Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Shocked, feeling a terrible cold growing within, Boromir took a step or two forward.

Aragorn did not move, sitting, smiling.

“You do not trust me.” Boromir’s voice sounded harsh and too loud in his own ears.

Shifting forward, Aragorn tilted his head, the smile disappearing. “What makes you say that,” he said quietly.

“You do not trust me to travel to Mordor, to fight against the Nameless Enemy.” The cold inside grew.

“I would not trust you to travel with Frodo to Mordor,” Aragorn spoke slowly. “That I wish you to stay in the last fortress of Gondor, to hold it against whatever Sauron may send, that I wish to have you in command at my back shows how much I trust you.”

Halting, Boromir made himself consider Aragorn’s words. They made a sort of sense, but there was a flaw. “Few if any are likely to return. The forces of Mordor are like grains of sand on the beach. You cannot expect to fight them and win.”

Shrugging, Aragorn stood. “I expect nothing,” he said. “We go forth to challenge Sauron. We cannot know what will happen. No matter what comes to us, all who wish to live free on Middle-earth will fight in their own way. And Gondor must stand. A strong commander will be needed here, needed all the more given what has already happened. Many are weary and would rather not act, preferring to retreat behind high walls to try to ignore what is happening.”

“There are lords and commanders, some who cannot ride with you, who could lead the defense here.”

“You are the Steward,” Aragorn said.

Boromir grasped Aragorn’s arms, hard. “I wish to ride with you.” This morning, when he had wakened next to Aragorn, everything had seemed easy. How could it suddenly have changed.

“I too could wish that, but—” Aragorn let Boromir pull him a step or two closer, reached to slide his hands around Boromir’s waist, inside his belt.

“But?” Boromir was distracted by the hard hands pressing against him, the muscles moving under his hands. He gripped harder.

Aragorn sighed. “But what leader has the luxury of always choosing what he wishes instead of considering what is best?”

He tugged Boromir closer, stood chest to chest, braced against him. Boromir closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent, one he how felt was now a part of him, imprinted upon his skin.

“Whom would you set in command of the City, if you were me?” Aragorn’s voice was soft, breath warm against Boromir’s face.

Boromir did not wish to answer that question, moved forward blindly, seeking Aragorn’s mouth, lips moving over soft hair and skin to find what they sought. Their kiss was hard, exciting, all the more so because Boromir could not remember if Faramir had shut the door when he had left. One of the Healers had shown them to this small meeting room, one seldom used, and left them to talk. But it opened onto a public corridor.

Anyone could walk in.

Feeling himself hardening at the thought, Boromir rubbed against Aragorn, lips moving down his throat, sucking the warm skin where his neck met his shoulder.

Aragorn’s hands slid down and behind Boromir’s hips, to grip him, fingers probing through the cloth of his tunic and leggings, forcing sound from Boromir’s throat. He bit down, hard enough to bruise. Aragorn responded by forcing a leg between Boromir’s and rocking against him.

Sliding an arm around Aragorn’s back, Boromir forced his other hand between their bodies, straining down, pushing to grasp the hard member that pressed against his belly, rubbing up and down, slow at first then faster, as his mouth took Aragorn’s again.

He spilled, sudden wetness soaking into Boromir’s clothing as well as his own, relaxing against Boromir who guided him down onto the floor. Stretching out under Boromir’s hands, Aragorn lay a moment, gasping, then moved, pulling Boromir down against him, rolling over, knocking one of the chairs down.

Boromir strained against the body which held him down, feeling the hand moving up his thigh, pressing between his legs. Aragorn gripped his hair, pulling his head back, biting and sucking Boromir’s neck, his mouth and hand moving in rhythm until Boromir arched against him, shuddering.

When Boromir could speak again, he opened his eyes. Aragorn was lying across him, Boromir’s arms around him, legs tangled, bodies glued together by sweat and seed. The smell of sex was strong in the room which had no window.

“If I were you,” Boromir said, “I would leave Imrahil to command the City and take my faithful Steward with me, to guard my back.”

He felt the rumble of Aragorn’s laughter before he released Boromir, pulling away, straightening his clothes.

“We will speak again after daymeal,” Aragorn said, pushing his hair back with both hands. “Gandalf is right, Frodo will not be leaving today, and we will have to spend at least a day to gather the forces who will ride to Morannon. So you may spend the night making your case, Steward.”

