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Covered in mud and blood and he doesn’t even want to think about what else right now, Boromir kneels before the soon-to-be king.
Only hours ago, the Enemy forces were broken, beginning to scatter. The siege is over. There will be another dawn for men.
So even though he’s lightheaded and bleeding in a few places that haven’t been seen to yet, and hasn’t eaten since he can’t remember when, Boromir takes both of Aragorn’s grimy hands and holds them tight in his, and says from down below, “Marry me?”
It’s the future they never dared truly consider as they fought side by side at the end of all things. And now, it can be theirs. If Aragorn was sincere. If he really meant the things he said about knowing Boromir’s heart and finding it strong and good.
That heart is pounding so hard that he’s startled when Aragorn cups his face with one hand, rubbing his thumb against the captain’s filthy cheek.
“I said yes,” Aragorn repeats patiently now that he knows Boromir is fully with him once again, smiling wanly through his exhaustion. “I’ll marry you. I want the rest of your days.”
Boromir staggers to his feet unsteadily, catching his balance just before Aragorn’s arms slip securely around him. Their lips crush together, and the taste of salt and dirt is strong, but somehow impossibly sweet.
“Yes,” Aragorn says again into another, longer kiss.
Boromir flinches at the unexpected sound rising around them, drawing back from Aragorn a few inches only to see it’s no new threat, but the growing applause of their company as they realize what’s just been offered and accepted.
All around them are their wounded, their dead. But even in the midst of indescribable grief, love persists with its promise of brighter days to come.
#
Aragorn dreams each night of the carnage at Pelennor Fields. Of the siege at the Black Gates.
The hosts of Mordor were seemingly endless; swarms of orcs and trolls wielding arrows and spears and blades, bodies clamoring over bodies each time one fell as if they were multiplying rather than dying each time one was cut down. He had thought briefly, deliriously, in that moment of the time in Imladris when he’d accidentally kicked a beehive as a young and far more careless man, and endured a swarm alongside a laughing, shrieking Arwen until they’d both been stung so much that nothing seemed like it would ever be funny again.
Still, he had fought his hardest, even as hope and hopelessness warred within him; he had always thought that when the moment came, he would gladly give his life for the future of his people by any means. He had vowed to keep no hope for himself because he hadn’t realized how much he would want his own future now that Boromir was in it. Hadn’t anticipated how he would sustain some blows he surely could have avoided when he glanced away to check on his captain. Of course, Boromir was doing much the same; it was a familiar round shield that came down at just the right moment to spare Aragorn’s neck from a well-aimed arrow after he tumbled off his horse in the thick of the onslaught. It was a seasoned warrior watching his back as he led the charge, calling out orders at moments when he couldn’t find his voice, and grinning bloodily up at Aragorn (where another man would have been battered into unconsciousness) when the future king thrust out a hand to pull Boromir from beneath a fallen Uruk who had busted the captain’s face up spectacularly.
Aragorn wakes each night in Boromir’s arms. Kisses the deep, angry red scar across a bare shoulder left by the tip of a spear in the siege—while Boromir, who knows, knows it all, was by his side bleeding and fighting through it all, tenderly strokes through his dark hair, kisses his forehead, and makes a place for Aragorn to bury his face against Boromir’s neck until he can lose himself in the scent of his lover. His betrothed, now. In the haven of Boromir’s embrace, with the cadence of the captain’s breaths filling his ears is the only time he can fully block out the echoes of the dying that seem forever trapped in his mind.
Behind the closed and guarded doors of their bedchamber is the only time Aragorn lets himself be held like this, a guarded treasure in the strong arms he trusts, cradled and at ease. The rest of the time, he’s busy holding up a kingdom in mourning while hastily planning his coronation day. His wedding day, too.
It makes sense that both ceremonies should happen on the same day, while the Fellowship is still together in Minas Tirith, and as well as they’re going to be after what they’ve endured. He worries about Frodo most of all (though he has Sam, and that is undeniably something). He worries second most about the fireworks that will take place after his early evening wedding to Boromir (because Boromir has asked Merry and Pippin, not Mithrandir, to plan them). Still, he wants Boromir to make as many choices as he pleases about their day, especially as the captain has been exceptionally patient in their labors these past weeks for one who has no interest in planning feast menus, let alone in diplomatic relations.
When Aragorn isn’t presiding over meetings or attending fittings with the tailor or consulting with Boromir on which forces to dispatch to answer the lingering threat of Mordor’s scattered orcs, he sometimes walks with Faramir. The young captain—soon to be the first Prince of Ithilien—is wise beyond his years, with much of Mithrandir’s wit and knowing, yet Aragorn waits to ask the question burning in his chest. Perhaps he waits too long, though he feels it is only right that they really understand each other before he asks something of such magnitude from the man; as such, the ceremonies are nearly upon them when he finally seeks Faramir’s approval on the upcoming union to his older brother.
It only seems a daunting task until Aragorn remembers that Boromir has vowed to ask Arwen the same.
After Faramir has given his solemn blessing, Aragorn finally chooses what he should give Boromir to symbolize their union: the ring of Barahir, his ancient family heirloom. It seems most fitting since they are, after all, already a family. Have been, if you ask him, from the moment they chose each other, back before they had a real bed to share or the luxury of making plans more than a day or two ahead.
