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Boromir walked through the dark corridors of the White Tower. The candle’s flame danced in the wall lamp. Long shadows slid along the walls. Servants were familiar with him, moreover, he was a war comrade of the King, so if someone even noticed how the son of Denethor was sneaking to the King’s chambers like a thief, he would not notice anything suspicious. Boromir used to think of the fortress of Minas Tirith as his home, but lately, he could not recognize it. Everything around him became strange and unfamiliar since he went to Rivendell.
Then chance brought him to a council in Elrond, where those who had not suffered hardship and grief in the fight against the orcs decided the fate of the most powerful weapon in the world while the best sons of Gondor perished in the fight against evil. Boromir did not seek power or glory, all he sought was the power to bring peace to his land. For better or worse, Frodo did not give him the ring. Boromir did not flee, no, he simply returned to Gondor, as agreed. He did not bid farewell to anyone, but he had warned everyone that he would not go to Mordor. How could he have known that the orcs would attack at that very moment? If he had, he would never have abandoned his comrades.
Boromir had not discussed what had happened in Amon Hen with anyone, though he was sure the little folk had shared the story with Aragorn at least. Strider tactfully avoided the subject, but Boromir could have sworn he saw deeply hidden condemnation in his gray eyes. However, that is a matter of the past. The evil was retreating, and Gondor had a new lord. Denethor was not too pleased with the change, but when one's army is defeated and the rightful heir to the throne stands outside the gates with Rohan's army, it is rather difficult to refuse.
Aragorn had done fairly. He gave Denethor a title, land, honor, even left him the royal chambers in the palace, and did everything he could to ensure that the former governor of Gondor did not feel oppressed by the new lord. At least that was Aragorn's perception. But some people saw otherwise.
“He took everything from us!” tipsy Denethor loudly put a cup in his new residence in a recently reconquered Ithilien. “He took our home! He took the country!” the former Steward of Gondor shouted. “Where was he all these years when we fought with Mordor?” Denethor asked Boromir quietly.
“He also fought with Mordor as part of the Gondor and Rohan armies”, Faramir noticed, watching his father's speech skeptically.
“Nobody knows,” Denethor ignored his younger son. “No one had heard of King Elessar then. There were only us, orcs and no one else!”
Boromir was silent at dinner when his father started talking about politics. He remained silent even when rumors spread through the capital that Aragorn was not actually an heir of Isildur. And that's where this silence led him. Boromir stood by the door to Aragorn's chamber. With one hand he held the bottle of wine tightly, and with the other, he tried not to tremble.
“Do it, Boromir, I can entrust it only to you, the only son who will not fail me,” that was what father had told him in Ithilien and Boromir intended to do everything right this time.
He knocked, opened the doors after being invited and entered the room. The king sat at the table as if waiting for him, tensed, concentrated.
"Sorry for such a late visit, Aragorn," he could never address him as befits his title.
“I am always glad to see an old friend,” Aragorn rose to greet him.
“That's great, otherwise I'd be in trouble,” Boromir laughed nervously, realizing too late that he looked silly, maybe even suspicious. “Look,” he showed the bottle, hurrying to change the topic of conversation. “It is from my father. The best wine that can be found in Ithilien".
Aragorn looked wearily at the bottle, but the tension from his body disappeared somewhere.
“Well, if it is from Denethor, we definitely have to try it, don't we, Boromir?”, the king attentively looked at the companion's face, as he was afraid to miss something important.
“Of course,” Boromir exhaled. They could still communicate like old friends and skip all the formalities between king and subject.
“Will you uncork?” Aragorn took out the goblets, leaving his friend alone with the bottle.
Boromir thought how lucky he was that Strider turned away and couldn't see how his hands were still shaking. But the cork was overcome, and the wine filled the cups. Aragorn tilted the cup from side to side, examining its contents. Boromir tried to stay as far away from his goblet as possible. He looked into the gray eyes of his friend. By the light of the candles, they seemed dim, as then, in the depths of Moria, when they fought side by side against the orcs. And when Mordor fell, in the first rays of the victorious sun, his eyes were bright, almost blue.
“Act according to your conscience, brother”, Faramir said to him after a long silence when he learned details of a deal that father entrusted him with. But could Boromir still rely on his own conscience after what he did in Amon Hen? Probably not, what he had done was wrong and he knew it, and above all, he wanted to wrest the cup from Aragorn's hands and break the damn bottle.
However, his father would never forgive him. He didn't bring the ring to Gondor. Because of him, they could not resist Mordor and found themselves in this situation. Besides, even an attempt on the king is punishable by death. He looked again at Aragorn. He was in no hurry to drink. Boromir vividly imagined how the king's guard breaks into the chambers and pierces him with a dozen swords. It would be better if he died in the last battle against Mordor. Then Aragorn would catch his last words, hold his hand, and then, when he was gone, lightly touch his lips to his forehead. No! Boromir was not in the right to even think about such things! The decision has already been made, and nothing can be changed. He must finish the deal!
Aragorn glanced at the watch.
"Why don't you drink, Boromir?" The cold gaze of the gray eyes pierced him to the very heart.
Boromir finally realized. He knew everything. But how? It didn't matter. Boromir had no time to think about it. Not an instant. Boromir leapt. The chair he had been sitting on fell on the floor with a loud crash. And Aragorn was not far behind. He was prepared for this.
Boromir's arms closed around the king's body. He turned Aragorn over and laid him on the soft rug. The men wrestled, and the last Númenórean had no wish to lose. He slipped out of Boromir's strong "embrace" and ended up on top of him. Their bodies intertwined, as if the men were trying to become one. They clung to each other, turned over, struggled rapidly, as if in ecstasy. Aragorn's hand was already around Boromir's neck when he slipped out and caught hold of his opponent's torso, throwing him over. Their legs entwined, Boromir caught something with his shirt, and the garment tore off, revealing a pale, strong body. Aragorn took advantage of the situation to regain the upper hand. His touch left scarlet marks on Boromir's skin. The silence was broken by the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor. A long, heavy breath, nearly a moan, escaped Boromir's chest when Aragorn's firm back was freed from his grip. The man wanted to sink deeper into the body of his old friend, to pierce it, to melt inside him. It was as if he could feel his opponent being filled with an unknown force, and he was eager to submit to that new power.
When they heard a knock on the door, Boromir was already lying on the carpet without strength, gasping for air. The room whirled around him and at first, he mistook the knocking for his own heartbeat. Aragorn stood over him, straightening his clothes. He was breathing calmly, his hair falling in neat waves on his shoulders, as if nothing had happened. The knock was repeated, and then Boromir realized that these were unwelcome guests after all. Perhaps the royal guard heard the sounds of the wrestling and decided to find out what was going on. It didn't matter anymore. Boromir lost.
The doors opened and Faramir broke into the chambers without waiting for the invitation. He quickly looked at defeated Boromir and worriedly at Aragorn.
“My Lord, the problem is solved. Denethor won’t bother you anymore”. The King of Gondor spread his arms as an invitation, and Faramir obediently dove into them.
“You…” Boromir could not believe in the entity of the picture unfolding before his eyes. “Father?”
“Denethor is going to Andrast to make ties with druedains and carry the glory of the United Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor to the west,” Aragorn said imperiously. “And the only thing that saved you and your father from death was Faramir’s desire”.
The King of Gondor bent his head and touched his lips to the forehead of the new Lord of Ithilien.
“Thank you, Faramir. You did everything right”, he said quietly.