He had moved closer to him in the grey hours before dawn, drawn to him the way the night insects were drawn to the glowing embers of the fire as they fluttered about aimlessly until they added their own little deaths to the dying flames.
Boromir hadn't really been aware that he had rolled so close to Aragorn until he found his hand lying on the other man's arm. Almost, but not quite, feeling the soft breath of sleep on his face, sharing the same space and yet not sharing. Apart they were, always apart, separated by a lifetime of duty and honor and by a little gem that shone softly in the dark, mere inches away from his face.
He looked at it, dared not touch it, afraid somehow that it would wake Aragorn, even when his hand resting on the man's arm had not done so, afraid that it would end the sleep that made Aragorn look so young and at peace.
The light of his life he had called her, the guiding light that would lead him home, that waited for him while he was out here in the wilderness again, surrounded by darkness and gloom.
Did he dream of her now, here in this cold and dark forest, lying on a hard bed of twigs and mud? Did he see in the darkness behind his eyes the guiding blinding light of Arwen Undomiel, the Evening Star?
Boromir's fingers caressed the leather jerkin softly, dead animal skin a poor substitute for the living warm flesh it protected from the cold, the dark.
Aragorn inhaled once, sharply. A sudden intake of breath and then the slow exhalation that followed, relaxing his features even further. Boromir sighed softly, letting his own breath go, warming the cold night air between them. It was a strange fate that he would find his own guiding light where he had least wanted to find it. He had fought his feelings tooth and claw, but they had leapt up against him like a wild creature of the forest, intent on devouring him every time Aragorn spoke, or smiled at him, driving all thoughts of Gondor and Stewardship from his mind. He did not want to give in, but there was no escape.
Aragorn was his king and he would give his life for him. He would even offer him his love, if that was what this man would ask of him. And now, lying sleepless under his dirty blanket, Boromir wondered if the question had already been asked. Because he remembered seeing the two of them together, standing on that bridge in Rivendell, their slender shapes black against the cold light of the stars and he knew that the lady Arwen would live forever in Aragorn's heart. But he also remembered a hushed conversation about hearts capable of infinite love; the feel of teasingly gentle lips closing on a wounded finger and hungry eyes meeting furtively over the fire while eating a meagre supper, the outlines of their bodies melting into the darkness of the forest.
For Boromir, for proud and courteous Boromir, it was not nearly enough. He valued the lady Arwen too highly to act on his feelings lightly and what he felt for Aragorn defied all description. He would wait in the dark and bide his time, knowing he had his own role to play, for without the dark no guiding light is needed.
His hand crept upward, his warriors' fingers caressing the infinite beauty of the filigree pendant lying against Aragorn's throat, warm as the living skin underneath it. He wanted to see this forever, take this image with him wherever his journey would take him. Aragorn sleeping, eyes peacefully closed in silent darkness, lit by the glow of the shining jewel that seemed to envelop them both. But he sighed softly once more, rolled back a little and curled himself up under his blanket, hoping that some sleep still would come before the new light of day.