Their family has grown rapidly of late thanks to the two young sons and daughter they adopted just hours after they scrubbed the last of the blood from the siege off their skin. The three siblings from Minas Tirith had been orphaned during the War of the Ring; their father was one of Boromir’s closest friends and warriors, and while neither he nor Aragorn had imagined fatherhood as part of their future together (Pippin had, in his fashion, suggested they might have wanted to try adopting a dog together first), they both agreed this was what they wanted, a chance for more softness after so much time spent steeling themselves to take a blow. Figuring out how to be parents before they’ve even had their wedding night has been no small feat, of course, though it’s still far less harrowing than facing down the endless Enemy hosts at the gate.
The other night, when Aragorn saw their daughter smile (dimples in a three-year-old’s rounded cheeks surprisingly as awe-inspiring as his first glimpse of the pillars of the Argonath) while Boromir brushed and styled her hair for her, the future king saw Minas Tirith in bloom under her capable hands someday as well, and slept without dreaming for once.
But tonight, he’s awake and restless as he lounges beside Boromir despite none of his old or new wounds aching, because tomorrow he’ll be crowned and married in the same day in front of everyone they love. Or, almost everyone; Halbarad won’t be there. He fell, back in Pelennor Fields, and the ache of losing his old friend, his first attempt at romance, is too deep yet for him to explore it with everything else that’s been happening. One day he’ll need to let it breathe. Nor will Prince Theodred, Boromir’s old love, be in attendance, having left the world shortly before Boromir’s father. And while Denethor’s absence seems to have brought Boromir a great measure of relief, Aragorn suspects there’s grief and regret, anger and more tangled up beneath the surface of the way he seemed to take the news of the Steward’s death in stride. Aragorn won’t push; he knows Boromir will say more when he’s ready.
The future king turns his body like his mind keeps turning, intending to drape an arm over Boromir’s waist and hold him for a change to ward off the chill (there’s a brisk spring breeze seeping into the room, the windows cracked out of habit to dispel the heat they generate between them)—only to meet those familiar grey eyes gleaming in the dark, readily gazing back at him.
“You’re doing it again,” Boromir accuses lightly, a whisper. He kisses the corner of Aragorn’s mouth, smooths back his hair, and before the ranger can ask, explains: “Carrying the whole damn world around with you.” A hand slides up Aragorn’s back, pressing him closer, deft fingers working a knot from his shoulder in minutes. “When we’re together, we carry each other. That’s how this works, remember.”
“Oh, well then, I’ll remember that the next time I’m too tired and lazy to carry myself to the bath, or to get my own dinner,” Aragorn teases, even as he relaxes into that now-familiar touch; he raises a hand to Boromir’s cheek, stroking the stubble of day-old shave. “That doesn’t explain why you’re awake, though,” he murmurs, not bothering to hide his concern. “Was it the dream again?”
Boromir’s breath gusts over his lips as the captain shifts against him, hooking a leg around one of Aragorn’s. “No, no phantom pains tonight.”
Still, Aragorn carefully rubs the taut, healed skin of those three arrow-wounds he once tended while confessing his feelings back near Parth Galen. Boromir claims it helps with some of the pain and stiffness when Aragorn touches the old wounds like this; the ranger isn’t fully convinced of the physical effects, but it only took Boromir saying it helped once for him to want to make a habit of it, especially on nights when the captain has those dreams.
“What, then? Did Arwen give you a hard time?” Aragorn asks as he massages Boromir’s scars, remembering the talk he had with her about not doing exactly that and feeling certain he’d seen a spark of mischief in her eyes.
Boromir shakes his head. “She wished us the same contentment her people feel in a union like this…but she also said I could tell you that she gave me a thorough verbal lashing first if I wanted to act the hero and claim I fought her for your hand.” He grins before his features resettle. Thinking for a few more moments, he finally confesses, “It’s all this…ceremony. I know there will be vows, and at least we wrote our own, but—that sort of public spectacle has never meant much to me. It’s yet another instance where we have to do exactly what’s expected of us: Wear the right thing, say the right thing, serve the right food, smile at the right people. Faramir handles those sorts of things far better than I, as you’ve seen.”
Aragorn knows his betrothed well enough by now to understand Boromir’s meaning isn’t anything so dire as calling things off. He knows Boromir already considers them wed, or close enough to it, and his own inclination toward the customs of the elves would have him agree; still, more alert now despite the soothing way Boromir’s fingers run down his back and down, down over the cleft of his ass with easy familiarity, he asks in a low murmur that aims for some levity, “What…exactly are you getting at here? You’d rather I marry your brother, is that it?”
“No!” Boromir answers quickly, pulling Aragorn more tightly against him again as if he sees nothing funny about the idea. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I want to make my vows to you in front of everyone we love. It’s just…I’d rather say them to you tonight, first, since it’s you alone they’re for, and I’m not very good at words to begin with. Then, when you hear them tomorrow, they’ll already mean something more, and I won’t be as worried about messing it all up.”
“A ceremony just between you and me, hm?” Aragorn breathes over Boromir’s lips, brushing against them in a way that usually inspires a kiss and makes it clear just how much he likes this suggestion. “I accept. But also between you and me, your words are one of your finest assets. I like when you speak your mind with me; we wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Boromir then indulges in a long, generous moment with the softness of Aragorn’s willing mouth—the real asset here, in his mind, whether it’s used for rousing speeches or to rouse his cock into ecstasy the likes of which he’d never thought possible—before turning to light a candle at their bedside. “I want to see your face when I say this—I sort of memorized it,” he admits gruffly as the dim orange glow flickers across the bed, sitting up fully so the blankets fall away from his scarred chest and taking Aragorn’s hands, compelling the ranger to shrug off the sheets and face Boromir in turn.
“Estel, meleth,” the captain begins—names he only uses when they’re alone, the latter a phrase gleaned from the murmurs of Aragorn himself when Boromir’s lips or hands or thrusts have him writhing on whatever they’ve been calling a bed that night.
