversing that endless tomb. I knew Legolas would suffer, being an elf. Boromir’s compassion had come as a surprise to me. To Legolas as well, I think.

And when he was not with Legolas, I remember Boromir walking next to Gimli in silent companionship. He would know whenever the dwarf fell behind and go back to get him, walking next to him, his hand on his shoulder, kindly urging him on as they would tread over the bodies of the dwarf’s people. No one else had been able to reach Gimli then.

He has endeared himself to us all. Only Frodo seems to dislike him now, as does Sam on Frodo’s account.

The hobbits in question wave to me. They have already started to pull our boat in the water.

Resentment washes over me. Not against Frodo and Sam. It is against the fates, against who I am, against the burden sitting squarely on my shoulders. Or perhaps I am just tired. I am not the only one. It is a while before Boromir gets up, putting down the half-eaten apple and reluctantly walks to his boat.

The day passes and once again it is time for us to take our rest. A heavy silence has fallen as we pull our boats outside. We are all so weary that even talking to each other would be too taxing. We settle down in a small cave by the water. The sun has not set yet. It gives us a glorious sunset that none of us is in the mood to appreciate.

Boromir leaves the company. I follow him, though what for, I am not sure. He stops by the water.

“It is Gollum,” I answer his silent question. “He has tracked us since Moria. I thought we would lose him in the river but he’s too clever a waterman.”

He worries about the strange creature possibly alerting our enemies to our whereabouts. I do not think it is likely. I do not think it is really what he fears, he has simply found an opening to urge me to lead the company to Minas Tirith again.

I refuse. He knew I would.

“You were quick enough to trust the elves! Have you so little faith in your own people?” he says and the bitterness, the chike hke hurt in his voice pierces my heart. I have heard him say that he is not good at persuading others with the force of his words, yet I feel myself falter and just for a second consider going to Minas Tirith. No doubt to write the final chapter of my family’s history as Isildur’s true succes

“There is weakness. There is frailty. But there is also courage and honour to be found in the race of men.” His words ring true. He has proven his courage and his honour beyond any doubt. His voice breaks. I see despair in his eyes as he grabs me forcefully and pulls me to him.

“You are afraid! All your life you have hidden in the shadows! Scared of who you are! Of what you are!”

What am I to him? His King? His hope? Or something else that I refuse to name, even in my mind? He accepted me in Lothlorien. He let himself trust me and now I disappoint him. The ring chose its champion well. I cannot bear the hurt in his eyes. My weakness shames me.

“I will not lead the ring within a hundred leagues of your City.” I say thickly.

His city now. As if Minas Tirith is not my concern. His City, his people, his pain.

He pales. I want to leave him but his eyes will not let me. I want to take back my harsh words. This cannot go on. My weakness for him has affected my judgment.

“Aragorn…”

His voice is soft now. Pleading. He reaches and strokes the nape of my neck with the tips of his fingers. My traitorous body responds immediately. My mind refuses to follow.

I slap away his hand. “Do not whore yourself anymore. Nothing will change,” I hiss.

He stares at me speechless with shock. The moment lasts for an eternity. His silence ends abruptly with an inhuman cry. It is like the cry of a wounded animal. He lunges at me in blind rage, blind pain. I avoid his fists easily. Too easily, and I have more than my ranger’s reflexes to thank for that. Even in his rage he is careful to not truly hurt me. I do not move to the offensive, I have hurt him enough with words already.

To my shame, our companions have heard us. Legolas pulls him away from me. Boromir struggles in the elf’s strong arms but eventually sags, boneless and slides to the ground when Legolas lets go of him.

Gimli, who had sat on my chest to ensure that I will not attack our comrade in arms, gets up, apparently thinking no one would attack Boromir in his current state. He stares at Boromir’s bloodied face. A split lip… I had not realised how it happened… probably my elbow as I was protecting my face from his fists. I have no visible injuries.

“What is this foolishness?” the dwarf growls.

