"... The hobbits had been nearly two months in the House of Elrond, and November had gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and December was passing, when the scouts began to return. Some had gone north [...] and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. ..."
-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring, book 2, ch.3: The Ring Goes South.


"... filthy Rangers; ruffians they are if you asks me. Who says they haven't gone over to the shadow from the East, eh? Always sneaking around in the wilderness, they are. And those soldiers from the White City? If you wants my opinion they're just too frightened to ..."

The rest of the insult drowned in raucous laughter, but Boromir had heard every word and rose from his seat in the corner of the inn where he and Aragorn had seated themselves, hoping to find out more about the Black Riders. Boromir fumed with anger, slamming his mug down hard, foam and ale sloshing on the table, rivulets of beer dripping slowly on the floor. Aragorn rose with him, putting his mug down next to Boromir's and he held the younger man, hand on his chest, staying him, warning him wordlessly.

"Leave it, Boromir, leave it be," he said, with more calm than he felt, the other man's rage trembling against his hand, radiating from him in righteous waves through the worn leather garment. The rage threatened to engulf him too, pulling him down, rekindling feelings of anger and resentment he had managed to keep carefully hidden for so many years.

"But I cannot let this insult pass, Aragorn," Boromir hissed, teeth clenched, shoulders stiff and square in anger, his right hand reaching for his sword.

"You can, and you will, Boromir," Aragorn whispered and he led him away from the boisterous group of drunkards towards the bay window in the farthest corner of the inn. Filtered autumn light fell through its squared windows, the late rays of the sun playing over Boromir's golden tresses, fading sun framing his head in flames, setting his blood red tunic on fire. His breath came hard, wrath marring his words, his voice harsh and unforgiving.

"But they insult us, Aragorn, they mock the White City of Gondor and make light of you and your companions' hardships. Have you no honor? Do you not feel the need to set those ignorant fools straight? Show them who is King?"

There now, it was out in the open, the thing that had kept them apart since the Council of Elrond, that had ridden between them on the road to the Greyflood, followed them on the long way back and now was there with them in The Forsaken Inn, a day's journey from Bree.

"This is not Minas Tirith, my friend," Aragorn said, his hand still lying on Boromir's breast, feeling oddly and precariously balanced on the edge of the abyss that he had carefully stayed away from all these years. Boromir had voiced his innermost thoughts for him, so that he might look down over the edge of the cliff and see what was there. But still he did not know the answer to the question Boromir asked of him. He spoke slowly, his voice soft, his words soothing in all their cruelty.

"Boromir, in here you are not the Captain of the Guard sworn to defend the White City's honor against slanderous words; in the Forsaken Inn you are not the Steward's son. Nor am I King, not even in my dreams."

He sighed softly, his hand subconsciously caressing the worn, skinwarm leather under his fingers.

"Boromir, we are months away from the White Mountains. To these people, you and I are just men, filthy Rangers even, not one bit worthy of their attention. And neither should we be. My friend, they named this place aptly. The people here feel they have been forsaken by the realms of Gondor and Arnor, that history has passed them by and that they have been left with the dredges of all things glorious and wonderful. They do not count it as their blessing that they lead uneventful lives, wanting to be part of that great and glorious thing they consider history. Disgruntled by everything, they do not care to remember that Gondor's deaths and the hardships of the Rangers are buying them the freedom to defile and deride their protectors so easily. It is the price we have to pay, my friend. It is the price of those who were born to serve and protect their fellow men. So be seated and leave it be, we are drawing enough of attention as it is with our insistent queries about the Black Riders."

He still would not sit down, although Aragorn felt his anger subside just a little at his last words and he truly felt sorry for his companion. Despite all his experience as a leader of his men, despite his heroic battles against Sauron and his armies, Boromir had led a sheltered life. Cosseted by the love of his people, engulfed by the unswerving loyalty of his men of the Guard, the younger man had never firsthandedly experienced the thoughtless degradation of people who knew no better, nor cared about anything except themselves. It had taken Aragorn years before he could finally let the thoughtless insults slide off of him and not feel the hot flare of anger take over his thoughts. And even now he would occasionally feel the need to strike out, or worse, to run away from it all. He bowed his head slightly and spoke softly, seeking for a way to help Boromir with this hard lesson.

