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What news of Boromir the Bold? His head so proud, his face so fair?

Small things. Small incongruencies, nothing in themselves, but enough to add a tension to the feel of his shoulders that was unexpected here, in Rivendell, where always he had been protected and held in respect. The feeling of being watched: not always, but often, the dragging weight of a strange and considering gaze. The sense of words unsaid and secrets untold, the itch to his skin that suggested an incipient violence. Experienced, practised, Aragorn knew what was happening. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He was coming to the conclusion that Boromir could not enter on the Ring-bearer’s journey. He himself was promised, had been for longer even than he himself had known: but it was clear that Boromir considered some challenge lay between himself and the ranger. And discordance could fatally disrupt Frodo’s quest: there was no space for two combative men. Boromir would have to be refused. Remembering the sight of the warrior’s bared steel under Rivendell’s silver-leafed branches, Aragorn thought that the man of Gondor’s withdrawal would be easily won. In truth, it wasn’t as if the journey had been discussed in formal council yet: between himself and Elrond and Gandalf, in detail: in cautious honesty with the brave but inexperienced hobbits (‘Such valour!’ Aragorn thought to himself in half-amused admiration) and in snatches of conversation with others: Elrond, he knew, had been closeted for half an evening with the recently arrived Legolas. Frodo, oddly enough, seemed to have some foreknowledge of the journey: Aragorn guessed it in the shadow of the small Hobbit’s eyes whenever the quest was mentioned. But there too was a humbling determination.

If he could be certain that he himself could remain unaffected by the Western man’s challenge, the argument would not be made. Yet under that biting consideration, Aragorn could not remain quiet. Something about the man of Gondor’s intense regard touched him on the quick, like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. Aragorn had thought it settled, passed, proved and gone in the way of warriors: that one decisive encounter on Rivendell’s treetop passages where he had forced Boromir into surrender enough to satisfy the martial son of Gondor. Clearly, not. Small things.

Caught in the passing silver light of a dance-born lantern, the grey glint of Boromir’s gaze across the grass of Rivendell. Over a bevelled drinking cup, his eyes were unreadable, concentrated: the concious steady look of a man sliding towards drunkenness. So the man drank: in Gondor, there were half a hundred men to guard his back. In the wastes, there was no one at Aragorn’s side. Nevertheless, the gaze was not insensate, just unreadable. What he want? What thoughts spun behind those grey eyes?

The brush of a furred cloak following him through Rivendell’s arched halls, a soft footfall that followed just out of sight, just within hearing. The knowledge that sometimes, outside his door, a tall man paused and waited for a breath before moving on. The itch of strong, bare fingers on a jewelled sword hilt in his prescence. Eyes watching his back on the wide green practice fields as he drilled. Once, outright mockery caught in the corner of his eye, as he and Arwen danced under the silver lanterns. Boromir had none of the elves’ amused detachment: there was an unexplained heat in the eyes that lifted to his own puzzled gaze across a lifted bow, through a shadowed passageway, over a table scattered with maps and traveller’s tales. What? Why?

He discussed it with Arwen one night, stretched out on starlit turf with a half moon overhead. In that light, her skin was magical, the gleam of her hair netted with mysteries. She’d simply looked at him, her dark eyes unreadable. "Aragorn," dhe had said. "This is a thing of men, not elves. Don’t ask me to judge."

"What is there to judge?"

She leaned forward, placing one long finger on his lips. "This is something of your people, not mine. What you do about it is yours to decide, not mine." Her eyes met his, dark with secrets she was not going to say.

Aragorn reached for her slight, strong wrist: curled her fingers around his and kissed them. "Lady, you hold my honour in the palm of your hand. Tell me, what should I do?"

She shook her head. "Some secrets are not mine to tell. Trust yourself, beloved." Then she smiled, and Aragorn felt the familiar sense of wonderment that followed the rising curve of her lips. "Dance with me?"

Always, in Rivendell, they were not far from music. But as, formal, Aragorn touched and paced the steps of a courtly measure, still he felt the heat of that thwarted and unreadable gaze. Arwen too, she’d broken off, laughing, and taken his hand to lead him towards the lanterns and the singing. Her hand though had held his with unaccustomed strength.

Gandalf had noticed. There was a hesitation in the way that he referred to Boromir’s name, seated, pipe in hand, across Elrond’s wide table: a touch of caution in his voice. Once, he had shaken his head in silent disavowal of Aragorn’s stated preference, looking into the bright flames of a new-lit fire. "Boromir should accompany the ring." He had said. "If you have difficulty with that, Strider my friend, take it up with him. This is a choice I will not alter." Elrond’s head had lifted with Gandalf’s words. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Gandalf, fireworker, magician, pipe-smoker: teller of long tales and traveller’s stories was also Gandalf the Grey of the Wizard’s Council. Now, though, they could both hear it in his voice.