Aragorn smiles softly, trying to put the other man at ease because of this one thing—of them— he’s already sure, even in the absence of words. At his darkest moments, when everything else has seemed utterly unknowable and dire, even shivering in the eerie glow of corpselight on the Paths of the Dead, he’s been certain that it’s Boromir he wants for the rest of his days. Wants to see that face, those grey eyes full of light, every time he wakes; wants the safety and the fire of those steady hands that remind him he’s still very much alive, and grateful for it.
“Until I met you, Gondor was my only love,” Boromir continues then, taking some courage from that smile. “Until I met you, I didn’t know what a real king was. Didn’t know why anyone should need one—didn’t know I did. It was your face that led me out of the long shadows of Moria; it was your voice that kept the Ring from taking hold of me for far longer than I could have managed alone.” He pauses there for a breath, his eyes brighter now, perhaps a touch misty. “I used to prefer doing so much alone. And I still could—but now, I find I don’t want to.”
Aragorn rubs his thumb across Boromir’s palm, the kind of gesture he usually makes when he’s thinking of kissing his lover while they’re in the midst of a meeting that’s run past its time. Now, however, it’s merely meant to show he’s listening, as even Aragorn doesn’t trust himself to speak in the wake of those words.
“No matter what’s ahead for us, I promise to always help you find the light. To carry you when you can’t walk another step, and to rest easy in your care when I’m the one who falls.” Here, again, Boromir pauses, searching the other’s face and finding Aragorn’s eyes readily meeting his; this seems to be the encouragement he needs to keep going. “I promise to be your shield when you need one, and to fight beside you when I can lend my strength. I will go where you do. My heart belongs to you alone for the rest of my days, and in the after, whatever that may be; that’s how long I’m going to love you. Endlessly. I pledge myself gladly and freely to you, my king. My partner.”
Aragorn doesn’t find his voice for some time; instead, he uses their joined hands to pull himself toward the suddenly-blurry figure of Boromir and kiss him swiftly, sugar mixed with salt as tears slick their lips, still warm from their last kiss. “I accept,” Aragorn says a little thickly when at last they draw apart for breath. It may be past midnight, dark pressing heavily against the windows, but these days, the light he fought to preserve is everywhere. It’s right here, resting in his hands as he cups Boromir’s face and brings them together again, noses gently touching, to vow, “In this world and the one we’re building, I am yours and will be. You’ll always be the only one who undoes me, because you alone see all of me—not the title, not a hero, not a lineage—just me. You’re my light. And it would make me very happy if you’d wear this.”
He reaches for the small blue velvet box in the top drawer of the closest nightstand, the spot where he put his family’s ring for safekeeping just the other night. He cracks the lid before turning back to Boromir, whose eyes widen a touch as Aragorn pulls the ring from its cushion and holds it out on his palm for the other man’s inspection.
“Isn’t it for the ceremony?” Boromir says, only half reaching to meet Aragorn’s hand where it waits with the ring. “Don’t you have to wait until after we—?”
“It’s for my husband. And we had our ceremony just now, didn’t we,” Aragorn answers steadily, smiling as he (at a quick, decisive nod from Boromir) slides the ring onto the proper finger of the captain’s left hand. “But,” he says, filled with sudden inspiration as candlelight gleams off the silver on Boromir’s hand, “a ceremony wouldn’t be complete without our first dance, would it? Valar knows we could both use the practice,” he adds, and Boromir laughs, a light, unexpected, carefree sound from one who has endured so much of late. There’s no arguing with that.
They don’t need any other music, perhaps, but Aragorn sings lowly in Elvish as they rise together, naked despite the chill in the room, arms around each other’s necks and waists. Bare toes sinking into a woven rug, they sway together to the low, quiet melody spun long before either of them was even a thought, an Elvish wedding blessing Aragorn remembers from ceremonies he attended in Elrond’s fair Valley.
The dance isn’t as easy or simple as it once would have been.
Aragorn’s leg still aches deeply from a wound sustained in the siege.
Boromir’s shoulder hasn’t regained feeling since an injury back on Pelennor Fields.
Aragorn has a few broken toes trying to mend.
Boromir still takes herbs to ward off infection from a blade that grazed his hip.
Aragorn thinks he has bruised ribs, only the bruising seems to go much deeper, to the very core of him, and never seems to get any better or worse.
Boromir flinches at certain sounds that bring back echoes of Sauron’s voice ringing in his mind, telling him how alone he was even when Aragorn’s hand was right there, always within reach, proving the lie false. He’s tried to hide it from almost everyone, but he’s never made a secret of anything where Aragorn is concerned; it’s on the future king’s orders that no bells will ring at their wedding tomorrow.
Yet they find a way to move as one all the same, falling into a shared rhythm despite stiff joints and stubborn pains, even the ones impossible to reach with balm or tea.
They may not be exactly the same two men who set off together in fellowship from Rivendell, forever changed by what they’ve seen and done, but even reforged on the other side of war, they still fit together just right.
When at last they collapse back on the bed, limbs a tangle, laughing and panting, Aragorn wonders how he ever felt the whisper of cool night air in this cozy chamber with the searing heat of Boromir’s skin against his.
“That was fun,” Aragorn praises freely, a word he rarely uses, as he settles in with his face pressed against the curve of Boromir’s neck and shoulder. He kisses the other man’s neck slowly, adding after a moment, “Let’s add that to our vows, that we’ll keep having fun. I like laughing with you.” A slight frown crosses his face as his eyes search Boromir’s. “Am I fun?”