I have no answer. Boromir wipes the blood from his face with his sleeve, shrugging off Legolas’ concern. He too is silent.

Hot shame fills my heart and makes my cheeks burn. I want to crawl to Boromir and beg forgiveness. I blink back sudden tears very much aware that I will not do that. It is over.

Do not whore yourself anymore. How easily I cheapened his affection! I hadn’t known myself to be capable of such cruelty.

Our small companions pretend not to have noticed anything is wrong as we all rejoin them. There is an uncomfortable silence. The hobbits speak to each other in whispers as though afraid of disrupting the big people. Merry and Pippin slowly form a protective huddle around Boromir. Legolas and Gimli are also nearby. Frodo sits close to me. He is the only one to do so. Boromir’s camp has heavily outnumbered mine tonight. Even in Sam’s honest face I read reproach, though his devotion to Frodo leaves no doubts as to whose side he eventually chooses.

How much did they hear? What they must think of me… of all men, after seeing we could not solve our differences without coming to blows.

Boromir moves from between the hobbits, wordlessly taking first watch as we all start settling down to sleep. Gimli slowly walks to him and places his hand on the warrior’s shoulder. Standing Gimli is about the same height as Boromir sitting on the ground. The Man turns to the stout figure.

“Rest tonight,” Gimli says quietly. “That insufferable elf would not let me paddle and I have energy to spare.”

Boromir shakes his head stubbornly, his unkempt hair obscuring his face.

“That was not a request, Boromir,” the dwarf says gravely.

“I do not need to rest.”

“I will not let you put us all at risk. Your mind is too troubled for you to be of much use tonight.” I can almost feel Gimli’s eyes fall on me as he says that, even though I am carefully keeping my own eyes half-closed to feign sleep.

“Do you think me weak?” Boromir’s voice is hoarse with more than anger.

Gimli is quiet for a moment. “You are brave and noble and I am honoured to call you a friend. As a friend I shall ask you again to take some rest, Boromir of Gondor.”

There is silence for a while. “Then as a friend I shall thank you for your concern and follow your advice,” Boromir says softly. He leans on the dwarf as he is getting up and Gimli covers his hand with his briefly and looks up to him. I expect Gimli to pronounce me a cad, unworthy of Boromir’s affection, any moment now. Hysterical laughter rises in my chest at the thought and I just barely manage to suppress it.

I wake up to find that Legolas has extended me the same courtesy that Gimli extended Boromir. Between them, elf and dwarf have kept watch almost the entire night.

I ask Legolas why he didn’t rouse me.

“It was not for lack of trying,” he says sourly.

My conscience was not so troubled over what happened with Boromir that I failed to sleep like an ox, it appears. I should be more troubled about the fact that I would have been of very little use should there have been an attack tonight. I had overestimated my endurance, it appears. I get up, noting that for the first time since we left Lothlorien no muscle in my body complains. I walk to where Legolas is sitting.

“You could sleep now, if you want. I am well rested.”

Legolas shakes his head. “It will be dawn soon. Go back to sleep, Aragorn.”

I cannot sleep. I tell him that. His gaze falls to Boromir’s sleeping place. Only the warrior’s hair is visible from where we are. Legolas shakes his head sadly.

“Gimli did not hear your last comment. I did not tell him for then I am sure he would lose all respect for the race of men. All respect for you, for what you said and all respect for Boromir, for letting you live.” Legolas’ speaks quietly, his voice remaining musical and sweet as he hits me with the harsh truth.

I shake my head. “I do not expect you to understand, Legolas,” I say tiredly.

“I understand more than you think,” he retorts.

A soft sigh is heard from Boromir’s corner. He curls tighter into himself. I do not think he has awaken but I motion to Legolas to be silent.

The elf’s hair flutters, shining silver in the moonlight as he shakes his head sadly. “He has been like that for most of the night.”

I avoid Legolas’ accusing gaze. I say nothing more and neither does he. We wait in silence, staring at the rising sun. I would like it to be a sunset I was watching. I would like for this day to have never happened at all.

TBC