"What is it?" Elrond asked. "What have you seen?"

"Nothing." The wizard’s tone was crisp. "Nevertheless, Boromir will accompany us...if he will consent." Gandalf’s eyes caught Aragorn’s. Tapping his long-cold pipe on the table, the wizard frowned. "Aragorn, there is no one I would rather have by Frodo’s side. This disagreement with Boromir...at least discuss it with him. Find some compromise. We will need both of you in this endeavour, and at our backs, not duelling in our midst."

Aragorn bowed his head in assent.

Thus it was that in the grey light of the next morning, setting off across the practice fields with a cheerful Merry and Pippin, he drew the practice circle next to the the sward where Gondor’s men were setting up targets and training teams. "Wait here." He told the eager hobbits, and, squaring his shoulders, walked into the subdued noise of Boromir’s small party. The man himself was not hard to find, a small circle of attendents surrounding his tall figure.

Behind Aragorn’s back rising chatter presuaged his mission. Boromir turned, arrested at the sight of the ranger’s lanky, laconic figure. "Strider," he said, his eyes sharp, narrowed against the rising son.

"Boromir," Aragorn tapped his hand on the hilt of the lent practice sword against his side. "It seems to me we left something unsaid. I have students: will you duel with me?"

Boromir stiffened, surprised. "You’ll match sword to sword, as men play in Gondor?"

"I know not how you train in Gondor. But I’ll match my blade to yours in the practice ring, Denethor’s son."

Consideration. And a slow, spreading grin of malicious delight. "Oh, I’ll play with you, ranger."

No moment, to span the circle of the ring and check for stones, the men of Gondor crowding round the edge, a few elves drawn by the tense shouts of incipient combat. Behind the light of the sun that burned the morning mist, both Hobbits settled themselves in delighted surprise. Boromir took a last drink of breakfast ale, wiping a hand across bristles golden in young sunlight: across the ring, Aragorn waited in silence, his blade drawn and waiting. As Boromir stepped across the line, Aragorn spoke to those watching eyes.

"Come dance with me," said Aragorn son of Arathorn to Boromir the Fair.

They sang of it later, for the elves will write songs of anything, but not in Arwen’s hearing while she still strode the halls of Rivendell. Lothlorien heard that lingering tune: and Bilbo took it, later, in the file of papers that rode with him to the Grey Havens. Long, long and hard, Aragorn and Boromir strove beneath the arching trees: harsh the combat, skilled the swords that fought for Middle-earth in those early days Mordor’s rise. It was Aragorn who danced: black and limber in the early light, his sword a streak of silver: each play designed to demonstrate the skill of point and parry. Heavier, slower, powerful, Boromir followed his path across the beaten turf, his face fair and flushed but his blade steady. Intricate the pattern, driven the fight: long, long and hard Aragorn fought Boromir under the brightning sun and the eyes of strangers. Slow came Boromir’s reason: quick to battle’s fury and best of Gondor’s men, it took him time to note the form and shape of Aragorn’s absolute defence. Light Aragorn stepped, exact his blade, and no attack he formed: press as he would, Boromir’s blade fell empty against that dance of steel. No word again spoke Arathorn’s son, but Boromir, forced to note the bestriding skill of this opponant, talked and taunted, always to force the ranger towards battle’s sharpest edge: and had no joy. Aragorn would not attack. In time, Boromir began to taunt in form as well as words: calcuting risks that laid him open to Aragorn’s blade, knowing answer would not come: detached, the ranger would not fight. Behind him Gondor’s men began to talk, a sigh of absolute respect and frustration: never before had elf or man - or hobbit, quiet and shocked on the ring-side grass - seen such warriors fight as did these two.

When the sun stood high in the sky: when the morning mist was long gone and the press of elves and men grown silent in awe, Aragorn drew space. Stepped back, put his blade up. It was clear battle had not left him unmarked: there was a slow trickle of blood on his forearm and his feet were falling heavier on Rivendell’s turf. Boromir, arrested mid stroke, watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Peace, Denethor’s son?"

"Hurting, Ranger?"

"This is not a dance to the death, Boromir. We provide a diversion only."

"In which I am the only one fighting. Are you so cautious? Mordor’s servants will not wait for you to decide when you care to sully your blade."

