Title: More Than A Broken End
Author: Amy Fortuna
Pairing: Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: R
Warnings: S/Mish scenario, blood.
Summary: Aragorn teaches the disrespectful Boromir a lesson about the treatment of heirlooms -- and about the treatment of heirs.
Notes: Can I say, ack, oh no, I'm mixing up my 'verses? This is based off the Narsil scene in the movie, but really makes much more sense in regards to the character of Aragorn, if it takes place in the bookverse.


The Fellowship having been formed to the satisfaction of Elrond and everyone else, a lull ensued when no one seemed to know quite what to do. Legolas moved away from Gimli. Gimli bent to pick the pieces of his broken axe. Gandalf laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. And Aragorn moved toward Boromir.

"Boromir of Gondor," he said, clear voice ringing out, "I would speak with you."

Boromir turned. "And what would you say?"

"That would be for our ears alone," Aragorn said. "It concerns our first meeting and would not be understood by the Council."

"What have you to say of that?" Boromir said, flushing.

Aragorn bowed his head. "It would be well for you if the Council did not hear the words I would say to you," he said, low, so only Boromir could hear.

"I will walk with you," Boromir said at last.

The assembly did not see them leave, being already absorbed in their own plans and pursuits.

Aragorn led them into the Hall of Rememberance, where the shards of Narsil lay.

"This sword is mine," he said, drawing a reverent finger down the hilt. "It was borne by my sires Elendil and Isildur. It has remained in Rivendell for safekeeping, while I bear another sword of lesser lineage. But one day, Boromir of Gondor, this sword shall be reforged. The Blade that was Broken shall shine again. It would be well for you to learn respect for it now."

Boromir laughed. "In the hands of a Ranger! Teach me respect, if respect you would have me learn."

"If you would have it so," Aragorn said, and his voice was as ice. "You are indeed as I suspected, a youth who knows nothing of honor and only may boast of deeds greater than he have done as though they were his own. Think you that Gondor alone protects the West from Mordor? Nay, here in the North there are Shadows too. Long have I walked the hills between the Shire and Rivendell, and many evils have I destroyed. The Shadow would have devoured the North, but for the Rangers."

Aragorn lifted the smallest shard from the cloth where it lay. "Come with me, if you would learn respect."

Boromir followed, stung.

Aragorn's childhood room lay empty always, waiting for its master's infrequent visits. But now Aragorn's small belongings lay on the shelves of the room, and the place looked as though someone lived there again.

The hush of a quiet afternoon lay over Rivendell. Outside the windows of Aragorn's room, nothing could be seen to move. Aragorn stepped first to the windows of the room and drew the curtains shut. Then he beckoned to Boromir, who stood hesitant in the doorway.

"Close the door," he said. "Come here."

Boromir did so, nervously.

"The blade of a king is no mere toy," Aragorn said, raising the shard and laying it lightly against Boromir's neck, against the fine hairs of his beard. Boromir tensed, but did not move.

"You should not fear pain," Aragorn said, watching Boromir's eyes go wide. "Pain can be pleasure, if you desire it to be. Nay, you need not look so afraid."

"I have seen too much pain to think of it as pleasure," Boromir said. "And I do not trust you, heir of Isildur."

"You will learn both lessons soon enough," Aragorn said, sliding the blade down across Boromir's throat, not even cutting the skin. "Indeed you learn the second one now. I do not intend to kill you, Boromir of Gondor, Heir of the Steward, and I will not, even if your death could buy me the throne of Gondor."

"What do you intend to do, then?" Boromir asked.

"You need a lesson in respect," Aragorn answered, moving away. "I would guess that you are the apple of your father's eye, and have never learned the simple courtesy of your grandfather's rule. You resemble your father in more than just looks."

"Do you know my father?" Boromir inquired.

"I did. Or thought I did," Aragorn said, curtly. "It is not a matter I wish to discuss, even now, so many years later. On your knees, Boromir of Gondor."

Boromir hesitated.

"On your knees!" Aragorn repeated. "This is not a vow-ceremony, but a learning. Obey me, or suffer to see your land overthrown by fire and hate at the hands of Orcs."

Boromir sank to his knees, reluctance visible in every pore.

"Good," Aragorn said. "This shard still cuts, and cuts deep. Would you wish it to dance along your skin, and prove to you what, even broken, it may do?"

Boromir paled. "I do not need that test!" he cried.

Aragorn smiled grimly. "I think you do."

Coming over to where Boromir knelt, he stood before him, and unbuttoned the man's garments, finally letting his clothes fall away from him. Aragorn himself remained dressed.

"If at any time you feel you have learned what it is I speak of," Aragorn said, bending down to look Boromir in the eye, "simply say so and this shard shall be restored to its brothers. Now, on your feet. Go lie on the bed, facedown."

It was far too late to think of refusal. Numbly, Boromir did what Aragorn commanded, his clothing dropping to the ground as he stood.

With Boromir lying on the bed, Aragorn stood quiet for several moments as if thinking. His footsteps finally sounded loud in the room as he walked over to stand beside the recumbent man.

Carefully, Aragorn began to cut with the shard.


Fire licked down Boromir's back with the first cut of the blade. A cry rang from him before he thought to quench it. Agony, it was agony, beating through him, searing down his spine.

And then, oh blessed relief! A warm wet tongue followed the path of the blade, making Boromir gasp and shake. The spilled blood, little as it was, had been a horror, but this was a delight, and the pain that tinged it only made it more delightful.

Strange fate indeed that the beautiful mouth that healed him and the hand that wounded him should be one and the same. And then the light dawned, and he understood what Aragorn spoke of.

An insult to the blade was an insult to the man who bore it. And Boromir had offended indeed.

"The shards of Narsil, the blade that cut the Ring!" he had said with awe in his tone. "It is still sharp!" he had marveled as he tested his finger on it. Then he had looked across the room and seen Aragorn sitting quiet in the dimness. Embarrassed, he had dropped the shard. "But nothing more than a broken end." He heard it clatter to the floor, but had not bothered to pick it up.

If Narsil was a "broken end," was Aragorn, who by his touch had proved his healing powers?

A long moment passed, in which neither of them moved. Aragorn waited, silent. Boromir thought desperately.

"I have learned a lesson, Aragorn son of Arathorn," he said at last.

He could almost feel Aragorn straighten behind him. "And what have you learned?"

"That as the blade of Narsil is still sharp, so is the line of Isildur. And as the blade of Narsil will be reforged and return to glory and honor, so may the line of Isildur."

"You have learned well in little time," Aragorn said, and at last there was a smile in his voice. "I see you inherited your father's wit, as well as his lesser qualities."

Boromir heard the clink of the shard being laid down on a small table. "Turn over," Aragorn whispered.

Boromir did not even think about disobeying. Fingers covered his hand, and then Aragorn's mouth covered his for a long moment.

"I am far more than just a broken end, Boromir," Aragorn said at last. "Far more."