"Do you remember the ancient oak tree we saw earlier today, Boromir, standing a mere ten miles outside Bree? Do you remember its massive trunk, its bark scarred by lightning and winter storms? Yet its crown was wreathed in green leaves, and it dominated the forest around it. Such a tree may hold out against the heavy winter storms coming from the North, giving shelter to the wood life that has taken refuge there, but it did not grow to such magnificence by being strong from the start. Had it stood like that in its youth, it would have been ripped from the ground by the first fierce gusts of wind, its roots not yet gripping the earth strongly enough. It could only have survived by having bent with the wind, bowing to the storms that whipped its branches until it grew strong and tall enough to withstand the storm, letting itself be scarred, its youthful, smooth bark becoming gnarled and weathered. And even the tallest tree still is wise sometimes to bend its branches to the wind, lest they break and fall. Bow and grow we must, Boromir. That is the fate we must fulfil and our failure to do so may prove to be the ruin of us all."

Boromir grumbled, angry still, but he seemed to see the wisdom of Aragorn's words and he seated himself again, staring morosely at the wooden table, his hands clenched around his empty mug. Aragorn put his hand on Boromir's, gently, a mere touch of palm on skin. Boromir looked up as laughter surrounded them again and rough drunken voices were raised in a bawdy song. Their eyes met and slowly his fists unclenched as Aragorn beckoned the bar maid who came over in her own good time and changed their empty mugs for full ones.

"Do you miss her, then?"

Aragorn looked up from the leather strap he was trying to attach to his scabbard to replace the old, broken one and glanced sideways at Boromir. Who sat there peaceably, looking at him, his arms comfortably resting on his knees. A well-worn cloth dangled from his hand, while the polished broadsword that lay at his feet reflected the last daylight back at them both.

"Who?" he asked, knowing full well whom Boromir meant. But he wanted so much to see her name form on Boromir's lips.

"Your betrothed. Arwen."

He was silent for a moment, trying to gauge Boromir's intentions, but in the other man's eyes he saw nothing but honest interest. He looked down again at the strap in his hands, still stiff and strong smelling and not yet worn and malleable from constant use.

"Do I miss her? I don't know, really. I guess I've missed her for so long that I am now completely used to us not being together. It is as if this hole inside me has been filled with missing; but this nothingness has been there for so long that I do not know how I would feel if we finally were together."

He sighed softly before he continued, looking at his hands holding the leather, stroking it almost thoughtlessly.

"My life is a lonely one, Boromir. I live in the woods, alone for months at a time and the only thing I can hold on to is the thought that she will be there, waiting for me, welcoming me home again. She is the light of my life, the guiding light that reminds me that there is more than Sauron and orcs and wounds from a fight and the filth and smell that goes with living in the woods for weeks. So yes, I think I miss her."

Boromir was silent for a while before he answered, his voice soft and thoughtful.

"I think I was never truly alone, not once in my entire life until I undertook the journey to Rivendell to seek Elrond's council on our dream. Minas Tirith is a busy city, bustling with people and a Captain of the Guard is always surrounded by his men. Lonely I have been sometimes, but never alone. At first I thought I would go mad when I rode out alone with no one to accompany me, but after I lost count of the days I started to get used to it. I think I actually enjoyed it, the solitude, the chance to think my own thoughts through for once and not be bothered with quick decisions to be made for everyone around me. And I have continued to think about things, even after I arrived in Rivendell, even after going on this quest. I have thought about loss and loneliness and love a lot since then. And about what it means to be near the one you love."

Boromir looked at the sword at his feet, lying polished and shining on its worn leather scabbard. Noticing a last fleck of rust on the blade, he spit on the cloth and wiped it away before he continued.

"Do you love her, Aragorn?"

Aragorn swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, fumbling around for them in his mind until he found the right ones, hoping they'd fit.

"Yes, Boromir, I do love her. To be honest I don't know how I could not love her. I have done so since I first saw her in the garden of Rivendell. I thought that Luthien had returned to grace our world with her beauty anew and I could not help myself falling in love with her. But it is a hard and unrewarding love. I cannot marry her until I am King of Arnor and Gondor," he glanced sideways to see Boromir flinch just the tiniest bit, "and sometimes I do not even know if it is worth the price. Love and politics should never mingle, although it seems I have managed to get myself entangled in such situations on more than one occasion."

"You mean Legolas?"