“You’re at least more fun than Merry and Pip, and they’re the authority on the matter. At least, if you ask them,” Boromir declares as he nuzzles in close against Aragorn’s neck in turn. The ranger’s skin smells clean and sweet, like the simple and inviting fragrance of common herbs—lavender and rosemary—from the soap they share when they soak in a bath, as they had earlier that night.
The scent of Aragorn’s skin is all that offers Boromir any relief from the reek of blood and piss and death he’s sure has somehow burned itself permanently into his nostrils.
He runs his lips softly over Aragorn’s neck, flooding his senses with the aromas of delicate herbs and the uniquely wild and musky scent of ranger. And as Aragorn’s arms come up around him, he finds he can breathe fully again without smelling anything else, without being back in that place.
He traces his lips along Aragorn’s collarbone and down his shoulder, a few new ideas about what could be fun flitting through his mind as Aragorn’s breath hitches and his grip tightens on Boromir’s back, urging him to keep going.
Exploring Aragorn all night with his mouth? Definitely fun. He takes his time kissing every bit of skin offered to him, sucking each of the ranger’s fingers far past his lips; running his tongue approvingly along the firm lines of his biceps; kissing his collarbone and the last of the fading bruises there with extra tenderness; flicking his tongue over the ranger’s nipples to earn a gasp. He hasn’t even made it a few inches past Aragorn’s navel, following the guiding line of soft dark hair ever downward when the ranger starts squirming under all the attention from Boromir’s mouth, trying to press his aching cock against any part of the captain he can reach as he lays draped across the bed, skin flushed, cock twitching as he thinks of what’s to come.
Boromir grabs that hardness, giving a gentle but firm squeeze that seems to be in keeping with Fun (especially given the noise Aragorn makes in answer, part stutter and part gasp), and asks with a grin that promises more such diversions, “Tell me, what does the king desire tonight?”
He shifts his body up, leaning in for a kiss while keeping his hand wrapped around Aragorn and rubbing his thumb through some of the moisture on that tender head.
As their lips meet, Aragorn’s mouth yielding for the intrusion of Boromir’s tongue, the ranger’s hand joins the captain’s on his throbbing cock, the cool metal of the ring which he’s gifted to Boromir adding something extra with the delicious way it drags against his sex even as he seeks to gain the captain’s attention.
Boromir breaks the kiss to search the other man’s face, and finds him smiling softly, the crooked kind that means there’s some mischief there.
“Coronation’s not until tomorrow. I’m not…not King tonight,” Aragorn murmurs, a little breathless from the grip of their joined hands as he slowly fucks into them. They’ve lavished each other with lofty titles for fun plenty of times before, but right now, the light of some different names glints unmistakably in his keen eyes. He’s as ready he’ll ever be to accept the role and the crown he never wanted—almost. The darkness outside the windows is still deep, which means there’s still enough time for Boromir to completely undo him and make him whole again before they leave this bed, this room. “Tonight, I’m your captive, my captain, and utterly at your mercy,” he growls with all sincerity. (This proves it; he’s fun). “I’m your loyal subject, my king. Rule me,” Aragorn urges at last with fire in his voice and on his lips as he seeks another kiss.
And Boromir does.
He lays fully on top of Aragorn, rubbing their cocks together with each subtle roll of his hips, adding pressure there while the hand that had been teasing the ranger’s sex slides up to caress his throat, the kisses that follow full of hunger and plenty of teeth.
“Kneel,” Boromir breaks back to demand over the ranger’s swollen lips after several minutes of kissing and grinding have gone straight to his cock, unable to delay any longer, “right here, on the bed. Now. Turn around and kneel. Good—and then spread yourself for me with your hands, just like that. I have to have you.”
Aragorn turns around as bid, scrambling to obey, grinning to himself for the briefest moment as he imagines how he must look—head bowed, hair falling in his face, skin already beginning to glisten with a light sheen of sweat as he kneels with his hands spreading his asscheeks apart, growing harder by the second as he hears the drawer where they keep the oil slide open and imagines Boromir slicking up a couple of thick fingers to sink into him, stretching him for the invasion of his even thicker cock.
“So willing for me,” Boromir marvels softly at the gorgeously obscene sight before him as he sinks the first finger in; Aragorn thrusts backward insistently until that finger is buried to the second knuckle, then slides further against it still. Boromir grips the ranger’s shoulder to steady him, adding with a little growl of warning: “But I didn’t say you could move yet.”
Pearls of white drip from Aragorn’s cock onto the bed as Boromir adds a second finger, then a third, his other hand still keeping that firm hold on the ranger’s shoulder to steady any thrusting he might detect. “It’s so easy to fuck you like this,” he murmurs appreciatively, pushing all three fingers in deeper and eliciting a cry from Aragorn that surely rings out the open window. “You’re so stretched for me already,” he adds, spreading his fingers wider and then suddenly withdrawing them, leaving Aragorn gasping at the cold, at the momentary emptiness.
But he’s a generous king, after all; he traces one slick finger around Aragorn’s swollen rim, pushing with his other hand against the ranger as he tries to thrust back onto it, to let his ass swallow that finger up again, to have something, anything of Boromir in him. “So pretty…” the captain says with hushed sincerity, teasing now with just one finger sliding in to the first knuckle and twisting. “So pink. So open. So fucking filthy…I could watch you just like this all night, desperate to have me.”
At that, Aragorn makes a sound that’s not even quite human. “You wouldn’t.”
