Companions by Your Cruise Director

The woods of Lothlórien were thick and fragrant, a canopy of greenery providing respite from the growing dark beyond. Yet Strider felt no peace. Even in silence he could hear the voice of the Lady of the Wood in his head, questioning, warning. "Yet hope remains as long as the company is true," she had said, but she had also said that if any strayed, their quest would fail.

Strider did not need the ability to read minds to know how close Boromir had come to straying. Worse, when Galadriel had touched their thoughts and discovered Gandalf's fate, he could feel her hunger for the Ring. If the Elf-Queen could be tempted, what hope could a man of Gondor summon against such darkness, even a man as strong and noble in intention as the Captain of the White Tower?

Legolas wore an expression frozen in grief, but Boromir had not truly seemed to mourn for Gandalf, even though he raged at Aragorn for pushing the hobbits to carry on when they were desolate. In the hours after they left Moria, Boromir kept his distance and seemed resentful that the Ranger had assumed the wizard's position of leadership. It marked a sad change from their travels through the forest on the way to Moria. The evening after their first night together, as they hunted game, Boromir had pressed Strider against a tree, panted, "I can wait no longer to taste you," and besieged him with pleasure on the spot.

Most of their subsequent encounters had been similarly rushed yet gloriously intense, away from camp while seeking firewood and food. They continued to share blankets, yet rarely touched one another in the presence of the others. Legolas and Gimli seemed to take if for granted that the men would go together to gather supplies, though Merry and Pippin were hurt that Boromir absented himself from training them. He assured them that they had become brilliant swordsmen in their own right and claimed he needed to work with someone his own size to stay in shape.

After Moria, however, Boromir evaded Strider's concerned outreach, walking with the little ones. Merry and Pippin seemed glad for his company, but he stayed too near to Frodo, too aware of the hobbit and the deadly treasure he carried. Even in Lothlórien, Boromir could not seem to relax. Since they encountered Galadriel, who stared until he flinched from her gaze, the fire in his eyes had flared dangerously.

Though Strider supposed that he could pervade his lover's attentions for a time, his heart ached with conflicting desires. Was he willing to be merely a diversion for Boromir? If it served the greater good of the Fellowship, was he obligated to do so? Or was it Boromir who might feel used, if he suspected that his would-be prince offered his affections not only because of a personal bond but a sense of responsibility?

He would have desired the warrior under any circumstances. He was drawn to Boromir's unflagging energy, his reverence for the line of kings, his loyalty to Gondor, and the ardent smile -- too seldom seen -- that transformed him from earnest soldier to the passionate youth he should have been, had the cares of his life not been so burdensome. Though Boromir had not known the Ranger's true identity when first they met, Strider had always recognized the Steward's son. There had never been a moment for him to evaluate the man as just that, a man, free from the glamour of his name and reputation.

So Strider had begun to fall in love, not just with a handsome shield-brother or a fellow warrior, but with a man who symbolized Gondor to the outside world. A man who represented lost home and hearth to its exiled heir.

That Boromir was in pain was evident to everyone, even Frodo, who tried to keep his distance and protect his burden. Strider knew he needed to reach out to his companion, to try to channel the repressed grief and bitterness before it exploded into anger, though his own strongly engaged feelings made him uncharacteristically hesitant. "Take some rest, Boromir," he advised neutrally. "These borders are well protected."

Bleak eyes rose and fell, lost in their own world of suffering. "I shall find no rest here. I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left,' but I cannot see it."

As the warrior's anger faded to despair, Strider feared for Boromir even more. Those who lacked hope were most susceptible to the false promises of the Ring. Why would Galadriel say such things to Boromir, when surely she could sense his precarious state? That Boromir would now confide his fears -- that his father was failing as Steward, that the people were losing faith -- gave Strider little comfort. He might have broken through Boromir's shell of bitterness, perhaps even touched his heart, but he could make no promises of salvation for the man or the world he loved.

From the shards of resentment, Boromir seemed to have come to accept Isildur's heir as his peer if not his ruler. He talked of Minas Tirith as a joint legacy, though took responsibility for its protection as his task alone. "Have you seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze?"

A wave of homesickness washed over Strider, who had never realized he carried such feelings for a city he feared to call his own -- the city he and Boromir shared, suddenly not as competitors but companions. Boromir had spent many years staring at Mount Doom in the distance, accepting along with the presumption of stewardship the responsibility for keeping Middle Earth safe from the forces of Mordor. Did Strider dare to share the other's dream of returning in triumph with him, to stand side by side as the Tower Guard took up the call, "The lords of Gondor have returned!"?

"Come walk with me," he begged. Boromir stared at him, startled away from visions of Ecthelion. He glanced back where Frodo and the others were preparing to sleep, at Legolas who meditated on the elves' sad music, and nodded acquiescence.

Though they had not had time to wash their clothes, they had bathed in the river and eaten a robust meal, so that physically Strider felt more comfortable than he had in weeks. As they walked in silence, he admired anew his companion's broad shoulders and powerful stride, his chiseled features and shining hair. This man would cut a striking figure as a ruling Steward, or as a councillor at the side of a king.

For a split second he humored the fantasy: himself on the throne of Gondor and Boromir at his side, his Captain of the Guard. Would it be unfair of him to add Arwen to the picture, a beneficent and understanding Queen? Arwen had never begrudged her fiancé the need to seek out other mortals, nor did he resent all the long years of her life before his arrival. To live in Gondor, in peace, among those he loved best, to become the wise and strong savior of whom Denethor and his son dared not dream, to protect all his people from the threat of Sauron...was this dream as dangerous as Boromir's hunger for the Ring?