Aragorn's shock was clear as a slow smile crept over Boromir's face.

"How did you know? It was so long ago. We never talked about it. Arwen, she doesn't..."

"I am no fool, Aragorn; I have had my share of relationships although I never found anyone fit to marry. I can see love when it's there, especially a valiant one like yours."

He laid his hand on Aragorn's knee, fingers folding around the man's kneecap, fingertips pressure points conveying more than words could ever do. He spoke anyway.

"Don't worry, my friend, you need not tell me anything about it and, moreover, your secret is safe with me. Rest assured I won't embarrass you in Elrond's house."

Aragorn did not speak but looked at the hand resting on his knee. Warmth radiated through the fabric of his breeches, body heat outlining Boromir's hand on his skin. So different from the hands he'd known till now. These were human hands, big, callused hands, warrior's hands, and yet they were touching him with an unexpected gentleness. He could not remain silent, he wanted Boromir to understand.

"We have a history, Legolas and I. He was my first love and for that reason he will remain special to me. When I fell in love with Arwen and made my choice between the two of them; he took it hard and we did not part in the best of ways. Years ago we met by chance again in the dark forest of Mirkwood and there I learned a valuable lesson from him. For he taught me that Eru, the One, has given both mortal and Elven hearts the capacity for infinite love."

And then he put down the strap on the mossy ground, next to the bright shiny sword, and laid his leather clad right hand over Boromir's.

"Here, let me see that."

They hunched in the reeds, the three of them, thoughts of hunting and food forgotten as Aragorn took Boromir's wounded hand in his own, peering at the bloody cut. Boromir held out his hand awkwardly, pain slicing his finger, knife and dead goose forgotten beside him.

"It is nothing," he murmured, "it is a mere cut that will heal by itself."

He tried to pull back his hand but Aragorn held it firmly, examining the injury with a healer's gaze, while the steady trickle of blood already started to slow down.

"A mere cut perhaps, Boromir, but the knife that made the cut was dirty and the wound needs cleaning or it will start to fester."

He turned to Sam, who had put his pack down on the only other piece of dry ground nearby and squatted next to it, hand patiently lying on his arm, the other resting on his knee, waiting until they would move on again.

"Is there still any water in your flask left, Sam?" he asked, "I fear ours have been empty for quite some time now."

Sam took his water flask and turned it over, but only a few drops fell out, and they quickly mingled with the dirty water pooling darkly around the yellowing reed stems.

"I'm sorry, Strider, but mine's empty too, not a drop left, I'm afraid."

Aragorn returned his gaze to Boromir's injured hand and spoke again, his voice now soft and serious.

"Ah well, Boromir, even without water, this wound still needs cleaning. We'll have to make do then."

And Aragorn took Boromir's wounded finger in his mouth, his tongue and lips businesslike working to clean the cut. Sam looked on in wonder, gaze shifting from Boromir to Aragorn and back again. But Boromir sat very still and did not move a muscle as Aragorn inflicted his healing pain on him. He merely breathed in and out, while his other hand lay in his lap, a fist that clenched the empty air.

Then Aragorn looked up at Boromir and smiled as he released the other man's finger from his mouth.

"It should be fine now, Boromir. Sam, do you have a clean strip of cloth to bind this?"

Boromir breathed out as he felt the evening air cooling Aragorn's spittle on his wounded finger, numbing the pain maybe just a little bit. He looked at Aragorn, trying to make sense of what had happened just yet, trying to make sense of what had happened to him. He started to speak, but Sam startled him, handing Aragorn the strip of cloth he had taken from his pack. Boromir looked at the Hobbit, as if only now remembering they were not alone. He pulled back his hand as soon as Aragorn had bound his finger and he started to speak anew.

"You made far too much of this, Aragorn. I could have taken care of it myself. Next time, ask for my permission before you put your mouth on me."

He froze at his own words, but Aragorn laughed and rose swiftly, picking up the knife, wiping it clean on the wet grass between the reeds and handing it hilt first to Boromir.

"Don't worry, Boromir," he said, as he picked up the dead goose and pulled Sam up. "I will do just that."

He had moved closer to him in the grey hours before dawn, drawn to him the way the night insects were drawn to the glowing embers of the fire as they fluttered about aimlessly until they added their own little deaths to the dying flames.