“No,” Boromir agrees, shoving all three fingers back in deep without warning, causing Aragorn’s cock to drip onto the bed again as he cries out even louder this time and—despite Boromir’s attempt to stop him—thrusts back onto those fingers, taking them in as far as he can. “I’m much too selfish for that,” he growls as he watches the mess the ranger is making, oil dripping from Aragorn’s ass and running wantonly down his thighs. “I want to be filthy, too. So I’m going to take you just like this, use you from behind, and remind you where you belong—under me.”
Aragorn grins to himself again, loving every moment as Boromir’s broad shoulders reign him in from behind, as the captain—tonight, his king—lines himself up and pushes into the waves of tight, mind-numbing heat before him with abandon. Aragorn’s ass clenches hard around him in answer to each brutal thrust, meeting Boromir’s force with equal enthusiasm until they’re both barely breathing, until they’re lost in the rhythm and sliding against each other, coated in oil and sweat.
Still, even in the midst of his role tonight, Boromir isn’t all blunt force and need—he takes care to dip his hips just so, finding the best angle to draw another unearthly sound out of Aragorn as he hits his sweet spot over and over, adding a new urgency to Aragorn’s ragged breaths.
“Harder, there, harder, yes,” the ranger commands from beneath, tossing a roguish smile over his shoulder.
“I don’t take requests from captives,” Boromir pants between thrusts that are harder now all the same, driving Aragorn into the mattress so intently that the sturdy wooden bedframe creaks and knocks against the wall in time with their movements.
He grabs the ranger’s cock at last, stroking in time with his pace, earning an even sweeter clench of Aragorn’s ass around him in answer, and he confesses on his next exhale, “Won’t—last—if you—do that,” for this is an equal exchange of power no matter the titles used, no matter who’s laying under who as Boromir’s cock thrusts hard enough into Aragorn that he’s sure he’s reached all the way up into his stomach and rearranged his insides along the way. “But I will,” Boromir pants, “Mark you mine.”
The captain bites down on Aragorn’s unmarred shoulder as he spends inside him, as he feels Aragorn’s cock throb suddenly in his hand, coating his fingers with thick jets of white.
A mouthful of the ranger’s skin isn’t nearly enough to stop him from yelling at how good it is as he finishes; they’ve both been doing their share of that, apparently, because as they kick away the soiled layers of bedding and Aragorn settles into Boromir’s arms to receive some far gentler kisses, there’s a knock at the door.
A guard’s timid voice, calling: “My Lord Aragorn? Er, Captain? Captain Boromir?”
Boromir is the first to crack a smile, and Aragorn the first to laugh, though the ranger manages to answer breathlessly at some point after the knock comes again, more insistent this time, “At ease!”
“Nothing to worry about in here!” Boromir adds.
“Poor kid. We should probably raise his pay soon,” the captain reflects with an utterly remorseless grin as he wraps a few strands of Aragorn’s hair around his fingers and kisses the spot where a few of his teeth marks are beginning to darken. “And we should probably get you cleaned up for tomorrow…my king.”
Aragorn arches a brow, grabbing Boromir’s wrist as the captain reluctantly prepares to leave the warm bed in search of water and a rag and reminding him sweetly, “Still your captive tonight, so while the rest of the evening shall pass entirely at your discretion, I don’t think we’re nearly through here…”
#
Aragorn’s new crown is heavy and unfamiliar.
The small elven marriage braids at the back of his hair, however, are not; they were shaped carefully by the most familiar of hands despite the thickness of those callused fingers, ones that know exactly what he likes.
Later (though he still wears that same crown), when Aragorn sees Boromir waiting for him beneath the bower Arwen decorated for them with rushes and ribbons of blue and white, nothing in the world weighs him down as he hurries to clasp those strong hands tight and say their vows a second time.
Just after, there’s a pause and a knowing grin as their officiant—Mithrandir, yet again—realizes Aragorn has already put a ring on Boromir’s finger. Yet Boromir still has his gift to give (though Aragorn already wears his bracers embellished with the White Tree, and has since the night they first came together), so he pulls out something wrapped in silver cloth to show Aragorn and the wizard. It’s a ring that once belonged to his mother, his favorite possession of hers from when he and Faramir divided up what of her things they could scavenge in the midst of Denethor’s consuming grief. The elvish design is elegant but still speaks of strength, a silver tree pressed into a white-flecked onyx gem that calls to mind the banners of Gondor. Boromir slips it onto Aragorn’s finger, and as Mithrandir says some more words thereafter that the king misses while taking a long look at the captain’s face, they keep their hands tight together. Even Boromir finds the ceremony enough to his liking after that.
Aragorn’s new crown of rich metals is soon traded for one far lighter, just after he kisses his husband and pulls Boromir through the crowd, familiar hands rubbing a shoulder here, patting a back there, clapping and cheering rising up in their wake as the newlyweds finally reach Frodo and Sam. The hobbits each nestle a woven circlet of flowers into their hair, Sam into Aragorn’s and Frodo into Boromir’s, something they wanted to do that was, Aragorn has gathered in the days leading up to this moment, inspired by a statue they witnessed on their journey.
Frodo takes his time adjusting Boromir’s circlet just so, fussing with the flowers, then suddenly leans forward to kiss the man’s brow before stepping back.
Only Aragorn sees the tears that are hastily blinked from the captain’s eyes, but he’ll never forget the sight.
Forgiveness.
His heart may be scarred, but it’s no longer embattled, and with his hands in Boromir’s, allowing himself to be swept into the courtyard for their first dance where their three children look on from the front row of the gathering crowd, he feels it at last: the healing that’s begun. The joy that’s taking hold, not erasing the grief but taking up space alongside it, lessening the cost of each breath as he twirls the captain on his arm, as Boromir spins with enthusiasm, hair falling in his eyes, and they laugh.
