Title: From Rivendell to Rauros
(WIP 13/? PG-13)
By: Ithiliana
Section Rating Above.
Overall: G at start and in places but overall R, possibly NC-17 eventually (much much later but just in case-I don't quite trust Aragorn and Boromir...)
Pairings: Frodo/Faramir, Boromir/Aragorn, Pippin/Merry (implied)

Feedback: Always appreciated!

Disclaimer: Original characters and storyline belong to the Tolkien estate. This story is fan fiction, written with no intention to trespass on copyright, and I make no money off it at all.

Author's Notes: Major premise: Faramir has another dream and follows Boromir in secret, forcing him to take Faramir along on journey to Imladris. Minor premise: Sam is not along on Quest, having married Rosie and started family back in the Shire before action begins.

This AU combines book and movieverse elements, adds water, and stirs. The dates in the text, months and years, are drawn from Tolkien's Chronology in The Appendix published in Return of the King.



FROM RIVENDELL TO RAUROS

January 15, 3018. The Company reaches Nimrodel late at night.

After wading the shallow stream, Frodo climbed the steep bank and dropped his pack to the ground, standing a moment. He looked around. Merry and Pippin were busy putting together a cold meal. Legolas and Gimli were talking to Aragorn and Faramir about where they might safely spend the night and who should stand guard. Boromir leaned against a tree, arms crossed, not speaking, watching Aragorn. Nobody was watching Frodo.

He found a tree under which leaves had drifted. Bracing himself against the trunk, he slid down to rest on the pile of leaves, hand against his side.

Aragorn had urged the Fellowship on after they had left Moria. There had been no time to grieve for Gandalf. As soon as night fell, the orcs would leave the safe darkness of the Mines to pursue them.

The Company had hastened down the ancient road, the three great peaks of Celebdil, Fanuidhol, Caradhras, the Mountains of Moria, shining behind them. Ruins lined the road, and young trees grew in their path. South and East they went, traveling by the stream called Silverlode toward Lothlorien. Frodo had managed to keep up with the others during the afternoon, but as the shades of evening grew, he found himself lagging behind.

The pain in his side was growing. Bilbo's mithril shirt had saved him from death when the cave troll had attacked, but the force of the blow had left him sore and stiff. His body ached from being hurled against the wall. The last few hours of the journey were torment as the night wind chilled him.

Now, they were under the tall trees of Lothlorien, on the bank of a stream whose running waters sounded even more musical than the streams of Rivendell. Even in the dark, Frodo saw that the trunks of the trees around him were grey and caught glimpses of gold above. Legolas had described the wonder of the trees in this Elven kingdom to the Fellowship, and Frodo had been eager to see it.

Now, all he wished for was rest and to be able to breathe without pain. Perhaps he could rest a while before eating. He closed his eyes.

"Frodo!" Frodo felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He opened his eyes to see Aragorn kneeling beside him, Faramir standing behind.

"What is it?" Frodo asked.

"Are you all right? I called you twice to come eat, and you didn't answer."

"I'm fine," Frodo said, trying to stand. But as he tried to rise to his feet, he froze, pain ripping through him. He gasped, nearly toppled over. Aragorn caught him.

"Frodo!" Faramir knelt as well, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Frodo closed his eyes, his breathing shallow, and felt the pain subside. "My side," he said. "I'm just stiff and sore. All I need is food and a chance to rest."

Aragorn shook his head. "I'm at fault," he said. "I should have tended your injury sooner, but we had to get to Lothlorien before dark. Faramir, will you take Frodo, please, while I go build a fire?"

Faramir slid his arms around Frodo as Aragorn released him, picked him up and followed Aragorn. Frodo stiffened, did not meet Faramir's eyes.

Aragorn rapidly build a small fire in a hollow near the stream and set water to boil.

Faramir set Frodo down next to the fire, and sat next to him.

Frodo stared at the fire, afraid to look at Faramir, concentrating on walling off his grief and fear.

After the water boiled, Aragorn removed the pot and dropped a leaf of athelas in to steep. He turned back to Frodo and removed his cloak.

"Let me see your side," he said. "Even though the mail-shirt turned the spear, you must have been terribly bruised."

Frodo sighed and let Aragorn remove his coat, vest, and shirt. Normally, he would have protested Aragorn undressing him, but it no longer mattered. Since everyone in the Fellowship now knew about Bilbo's gift after the cave troll's attack, he no longer had to keep it secret.

He concentrated on fighting back his tears, hearing Gandalf's voice, almost the last thing he'd said to him. "There's more to this hobbit than meets the eye.

When Aragorn pulled the mithril shirt off and opened the leather undervest, Frodo winced. He saw that a large purple bruise covered much of his right breast and side, with small cuts where the mithril rings had been driven through the leather into his skin. Aragorn pressed his hand gently against Frodo's ribs, then turned him to examine his back, running his fingers gently over his shoulder and spine.

"You are bruised in front from the spear, in back from the impact with the wall," Aragorn said. He pressed gently against Frodo's back. "But I don't think any bones are cracked or broken."