"I told you, Boromir, I have students. This is a demonstration, not a battle: I have no wish to hurt you."

Deliberately, Boromir thrust the long blade of his sword into the turf and crossed his hands on the hilt.

"And you could? From what I see, all your skills lie in defence, not attack. Such lack of courage will not serve the Ring Wielder well in Mordor."

Behind him, elves drawn to watch by the unusual crowd murmered in knowledgeable disbelief.

Aragorn sheathed his own borrowed sword. "We shall see."

Boromir’s eyes widened. "You will leave this here?"

"Leave what? We fought: we were tested: we are finished. Denethor’s son, I respect your skill: I am glad that you lent me this opportunity to share it."

"Ranger-" Frustration edged, now, at the soft accent of the westerner’s voice. "You refuse to fight?"

"I have fought."

Boromir passed one hand through his loosened blonde fringe. "What does it take?" He said. "Are you a woman, Ranger? Did you leave your courage in those wastes of yours?"

There was a murmer from the crowd. Aragorn, relaxed, glanced around.

"Be wary, my friend, what insults you throw in this company."

"I am no friend of yours."

"I am aware of that," Aragorn replied, his eyes on Boromir’s, the gleam of sweat on his upper lip, the glint of deep-set eyes. Watch the face: watch, as colour drained from the flushed skin, as the broad hands tightened and loosened on the hilt of that heavy sword, as-

And Boromir moved. Fuelled by rage, he flung himself across the grass at Aragorn’s mocking, relaxed figure, knocking the ranger to the ground, fighting with fists and feet and the power of his body and every dirty trick learned in the practice yards of his own country. And Aragorn fought back, vicious, stabbing attacks, a scrabbling, messy struggle that drove them rolling on the grass and among the legs of the silent watchers, gasping, muscle clenched against infuriated spite and outraged fealty. Rolling again, knee hard in Aragorn’s stomach, hand caught back for a stab to the eyes deflected with desperate speed, Boromir’s hands on Aragorn’s neck, wrists clasped by the ranger’s sneiwy fingers, rolling, breath short and desperate, power and warmth and strength measured and tested, heat, the pant of two hearts and two pairs of lungs, Boromir’s body ungainly and strained over all that lithe grace...And Aragorn was laughing.

Caught in hazed hatred, Boromir raised his eyes to the ranger’s face. "Yield."

"Ah, not yet, sweetheart," Said Aragorn, his own eyes crinkled with amusement. "But if you’ll just..."

He rolled again, Boromir keeping a desperate grip on this claimed vulnerability as Aragorn spun them away from the watchers.

"What?"

They stopped, Aragorn’s body splayed, quiet under Boromir’s.

"I yield," the ranger said. "For now."

"For now? I have you."

"But not quite as you would like," Aragorn replied, his eyes holding Boromir’s narrowed gaze.

The eyes blazing into his dropped. Boromir loosed his hold on the ranger’s neck, pushing himself back and upright. "Satisfied?"

Aragorn smiled.

They were surrounded, elves laughing at the contest, the men of Gondor quieter, not quite understanding or liking this bitter fighting. One reached to Boromir’s shoulder, was brushed off with angry impatience.

"I accepted your challenge, Strider," the blond man said. "You acknowledge the bout?"

"I do." Aragorn got slowly to his feet, bowed. "Your cause was just," he added, formally.

Surprised, Boromir glanced at the crowd. Heads nodding, the elves acknowledged Aragorn’s acceptence of Boromir’s right to challenge.

"Do we call an end, now?" Aragorn said lightly, holding his hand out to the westerner.

Surrounded by approval, Boromir ducked his head. "Yes."

"Then let us feast together, tonight." Aragorn’s slow, inclusive smile appeared again. "It was a merry quarrel."

Wrong footed, Boromir could only agree: cursing the infuriating power that allowed Aragorn, the ranger, ragged, rough-clothed, still to take events and twist them to his liking. Aragorn’s hands clasped warm on his.

"Until tonight, then," the ranger said. There was, still, an undercurrent of laughter in his tone. Boromir thought briefly of the arch of fine muscle and skin under his own body, the smell of steel and warm wool.

"Until tonight," he said.

Aragorn, turning to the hobbits, thought with unexpected pleasure of that revealing instant, as Boromir’s body, pressed to his own, showed that Denethor’s son had reacted with more than just violence to this strange challenge. Evidence, incontrovertable, that allowed the Ranger an understanding of their strained and wary division.

‘Until tonight, Boromir,’ Aragorn thought. ‘Until tonight.’