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It’s past midnight again when they stumble back into their chamber, flower petals and bits of ash dusting their hair and shoulders from well-wishers and showers of roaring fireworks that perhaps got closer to the audience than Merry and Pippin had intended.
Someone has already been in to prepare the rooms for a celebration: They’ve filled the large claw-foot tub with steaming water just prior to their arrival and scattered rose petals over its surface, lit the hearth near where the tub sits, replaced last night’s sticky sheets with fresh bedding and neatly turned it down, and laid out a kettle and fine cups for tea on a low table near two cozy armchairs that Boromir had personally brought over from his old room when they chose this space together.
The steaming rose petals lend a faintly floral aroma to the scents of woodsmoke and fireworks hanging in the air, their sweetness reminding both men what tonight is to be about.
“A bath to start, I think, while it’s hot,” Boromir suggests as they begin gently undoing each other’s laces and buttons from top to bottom, soft kisses to jawlines and necks and cheeks interspersed with tugging off layers of stiff jackets and gilded ceremonial threads.
They kick off their boots in a careless heap, continuing to undress each other with promising brushes of lips in between until they’re both stripped of all but their trousers and the flower crowns the hobbits had nestled in their hair hours earlier, before Frodo and Sam had joined them in their newlywed’s dance; before the feasting began; before their younger son had fallen asleep in Aragorn’s lap, and they’d slipped away together to tuck the kids into bed before returning to their own party; before Legolas drank Gimli under the table again (and then joined him there, prompting all manner of raised eyebrows, which Boromir thoroughly enjoyed); before Mithrandir smoked so much that he started repeatedly blessing Aragorn and Boromir’s union with pink cheeks and an extra-damp sheen to his eyes.
“Here, let me get that for you,” Boromir offers, gesturing to the tiny flowers that by now are fairly well tied up in Aragorn’s dark hair. His husband smiles and kneels, waiting patiently as Boromir untangles the hobbits’ crown with extra tenderness, then kisses his wrist in thanks when at last it’s free.
Boromir sets it atop their wardrobe where someone has already placed Aragorn’s true crown in a place of honor, allowing it to gleam in the firelight just so. Then he kneels at the king’s feet so that Aragorn might tug the crown from his hair as well.
He’s quieter than usual, Boromir reflects, but then, it’s been a long day for everyone. And things are never quiet in this chamber for long anyway, once the two of them are alone.
Boromir glances up as Aragorn’s palms press against his cheeks. Their eyes meet as Aragorn runs a finger over the circlet of flowers and vines, not yet attempting to wrest it from Boromir’s hair, and suddenly, taking in Aragorn’s admiring gaze, the captain understands something even before his husband gives voice to the words.
There hasn’t been a good time for this, and Aragorn regrets that—no, that’s not true, there have been plenty of opportunities, he knows, but he’s more nervous about this than he was about his own coronation. He’s almost certain Boromir will protest, knows how uncomfortable the suggestion will make him, but he’s put it off for so long now—he’s running out of reasons to delay, and tonight, with the love of their friends and the love of a good man burning so bright in his veins, he finally has the courage to say it: “Only more coronation to go, then.”
“Faramir’s?” Boromir makes it a question, one of his hands joining Aragorn’s in his hair, settling over those familiar fingers as if to steady them, to grant them some peace. “You promised him,” he reminds his husband softly. “He’s to be Prince of Ithilien. Not me.”
Aragorn slowly sinks to his knees, his fingers still threaded in Boromir’s hair where their hands meet. “I know, and I’d never go back on my word. He’ll be Prince of Ithilien. But I wish to make you Prince of Gondor on the same day. Save us all another ceremony, as I know you’ve no particular fondness for them.”
Boromir’s hand falls away; he searches deep within those familiar-yet-unknowable grey eyes, continually amazed by the man before him—his generosity, his bravery, and the way he sees certain things in others even when no one else does. The way he believes.
“Only because I know you’d never accept the title of king outside this bedroom even if I begged,” Aragorn adds, his fingers tracing down Boromir’s cheek and coming to rest gently under his chin even as his own heart picks up its pace. Boromir can’t help but grin at the words; his husband knows him too well already, as of course he’d never accept such a thing. “But you love Gondor, and its people love you; you’re more than a consort, you’re my equal, and you’ve more than earned the right to be a voice for this kingdom. I wish you to rule with me. We fought and bled together, and we survived together; this would be better together, too, with both our minds united in the task even if you’ve no patience for diplomacy. We’ve Faramir for that, and we both know he’s more than up to the task. This is our home—”
“Aragorn,” Boromir attempts to interrupt, the battle and his heart already won to the cause.
“These are our people,” Aragorn continues stubbornly over the blood rushing in his ears, not wanting to end such a happy day on a sour note; it was foolish to bring this up tonight when they have so much else to be grateful for, so much to celebrate. “This is our future to shape, the land we love, the land where our children will—”
“Aragorn, I’m saying yes,” Boromir bursts in, gripping the other man’s shoulders to draw him back into the moment, to the acceptance of his proposal—much the way Aragorn had done for him back when, just hours after the siege had ended, Boromir had gotten down on a knee and proposed to Aragorn that they marry in the custom of their own people since they’d already done it the elves’ way more than a time or two. “Yes. I’ll rule with you.”