Boromir hadn't really been aware that he had rolled so close to Aragorn until he found his hand lying on the other man's arm. Almost, but not quite, feeling the soft breath of sleep on his face, sharing the same space and yet not sharing. Apart they were, always apart, separated by a lifetime of duty and honor and by a little gem that shone softly in the dark, mere inches away from his face.

He looked at it, dared not touch it, afraid somehow that it would wake Aragorn, even when his hand resting on the man's arm had not done so, afraid that it would end the sleep that made Aragorn look so young and at peace.

The light of his life he had called her, the guiding light that would lead him home, that waited for him while he was out here in the wilderness again, surrounded by darkness and gloom. Did he dream of her now, here in this cold and dark forest, lying on a hard bed of twigs and mud? Did he see in the darkness behind his eyes the guiding blinding light of Arwen Undomiel, the Evening Star?

Boromir's fingers caressed the leather jerkin softly, dead animal skin a poor substitute for the living warm flesh it protected from the cold, the dark.

From him.

Aragorn inhaled once, sharply. A sudden intake of breath and then the slow exhalation that followed, relaxing his features even further. Boromir sighed softly, letting his own breath go, warming the cold night air between them. It was a strange fate that he would find his own guiding light where he had least wanted to find it. He had fought his feelings tooth and claw, but they had leapt up against him like a wild creature of the forest, intent on devouring him every time Aragorn spoke, or smiled at him, driving all thoughts of Gondor and Stewardship from his mind. He did not want to give in, but there was no escape.

Aragorn was his king and he would give his life for him. He would even offer him his love, if that was what this man would ask of him. And now, lying sleepless under his dirty blanket, Boromir wondered if the question had already been asked. Because he remembered seeing the two of them together, standing on that bridge in Rivendell, their slender shapes black against the cold light of the stars and he knew that the lady Arwen would live forever in Aragorn's heart. But he also remembered a hushed conversation about hearts capable of infinite love; the feel of teasingly gentle lips closing on a wounded finger and hungry eyes meeting furtively over the fire while eating a meagre supper, the outlines of their bodies melting into the darkness of the forest.

For Boromir, for proud and courteous Boromir, it was not nearly enough. He valued the lady Arwen too highly to act on his feelings lightly and what he felt for Aragorn defied all description. He would wait in the dark and bide his time, knowing he had his own role to play, for without the dark no guiding light is needed.

His hand crept upward, his warriors' fingers caressing the infinite beauty of the filigree pendant lying against Aragorn's throat, warm as the living skin underneath it. He wanted to see this forever, take this image with him wherever his journey would take him. Aragorn sleeping, eyes peacefully closed in silent darkness, lit by the glow of the shining jewel that seemed to envelop them both. But he sighed softly once more, rolled back a little and curled himself up under his blanket, hoping that some sleep still would come before the new light of day.

He said nothing. How could he speak now when all he wanted to say had already been said, wordlessly, every time his eyes met Aragorn's?

He did not listen. There was no need to when all he wanted to hear had already been said by the way Aragorn's mouth had closed around his wounded finger, several days ago in the reeds.

They had said it all. Said it in between the lines of innocent conversation; whispered it by building a campfire together in perfect unison; shouted it by invariably ending up guarding the rear together, walking close, bodies almost touching.

And no one it seemed had heard them, except maybe Legolas. Sharp-witted, keen-eyed, Legolas, who had looked at them with something close to regret, but who had also given them unspoken permission by walking in the lead with Gandalf, engaging Gimli and the Hobbits in friendly conversation.

No words were needed when they strayed off together in the dusk to gather wood for tonight's fire and perhaps catch a rabbit or two. They moved soundlessly through the forest, the soft voices of their companions slowly dying away until nothing accompanied them but the soft crunch of twigs breaking underfoot and the slow susurring of the wind in the darkening treetops.

Wordlessly, they had slowed down their pace until they had stopped here, where the silver birch trees stood so close together that their branches made a filigree pattern against the early evening sky. They looked at each other, waiting, the sound of their breath mingling with the wind in the treetops. Boromir had dropped the firewood he had gathered and leaned against the tree trunk closest to him, his arm wrapped around it, fingers picking at the peeling bark. They stood there, gazing into each other's eyes until Aragorn broke the silence that hung between them like silver light.

"She said she'd understand."

