Author's Note: Please don't make me plead for feedback!! And thanks to AC for the transcript of the Lothlorien scene... couldn't've done this without it.

Disclaimer: Well, the characters arenít mine, and Iím just so very glad Tolkienís not alive to see this abomination. Thereís absolutely no point in suing me Ďcos all youíll get is a collection of my trashy fanfiction, a battered copy of LotR and a much saddened fangirl.


By Lizzie Bateman


Lothlorien. A place of enchantment and of magic, a place of safety... yet Boromir of Gondor would not find a momentís peace within its bounds. The words of Galadriel, Lady of the Wood, pierced him to his very heart. He knew their quest would fail, felt it as sure and steady as the ground beneath his feet. And he could near see the fall of the White City, the fall of his home, of his people, to the Dark Lord of Mordor. This pained him above all else; his dearest wish was to see his home safe once more, yet he feared he should never see that day.

Because of a hobbit, because of Frodo. That the fate of all Middle-Earth should lie in the hands of one so small, Boromir could see now was folly. How was this hobbit deemed worthy of the task? How indeed could Elrond, could Gandalf, could every free creature of Middle-Earth, trust their very lives to him? How could this Fellowship pledge to him their lives and their allegiance? For in the end he would fail. He would be overcome; his will would falter and he would take the One Ring to Sauron. And all would suffer from it.

The answer seemed so simple, at least to Boromir. Yet to Aragorn he could not utter the words. And it was not then the time or the place for action. He must wait. He hoped the fever in his heart would hold Ďtil then, that the sorrow and the anger of knowing second by second his own people suffered and died needlessly would keep. Even then it threatened to overcome him.

Talking with Aragorn, his eyes welled with tears he could not yet shed. Aragorn, heir of Isildur, heir to the crown of Gondor - Legolas would say that as a man of Gondor he owed this man his allegiance. Slowly he was coming to believe this, day by day. He saw his courage, his great heart, and he knew this man to be his king though he had long believed his land had no need of one. The stewards of Gondor had ruled well. Yet he knew now that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had it in him to restore his kingdom to strength and glory.

And there was a conflict inside him, running deep and unresolved; he had inside this belief, this certainty that Gondor would fall and would be lost, that their quest would fail and Sauron bring their whole world under his power, and yet... yet there was Aragorn. He believed in Aragorn, but how could he? Aragorn believed that the One Ring must be destroyed, was willing to give his life to see it cast into the fires of Mount Doom. He believed that Frodo would see this happen, and that this was the way it must be. So Boromir believed him. In his heart, he believed his king.

These two beliefs could not reconcile one to the other inside him. He could not live with both together. So there was a choice to be made. A choice in which there could lie the fate of all. It must be made. But with Aragorn so near...

"The Ring brings you false hope, Boromir," said Aragorn softly, with eyes cast to the ground.

"It speaks to me of the glory of our people." Boromir frowned, cocked his head. "With the One Ring we could protect our people. In the hands of Gondor the Ring would defeat the Dark Lord and we would be free. How is this hope false?"

Aragorn glanced upward, the beginnings of a sad smile to match the look in his eyes tugging at the corners of his mouth. He laid his hand upon Boromirís gauntlet, looked into his eyes. "Though you would use the Ring in a desire to aid our people," he said, "you must know it would use you for its own ends. The ring is evil, Boromir. It serves its master, and its one master is Sauron. It feeds on your desires, speaks to you of the great good it would do in your hands. This is false hope. Take the ring and Gondor will fall."

"This you believe?"

"This I know, Boromir. In my heart I know this. The Ring tempts you. But the hope it brings you is false."

"And you would give me hope, Aragorn?"

Aragorn smiled. "Yes, I would," he said with a small nod of his head.

Boromir rose, stood before his king, offered his hand. And Aragorn took it, allowed himself to be aided to his feet. Fingers lingered around wrists just a heartbeat longer than necessary. Gazes met.

