Title:  Kin
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail:  gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing:  Boromir/Eomer
Rating:  R
Summary:  After Amon Hen, Boromir receives help from an unexpected
source.  Eomer rides in search of his friend.

Feedback:  would be grand.
Disclaimer:  don't I wish they were mine!
Author's note:  I told the Plot Bunny I think this one is rather odd. 
The Bunny did not care.  I threatened to feed him to the wolves.  He
was not impressed.

#########

They had flushed him out like a pheasant.  While he lay blacked-out at
the river's edge after the effort of filling his water flask they had
come into the little camp Boromir's friends had made for him and they
had taken all of his meagre gear; weapons, waybread, the clothing he
had set aside as too much trouble.  The cloak the Galadhrim had given
him and the beautiful gold belt that had been a gift from Galadriel
herself were now in Uruk hands.  Galadriel's gift was loss enough, but
what he would soon miss most would be his trousers, his boots and the
warm cloak.

Boromir wasted little time feeling sorry for himself.  It was miracle
enough that the orcs had missed his scent while they were pillaging
his camp on their way north.  They would likely return this way.  He
slung the water flask over his naked shoulder and began making his
slow, barefoot way south.  So far as he could feel his damaged left
lung still served him, but he entertained no illusions.  He clenched
his jaw against the sort of pain that made him see stars before his
eyes.  His breath whistled through his teeth.  The most he hoped for
was a peaceful place to lie down and finish dying along his way toward
Rohan.  Still, it was better than being gutted by orcs and roasted for
their supper.

Moonrise found him leaning heavily against a tree, shallow breaths
rasping loud in his ears.  When the Ranger had told Legolas and Gimli
to stop lashing together the litter they had been making - when he had
told them that they must leave Boromir behind they had stared at
Aragorn as though he had lost his mind.  Aragorn had pulled the three
black Uruk arrows from Boromir's body.  He had cut Boromir's silk
tunic into bandages and swathed his friend as tightly as he could. 
Then Aragorn had kissed his friend, left the salt of his tears on
Boromir's lips, and gone to find Merry and Pip.

Boromir fingered the red silk bandages, finding them sodden. He peered
unsteadily at the blood that coated his hand when he drew it back.  He
glanced down, the long tracks of blood over his bare hip and down his
left thigh black against his pale skin in the moonlight. Boromir
pushed away from his resting place and tried to concentrate on the
bright memory of Hobbits laughing.

The sun was rising when he found the animal's den, a large hole
burrowed out beneath the great stump of a tree long ago felled by
lightning.  Its scarred carcass lay at an angle to one side.  He was
weary enough by now that he seriously considered crawling into the
dark hole in the ground, but was distracted for the moment by certain
normal urgings of his body.  In the process of caring for himself he
found the cave, its low entrance tucked around a knuckle in the
hillside.  To anyone merely glancing at the narrow opening the cave
would appear small and empty, but it was large enough for Boromir to
crawl well back inside and hide, a wounded animal going to ground.

He lay down on the hard earth, feeling his heart pound and his
injuries rage.  Shaking fingers grappled with the knots of his now
useless bandages, the effort of it almost too much.  He tossed the
bloody rags toward the rear of the cave, and coughed on his own blood,
whimpering at the pain lancing white-hot through his body.  His
strength faded as the rush of his forced journey through the night
ebbed away.  He curled in on himself in the chill darkness, asking for
nothing more than any other soldier maimed on any battlefield before
him had ever wished for when he finally wept at the unrelenting pain
and called once, softly, for his mother.


Eomer's chest tightened at Aragorn's words.  Left him behind? 
Certainly he realized that it was the logical, even the necessary
thing to do, of course he knew that, but by the Valar, left him
behind!  Eomer closed his eyes at the rush of memory; the sound of his
voice low in the night, the way he lay the palm of his hand just so
against the small of Eomer's back, nuzzling gently below Eomer's ear,
down the side of his neck, a courting gesture, slow and easy.  They
had left him behind, bleeding on Amon Hen.


