Wounds

Title: Wounds
Author: Sasjah Miller (zasjah@arandurmine.slashcity.org)
Website: http://arandurmine.slashcity.org
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir.
Warnings: m/m slash.
Summary: "In the mines of Moria Aragorn and Boromir tend to
each other’s wounds."
Archive: Please ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien's
Storynotes at the end

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Wounds

It's been a full day now since we escaped the watcher in the lake
and fled into the mines of Moria. A full day of oppressive
darkness, of listening without end to sounds and whispers in the
dark, waiting for that one sound that will tell us they know we
are here.

This journey has been riddled with disaster, turning worse with
each move we make. And now we've landed ourselves in these
wretched mines, filled with death for friend and foe alike.
I hate this place: we should have taken our chances at the Gap of
Rohan. Mountains are to be scaled, not burrowed through, and I
have this strong feeling that something terrible will happen here.
I may not have the farseer's sense of the Kings of old my father
possesses, but I have not survived in battle for so long without
developing a keen sense of danger.

Aragorn and I have walked together, forming the rear through
no other arrangement than our shared sense of dread. And now
we've finally found a relatively safe resting place where we can
take care of our wounds, prepare some food and maybe even get
a chance to sleep for a while.

We both have been hurt in the fight with the monster, as have
the little ones, but Gandalf has already taken care of them. I
have taken it upon me to take care of Aragorn, to check his
wounds and dress them with the things we have at hand: torn
and dirty cloth, tepid water from our flasks, some salve from our
packs. And he will do the same for me in return. It is only
natural for us, seasoned warriors, to take care of each other, to
touch another man's body after a attle, making sure that your
comrade in arms does not die from his wounds after all.
He doesn't want to at first, claiming he will take care of himself,
and that there are far more pressing matters than a few scratches.
But I have seen that the kraken had its tentacles wrapped firmly
around his neck when we attacked it to free Frodo. And I know
that he must have sustained wounds from those horrible suction
pads. I have seen the red welts in his neck. I tell him it will
eventually incapacitate him if he doesn't have them taken care
of.

This convinces him, if only barely, and as if by unspoken
agreement we move out of view from the others, who are
already busying themselves with food and sleeping
arrangements. We find an outcropping near the side of the cave
where we have halted and he sits down before me, silent, closed
up, negating my presence. Suddenly hesitant, I carefully pull up
his shirt and over his head, and lift up his hair to check his neck
and I draw in a deep breath: the wounds are worse than I
thought. The tentacles have left their grisly markings on him:
deep, round patches of blistered skin cover the back of his neck.
It must hurt terribly.

But I also note his strong back, his well-formed shoulders that
show years of sword practice and living off the land. He is of a
slighter build than the men of Gondor are, but this only adds to
the effect he has on me. He is different, and yet so like me. I
shake myself inwardly, cursing myself for feeling this strange
attraction to the man that I should be hating with all my heart
and I force myself to concentrate on his wounds. I must not fool
myself: Aragorn does not need my affection, he just needs my
attention. I pour some water over a piece of cloth and start to
wipe the wounds clean, gently, carefully. His tensing body tells
me that my actions cause him pain.

And yet...

He does not flinch from the touch of my hands the way one does
if a touch is merely painful. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but I feel
his body lean into my touch ever so slightly and I dare not think
about the implications. I force myself to resist the urge to let my
head rest against his, to let my hands explore further, to make
him mine. I do not know where this urge comes from, but I
know I have wanted to touch him ever since I felt his gaze on
me in the halls of Elrond, scrutinizing me, dissecting me, laying
me bare and filling me with want and need.

I have finished dressing his wounds and I pray they won't start
to fester. We cannot miss him. I cannot miss him.

"You will be fine now," I say as I stand up and hand him his
upper clothes, averting my eyes. I do not want to frighten him.
He takes them from me, but lies them aside, almost
thoughtlessly, and then he takes the flask and salve from me. My
gaze is drawn to his naked torso, even if I try to fight it and I
take in every muscle, every inch of bare skin, wanting to save
this view for the rest of my life.

"Turn around and sit down, Boromir."

His voice is still husky from all the dust we inhaled when the
entrance of the cave collapsed and I feel a shiver run down my
body, my whole being revolting against being commandeered so
brusquely and yet so sensuously. And I do not want to turn
around because I want to keep looking at him forever. But I
obey, seeing the wisdom of the words as I have spoken them
myself.

I turn my back towards him and rid myself of my vestments,
gingerly favoring my left arm. During the fight the monster
wrapped one of its tentacles around it, pressing the chain mail
into my flesh leaving bloody markings all around my upper arm.
Now I am exposed to him and again I feel like he is seeing right
through me. I do not like this and yet I yearn for his gaze on my
body. But I yearn for his hands as well, even if they only touch
me to dress my wounds. I try to relax, to not let on what I feel,
but the moment his hands, warm fingertips coated in cool salve
touch the flesh wounds on my arm, I can barely control my
reactions.