It was enough. Those words were all that Boromir needed to be free forever and he sighed softly as his hand moved up to touch Aragorn's arm while Aragorn cast down his gaze, wondering now what tale they would live to tell. But Boromir's hand continued to slide upwards, over Aragorn's shoulder and neck until he felt the warmth of Aragorn's face, the stubble on his chin and the line of his jaw against his palm with a clarity he had never felt in anything else before.

"Don't. Don't say a word, Aragorn. It will not be true until we say it is."

He smiled softly, the words caressing the air around them, closing the two of them in, pulling them together by the strength of his whisper. Then he leaned in, infinitesimally slow, holding on to the white tree, gaining his strength from it, until he felt Aragorn's breath on his face, saw the little pores of his skin, the tiny creases in his soft lips, the long black lashes obscuring the other man's gaze and the dark weary smudges under his eyes.

He kissed him then, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what would happen next. He merely knew that all the roads he could have taken would eventually lead to this: a silver birch forest in the dusk, his mouth against lips so soft, oh, so soft and welcoming, the warmth of Aragorn's body enflaming him, drawing him inexorably closer to the fire.

A passion rose in Boromir, a passion fanned by guilt and kisses returned and he knew that this was what he wanted. He wanted it more than the soft linen sheets in his bedroom in the White Tower, more than the honor of the throne of Gondor and the ragged cheers of his men before battle. Perhaps even more than victory against Sauron. And it was given to him freely, here in the darkening forest where the silver bark of the birches shone gently in the dying light. He kissed Aragorn and agonizing thoughts of Kingships, betrothals, and political intricacies flowed away, drifting from his mind like mist disappearing before the rising sun. For Aragorn had sealed their fate without words when his arms reached up and enfolded Boromir, pulling him close against him and returning his kiss.

He had said she would understand.

But would she understand this?

Would she understand the passion rising within him as he pushed Boromir's body up against the ancient tree trunks, pressing himself against the other man, hot warmth radiating from them both, soft light surrounding them as the pale silver moon shone upon them, filtered through the leaves of the evening forest?

Would she understand Boromir's strong hands pulling the collar of his tunic back against his throat, almost choking him while he still strained forward to feel the skin of Boromir's throat warm against his lips?

Tasting him. Tasting the salt of Boromir's sweat and the grime of the road mingling with the heady scent that was his alone and that had tantalized, mesmerized, lured him inexorably, inescapably closer.

Would she understand their wordless sounds of passion and the need he felt for this man, seeing green eyes closed in almost but not quite surrender, his own hand reaching down to cup soft straining breeches, caressing the hardness there, hidden under the fabric and feeling this touch echo in his very own body?

Aragorn lost count of the kisses he planted on Boromir's soft-skinned neck, of the moans he lured from Boromir's lips as he revered the hollow of his lover's throat, and he would not keep score of the times he almost spent himself because of the heat and the warmth and the feeling of this body against him, and Boromir moaning against his lips before the man knelt down on his knees before him, and pulled down his breeches, freeing him and enslaving him for good.

He did not keep track of his whispered curses before he was captured in the joyful prison that was Boromir's mouth, imprisoning him forever. He did not remember what it felt like, not really, but he remembered the way Boromir's head bowed in reverence beneath him and how the strands of his hair fell softly forward against his bare legs, caressing him, while Boromir's hands found their rightful place on his thighs, encircling him and steadying him as Boromir was serving him, ruling him, pleasing him, claiming what was his to claim.

In later times, he would remember this most vividly, this first time that he lost himself between Boromir's lips, Boromir's beard scratching against his loins the final push, only to find himself again on the other side, whole and sane and loved forever.

He slumped forward then, all strength drawn from him and he let himself sink on his knees, dazedly, leveling his gaze with Boromir, who sat there, a joyous smile lighting his face. He could do nothing but smile back at him and kiss that glorious mouth, tasting himself on those soft strong lips before he gently lowered the other man down onto the mossy forest floor. The filigree pendant dangled between them, catching a ray of moonlight as Boromir touched it softly, wonderingly, and finally, finally, Aragorn knew that she would really understand.

"You didn't ask, Aragorn."

Boromir grinned lazily as he lay pinned under Aragorn's strong body, one hand deliciously stretched over his head, the other playfully pushing back against the other man's weight, their fingers entwined, locked together. Aragorn gazed down bemusedly at his lover; his grey eyes a wordless question.