Eomer's eyes flickered in any light, green and brown and gold; deep,
green miles of wind-caressed grass shifting and swaying beneath storm
and sun.  Sometimes warm and welcoming, at others mysterious and
forbidding they were, but for Boromir there was always sunlight and
welcome.  Boromir could willingly lose himself in those eyes, uncaring
of hours or days.  Through all the years they had touched each other,
there had never been a moment when Boromir had not been proud to be
the one Eomer wanted.

Now his exhausted mind scrabbled out of darkness and pleasant memory
and stared into deep amber eyes that gazed at him with steady
curiosity, brows drawn together fretfully just the way... well, that
was a strange thing to think. The beast nearest him panted through a
row of ivory dagger fangs, a blood red tongue lolling out through jaws
that could crack a mare's leg.  The red tongue slurped nervously, and
the animal whined.  There was no defense Boromir could make.  The
great grey wolf took a sudden step forward and began to lick the dried
blood from Boromir's chest.


Eomer had brought five of his men with him.  They had covered in a
fraction of the time on horseback most of the ground run over by
Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas in three days.  Now they had been forced to
dismount and lead their horses along the narrow trails through the
forest.  The horses were nervous.  They made no obvious fuss, but
insisted on walking close up behind their riders.  Eomer had once
teased that he had gentled Boromir as he might a skittish stallion. 
The truth of it was a flirtation between them now.  Beyond his
ferocity in battle Eomer's instinct was to gentle rather than to
break.  He would persuade with soft words and sure hands, and Boromir
responded not only with the pleasures of his body, but more
importantly with the honor of his trust.  Eomer understood well that
this numbered him among an elite company.


Boromir woke to the discomfort of a small stone digging into his hip,
and he shifted to reach it.  The pain of the movement made him dizzy
and he breathed out slowly.  Three half-grown pups were playing
tug-o-war with what remained of the bloody bandages near the entrance
to the cave  A slender grey wolf had snugged up to sleep next to his
right side, and a pale wolf with warm yellow eyes was contentedly
licking the bare toes of Boromir's right foot.  He could not imagine
what the attraction might be from the wolf's point of view, but to him
it was strangely calming.  Boromir wriggled his toes, and the wolf
stopped licking in order to sniff them interestedly for a moment
before resuming its pleasant devotions.

Boromir shivered, and tried to ignore the sharp ache of his wounds by
concentrating his attention on his warm toes.  As though some signal
had gone out another animal loped gracefully to him, greeted its
fellows and settled down carefully against his left side, gently
nuzzling its fuzzy warmth into the crook of his arm.  The wolf licking
his toes stopped, shifted itself  backward between Boromir's legs, and
unthinking he raised his right leg to allow it.  He draped his leg
over the animal's warm body, and it settled in with its furry
shoulders tightly against him and began licking his left knee.


Ranulf walked in the lead.  He was a better tracker than Eomer, though
the forest was not his element.  Eomer resisted the urge to tell the
man to hurry, for the love of Eru.  The forest was no more Eomer's
favorite habit than Ranulf's.  He pulled a soft green leaf from a bush
along the path and toyed with it idly.  He thought on how warmly
Boromir's eyes gleamed as he reached up to gently smooth the perpetual
crease between Eomer's brows.  He gently chided the Third Marshall
that he worried too much, knowing full well that Eomer half the time
worried that he did not worry enough.  Boromir threaded his fingers
through Eomer's wheat-gold hair, twining the long strands past his
shoulders and pressed his lips to Eomer's cheek.  The welcome sense of
ease ran all the way from Boromir's kiss to Eomer's knees.  Eyes
closed, the better to sense one another; the hushed rush of breath,
the canon drift of fingers and palm into the hidden warmth beneath a
loosened shirt.


Eomer knew all the best places to touch Boromir, how to rub his
muscles, ease the ache of a long journey with his caress.  Eomer's
hands were gentle, but strong, warm, comforting, smooth and soothing,
slick, sliding down, just there... just... there...  Boromir flinched
awake with a squeak.   The dam of the three rambunctious youngsters,
in a well-intended routine of puppy care had licked him in an intimate
place.  Again.  His protests at being thoroughly and repeatedly washed
were placidly ignored.  At least, Boromir thought blearily to himself
as he drifted off again, he would make a clean corpse.

He noted to himself passively that the burning and shivering of a
fever had begun.  It should not be much longer, now.


They camped a few hours before dawn, just long enough to eat, and
briefly rest the horses.  Eomer had little appetite, but he accepted
the hard tack offered him.  He was bone-weary, but eager to move on. 
He stared into the fire, praying for luck in the morning, and thinking
of Boromir, of so much between them conducted by touch, by instinct,
sword-callused fingers gliding over Eomer's ribs, up to caress his
chest, swirl thoughtfully about the tender skin there, Boromir's
breath gradually quickening beneath Eomer's ear.  The removal of his
tunic was ritual.  Boots gone.  Trousers.  Votive oil massaged into
his shoulders, the long muscles beside his spine, scented with almond
or sandalwood.  Boromir mesmerized by the warm invitation of Eomer's
bared skin.  The heated strength of the pulse in Boromir's neck
rushing beneath Eomer's tongue.


The arrow wound in the lower part of his chest was throbbing badly,
and the ache of it turned his already shallow breath uneven.  The big,
dark grey male, who had lain quietly along Boromir's left side now
shuffled to a sitting position and regarded the oozing wound with
knitted brows.  Boromir panicked at the worried expression in the
animal's eyes.  He tried to wriggle away when the wolf leaned in to
sniff thoughtfully at his open flesh, but he had little strength, and
there was a furry body in his way. Boromir groaned miserably at the
rough contact of the long red tongue, tears starting in his eyes, but
the big male would not be denied.  The grey wolf snuggled into
Boromir's right shoulder licked the soft crook of his elbow
sympathetically.  He collapsed flat on the hard floor of the cave and
stared at the ceiling through a kaleidoscopic haze while the dark wolf
ministered.

They would journey to the sea.  When he had last visited Edoras, on
his way to Rivendell, Boromir had promised Eomer that they would some
day journey together to Dol Amroth, where Boromir's mother had been
born.  South toward Belfalas they could camp near the wild shore. 
Grey gulls wheeling and crying in a turquoise sky.  Pink-legged
sandpipers stalking the strand, flocks of tiny plovers scurrying in
curvettes of white and grey at the edge of the surge, dolphins sleek
and powerful in dark arches of blue-grey and black, gleaming fins
cutting through the glittering steel-green swells.  In the warmth of
summer Boromir and Eomer might strip and swim out to meet them where
they hunted and played, just beyond the white crests of the surf. 
Might ride the incoming breakers with the dolphins and the seals,
bodies slick, strong and swift.  Might touch, might kiss beneath the
glittering surface, dive and twist together in the green-gold light
flickering in the depths behind the swells, long hair floating as
though windswept about them; arms, chests, hips and thighs rocking
together in the western current, heated flesh in the cool waters. 
Staggering ashore at last exhausted and content, Boromir might kiss
and lick the wet salt from Eomer's body while the red sunset wind blew
their drying skin taught and blessed them with the sharp scent of the
great sea.


Eomer stood listening to the sound of the wind in the branches of the
tall trees while the horses drank from the river.  Though it led him
no nearer to the man he sought, the sound reassured him in a way he
did not quite understand.  He closed his eyes, feeling the sun
flickering through the trees and warming his face, and his troubled
mind drifted.  A newborn foal's first insistent whicker for its
mother's milk.  The wind rushing over the tall spring grasses on the
Riddermark.  The soft, urgent noises Boromir made when he neared his
release, green eyes narrowed and glittering up at the horse lord,
honey-colored hair spread over the rumpled sheets of Eomer's bed. 
Eomer could feel the backs of Boromir's thighs pressed along his hips,
the hard curve of a knee beneath Eomer's palm.  If Eomer  leaned
forward, reaching with one unsteady hand he could feel the resonance
of those low, sweet sounds of completion beneath the warm skin of
Boromir's flushed throat; sweep the breadth of his bare shoulders, the
sweat-sheen over his chest, rising and falling so quickly.  Eomer's
amber-green eyes snapped open and he scowled about him.  "We need to
move."


Hunters had returned, victorious and ready to share the meat they had
killed.  After joyous greetings of whining, wriggling, tail-wagging,
thorough and intimate sniffing, they loped into the interior of the
cave and snuggled into the pile of warm fur that always seethed gently
about Boromir.

Two of the hunters licked his face out of sheer delight at being home. 
The warm, musty smell of fresh blood in their breath was disturbing. 
Fascinated by the texture of his beard, one of them licked his chin
enthusiastically and at length.  Boromir scrunched up his face and
batted weakly at the great jaws. "Mmf... ick."  The animal slurped him
affectionately and messily across his left eye before letting him be. 
He shifted carefully onto his right side, and the wolf pile shifted
with him, making certain that he was never cold.  One of the pack
began rhythmically licking his back, just between his shoulders. 
Boromir slept.

He dreamt of Eomer's body above him, gilded by candle light, arching
back suddenly into a drawn bow, blonde hair flailing with the
movement, their bodies entwined, joined.  He felt the raw motion, the
hard heat of the horse lord welcome between his thighs, within his
body.  He heard Eomer's sharp, rough cry, watched for the look of
startled ecstasy on his face, that expression which made him appear
for these moments young and unburdened, and it nearly broke Boromir's
heart just to look at him.  At his own zenith Eomer's hands were on
his partner, coaxing and pleasuring, strong and sure, bringing Boromir
breathless and light-headed up to meet him, as though cut loose from
the earth and flying toward the sun.


The Riders walked in silence.  Even the horses made little sound, but
for the swishing of tails.  Eomer listened for any signal from Ranulf,
and tried to concentrate on the trail, but his mind was far off in his
chambers in Edoras, remembering the feel of the muscles in Boromir's
back shifting beneath his calves, while Boromir's long hands curved
over his hips, caressed along his waist, stroked the sweat-slicked
skin of his belly; Boromir's mouth on him, suckling as though for wild
honey, and the satin feel of Boromir's hair slipping through Eomer's
callused fingers as the horseman closed his eyes in groaning pleasure
and tried not to buck.  Eomer's hands yearned for the touch of him,
for the reassurance of his warmth, alive and safe in Eomer's arms,
where Boromir belonged.


Boromir blinked, struggling toward wakefulness.  The entire pack had
gathered at the rear of the cave.  They sat or stood tensely, ears
forward, hackles raised, staring at the cave entrance.  None made a
sound.  Boromir recognized the voices.  Orcs.  Then deeper voices -
Uruk-hai.  He swiped at the sweat running over his forehead.  The
matron wolf stood nearby, her body tense.  The dark lead male stood
nearest the cave entrance, head low, hackles high, lips pulled back
silently.  The first orc to enter the cave would die by his teeth, but
if there was to be a battle it would not be the wolves who started it.

Boromir's heart pounded. The rush of his own blood pained him.  The
young grey wolf with the tan ruff lay against Boromir, head high, body
quivering.  Eager for a fight, or was it fear?  Boromir gently stroked
the thick fur.  The grey flinched, then leaned further back against
the man, as though craving reassurance.  Behind him, the puppies
squirmed nervously.  If it came to a fight Boromir was more helpless
than they were.


Eomer and his men had camped without a fire, intending to rest only
for a few hours.  The orcs had tripped over them in the dark, and now
the orcs were dead.  One of Eomer's men turned to him.  "I thought
orcs could see better in the dark than this."

Eomer glowered at some of the corpses.  "They can.  They've grown
careless."

"Eomer."  Ranulf stood before him uneasily, holding out weapons
clearly not of orcish making.

Eomer reached for Boromir's weapons. The shield and the sword were
unmistakable.  The belt was Elvish work.

"They came from the north," Ranulf guessed.  "A long range patrol no
doubt on their way back to Isengard.  And there is this."  He held out
a tattered strip of what had once been fine red silk, now wretched
with dried blood and raw earth.

Eomer felt dread chill the core of him.  Had the orcs killed Boromir
to take these, or had he left his gear behind, to travel and to find a
safe place to rest his wounds?  And the silk?  Gods, that silk.

Guessing his line of thought, Ranulf considered aloud, "If he knew
there were enemies in the area he would have left Amon Hen for a safer
place."

"Aye.  If he lives, Boromir would make for Rohan."

"We're nearly to Parth Galen.  Might he have made it this far on foot,
in his condition?  I may have missed his trail in the dark."

Eomer appreciated Ranulf's attempt at giving him hope, but considered
the grim reality.  Odds were against them.  Still...  "Boromir might. 
If not, I believe the orcs would have found him, and they would be
carrying more than his shield and his sword.  They would happily bring
his head with them."  The Third Marshall considered for a moment.  "He
could not have crossed the river. He may have angled inland.  We'll
set out at first light to see if we can intersect a trail."  He rubbed
the heel of his hand between his eyes and glanced sadly at Ranulf.  "I
expect he is bleeding heavily.  You would not have missed a trail like
that, even in the dark."


His body hurt lying on the hard floor of the cave, and his skin
burned.  Boromir turned and draped his left arm over the back of the
grey and tan wolf, relieving his shoulder of some of the weight.  The
young male turned his head and tried to lick him, but could not reach,
so settled for snuffling at the ears of the sleeping wolf Boromir was
using for a pillow.  He was thirsty.  The water was nearly gone.  The
wolves could not help him with that.  The implication there seemed
ironic, after everything.  One of the pack began licking his back
again, warm and firm, and he allowed the peculiar comfort of it to
lead him back toward blessed sleep.  He imagined Eomer rubbing a
callused hand along his spine, the way he often did when they were
quiet together, lying at peace, naked and happily spent.  Boromir
watched the fine muscle of Eomer's arm and shoulder roll beneath the
skin, a play of light and shadow in the firelight.  If Boromir looked
carefully, he could see the flames reflected in the warm brown, green
and gold of Eomer's eyes.


"Eomer."

Eomer's stomach tightened at the tone of Ranulf's voice.  Their eyes
met.  Ranulf inclined his head, and Eomer followed the gesture, moving
to stand beside him.  They had reached a tiny clearing, made by
trampled grass and patches of bare earth.  A large hole in the ground
at the base of a shattered old tree indicated the den of a large
animal.  Ranulf pointed to the ground, and Eomer cataloged the
evidence quickly.  Prints in the scuffed dirt - wolves, orcs, Uruk. 
Strips of red silk, tattered and blood-stained drifted in the breeze
over the ground.  He swallowed, gathered himself, and looked up into
Ranulf's concerned face.  Ranging about them the other men peered into
the clearing, murmuring worriedly.

"No body," Eomer observed.

"No," Ranulf agreed.  "One orc boot, over there."  The tracker frowned
quizzically to himself, murmuring, "Rather odd."

Eomer motioned his men forward.  "Search the area.  Be careful.  The
den is still fresh."

Eomer was on the east side of the clearing when he heard Ranulf call
from the west.  He was hidden behind the hill.

"Just you, m'lord," Ranulf's disembodied voice cautioned.  "Everyone
else stay where you are."

Eomer approached slowly, torn between wanting to run to see what
Ranulf had found, and dreading to see what Ranulf had found.

Crouching a little, the two men peered into the narrow mouth of the
cave the tracker had discovered.  What Eomer saw was no welcome. 
Amber eyes glared out at him, teeth were bared.  He went down on one
knee, straining to see past the threat, into the darkness of the cave. 
Ranulf whispered, "Do you see?"

"Yes.  We have to assume it is Boromir.  Who else would it be?"

"How do we get him out?  And..."  Ranulf shifted uncomfortably.  "Can
you tell if he lives?"

Eomer shook his head, then did the simplest thing he could think of. 
He called out Boromir's name.

The dark wolf lowered his head further, amber eyes suspicious,
warning.

Eomer called again.  Still, there was no answer from his friend.  He
felt his heart pounding, fear in his belly.  "I have to go in.  Stay
here."

"My lord, I don't think--"

"Stay."

Eomer pulled off his armor and left it in a heap with his weapons at
Ranulf's feet.  He approached the cave.  He knew better than to look a
lead wolf in the eyes, and he had guessed from the beast's demeanor
that this large, stormy fellow was in charge here.  Eomer knelt,
lowered his head, and said, "Please."

He glanced up at the dark wolf and repeated, his voice soft and
pleading, "Please.  I have to take him home."

Perhaps it was something in his demeanor.  Perhaps it was his voice. 
Perhaps it was the way his body shook with the honest desire only to
reach his friend.  Perhaps the wolves merely liked the way he smelled. 
They backed off cautiously, and Eomer crawled past their vanguard into
the cave.

He found Boromir still and silent on his back, interwoven with wolf
bodies. Boromir's sword arm draped over the large, furry body at his
right, long fingers deep in the heavy, pale grey pelt.  One beast
lounged between his legs, its long muzzle pillowed on his belly, while
its pale amber eyes slid watchfully toward Eomer.  Another lay snug
beneath Boromir's head, the warrior's blonde hair mingling loosely
with the long grey fur.  Others watched Eomer from across Boromir's
body, leaning against his knee, his thigh.  It was difficult to tell
where one wolf ended and another began.  They were keeping Boromir
warm.  They were all watching Eomer.

He crawled to his friend's side, and offered his hands to the slender
grey wolf there to sniff, to judge him.  The beast shifted,
investigated, licked the palms of Eomer's hands.  Boromir made a small
waking noise.  Tails wagged cautiously.

Eomer restrained himself from lunging forward and gathering Boromir
into his arms.  "Boromir," he said quietly.  The raw wounds in
Boromir's chest and his side terrified the horseman.  He forced
himself to look away, to worry about that after he had Boromir safely
in his grasp and on their way to Edoras.

Boromir turned his head and opened his eyes.  The animal at his left
shoulder licked his ear.  Amber eyes rested on Eomer still.

"Dreaming," Boromir murmured, regarding Eomer calmly.  His eyes shone
too brightly.

"No.  I have come to take you home."

"Mmm..." Boromir frowned and turned his face away.  "...dreaming."

The slender grey rose carefully from her place at Boromir's side,
sliding out gracefully from beneath his arm.  Boromir made a small
noise of protest.  She licked his cheek and his collarbone
affectionately and walked away, past Eomer.  Eomer sensed the others
relax.  She had turned Boromir over to him.  Permission granted. 
Eomer nearly wept.

He shuffled forward on his knees and smiled down at his friend, all
the while working out in the back of his mind how to get Boromir out
of the cave without hurting him.  He stroked Boromir's face, hot to
the touch.  "You, my friend, are delirious.  Also you are quite naked,
and you smell of wolf spit."

"...always *licking* me," Boromir told Dream Eomer.

"Do you remember what I told you about wolves?"

"Don't eat men. 's true after all."  Boromir yawned, winced, and
groped for the missing wolf, resting his arm finally across Eomer's
knees.  "Eat orcs, though."

Eomer's amber-green eyes gleamed softly in the dark as he took hold of
his friend's hand and brushed a damp lock of hair from Boromir's face. 
"I once told you," the horse lord reminded his friend, "that wolves
look after their own."

--end--