As the words sink in, Aragorn pulls the flower crown a little tighter down around Boromir’s ears and slides a hand around to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer to kiss him soundly. Boromir wraps his arms around Aragorn’s waist in answer, and they stay like that for some time, mouths saying plenty without forming a single word at all, enough to stir their blood into running hotter and encourage their cocks to harden where they’re trapped against each other’s stomachs.
“My prince,” Aragorn breathes over Boromir’s lips when they finally break apart for some air. The words taste salty-sweet as the captain catches them with his tongue, flicking it over Aragorn’s bottom lip.
“Not yet,” Boromir reminds him with a hint of a grin, echoing Aragorn just the other night.
The king tilts his head at that, considering something from a new angle—Boromir’s handsome face, the firelight, and the crown on the wardrobe combining to form a most alluring picture. “You’re right. Not for a few days, I suppose—and we might as well make the most of them.”
Having clearly decided something, he leans forward, capturing Boromir’s mouth in another blazing kiss, then strides over to the wardrobe and picks up that heavy crown, settling it back into place on his head.
Boromir, still on his knees, watches with a spark of gnawing hunger low in his belly as Aragorn returns, as he stands a little taller before him now, whisking the flower crown from his lover’s hair with a single swift motion just so he can run his hands through the soft locks that fall about his shoulders. “I don’t think I get to appreciate how good you look on your knees nearly often enough,” Aragorn says, his thumb tracing Boromir’s lower lip, gently pushing until the other’s mouth opens enough to take that finger in.
With one hand still stroking Boromir’s hair as the captain flicks his tongue over the thumb in his mouth, Aragorn looks over his new husband almost as if in disbelief. “You’re so pretty. Too pretty to be real, if I didn’t know better. That hair, the way it falls around your face. Those eyes—the way you look at me, the way you move, it’s strength and beauty in the same form. And you’re so good. Good and…mine. All mine,” Aragorn babbles, because Boromir can do a lot with a finger in his mouth, and he’s determined to remind Aragorn he married well. Still, the new king manages to get his point across in the end: “And tonight, I think it’s time I claim you.”
He swiftly withdraws his finger despite a twinge of regret from down low, cupping Boromir’s face with his hand instead as he gives him a chance to consider this unexpected proposal.
Boromir’s breathing stills as he gazes up at Aragorn, the trappings of crowns and titles melting away in the place where their eyes meet and it’s just them, just two quiet hearts that chose each other. Boromir has never let another have him like that, not even Theodred. He’s never even entertained the idea of being so vulnerable in someone else’s care, raw and laid open and fully held, not even in his dreams. But then, no one has ever been as close to him as Aragorn, either; no one else has taken him in their arms and wielded softness with such strength.
He could say all of this, but he finds he doesn’t need to; it’s there in his open, unguarded face for Aragorn to read as he swallows and says, voice darkening with desire, “I think it is, too. So what does my king command?”
“Help me out of these pants, and get rid of yours,” Aragorn gives his first order, eyes dancing with the thrill of it. The crown seems to lend him some new confidence—or perhaps it’s his family’s ring on Boromir’s finger, or even some unknowable combination thereof.
“Of course, meleth,” Boromir murmurs as he reaches for the ties just below Aragorn’s waist.
Aragorn caresses the captain’s throat as he undoes those ties, waiting patiently until his pants have dropped to the floor alongside Boromir’s before pulling their bodies together so the heat of their cocks can be better felt between them before finally correcting against the curve of Boromir’s ear, low and sultry: “Tonight, it’s Majesty. Now get on the bed, on your back.”
Pausing only to grab the vial of oil from the nightstand, Aragorn doesn’t leave Boromir wanting or alone in this strange new position for long. Bare but for that crown glinting in the low light, he crawls up his lover’s body so he can kiss him again, gathering both their cocks in his hand just like the first time they came together. His thumb rubs over their leaking tips as he strokes them, while his tongue in Boromir’s mouth speaks to a few things he’d like to do with him before the night is through.
There’s enough exquisite sensation in the friction of their cocks rubbing together to soon have Boromir breathing, “Yes, Majesty,” into the sliver of air between their lips. There’s also enough promise in the way Aragorn works his fingers over them to stoke Boromir’s famed impatience, finding him bucking his hips into Aragorn’s hand to speed up the pace—only for Aragorn to take his hand away altogether, a knowing smile touching his eyes at Boromir’s noise of protest.
But Aragorn is hardly through here; he’s merely changing positions, sliding down the captain’s body, kissing here and there as he goes, tonguing Boromir’s navel in the spirit of exploration before dipping lower.
A king should, after all, be well-versed in his subjects’ needs. Be willing and able to provide. Be an expert in many things.
Aragorn tries to remember all the advice in the book Faramir had passed off to him (with the slyest of grins, no less) in preparation for his wedding night as he takes Boromir’s cock into his mouth, marveling as always at the girth and weight of it on his tongue. He swallows the captain all the way into the back of his mouth, stretching his lips wide around him, but not daring to go any further for fear of a repeat of the time he gagged with Boromir in his throat.
There will be plenty more nights to improve at that, but tonight is about ensuring his lover’s pleasure.
So instead, with Boromir filling his mouth, Aragorn gives him some kisses there, laving his tongue against the slit of his captain’s cock so sweetly until Boromir knocks his crown askew as he tugs at Aragorn’s hair, warning him breathily, “Ah—Ara…meleth…Majesty.”
The captain doesn’t need to say he won’t last; Aragorn can feel it, a certain pulsing through the other man’s entire being that makes the new king smile around his mouthful of cock.
Boromir relaxes, then, as he catches sight of that smile, at those clear eyes gazing up at him from the edge of the bed with love.