"Then pray show me this hope," murmured Boromir, gazing into clear blue eyes. The eyes of his king, and perhaps now something more...

Aragorn lifted his hand, reached out, placed it at Boromirís neck. The warm palm covered his pulse, fingers curling around to brush softly at the nape, and Boromir shivered. Aragorn stepped closer.

Never breaking the gaze, Boromir reached up and took hold of Aragornís wrist, pulled it from its rest atop his collarbone. He took Aragornís hand, brought it higher, pressed his lips to the worn palm then after a moment let it go.

Aragornís hands were in his hair, their foreheads resting together as Boromirís arms went about his waist, pulled him in closer Ďtil the clasps of their tunics clinked together.

And then they kissed. With a soft rasp of Aragornís beard against his cheek, their lips met. Boromirís hands rose, fingers slipped into Aragornís long hair as Aragornís had done with his. And there was warmth. There was enchantment, heat, there was passion, all in that one moment, in that one kiss. It was everything they had denied Ďtil then. Boromirís hands moved to grasp at Aragornís shoulders, Aragornís to cradle the back of Boromirís neck. And in that moment their hearts beat together.

"Will you lie with me tonight?" gasped Boromir, pulling back. Aragorn merely nodded his assent.

Boromir led, mounting the staircase he knew would lead to the chamber lent him that night. He could not help but look back, over his shoulder, afraid he would find Aragorn fled or find this was all some kind of waking dream, of a fantasy. But there Aragorn was each time, three paces behind, a small smile at his lips that Boromir could only tentatively return.

They undressed each other, slowly; fingers pulled at leather, at buckles and buttons and clasps, Ďtil all their apparel lay discarded at their feet and they stood together, hardness against hardness, heat against heat.

They knelt together on the bed, all hot touches and kisses, a desire between them too intense to sate quickly. And then they lay. Aragorn lay between his thighs, lips and tongue and teeth teasing at Boromirís chest then his neck then his mouth. All Boromir could do was sigh and claw tight at Aragornís back, at his shoulders, his biceps.

Until he felt Aragorn push inside of him, slowly, carefully. He hissed, pulled in a harsh breath, and as Aragorn moved, he looked up. He looked up into his eyes, intense blue eyes, clear, passionate, sure. And he could not look away.

They moved together, as if they had long known each other. Both had longed for this, yet considered it impossibility. And now it was reality. They moved together, gasped together... and in the end, they came together.

And tangled in a mess of sheets and limbs they lay, exhausted. Boromirís hand settled on the curve of Aragornís hip, thumb tracing idle circles as their gazes met once more. Aragornís hand went to Boromirís cheek, brushed back stray strands of hair, brushed over his lips.

"Hope, you call this?" asked Boromir with a smile.

Aragorn nodded. "I call this hope." He leant forward, stole a kiss. "I would not knowingly see you walk the wrong path. I would you would believe in me. I would not steer you wrong for all the wide world."

"I know." Boromir smiled. "My captain. My king. My love."

"My love."

As he looked into Aragornís eyes, Boromir saw their fates stood entwined. He saw the truth of his words. And the choice was made. His own judgment was impaired and Aragornís was not. He would follow him, place his trust in him. His king.

"You will believe in me?"

Boromir nodded. "As long as I have wit in me, yes."

Yet he could not shake the feeling that there may come a time when he would have not wit left. He wished it were not so, but thoughts of Gondor preyed on his mind...

"You will see your home again. We will return together. One day, our paths will lead us there. And the tower guards shall take up the call. The Lords of Gondor have returned."

Boromir squeezed shut his eyes, remembered his home, shed one single tear.

"Together," he murmured. "For naught would a wish it otherwise."

And suddenly to see the White City, his home, his people, by the side of Aragorn and in a time of peace, became his dearest wish. He would give to him his allegiance. He would follow him. He could only hope his will would hold. He feared what could happen if it did not. He feared what he may become.

*** End ***

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