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sadness1986: His Mother's Son (Boromir/Thorongil, PG)
Dec. 24th, 2009 02:26 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lotr_sesaTitle: His Mother's Son
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Pairing: Boromir/Thorongil
Rating: PG
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Finduilas was twenty-six when she married Denethor. This night was Boromir's twenty-sixth birthday.
Notes: Written forsadness1986 for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lotr_sesa; she wanted a pairing featuring Boromir and a garden. I hope this is an acceptable result. Happy Holidays! Also, much love and many thanks to both empy and savageseraph for acting as sounding boards for this little tale.
His Mother's Son
By Galadriel
The light spilled out from the Great Hall, its golden glow warming the drifts of white just beyond the threshold of the courtyard. Refusing another mug of ale, begging for a short space in which to catch his breath, Boromir spilled out on the river of light, his own laughter echoing behind him even as the silence of the courtyard settled over his shoulders, swallowing the sounds of music and revelry inside.
The celebration swirled along without him, soldiers and friends mingling, joyous shouts ringing off brass and tile, mead flowing, a feast unending. For this brief moment of time, not even the guest of honour would be missed.
As of this night, Boromir had seen six and twenty years.
He turned his face up to the sky, watching as snowflakes wheeled and floated down from the dark, caressing his forehead, clinging to his eyelashes. He smiled, blinking what he could away from his eyes, letting them melt and run down his cheeks, leaving behind tracks like tears.
Six and twenty years. His mother had been the same age when she gave her hand to his father. And yet even now, with a Captainship to his name, loyal soldiers to command, responsibilities ever clamouring for his attention, he felt none of the maturity that surely Finduilas had possessed, that had allowed her to say goodbye to her home and make the journey inland to be joined to the Steward, to father two small boys.
Boromir sighed. At night, frozen under the stars, drained of colour by the moon, the walled garden of the White Tree stood out starkly in a wash of grey. The fountain and pool were as silent as the tree itself, all iced over by the creeping cold, branches stretching outward like bony, grasping hands, death incarnate. He crossed the distance between himself and it, staring up into its branches, wondering if the promise made under it so many years ago had been spoken only to catch in its limbs, become trapped there to wither away unfulfilled.
Perhaps he would wither away just the same way.
The soft crunch of snow was the only hint that Boromir was no longer alone. It was folly to assume he would have more than the span of a breath to himself before he was called back inside, the constant pull of responsibility snarled with birthright, forever the net that would draw him home. He did not turn, but smiled faintly and murmured, "Did father send you to retrieve me, Faramir?"
The low chuckle and soft slide of arms around his middle belied his companion's identity, upsetting Boromir's surety even as it stirred the tiniest spark of hope within his breast. "No. No, your father was never one to send me anywhere but away from you."
Boromir blinked, momentarily as frozen as the courtyard itself, fear of shattering this realistic spectre of the past, borne of nothing but hope and too much wine keeping him rooted to the spot. He wet his lips, almost afraid to breathe out the name that settled on his tongue. "Thorongil?"
The arms loosened, coaxing him to turn to face the man who did not look a day older than at their last parting. Thorongil nodded. "Of course. I promised, didn't I?"
Boromir smiled, unable to stop himself from glancing upward to the branches stretching above them both. "That was so long ago. I was a child. I didn't expect you to remember."
"But you're a man now," Thorongil stroked the back of his hand over Boromir's cheek as if testing the mettle of his stubble, relearning the angles of his jaw, "and here you are, as if you've been waiting for me. Whole, hale and hearty."
Boromir shook his head, the smile fading from his lips as the cold began to seep in. "Not so hale. Not so hearty. We lost many in an Orc attack no less than two days ago." He nodded towards the Hall. "They celebrate tonight, but they will mourn again tomorrow."
Thorongil nodded, a shadow passing over his features. "Ah. So does war rob us of ourselves." He stroked his fingers down Boromir's neck, his touch making Boromir's skin tingle. "But tonight is still tonight, and we should seize hold of it before it slips away into the morrow." He slid his palm behind Boromir's head, cupping him there, drawing him nearer. "I've waited for this for a long time." He wet his lips, leaning in until a whiff of pipeweed flooded Boromir's senses, overwhelming him with memories of old.