He catches his breath, regaining his bearings a little as Aragorn gently pushes his thighs open—only for his pulse to quicken again at the sight of the new king, his new husband, coating his fingers in oil. “I think about it sometimes, you know. About seeing you, like this, when I’m alone in the bath, when I touch myself. I come so hard just thinking about taking you, even with my fingers,” Aragorn offers, freely sharing his fantasy (as kings should be generous) while his finger carefully dabs some of that oil against Boromir’s entrance. “I love seeing you like this, so good and filthy for me.”
He watches his captain for any signs that he’s not enjoying the attention, but his prick is still dripping against his stomach as Aragorn presses a finger into him and Boromir softly gasps, clenching around him. “Aragorn,” the captain breathes, a shudder running through him.
The new king is entranced by that sweet, delicate heat he’s just encountered, feels his own cock harden further as he slowly pushes a second finger into his captain, dragging them against the spot that makes Boromir cry out a little each time. When Boromir begins to rock back against those fingers, he takes it as a sign that he can finally push a third finger in, burying himself up to his knuckles and thinking he could come just from the sight of this, of the scene Boromir makes while flushed and gasping against the quilts, impaled on his fingers, his own weeping cock untouched all the while.
He pays plenty of attention to the sweet spot he’s tried to become an expert in these past weeks, and he must be fit to wear the crown after all, because he’s soon got Boromir crying out with each new press or widening of his fingers, sweat darkening the captain’s soft, lovely hair, his clear grey eyes half-lidded and full of nothing but Aragorn.
The king’s own sex is aching, wanting to be where his fingers are, but as Aragorn withdraws them and opens his mouth to check on Boromir, he finds himself staring at the captain’s slick and ready entrance, bright and swollen from all the attention it’s been given. He lowers himself between Boromir’s legs, compelled to taste him. After all, a king’s appetite is insatiable.
Boromir’s eyes snap fully open as he feels Aragorn’s tongue push into him, but a moment later, he relaxes into this sensation, too, finds himself enjoying the feeling of that familiar mouth being put to new uses, a few of which he’s sure he taught the king himself.
Enjoys it so much, in fact, that he reaches a hand to his own cock—only to be swiftly stopped by one of Aragorn’s. The king pins his wrist firmly down against the mattress, earning a growl of frustration from Boromir.
Aragorn only smiles at that, however, having glimpsed on Boromir’s face in that moment what it takes the captain a few more pleasure-addled seconds to realize for himself: he likes being held down, apparently. At least when he’s in Aragorn’s hands.
“Patience,” Aragorn commands, squeezing that trapped wrist and smiling up from between Boromir’s legs. “You should know by now I’ll always give you what you need…”
He lines his cock up with Boromir’s entrance at last, pausing there for a moment until he gets a clear nod from his lover. He holds Boromir tightly against him, all the captain’s strengths and demands, his impatience, his will, gathered in his arms and held safe as he pushes into the maddening heat that nearly brings him over the edge in a matter of seconds.
Still, knowing a king must provide, he somehow finds it in himself to hold off a little longer as he gazes at the flushed, handsome face beneath his, dipping his head for another taste of those parted lips.
As Aragorn builds to a steady, white-hot pace inside him, his thrusts striking the right spot with as much certainty as his fingers had done moments earlier, Boromir wraps an arm around his husband’s waist and kisses him back fiercely, glad he survived for this.
Aragorn soon reaches to take Boromir’s cock in his hand again, well-versed in what the captain likes. “Is this good?” he asks, fucking Boromir a little harder, his thrusts pushing deeper, deeper, deeper still, claiming more of his territory. “Come with me?” Half out of his mind from the feeling of Boromir all around him, he’s forgotten about commands.
“Yes, yes, yes, Majesty,” Boromir stammers, wanting to agree to everything but having lost track of whether or not that was enough yeses to count for all of it.
Aragorn reaches up with his free hand, pulls the crown off his head and settles it firmly onto Boromir’s before finally seeking his release in Boromir’s warmth, the captain coming with a sharp cry a few seconds later, spilling all over Aragorn’s hand and his own stomach.
Their groans echo through windows and down the nearest hallway.
“Majesty,” Aragorn breathes against Boromir’s neck a little while later, resting warm and boneless on top of him, his cock beginning to soften inside him. “Think it’s too late for us to take that bath?”
Perhaps there’s something to be said for Boromir’s impatience and his own after all; the bathwater is still warm enough to enjoy when they slip into the tub, Boromir resting with his back against the ceramic while Aragorn settles between his legs and leans back against that broad chest to rest his cares.
Boromir takes his time washing Aragorn’s back, then turns so Aragorn can scrub his hair clean, closing his eyes at the feeling of those familiar fingers working so carefully over his scalp.
“Mmmh,” Boromir murmurs as those hands continue some tender ministrations with the soap down his back. “I want to do that again…but I fear I won’t be able to walk to any meetings tomorrow if we do.”
He turns to glance slyly over his shoulder at Aragorn as the king starts to laugh. “Well let’s do that again, and we can have Andreth bring us breakfast in bed. No meetings until the afternoon, at least.”
“Andreth?” Boromir asks curiously, his memory catching up with him a second later as he answers himself, “Oh! The lad who was stationed outside last night. Right. I think our first meeting should concern raising his pay. And I say we do it twice more,” he teases, scooping some rose petals out of the water and placing them just so in Aragorn’s hair, then leaning back to admire his work, “and stay in bed all day.”
“Already bargaining like a politician,” Aragorn growls approvingly, leaning into the space between Boromir’s legs to kiss the smug grin off his face—the captain having won another victory to his name already, though he may not know it yet.