moldava: (Boromir by Wizzicons)
[personal profile] moldava
Yes, I am still alive :)
Frightfully busy though, but this did not deter my resident Boromir and the bunny he sent hopping around. They stubbornly insisted that I should write this and waited patiently.
So I had to do it *sighs and pets bunny*



Title: Parth Galen - Revisited
Author: [livejournal.com profile] moldava
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine
Warning: major canon slaughtering; clumsy first aid


Noooooo

The scream was silent, still it made Boromir’s throat raw.
It was soundless, but even the loudest scream could not have pierced the wall of icy, silent terror that gripped him as he burst through the trees just in time to see the Uruk-Hai leader cock an arrow on his black bow and point it at Aragorn, who was standing in the middle of the track trying to buy the fleeing hobbits time with his life.

No time.
No time for thinking, for devising a strategy, for assessing the odds.
No time for anything, just barely enough time for a desperate run, for catapulting himself into Aragorn and pushing him out of the arrow’s path, just in time for the arrow to lodge itself into Aragorn’s side instead of the middle of his chest, just in time to maybe save his life.
Maybe.

The Uruk-Hai would cock another arrow, wouldn’t he? And he would have the choice of them both as targets. They were sitting ducks now, landed in a clumsy, tangled mass on the ground, waiting for the final blow to come.

But it didn’t.

A guttural cry erupted from the trees and the dark Orcs exulted in response, swarming through the woods to follow the new track, hot on the trail of the hobbits, the ones Saruman wanted.

The leader watched the two crumpled men lying in the dusty path for a moment, his contempt and hate evident in his twisted grin, then he followed his brood into the trees.

Boromir grunted, too relieved to see the threat to their lives disappear through the trees to think about the menace it posed to the fleeing hobbits. Only when Aragorn scrambled in his hold and tried to stand up and follow, did he snap out of it.

“Don’t,” he growled, holding Aragorn still. “You cannot help them, the little ones are beyond our reach now. We must find shelter and get that arrow out of your body. We’re useless to them right now, they will have to rely on their own resources.”

He stood and helped Aragorn up, frowning as the ranger paled and bit his lip to stifle a cry of pain as the muscles in his side screamed around the intruding arrow.

His arms went around him, steadying him until the bout of dizziness passed while his green eyes scanned the woods for signs of enemies lagging behind.

“There is an abandoned stone hut up above, on the Amon Hen. We can shelter there, if we must..” Aragorn panted, his breath coming in ragged gaps as he leaned on Boromir.

“We must,” Boromir replied, his tone determined. “There’s no point in pursuing them now. We’re far slower and outnumbered. Better regain our strength and go seek help once you’re fit to travel again. Let us find this hut and see about your wound.”

***

The hut had been long abandoned, but the stone structure was sturdy and provided shelter, and a semblance of comfort.

Boromir had piled their sleeping mats on the large stone slab in the corner that must have served as a bed of sorts and now Aragorn was lying there.

The Gondorian studied shrewdly his pale, sweat-beaded face and his furrowed brow. He was in obvious pain and Boromir could only pray that the arrow was not poisoned, or he would stand no chance.

“It will have to come out,” he murmured gently. As a warrior, Aragorn would know that too. It was a desperate risk. Life might ebb out with the flow of blood once the arrow was drawn from Aragorn’s body. But there was no chance of life if it remained embedded in his flesh.

“I know..”

The two words came with effort through lips that were unusually thin and pale, but the blue eyes met the green ones steadily. They were both warriors, they both knew.

“Those leaves you used on Frodo when we came out of Moria.. would they help you?” Boromir asked, remembering how fast the hobbit had recovered from the goblin blows after the ranger had bathed his bruises with the lance-shaped leaves.

“They might, though they will not stench the blood.” Aragorn replied, wetting his parched lips with his tongue. “I will need water too,”

“I will see to both,” Boromir answered quietly, trying to give his voice a sense of assurance he was far from feeling.

The true Heir of Gondor.. lying gravely wounded.. his fate in the hands of the son of the Steward of Gondor.. ironic, wasn’t it?

He covered Aragorn with his cloak, then picked up a rusty bucket lying in a corner of the hut, grimacing at the assorted debris deposited inside it and at the cobwebs festooning its handle.

Water... that was easy. King’s leaf.. easy too. What was not easy was the arrow. And the implications of having the life of the true King of Gondor in his hands.

***

Boromir knelt by the side of the makeshift bed. He had cut Aragorn’s tunic off his body and was now studying the wound. The arrow was embedded deep in the ranger’s flesh and he cringed at the thought of the pain its removal would cause. He knew, he had been through this.

Hot water was simmering on a small fire and Boromir’s dagger was ready by its side.

The ranger had been dozing but he was immediately alert when a wet cloth touched his dry lips and he sucked the moisture off Boromir’s fingers.

“More, please..” he murmured.

Boromir nodded and brought a tin cup to his lips, holding it as the ranger’s hand curled over his while he drank thirstily.

“I will have to hurt you..” Boromir whispered, his eyes on the tanned, nicked fingers, unable to face Aragorn’s eyes and what he would see in them.

“I know. It doesn’t matter. I can take it from you and will hold still. I trust you.”