He placed his hands on Thorongil's chest, trapped between pushing him away and clutching his tunic, tugging him closer. Instead, he let his fingertips trace the stitching, the practical care and craftsmanship that made the garment whole. When he looked up, locking his gaze with Thorongil's own, he didn't need to see the man's expression to know his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Some say she began to fade the moment her feet touched the cold stone of Minas Tirith," Boromir murmured, his fears crystalizing in the air alongside his words, "She was the same age I am now."
Thorongil's hand was warm as it closed around Boromir's, the fingers of his other carding through Boromir's hair. "I know. But where the rock of the White City sapped your mother of nourishment, it gives you your strength. You are the City, Boromir. You are built of its circles, its streets, its towers, its people. You will not fade. You burn far too brightly to be lost to darkness." And with that declaration wrapping around Boromir like a warm blanket, Thorongil closed the distance, brushing his lips against Boromir's mouth, teasing it open with the tip of his tongue.
Boromir had been kissed many times before; kissed and been kissed, taken and been taken in turn. But he hadn't waited on any of those for a decade or more, hadn't wanted something as badly as this. As Thorongil deepened the kiss, heat prickled through Boromir's body, running down his spine to his toes. He slid his arms around Thorongil's back, taking advantage of the open invitation in Thorongil's groan to slip his fingers under mantle and tunic to caress the bare skin underneath. Just before he let his eyes close, before he gave himself over completely, he glanced up at the tree that stretched above them, at the branches that had lost some of their grasping, stretching sternness. Perhaps they weren't grasping at all. Perhaps they were reaching out to an eager lover, welcoming him home.
That thought warmed Boromir even more than the want, the lust, the love coursing through his veins. Perhaps Thorongil was right; perhaps the City was his strength, perhaps for all he loved his mother, he would not be doomed to the same fate as her. And for now, for this moment, while the snow fell around them, that was enough.
Far below the white flakes, where neither man could see it -- if either had cared to look -- a small frond uncurled itself, a leaf of unseasonable green buried deep beneath the snow.
END
(December 2009)
Author: Galadriel (
caras_galadhon)Pairing: Boromir/Thorongil
Rating: PG
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Finduilas was twenty-six when she married Denethor. This night was Boromir's twenty-sixth birthday.
Notes: Written for
sadness1986 for lotr_sesa; she wanted a pairing featuring Boromir and a garden. I hope this is an acceptable result. Happy Holidays! Also, much love and many thanks to both empy and savageseraph for acting as sounding boards for this little tale.By Galadriel
The light spilled out from the Great Hall, its golden glow warming the drifts of white just beyond the threshold of the courtyard. Refusing another mug of ale, begging for a short space in which to catch his breath, Boromir spilled out on the river of light, his own laughter echoing behind him even as the silence of the courtyard settled over his shoulders, swallowing the sounds of music and revelry inside.
The celebration swirled along without him, soldiers and friends mingling, joyous shouts ringing off brass and tile, mead flowing, a feast unending. For this brief moment of time, not even the guest of honour would be missed.
As of this night, Boromir had seen six and twenty years.
He turned his face up to the sky, watching as snowflakes wheeled and floated down from the dark, caressing his forehead, clinging to his eyelashes. He smiled, blinking what he could away from his eyes, letting them melt and run down his cheeks, leaving behind tracks like tears.
Six and twenty years. His mother had been the same age when she gave her hand to his father. And yet even now, with a Captainship to his name, loyal soldiers to command, responsibilities ever clamouring for his attention, he felt none of the maturity that surely Finduilas had possessed, that had allowed her to say goodbye to her home and make the journey inland to be joined to the Steward, to father two small boys.
Boromir sighed. At night, frozen under the stars, drained of colour by the moon, the walled garden of the White Tree stood out starkly in a wash of grey. The fountain and pool were as silent as the tree itself, all iced over by the creeping cold, branches stretching outward like bony, grasping hands, death incarnate. He crossed the distance between himself and it, staring up into its branches, wondering if the promise made under it so many years ago had been spoken only to catch in its limbs, become trapped there to wither away unfulfilled.
Perhaps he would wither away just the same way.
The soft crunch of snow was the only hint that Boromir was no longer alone. It was folly to assume he would have more than the span of a breath to himself before he was called back inside, the constant pull of responsibility snarled with birthright, forever the net that would draw him home. He did not turn, but smiled faintly and murmured, "Did father send you to retrieve me, Faramir?"