"I didn't ask what, Boromir?"

"You didn't ask whether you had my permission to put your mouth on me."

Boromir was smiling broadly now at Aragorn's expression of bewildered puzzlement, which only slowly changed in understanding.

"You mean that time in the reeds when I saved you from a horrible death by blood poisoning? I thought you were fooling me."

Aragorn tried to kiss the man who lay beneath him then, but Boromir pushed him back, turning his head sideways so that the kiss missed its aim and Aragorn felt the coarse grass tickle his lips; nice, but nowhere near as nice as feeling Boromir's soft lips against his own.

"Ask me, Aragorn. Ask for my permission and I may just give it to you. Even a king must sometimes ask permission, be subservient to his people."

He was laughing out loud now as Aragorn tried to kiss him once more but failed every time, making him curse softly and mutter under his breath.

"I don't need your permission, man of Gondor. You're mine, and mine to do with as I please. Subservience, you said? We'll see about that."

He rolled his entire body on top of Boromir, one leg pushing up in between Boromir's legs, the other resting on its knee beside his lover's hips. He pressed down Boromir's hands above his head, flat on the ground, taking revenge on the offensive grass in the process.

"Permission I should ask, you claim?"

He bent down and kissed Boromir's brow, the soft warm skin feeling so much better than the winter grass against his lips.

"Subservience I should give to you, you say?"

He kissed the tip of Boromir's nose and his cheeks, licked the strong jaw line, feeling the soft stubble rasp against his tongue. But Boromir did not give in so easily and he brought up his legs smoothly, pushing Aragorn up, as he pulled his hands back from above his head and brought them before him, between them, shoving Aragorn away from him. Sitting up in one fluid movement, he pushed a mock-stunned Aragorn backwards, until his lover lay against the trunk of a large birch tree. Boromir pulled the other man's hands behind the trunk, holding them there captive with his strong grip. He straddled his lover, a ferocious smile playing around his lips, his eyes shining with passion and glee.

"Let me teach you the meaning of those words, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, for Elrond's much prized education appears to have been sorely lacking. Growing up in Rivendell seems to have disgraced you with too much Elvish arrogance. I will surely have to remedy this before I take you home with me to Minas Tirith. There are some lessons that will have to be learned by you, future king of Gondor. And I will be the one who will teach them to you."

Aragorn looked up at Boromir, mirth lighting up his face.

"So the Steward's son will be my teacher now? And what exactly will the curriculum entail? For I may not wish to learn all that you have to teach to me."

"Rest assured that my lessons will be beneficial to us both," Boromir replied, seemingly unperturbed by Aragorn's challenge. Instead, he moved into a slightly more comfortable position and a definitely more uncomfortable one for the man he was straddling.

"So, we start with lesson one, Aragorn," he began. "When you ask for permission, you say: 'May I kiss you,' before you do this," and he leaned in and captured Aragorn's mouth with his own, feeling his lover inhale hotly, sharply, underneath him as his lips pressed firmly against Aragorn's, his tongue slipping into familiar warmth and wetness until he chose to let Aragorn come up for air again. He grinned as he saw his lover already slightly out of breath, eyes starting to glaze over with the passion that was rising within him.

"Lesson two, son of Arathorn: it's very rude to not ask permission before doing this."

Boromir's lips moved downward, his tongue grazing over the other man's throat, finding the hollow where the shining gem lay resting, licking the soft warm indent that cradled it, until Aragorn started to writhe underneath him, trying, but not very hard, to free himself from Boromir's grip. Boromir looked up again, his face as stern and serious as he could muster.

"And now lesson three, Elendil's heir: when in Gondor we speak of subservience we speak of things like this."

Boromir let go of his lover's hands then, and he let his own hands slide possessively over Aragorn's breeches, feeling him already hard and wanting against his hot and burning palms. He unfastened the other man's breeches quickly and expertly, and he took Aragorn into his mouth until Aragorn moaned and thrashed against him, begging and pleading incoherently.

"Please, Boromir, please, I need to ... Please, I beg you."

Then Boromir paused for just a short while and he looked up at his lover lying there flushed and panting and completely at his mercy.

"It would seem that you have mastered the most important lesson of all, all by yourself, Aragorn - that sometimes even a king needs to say 'please' before he gets what he wants." He smiled and then Boromir finally rewarded Aragorn for his lessons well learned.