Frodo sat on the narrow bed, watching as Faramir paced, long strides cramped in the small room, beginning to feel the real agony of the day.

Sam had spent most of the daymeal sitting beside Frodo, not speaking. Just watching. He was sure Sam planned to accompany him to Mordor, no matter what Frodo said. The weight of his best friend’s love and concern had been almost too much to bear.

Faramir had sat opposite them, eating quietly, speaking occasionally to Boromir. He had said nothing to Frodo during the meal, but the moment they had come back to the room, he had asked what Frodo had decided.

The answer had led to their first fight.

Stopping, Faramir breathed deeply, turned and crossed the room to Frodo, kneeling in front of him, to take Frodo’s hands.

“Frodo, please—”

Frodo shook his head. “I must go alone. The Ring—”

“The Ring.” Faramir shook his head, unsmiling. “Did Sam ever, even once, on the long journey, show any desire to take the Ring from you?”

“No, of course not!”

“And I—I have not known you the years he has, but I have had every chance to take the Ring had I wished.” Faramir half-smiled. “You sleep heavily. At times. You can trust us.”

Frodo felt the heat rising in his face, tugged his hands free of Faramir’s grasp. “I know,” he said, “it is not you I fear—”

“Then what?”

“The road is so long and dark, I fear what may happen, fear my own weakness.” Frodo relaxed, seeing the understanding in Faramir’s face.

Their parting would be no less painful, but both he and Sam must understand Frodo did not doubt them.

Faramir nodded slowly but did not speak. Instead, leaning forward, he reached out to tuck Frodo’s hair behind his ear, running his finger softly over the tip and around, stroking the skin behind, trailing down Frodo’s neck, warmth flaming under the soft touch.

He shivered.

Speaking softly, almost whispering, Faramir said, “Sam spoke to me before daymeal. When you were speaking to Aragorn and Mithrandir. He told me you had planned to leave the Shire alone, in secret—”

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but Faramir pressed fingers against Frodo’s lips.

“That you had planned to leave in secret, and were stopped by your friends. And later, when you met Elves traveling in the woods, their counsel was to take friends you could trust with you on the journey, was it not?”

Nodding, Frodo tried to speak again, but the warm hand pressed against his mouth.

“We could not talk for long, Master Samwise and I, but we did not have to.” As he spoke, Faramir’s hand slipped down Frodo’s throat and chest, tugging one button free, then another. Faramir’s other arm, hard and warm, slid behind Frodo, wrapping around him. “We think alike, he and I.”

Frodo grasped Faramir’s wrist, needing to think, distracted by the hands moving on him. “What do you mean?”

Faramir stopped unbuttoning Frodo’s shirt, clasped Frodo’s hand and pulled it to his lips, warm and soft, to kiss, the hair of his beard prickling along Frodo’s skin. Pulling back to speak, breath cool against dampness, Faramir said, “You may start the journey to Mordor alone, if that is your wish, Frodo Baggins. But Sam and I will be following you.”

“But—”

Faramir kissed him, soft and deep, his hand sliding under Frodo’s open shirt, pushing him back onto the bed, arched over Faramir’s arm, as he moved up and over Frodo, prolonging the kiss until Frodo moaned.

Pulling back just enough to allow Frodo to breathe, Faramir asked, “Should I leave?”

Panting, Frodo looked into the blue eyes so close to his, felt the strength wrapped around him.

“No,” he said, sliding his hands into the redgold hair and pulling Faramir down. “Stay with me.”

Boromir followed Aragorn to his room where he opened the door, standing back while Boromir entered, recognizing one of the several kept for visiting lords, large and richly appointed. This one was done in pale woods and greens.

He heard the latch fall behind him and turned to face Aragorn.

They had eaten daymeal with the others in the Houses of Healing, had spoken at length with Mithrandir about the plan to mislead Mordor’s Eye by sending a force to the Black Gate. Nothing had been said about Boromir’s part in that plan.

Then they had walked through the shadows of night which wrapped the city waiting in the calm before the next storm. Neither of them had spoken as they walked through the streets, through the gate into the Courtyard, then entered into the Citadel.

Aragorn leaned back against the door, the dark tunic he wore stark against the pale wood, and looked at Boromir.