I have had my share of battle wounds, and healing masters'
hands have soothed my injuries countless times, have nursed me
back to health in Gondor's Houses of Healing, readying me for
the next battle. But never have I been so aware of the sensation
of skin touching my skin, of rough hands administering tender
care. To feel his hands on me, his long fingers touching my
bloodied flesh, is almost more than I can bear.

I have lain with men before. Fevered couplings before a battle:
celebrating life in the face of death, but it has never been more
than that. A meeting of bodies, glistening in the light of burning
campfires in the open field, men acting on impulses stronger
than themselves. But somehow it is different now. This is more
than lust or want. I need him even if I do not want it. And I want
him even if I don't need it.

His deft but gentle ministrations assure me that I will sustain no
lasting damage from the deep flesh wound and that I will regain
the full use of my arm. But I know he will not be able to take
care of that other wound. The invisible one, the one that will not
heal even with the best of care. For my heart is a gaping dark
hole inside me, created the moment Legolas hotly informed me
in the council of Elrond that this man whose touch is turning
sensible actions into sensual sensations was Aragorn, son of
Arathorn, and the legal heir to the kingdom of Gondor. His
words broke my heart.

I do not doubt it, though. I realized it was true the moment I
heard Legolas speak those words, but it goes against everything
I grew up believing in. I grew up believing that the Kings had
gone forever, never to return; that the Stewards would continue
to rule Gondor as they had for countless years and that I would
become Steward when my father would finally lay down his
burden. I would be Boromir the Second, Steward of Gondor,
surpassing all others in justice and might, defending our people
and all the other lands of Middle Earth against the shadow of
Mordor. And then, with a mere sentence, the Woodelf destroyed
all the future and past I ever had. I would never rule Gondor
now, and my claim that Gondor had no King, that Gondor
needed no King, rang false in my ears the moment I uttered
those words.

His hands have stopped their ministrations and now they rest on
my shoulders, kneading them, easing the sore muscles that have
tensed up during the fight. Warm spots that seem to draw all the
energy from my body and at the same time return it manifold.
This is beyond endurance. I find myself turning around, facing
him on my knees on the cold hard rock. His hands have slid
from my shoulders by my movement and I keenly feel the loss,
the absence of warmth turning into a deeper cold than I thought
possible.

Dirty, unshaven, matted hair, clothed in dirty leather and torn
rags. To me he is the epitome of beauty and valor. I say nothing,
my mouth is dry, I have no words. This is the pivot around
which my whole existence now turns. A hint of a smile, the
tiniest wrinkling around the eyes and I am undone. I reach out
and grip his shoulders, feeling his strong muscles, feeling the
salve I have put on his wounds. My hands slide upward, until
they rest against the sides of his head, my thumbs lying on his
cheeks, an unspoken question. He does not move, but I feel like
I have been given permission by the merest hint of relaxation, a
smile broadening just the tiniest bit. I pull him towards me, into
a soaring kiss.

Our mouths meet, and a hunger inside me that I have only
guessed at is roaring inside me now. I kiss him, turning it into a
battle as I have done with all the things in my life. But now I
have a worthy opponent. I am no longer the eldest Steward's
son, the Captain of the Guard, the highest in rank among
Gondor's men. If anything, I am an equal at best.

And he knows this as well, acts upon it accordingly. His mouth
captures my own, returning the battle call. His left hand grips
my hair, pulling me backwards and with his free hand he reaches
down into my breeches, finding me hard and ready. He takes me
firmly in his hand, his thumb gliding over the moist tip and I
suck in my breath, sharply, suddenly, painfully. It's been over
four months since I have felt a hand other than my own on me. I
tense up, not wanting this, not knowing what I want.

But I cannot deny that it is this I want. His hand on me, his
mouth on my throat, his body pressing me down against the cold
hard rock. I don't feel the rocks, do not feel the soft vibration
beneath me of living rock hewn by dwarves, I only feel him
against me, on top of me, wanting him in me, and I struggle to
turn over, because I cannot ever give in to him.

I partly succeed, wringing myself from under his body and
putting one of my legs over his, and I turn him over using my
body weight, landing him on his back. I grab his wrists and put
them above his head, pressing him down on the hard stone,
using my weight to hold him down. He grins, relaxing for a
moment, seemingly giving in and I gloat, feeling victorious, as I
start to reach down and kiss him once more.

Until he suddenly lifts his hips, works his knee between my leg
and lifts me up, turning me around on my back again in one
fluid motion, now gripping my own wrists and crossing them
above my head, taking advantage of my momentary shock of
having his knee shoved up forcibly between my legs.

He mutters something unintelligible as he trails kisses down my
body, and I shiver, trying to put up a token resistance, but failing
miserably. My body is betraying my mind, rising up to meet his
lips and hands. I manage to free my hands from his grip and
reach down and around his body, working my way into his
trousers, cupping his ass. But he glides down over my legs and
my hands slip up over his back. He slowly yet urgently pulls
down my trousers and sits up between my legs, pausing
momentarily.