Aragorn washed his wounds with fragrant water the </>athelas</i>had steeped in and bound a soft cloth around him, under the leather vest. "If you can stand to wear the mail shirt still, I would sleep better," he said. "Bilbo obviously knew what he was about, and I am glad he gave it to you."

Frodo nodded, allowed Aragorn to put the mithril shirt on, then donned his shirt, vest and coat. His pain was greatly eased and he could breathe easily again. He stood, ignoring the hand that Faramir held out to him, and went to join Merry and Pippin for daymeal.

* * * * * * *
January 15, 3018. Haldir and the Elves find the Fellowship. Eventually, they agree to take the Company to Celeborn and Galadriel. January 17, 3018. The Company comes to Caras Galadhon at evening</b>

Frodo stood a little behind Aragorn, looking at the immense trees of the Elven City. Caras Galadhon was a two-day journey from where they had entered the northern border of Lothlorien. They had slept the last two nights on talans in the trees, much to Pippin's displeasure. Merry had been less vocal but still unhappy. Frodo had not particularly cared because he did not think he could sleep any better on the ground. He had lain awake most of the nights watching the stars wheel overhead, struggling with his grief.

Frodo had spent as much time as he could in either Aragorn's company, or with Merry and Pippin. He would not even look at Faramir for fear of seeing the love in his eyes which Frodo knew would break through all his attempts to control his grief, would undermine all his resolution to leave the Fellowship and go to Mordor alone. To speak with him or touch him would be even worse. Faramir had seemed to understand and had not tried to speak to Frodo, falling to the back of the group where he walked with Boromir.

Haldir led them toward the City, and Frodo shifted his pack to a more comfortable position and followed Aragorn, keeping his eyes forward.

* * * * * * *

Frodo lay on the ground, back turned to the rest of the Company, pretending to sleep. His body still ached faintly, eased a great deal by Aragorn's treatment. But the pain inside from Gandalf's loss would not let him sleep.

He did not want to talk to anybody. He had not been able to say anything earlier as Legolas told them that the Elves were singing for Gandalf, as Pippin recited his verse for Gandalf's fireworks.

Frodo did not miss Gandalf's fireworks. He missed his voice, the twinkle in his eye, the scent of pipesmoke caught in a woolen robe. He had not been able to eat although the food provided by the Lothlorien Elves was as wondrous as that of Rivendell.

Frodo had grieved when his mother and father drowned, but in memory, that grief seemed distant and faded. That grief had filled his world but grew easier over time, and that loss was natural.

He had grieved when Bilbo left the Shire, but then had found him again in Rivendell, beyond all hope.
This grief was different. He struggled to try to understand it. It weighed on him like one of the huge stones that had fallen when they'd attempted Caradhras. This grief was not just his, but everyone's. Grief for what Gandalf's loss meant. Grief for all Middle-earth.

Frodo had never had much hope for his quest despite what Elrond and Gandalf, even Faramir, had told him. Now he had no hope.

But he could not stay for that reason. He had to go on, and he had to carry this grief with him. He could only do so alone.

He had placed his bed as far away from everyone's as possible, wanting more space than had been available in the talans. He'd seen the hurt in Faramir's eyes when they had made up their beds, but Frodo could not feel anything in response.

Finally, all was quiet under the pavilion the Elves of Lothlorien had given them for their stay. Frodo curled up, burying his head in the soft pillow, free to finally allow the tears burning in his eyes to flow.

Lost in his sorrow, Frodo started when warm arms pulled him close and into a lap. He recognized Faramir's scent, but struck out anyway, trying to force Faramir to release him. Faramir easily controlled him, taking Frodo's blows on his chest, holding him close, letting him rage and weep, saying nothing.

Finally, exhausted, Frodo collapsed, limp against Faramir, his sobs slowing, then ceasing. He had gained no ease from his tears, but he could weep no longer.

At some point, unknowing, Frodo slid into sleep, into dreams in which he saw Gandalf fall, again and again, and in which the flames of the Balrog rose higher and higher, then parted to reveal a fortress of adamant from which a fiery Eye searched. For him.

* * * * * * *

Boromir sat on a stone seat near a fountain some distance from the pavilion where the rest of the Company was sleeping. He had not been able to eat. Again, he saw the Lady Galadriel's eyes, keen as lances, shining bright as stars, in his mind. He felt that he had failed her, that her glance had stripped him naked and left him alone in the dark.

He shivered although the air under the huge trees was warm, laden with the fragrant scents of growing things. Aragorn's voice sounded behind him, and Boromir closed his eyes momentarily.

"Get some rest. We need set no guard here in the City where we can sleep without fear."

Boromir swallowed hard, turned to face Aragorn. "I will not be able to rest easily here," he said. "I hear her voice in my mind, speaking of Gondor and hope. Yet this promise seems false." He could not tell Aragorn what else he had experienced when she had held his eyes with hers, the sense that she had given him a choice and that he had failed to make the right choice, that he had failed Aragorn.