Watching the blue eyes shadowed by dark hair, Boromir thought of all the times, from Rivendell to the Falls of Rauros, that they had disagreed on what path to take, what to do with the Ring. Aragorn had been right in his desire to keep the Ring far from Minas Tirith. Perhaps he was right in his desire to have Boromir stay behind although he had said that none could know what would happen.

Boromir had been able to offer little beyond his desire to ride with Aragorn and could not understand Aragorn’s response in the Houses of Healing.

Moving forward, Boromir braced his hands on either side of Aragorn, trapping him against the door. “I should ride with you.”

Aragorn shrugged. “The lords and commanders will meet in council tomorrow. The Council cannot order, but would you go against its will, if it wishes the Steward to be here?” Aragorn placed his right hand on Boromir’s chest, testing his stance.

Boromir leaned closer, shifting his feet, one hand sliding above Aragorn’s head, the other dropping down to be caught in a firm grip. Aragorn smiled, fingers moving against Boromir’s skin.

Tugging free, Boromir said, “The Council could hear what I have to say and agree with me.”

“They might. You have the right to speak.”

Aragorn pushed Boromir back. He felt a blow to his ankle, stepped back into a second blow to his other ankle, and fell. He grabbed Aragorn’s shoulder, expecting him to twist away and was surprised when he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Boromir as they fell.

Relaxing into the fall, Boromir landed, his head cushioned by Aragorn’s arms. Breathless from the weight landing on him, Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Aragorn interrupted him as if they were still standing, not lying pressed together, bodies tense.

“But what would the council think, if we disagree?”

Boromir tried to shrug. “A good council expects to hear from all, to weigh different arguments. So they will listen.” He should be grateful, he realized, that his head had not struck the floor, but Aragorn’s concern as healer had left him vulnerable and Boromir could not resist taking advantage of that.

Sliding his hands down Aragorn’s body, Boromir gripped his tunic at the waist, heaving him up and off, rolling over, grabbing then pinning his arms above his head. “And then they will realize I am right.”

Aragorn tested Boromir’s grip, then relaxed under him, smiling. “So you are content to wait until the council tomorrow, Steward.”

“No. I want your agreement now.”

Cautious, Boromir shifted his grip to hold Aragorn’s wrists in one hand and began unlacing his tunic with the other, smiling as he felt the hardness trapped between their bodies. Pulling at the knotted laces, breaking them, Boromir could not resist rocking slightly against the body beneath his, sliding a knee between Aragorn’s legs, pushing them apart.

Licking his lips, Aragorn said nothing further. His head had fallen back, eyes half closed.

Once he had the tunic unlaced, Boromir hesitated. Cautious, he risked loosening his grip on Aragorn’s wrists and, when he did not move, released him, rising to sit over him, then kneel, legs on either side of Aragorn’s body. Able to use both hands now, he could push the tunic up and then pull it over the stretched arms, along with the white shirt. No movement, beyond the rise and fall of the muscular chest.

Boromir fumbled at the laces of his own tunic, grey and too large, borrowed from the Houses of Healings along with leggings, and stripped it off roughly, tossing it after Aragorn’s. Gripping his wrists, Boromir pulled the unresisting arms down and around, closer to Aragorn’s sides for an easier hold, and leaned down to take the half-open mouth.

Lost in the heat of Aragorn’s mouth, Boromir jumped when Aragorn broke his grip only to slide hands up Boromir’s arms in turn, holding him. Ending the kiss, Boromir tried to pull free but could not.

“Were you planning to spend the night on the floor?”

“No.” Boromir had not planned anything. He grinned, not planning to admit it. “We can move to the bed when you say yes.”

“As Steward—”

Shaking his head, Boromir managed to move one arm enough to press a hand over Aragorn’s mouth.

“No. Listen. I may be Steward, but I am the one who brought the Ring to Gondor, the one who attacked his own brother on the walls of the City, the one who—one who might have killed his own father.” Boromir felt Aragorn release his arms, relaxing under him, so lifted his hand away but swallowed and continued to speak, determined to finish. “If you die while assaulting Morannon, I am not the one to lead Gondor. Not after what I have done. It must be up to Faramir, or Imrahil then. Not me.”

Aragorn let his hands rest on Boromir’s legs, a faint frown on his face.