How can you trust me with your life, when I don’t trust myself, when all I can hear is my father’s voice reminding me that Gondor needs no King?

Boromir wanted to scream the words of doubt filling his mind, but he just nodded, green eyes glowing with a strange fire as they locked with the pain-clouded blue ones.

He put the empty cup down and busied himself with the small things that needed to be done.. tearing a clean spare tunic into strips and setting the dagger to heat into the fire. He could feel Aragorn’s gaze on him, following every gesture he made, but when he turned to him the ranger’s eyes were closed.

Boromir prayed they stayed that way.. tearing the arrow from Aragorn’s body would be hard enough, seeing the pain in his eyes as he did it would be impossible.

“It will be all right, just do it...”

The soft murmur startled Boromir and brought a reluctant grin to his lips. He bent close and touched Aragorn’s brow, pushing dark hair away from it and drawing strength from the quiet determination painted on the ranger’s face.

“Stop reading my mind and I will do what needs to be done. You see too much, even when your eyes are closed..”

“It’s the way of the rangers..”

Boromir watched Aragorn’s lips curl in a small smirk and his determination grew. He wanted to see those lips smile again. The pain would wipe the smile away, but he would see that it returned.

He set his arm on the ranger’s chest, preparing himself because he knew that it would take all of his strength to hold him down through the pain as with his other arm he pulled the evil arrow out.

He could feel Aragorn’s laboured breath accelerating, keeping him waiting would be unmerciful. His jaw set, he grit his teeth and with a harsh grunt of effort he pulled the arrow out and cast it away, reaching quickly for the linen strips to stench the gush of blood.

A sharp cry of pain had echoed Boromir’s grunt, but now the ranger lay quietly, his breath noisy and irregular in the quietness of the small hut.

They both knew what must come next.. They needed to be on the road again, they did not have the time to stop long enough for the deep gash in Aragorn’s side to slowly heal.

Boromir’s hand stroked gently Aragorn’s sweaty chest as he lifted the swab of fabric he had been pressing into the wound and checked. The blood welled clean, it was time.

He reached for the dagger. The blade glowed from the heat of the fire and he knew he had to be quick.

And quick he was.

A tortured cry from Aragorn and the stench of seared flesh burning his nostrils and it was done.

Now he could be gentle. Now he could bathe the ranger’s face with a strip of fabric soaked in cool water, swab with it his bottom lip, bruised and bloodied where sharp teeth had sunk into its flesh.

“Forgive me..” he whispered again and again as he tried to soothe the pain he had just caused.

“It had to be done..”

Aragorn’s voice and the fingers that reached up and curled over Boromir’s were weak, but they felt comforting all the same.

“Shall I use the leaves now?” the Gondorian asked softly.

“Yes. Crush them and set them on my flesh. Around the wound, but not directly on it.”

Boromir did as instructed, then covered the ranger’s legs with his cloak, careful to leave the wound exposed and undisturbed.

Now they could only wait.

***

Boromir was sleeping, sitting on the ground and leaning into the stone slab on which the ranger lay, his head resting on this arms.

He was not resting easily. His worry for Aragorn gnawed at his mind and battled to wake him from dark dreams where Denethor screamed and spit with fury upon hearing that his son had had the life of the King of Gondor in his hands, had held a dagger that could as easily give life or death and had chosen to give life.

It was a moan that drew him out of his disturbed rest.

Immediately he was alert and realized that Aragorn was thrashing on the makeshift bed. He quickly raised himself to his knees and checked him.

He was bathed in cold sweat and shivering. A fever.. it was to be expected.

He put some wood on the banked fire until it crackled and sparked again, warming the air and chasing away the chill of the night. He could not risk covering Aragorn with the cloak, the fabric would chafe the seared wound, but he could not remain watching as spasms of shivering racked the ranger’s body.

Quickly he took off his tunic and breeches and climbed on the stone bed, slipping between the ranger and the wall and pulling the shivering body into the curve of his own warm one.

Aragorn didn’t wake from his fevered sleep, but he moved instinctively into the heat he now felt at his side, whimpering with pain as the movement pulled the tight seared skin and damaged muscles.

“Shhh, it will be all right..” Boromir whispered instinctively, his hold tight but gentle. “I will not let anything happen to you.. you’re my brother, my captain, my king and I will hold you safe..”

The soft whispered words seemed to pierce Aragorn’s fevered sleep. He sighed and settled into the warmth of Boromir’s body, his shivering gradually subsiding.

His chin on Aragorn’s shoulder, Boromir closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Again it went to his father and to what he would think of this day.

Boromir had no doubt that he would not be welcome back to Minas Tirith if Denethor knew that he had had the Ring within reach and let it slip away because instead of killing Frodo as soon as they were alone he’d tried to reason with him. And he held no illusions about how his father would wish him to deal with the man who would be King to Gondor. But Faramir would understand, Faramir would approve.. he thought, taking comfort in that and in the knowledge that he had done what he thought right, what he wanted to do.

He was smiling as he fell asleep.


TBC??? You tell me

From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

moldava: (Default)
moldava

February 2009

S M T W T F S
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 09:50 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios