By: Dana
Summary: Boromir muses between sleeping and the coming dawn.
Characters: Boromir, Aragorn, Arwen
Pairings: Boromir/Aragorn/Arwen
Rating: PG15
Warnings: Not-quite-the-morning-after hot threesome sex
Author's Notes: I'm just seeing if I could do it. Thanks to Elly for the beta.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2004.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

The light of moon stretches idle across the room, soft light that shines through filigree patterns, painting swirls and shapes on the far wall. The light seems to drift, and to sleep-blurred vision, the patterns seem to shift and churn, sea-foam washing upon the far-distant shore.

Like waves that fall end over end, rising above but crashing back down, the heavens wheel and turn.

Boromir is tired, a weariness that sinks into his bones, but cannot sleep. Not with Aragorn's breath, a warm distraction, against the back of his neck, and not with Arwen, bare skin shining softly in the blue-white, pressed and curved against his front.

He knows that this should not be; that he should not be here at this place at this time. But Boromir cannot deny that all is, for the moment, right in his world, and he has found at least a moment's peace; a peace that smells of the sweet perfume of Arwen's silken hair, autumn flowers in bloom, resounds with the beating of Aragorn's heart where Boromir can feel it thrum against his skin.

Their breathing is like a song; Arwen's soft and smooth, effortless, and Aragorn's is deeper, rougher, like the sword-callused hand that rests at the curve of Boromir's hip. Boromir closes his eyes, stretching his hand and palming Arwen's hip, as Arwen shifts closer and sighs.

His hands are Aragorn's hands, work-worn and rough, a lifetime that has been bound to the sword. Maybe it would have been better if he had bound himself to some fine lady, instead; Boromir knows that their time in Rivendell is drawing to a close and Boromir wonders if he would miss Arwen when she is left behind.

The twenty-fifth of December is drawing close.

He lets his hand follow the curve of her hip, skimming the hollow of her side with his thumb. He could have led a different life, and he knows that, knows that as well as he knows the soft texture of her skin. She sleeps on (though he knows that Elves do not sleep as Men), and Boromir wonders if she dreams.

He wonders because his last dream was on the road, between Imladris and the green fields of Rohan, and he has not dreamt since.

Boromir closes his eyes. If he cannot sleep, then he will at least rest, and he is lying here in the very best company, and he won't complain. His life has long been one of compromise, of sacrifice, and this is one, too, in a way, and he is certain that it will be so until the end of his days.