Aragorn hesitated, then sat near him on the stone seat. He said nothing, but his silence invited Boromir to continue.

"My father is a noble man and has ruled long in Gondor. Yet his rule is failing, and our people lose hope. I have seen this for some time and could think of no way to restore their hope. That is why I was willing to follow the riddle in the Dream. I have come to believe that only you, only Isildur's Heir, can restore my City's hope."

Boromir had been struggling with mastering his feelings for some time. When Aragorn's knife had slain the Orc who would have killed Boromir as he lay stunned on the floor of the Chamber of Records, that act had finally shown him the way. As they had traveled through Lothlorien the past two days, he had spoken little, spending the time in thought.

Boromir's debt to Aragorn was a binding, a binding he had experienced with no other. Boromir's support of Aragorn's claim to the throne of Gondor might begin to repay that debt. The feelings that had tormented Boromir and that could never be acknowledged would be buried in the loyalty and love he would owe his King. And his Queen.

The silver light from the lanterns hung high in the trees shone down upon them, the waters of the fountain sounding in the background.

"Have you seen the White City, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion shining in the morning sun? Have you ever been welcomed home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?" Boromir reached out, clasping Aragorn's forearm.

"I have seen the White City, long ago," Aragorn said quietly.

Aragorn's face was intent as he looked into Boromir's eyes. Boromir wondered when that had been. Surely if Aragorn had come to Minas Tirith when Boromir was there, he would have remembered him.

"If you have not seen the City for some years," he said, "you will find it has dwindled. Many of the noble houses are empty, and there are too few children in the City and too little laughter in the streets. But your coming will change that. We will ride through the gate together, and the people will see that the Lords of Gondor have returned."

Aragorn leaned forward, clasping Boromir's forearm in return. "You have changed your mind, then," he said, "concerning Gondor's need for a King?"

"I have changed my mind concerning you," Boromir said.

Aragorn's other hand grasped Boromir's arm, and Aragorn pulled sharply. Leaning forward and off balance to start with, Boromir found himself on his knees in front of Aragorn, held firmly by both arms, as Aragorn kissed him, hard and deep.

Boromir's first response was a shocked joy, then anger flooded him. Months of working and traveling together with no sign, no word, and now this?

He pulled back, wrenching his mouth and arms free, falling heavily against the stone seat, using it to propel himself backwards. Dashing his hand across his mouth, he stared at Aragorn. Panting, Boromir struggled to read his face, to make sense of what had happened.

"Why," he started, but paused, unable to think of how to phrase what he needed to ask.

"Is this not what you have wished?" Aragorn asked.

Boromir rose, striking at Aragorn's face. Aragorn grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm, bringing Boromir back to his knees. Boromir feigned giving way, relaxing his arm, then turned, brought up one foot to propel him against Aragorn, knocking him off the stone seat. They both fell to the ground, Boromir on top, Aragorn holding Boromir's wrist hard enough to bruise, Boromir grabbing for Aragorn's wrist with his free hand.

Boromir felt the frustration and anger boiling inside him, tried to control his emotions. His father's swordmaster had beaten the lesson that anger made a fighter careless into him at an early age.

Aragorn twisted and pushed hard, rolling over Boromir and pinning him, holding his wrists above his head. Boromir bucked up, trying to dislodge Aragorn, but failed. He stopped struggling, but was tense, fighting his body's response to the warm weight of Aragorn, the intimacy forced on him by the position.

"If you do not wish it, you need only say no," Aragorn said softly, his breath warm on Boromir's cheek.

Boromir closed his eyes, strained to break Aragorn's hold. He was quite sure Aragorn could feel the hardness between Boromir's legs, as he could feel Aragorn pressing against him. In the safe warmth of Lothlorien, they were clad only in their tunics and leggings, absent the chain mail and leather shirts each wore as protection.

"No," he said but even to his own ears his voice lacked conviction.

Yet Aragorn released his arms, rolled off him, moved to sit just outside Boromir's reach.

Boromir sat up, struggling to control his breathing. He pulled his legs up, rested his arms on his knees, and his head on his arms. He could not look at Aragorn, could not see the knowledge in those blue eyes, eyes which seemed to have some of the same powers at the Elvish Lady to read his mind, to penetrate his heart.

Aragorn said nothing, but neither did he move to leave.

Finally, Boromir raised his head. He stared at Aragorn, reminding himself of how he had learned to protect himself against the love for his father that left him vulnerable to his lord's unceasing demands. He needed those walls, needed to set a guard on his feelings, in order to go on. "I will not do this," he said, his voice low. "I would see you King of Gondor, would ride with you into the City and stand for you in front of the Lord Denethor. But that is all."

Aragorn bowed his head slightly. "But will you continue to watch me so often?" he asked.

Boromir felt himself turning red. He had not realized that Aragorn had been aware of his scrutiny, perhaps had not even realized himself how often he found himself watching him.

"No," he said shortly standing. He turned and walked back to the pavilion, leaving Aragorn behind, ordering himself not to look back.