His hands are resting on my stomach as he gazes down on me, a
look on his face which can be only described as admiring and I
feel torn again: I crave this attention and at the same time I
strive with all my might to deny it.

"So beautiful," he whispers as his hand reaches up to stroke my
cheek while the other one holds me again firmly in his grasp. He
bows down, and takes all of me in his mouth, his hair falling
before his face and I nearly explode from feeling his lips around
me. It's been so long, so long, and I hear myself starting to
moan. I cannot help it even th in in the back of my head I
know I am endangering all of us by making so much noise and
Aragorn realizes it too. His right hand, his sword hand covered
in worn leather like a second skin, slides upwards again,
brusquely covers my mouth in an attempt to stifle my moans
while he takes me in even further. It is the final push. I fall,
deeper than I had ever thought possible, until I reach the bottom
of a deep black pit and know that my redemption lies in his
hands.

Afterwards we lie together, under my blanket, my back pressed
against his stomach, feeling for once on this miserable journey
warm, sated, content. I know we have to get dressed, ready
ourselves again for any possible fight, but I want to linger just a
little longer. My head rests on his arm, my cheeks still hot
against his cool flesh. His hand lies against my lips so I kiss
them, enjoying the feel of callused fingertips against my bruised
lips. I sigh softly, almost inaudibly. My hand reaches
backwards, finding his hip, caressing his skin, sliding slowly,
very slowlwn hwn his legs. I feel his long muscles under my
hands, the soft hairs on his legs, his skin still damp from our
exertions. I close my eyes, wanting only to feel him, pretend we
are lying in my room in the White Tower, not wanting to be
distracted by the dismal surroundings in which we find
ourselves.

I feel on the side of his leg an old scar, not unexpected in a
warrior, even one as fierce and valiant as Aragorn, but still it
stops me in my tracks. I turn over, slowly, not wanting to lose
even the slightest contact with him, and I face him, my hand still
on his shank, propping myself up on my elbow, his arm still
around my shoulders.

"What's this, then, did I miss a spot when attending to your
wounds? How inattentive of me", I say smiling as my fingers
gently stroke the scarred flesh.

He glances at it, occasionally, as if it isn't a part of him. And
maybe it isn't. He is silent for a moment.

"Ah yes. That one, Boromir. A wild boar tried to skewer me,
long ago in the lands of Ithilien. I was young then, and feeling
almighty. Growing up around Elves does that to you, you know.
They make you feel like you will live forever, cannot be hurt,
cannot die."

I nod, knowing what he means: being the Steward's son and
surviving as many battles as I have gives the same false sense of
immortality. He pauses ever so slightly, gazing at me, gauging
my nod, then continues his tale.

"I upset a boar with young, straying too close to her lair and she
attacked me, speared me right there in my leg, hurtling me
against an oak tree. I managed to crawl behind it, bleeding and
hurting with only my dagger to defend me, but fortunately she
quickly lost her interest in me. The wound, however, turned bad
and started to fester. I lay in the woods for three days, not
knowing whether I would live or die. And then I was found by a
reconnaissance party of Gondor, and nursed back to health."
"So the hands of the king do not always have healing power", I
say, a half smile on my face, my hand still cupping the once
wounded flesh, stroking it with my thumb, feeling the ragged
edges.

He looks at me intently, trying to guess the meaning of my
words, whether I make fun of him, taunt him, deny him what is
rightfully his. But I don't. In all honesty I can say that I don't. I
think I did mean my words in jest, a challenge even, but as they
leave my mouth I know that they are true and that Aragorn is my
king. He was my king long before I knew he was the true and
sole heir to the throne of Gondor. He became my king the
moment I met his eyes in the halls of Elrond when I picked up
the shards of Narsil and cut myself, my blood flowing from the
wound, showing him my humanity. Only until now I was afraid
to admit it.

His gaze scrutinizes me, and he knows what drives me, what is
hidden deep inside me, what moves me beyond all. Then he
smiles, suddenly, and he looks incredibly young. Almost
playfully he grips my hand and guides it to his lips, kisses the
tips of my fingers, pressing them against his lips.
"No, they don't, my Arandur. Sometimes it is only the hands of
the king's most trusted steward that will do the trick."

And then he moves even closer and he kisses me once more,
commanding my servitude, claiming his birthright. A fleeting,
unbidden thought of what will happen when he will claim the
throne of Gondor threatens to tear open the scab that has formed
over the wound in my heart, but I choose to ignore it. Right now
I have no past, nor a future, only the present. The darkness has
been driven away, I am whole. I feel myself becoming aroused
once more; and as Aragorn sets my hands and mouth and body
to good use, for once in my life I do not fight for dominance.
For now I live only to serve my King.

The End

Story notes. Technically this is an AU story if you follow the plot
line: I exaggerated the wounds they sustained in the fight with
the lake monster. I just wanted to give them a chance to feel
each other up. :-) Furthermore, Arandur is the Elvish
translation of steward.