Boromir said nothing. He knew what he said was true although he had understood it only in the speaking.

Silence.

“Yes.”

Sitting back, Boromir stared. Aragorn slid his hands up Boromir’s thighs, squeezing.

“Well?”

Boromir stood easily, backing away but offering Aragorn a hand as he sat, pulling him to his feet. Still not sure of what Aragorn had said, how much of this play might be game and how much serious, Boromir said, “Yes, meaning I will be riding with you?”

Aragorn nodded, half smiling. “You should lead Gondor’s forces. We’ll speak to the council tomorrow.”

Feeling if he had armed and prepared to fight an enemy which turned out to made of straw, Boromir hesitated. He had not expected it would be so easy. Uncertain of what to do or say, he stepped back, confused.

Reaching out to grip Boromir’s arm, Aragorn pulled him over to the large bed, turning him and pushing him down to sit. He bounced slightly. Aragorn balanced on one foot, then the other, pulling off his leather boots and tossing them aside. He looked at Boromir who tilted his head, considering, then extended a foot. Without a smile, Aragorn bent and pulled the boot off, followed by the other. He did toss them further away than he had his own, then straightened to stand in front of Boromir.

Aragorn pushed his hair back and smiled broadly, a smile Boromir did not think he had seen before, one that was echoed in the strong body, a smile that seemed to cast off all care and invite shared laughter. Bruises on his neck and throat from earlier were dark against the fair skin and Boromir felt himself beginning to harden at the sight.

“I would have given you the night to make your case,” Aragorn said, “but now I see that I shall have to think of something. Unless you have more to say?”

Boromir shook his head. He had nothing else to say, so he reached out and gripped Aragorn’s hips, pulling him close. Aragorn moved easily, leaning, hands on Boromir’s shoulders until he Boromir twisted, pivoting and pushing. After a flurry of movement, Aragorn was lying on his back, Boromir bent over him, pinning him with both hands.

Pushing a knee between Aragorn’s legs, rubbing against the hard muscle of his thigh, Boromir wished Aragorn had stripped off his leggings as well as his boots. Aragorn arched against him, thrusting, matching his rhythm, as Boromir first licked, then sucked at the flesh he had marked earlier, moving from neck to chest. Lulled by Aragorn’s responsiveness, Boromir was surprised when their shared movements shattered, Aragorn pulling free to push Boromir over, pinning him in turn.

Close enough for the hair falling around Aragorn’s face to touch Boromir’s, Aragorn spoke softly. “We will do whatever you wish. But I need to know. Does what I am doing now cause you any pain?”

Boromir’s confusion lasted only a moment before he remembered the way he had flinched the night before when Aragorn’s touch had brought back the evil of the Ring’s vision. That felt like a lifetime ago. That evil had been washed from him. Now the grip and the pressure from the strong body over his flashed through him, entering deep into blood and bone, rousing hunger and feeding it only to rouse it again. Thinking that this was one hunger he would not wish satiated, Boromir shook his head.

“No. Nor did what you were doing earlier,” Boromir said, smiling to see the way some earlier tension left Aragorn’s body at the words, his grip loosening just enough for Boromir to pull one arm free. Wrapping his arm around Aragorn’s waist, Boromir thrust against him, face pressed against his chest, saying, “Although that does not mean I will lie under you without a struggle, my king.”

Aragorn’s laugh, more gold than any ring, filled the room. “We will have to see what this night brings, but I would expect nothing else from my steward. “

So Small a Thing Epilogue

Excerpts from the Chronicles of the Fourth Age, recorded by King Elessar’s scribe:

3019 March

On the seventeenth day of March, Lord Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, set forth with the Ringbearer, Frodo of the Shire, accompanied by his faithful servant, Samwise, to begin their journey to the Land of Darkness. There they would suffer much, as has been recorded elsewhere in the ‘Lay of Frodo and the Ring of Doom,’ but in the end would win through to Orodruin and cast the foul weapon of the Enemy into the Fire.

On the eighteenth day of March, the Host of the West, led by Aragorn son of Arathorn and Boromir son of Denethor, began the march from Minas Tirith to the Black Gate of Mordor… Although the hordes of Mordor came against them, the destruction of the Ring cast down all their strength, and the Lords Aragorn and Boromir led the Host back in triumph to the City of Minas Tirith.

FINIS

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