Strider knew he must have sighed aloud, for Boromir turned to him, putting hands on his shoulders. They had walked almost to the river, far from the light of the village in the trees. In the dimness, the warrior's eyes glistened with what might have been the heat of passion or the sheen of tears. They had both been careful to keep their emotions in check during their rushed encounters, channeling whatever passions they felt into their quest, but now he could see that Boromir could no longer hold back; he pulled Strider forward and kissed him without aggressiveness or hesitation, all trace of embarrassment gone. The embrace was hungry yet tender, familiar though altogether too rare, promising not only fulfillment but a lasting bond.

Helplessly Strider responded, wondering how he had let down his guard so far and what place in his life he could carve for this devoted steward who deserved so much more of a lover than these clandestine meetings. Boromir would not be the man he was if he put personal desires ahead of his commitments, and Strider...what right had he, who had banished himself, to dream of a triumphant homecoming among those he loved?

"What is wrong?" Boromir asked, his voice a rush of thick velvet and churning water. "Is it that you no longer desire me, now that you know what is in my heart?"

Fiercely Strider clasped Boromir to him, not just in desire but also in shame. "You have a noble heart, Boromir, perhaps more noble than my own," he avowed throatily. "You have never sought to free yourself from the bonds that chain you to Gondor, while I...I have chosen exile, telling myself that I feared to repeat the failings of my kin. I thought to protect my kingdom but perhaps I have merely abandoned it, and abandoned your father and you. I would not abandon you now, not in battle, nor in this Fellowship...and certainly not tonight, Melindo."

Boromir stood so close in his embrace that Strider could not see his face, yet he could feel the tremor that went through him at the endearment. "Beloved," he whispered, a slight mistranslation of the elvish term, but apparently the meaning had conveyed. Soft, freshly trimmed beard brushed Strider's cheek as Boromir turned to press his lips to Strider's temple. Then, as he stepped back, he caught the Ranger's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. Before Strider could respond, Boromir turned both his head and their joined hands to the side in a fluid gesture that allowed his mouth to slide from the wrist to the palm and over the tips of Strider's fingers.

"My liege."

With a shudder of want, Strider closed the space between them and would have flung his arms around Boromir, but the other's eyes, burning with such intense hunger one moment, suddenly clouded and shifted. The change was barely perceptible yet Strider knew its meaning at once. His chest clutched with private grief even as he forced himself to remain open to Boromir, to keep their connection.

"You hear the Ring again."

With a start, Boromir turned his focus back to the man whose hand he still held. "I hear the Ring. And the voice of the Elf-Queen, singing of coming darkness. Aragorn, help me."

Fear stabbed at Strider, keen and icy as that which had struck him when he realized Frodo had been wounded by the Nazgûl and when Boromir found the Ring high on the mountain. "Listen to my voice," he said urgently. "Look into my eyes. The Ring is evil, Boromir. Though you would use it out of a noble desire to save Gondor, you must know that it would use you as it used Isildur. The Ring serves only Sauron; it is his voice you hear when you heed the Ring. He feeds on your anger and your fear."

Yanking his hand free and disengaging his gaze, Boromir took several steps back, swinging his arm above his head in a sweeping arc. "But what if it speaks truly? What if the race of men were spared? How many of us have given our lives for the elves and the dwarves, for..."

"Boromir! Listen to me." Strider would have slapped him to return him to his senses, but for the fact that he knew all his grief and rage would propel his hand. He no longer knew whether it was the will of the Ring or his own desperation that fueled his feelings. "The Ring feeds on our desires as well. It tells us of the good it could do were we to wield it, not the devastation that would surely follow."

"No! She told me..."

"I do not know what Galadriel has shown you of the fate of Gondor, but I know that the Ring can only bring about its doom. If Frodo cannot put an end to its power, the Ring will destroy your home and you as well. See how it holds us now! What will it do to the armies, the councillors?"

"And what of us, Ranger?" Boromir's voice had gone very soft, with an edge of menace, yet Strider could hear the pain with which the warrior addressed him. "Do you truly come to me with affection, or some perverted lust born of the Ring? Is this an alliance, or a ploy to ensure my submission so that when you claim your throne, my men may fall to your weakness? How can I know -- how can you know?"

There they were, the words said aloud, the deadly dream before him. Strider squared his shoulders and faced them. "Galadriel said that hope remained as long as we held true," he affirmed, to reinforce the words for himself as well as Boromir. "My elvish name is Estel, which means 'hope' in our language. I would not betray you, nor the Fellowship, nor Gondor."

As he said the final words, he understood that they were true: he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir not only to Isildur but to Elendil and the line of kings before him. It was time for him to claim that name. As long as he held true to himself and his pledges, the forces of darkness could not defeat him. And he understood as well his ardor for the man before him not as private passion but a vital element of their destiny. "The Ring creates only hatred, Boromir. What I feel for you is love. The Ring has no dominion here."

For a moment Boromir's visage blazed so brightly that Aragorn was unsure whether he would win his battle with the voice of evil inside him. Then the other man fell to his knees, clenching his eyes shut. Aragorn followed him to the ground, reaching to clutch his hands.

"I can no longer trust myself, nor my honor," Boromir said in a choked voice.

"Then trust me," Aragorn begged, moving his hands to Boromir's face to force the warrior to look at him. Their gazes locked, and he shook to see the struggle in Boromir's eyes, alternating between love and despair. Finally Boromir closed his lids and kissed him as he had the first time, an embrace that was both conquest and surrender.

No more words were said. Each man gave as he took, clumsily, for their desires outpaced their finesse, but their relief and pleasure were consummate. When it was over, Aragorn lay on the ground with his face pressed into Boromir's chest and wondered that in the midst of such sorrow, he could feel such joy.

But he did not know whether it would be enough to save his beloved in the end.
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