The low chuckle and soft slide of arms around his middle belied his companion's identity, upsetting Boromir's surety even as it stirred the tiniest spark of hope within his breast. "No. No, your father was never one to send me anywhere but away from you."
Boromir blinked, momentarily as frozen as the courtyard itself, fear of shattering this realistic spectre of the past, borne of nothing but hope and too much wine keeping him rooted to the spot. He wet his lips, almost afraid to breathe out the name that settled on his tongue. "Thorongil?"
The arms loosened, coaxing him to turn to face the man who did not look a day older than at their last parting. Thorongil nodded. "Of course. I promised, didn't I?"
Boromir smiled, unable to stop himself from glancing upward to the branches stretching above them both. "That was so long ago. I was a child. I didn't expect you to remember."
"But you're a man now," Thorongil stroked the back of his hand over Boromir's cheek as if testing the mettle of his stubble, relearning the angles of his jaw, "and here you are, as if you've been waiting for me. Whole, hale and hearty."
Boromir shook his head, the smile fading from his lips as the cold began to seep in. "Not so hale. Not so hearty. We lost many in an Orc attack no less than two days ago." He nodded towards the Hall. "They celebrate tonight, but they will mourn again tomorrow."
Thorongil nodded, a shadow passing over his features. "Ah. So does war rob us of ourselves." He stroked his fingers down Boromir's neck, his touch making Boromir's skin tingle. "But tonight is still tonight, and we should seize hold of it before it slips away into the morrow." He slid his palm behind Boromir's head, cupping him there, drawing him nearer. "I've waited for this for a long time." He wet his lips, leaning in until a whiff of pipeweed flooded Boromir's senses, overwhelming him with memories of old.
He placed his hands on Thorongil's chest, trapped between pushing him away and clutching his tunic, tugging him closer. Instead, he let his fingertips trace the stitching, the practical care and craftsmanship that made the garment whole. When he looked up, locking his gaze with Thorongil's own, he didn't need to see the man's expression to know his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Some say she began to fade the moment her feet touched the cold stone of Minas Tirith," Boromir murmured, his fears crystalizing in the air alongside his words, "She was the same age I am now."
Thorongil's hand was warm as it closed around Boromir's, the fingers of his other carding through Boromir's hair. "I know. But where the rock of the White City sapped your mother of nourishment, it gives you your strength. You are the City, Boromir. You are built of its circles, its streets, its towers, its people. You will not fade. You burn far too brightly to be lost to darkness." And with that declaration wrapping around Boromir like a warm blanket, Thorongil closed the distance, brushing his lips against Boromir's mouth, teasing it open with the tip of his tongue.
Boromir had been kissed many times before; kissed and been kissed, taken and been taken in turn. But he hadn't waited on any of those for a decade or more, hadn't wanted something as badly as this. As Thorongil deepened the kiss, heat prickled through Boromir's body, running down his spine to his toes. He slid his arms around Thorongil's back, taking advantage of the open invitation in Thorongil's groan to slip his fingers under mantle and tunic to caress the bare skin underneath. Just before he let his eyes close, before he gave himself over completely, he glanced up at the tree that stretched above them, at the branches that had lost some of their grasping, stretching sternness. Perhaps they weren't grasping at all. Perhaps they were reaching out to an eager lover, welcoming him home.
That thought warmed Boromir even more than the want, the lust, the love coursing through his veins. Perhaps Thorongil was right; perhaps the City was his strength, perhaps for all he loved his mother, he would not be doomed to the same fate as her. And for now, for this moment, while the snow fell around them, that was enough.
Far below the white flakes, where neither man could see it -- if either had cared to look -- a small frond uncurled itself, a leaf of unseasonable green buried deep beneath the snow.
END
(December 2009)
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Date: 2009-12-27 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 11:13 pm (UTC)gorgeous piece. thank you.
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Date: 2010-01-01 02:23 am (UTC)it is a wonderful demonstration of boromir's character than he's thinking of his mother on his own special day. the measure of the years of her life against his own show he's very aware of how precious life is. thorongil showing up was a significant gift, as well. .
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Date: 2010-01-06 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-27 02:51 am (UTC)I adore the note the fic ends, hinting at rebirth of the city, of the spring that will follow winter.