Title: Shining One 
Author: Stewardess 
Author's Email: bocagrande6@aol.com 
Pairings: Boromir/Faramir, Boromir/OC, Boromir/Boromir :)
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: Boromir coming of age story. Boromir finds that the battles of the
heart are the most perilous. Lots of glorious angst. Sibcest, mild B&D, mild
non-con, battlefield violence. Chapters 1 - 8; complete.

Shining One Chapter One

January 2993 T.A. 

Boromir huddled beneath four woolen blankets, counting to one hundred. When he
reached one hundred, he would get up and light the fire. 

Three years earlier, when he had turned twelve, his father Denethor told him
that no longer would a servant come to his room to light the fire before first
light. Boromir did not see the point. A servant laid the fire for him each
evening, and another servant cleared away the cold ashes in the afternoon. What
was the good of his brief sprint to the fireplace?

Still, he thought, as he huddled under the blankets -- was he at fifty-eight?
No, sixty-eight -- he presumed getting up to light the fire in the dead of
winter prepared him for the future. He poked his head out of the blankets and
blew out experimentally. His breath clouded in the frigid air. His feet
protested at the thought of the icy stone floor. 

One more year,  and he would depart on his first campaign with soldiers. He had
"slept rough" before, but riding on horseback a few miles, followed by sleeping
outdoors on a summer night, was nothing like traveling twenty or more miles a
day on foot with only the ground to sleep on at the end of it. And no food other
than what you carried on your back, or caught on the way, he thought.

Eighty-four? Eighty-eight? Better start again at eighty. He made it to
ninety-two when the door opened and his younger brother Faramir darted into the
room. Faramir was wearing a blanket wrapped around his body, leggings, and
boots. Boromir laughed at the ensemble. Faramir ignored him and went straight to
the fire, lighting it. Then he kicked off his boots, leapt onto the bed, and
burrowed into Boromir's blankets, his own wrapped around his shoulders. 

Boromir shrieked when Faramir's cold feet touched his shins, and fought hard to
protect himself. At last he was well insulated by blankets from his brother's
freezing feet. Faramir made a tent out of his blanket, sitting cross-legged on
the bed, only his face showing.

"Aren't you going to thank me for lighting the fire?" Faramir asked. His face
was serene, as if they had not fought like madmen moments before. 

Boromir groaned in exaggerated pain. "You woke me up, tried to steal my
blankets, and put your horrible feet on me. You get no thanks!" 

Faramir smiled. This was what his brother said every time he lit the fire.
"You're welcome, then," he said. 

Boromir sat up, swaddled in a blanket, and yawned. Sunrise was less than a
quarter of an hour away, he thought, judging by the light in the room. 

"Boromir, what is an arse bandit?"

Boromir did not control his face in time; he grimaced at the look of triumph in
Faramir's eyes. 

He had lost count of the embarrassing subjects Faramir had surprised him with.
Faramir's curiosity at age six had been appalling; Faramir at ten was worse. The
boy took a perverse pride in baffling him, Boromir thought ruefully. Years
earlier, he had wondered at Faramir's reliance on him, not their father, for
information, but he had stepped into the role so completely he would have been
surprised if Faramir had gone to Denethor for help with any subject.

"Where did you hear that?" Boromir asked, his face under control. Had to have
been soldiers!

"Two soldiers in the armoury. Our swordmaster took me there" -- Faramir paused
at Boromir's snort; Faramir had done nothing more than hold a sword briefly, so
calling the man our* swordmaster was wishful thinking -- "and they weren't
paying attention to me. They were talking about another soldier, and one of them
said he was the greatest arse bandit that ever lived. Then they laughed so hard
they spit up their ale." 

"What do you think it means?" Boromir turned the tables on him. He had concluded
in the last two years that Faramir understood almost anything he heard. And he
was damned if he was going to explain arse bandit without a fight!

Faramir looked thoughtful. "They thought it funny, so it couldn't be anything
too bad, except they used the word arse, and you told me not to say that. Might
be some kind of joke, although it doesn't make sense." 

Boromir's own knowledge was skimpy, yet he knew enough to describe it. He began
to mumble about the thing men had between their legs and bodily orifices. He
could tell by Faramir's expression he was failing to enlighten him. 

Oh, dear gods, Boromir thought. Sooner or later, I am going to have to explain
everything to him. Men and women. Men and men. Not women and women, because
everyone knows that never happens. What would they do, after all?

He abandoned euphemisms. "It means taking your cock" -- he gestured to his
crotch -- "and putting it up a man's bum." 

Faramir was amazed. "Why?" 

Good question, Boromir thought. Another thing I have to explain. "Have you ever
touched yourself there?" He didn't wait for an answer: Faramir's bright red face
was ample reply. "Fine. So you know it feels good. That's why men do it." 

Faramir, quite pink, nodded. "What about . . . "

"The man it is being done to? I don't know. Some seem to like it well enough."

In the barracks a month earlier, late at night, Boromir had seen two men
together on a bed in a dark corner. The men were lying down, face to face. They
were almost silent, but Boromir's attention was first drawn to them by a soft
moan. The blanket covering them had slipped down, revealing that the one below
had his legs wrapped around the bare body of the man above. 

The men had seen him, or heard him, and pulled away from each other. Boromir had
kept walking as if he had not seen. What still bewildered him was that the men
had been kissing. A shiver ran up his spine, remembering the men's flushed
faces, their closed eyes, and open mouths . . . 

"Boromir? Why *bandit*?"

"I think they meant a man who has as many other men as possible." Boromir paused
for a moment to think. "Or it may mean *any* man who does that sort of thing."
He laughed. "Promise me you will stay out of the barracks . . . I mean, the
armoury," he corrected himself, his face reddening.

"I can't stay out of them, I'm going to be a soldier! Are they all arse
bandits?" 

"No, not all." He leaned close to Faramir and said in a low growl, "Never bend
over if someone asks you to!" Faramir shrieked, laughing, and ran from the room,
pulling the blankets off the bed. 

"You forgot your boots!" Boromir shouted.

***

Three days later, Boromir found himself in the maligned armoury. He was being
fitted for his first chain mail, a sleeveless tunic that ended at his hips.
Later, when he had finished growing, a full hauberk would be made for him:
mid-thigh length and long-sleeved. His swordmaster was walking with him,
complaining that they had put it off for too long. 

"You think it's hard to wield a sword now, wait until you are wearing seventy
pounds of gear," the swordmaster chortled. Boromir tried to smile
appreciatively. His swordmaster left him in the middle of a corridor when he
caught sight of an old friend. Boromir promised to wait for him. 

He looked around him in curiosity. He had been in the armoury many times, and
had grown used to the smell of hot metal, leather, and men. Soldiers went back
and forth briskly, carrying out orders. He could see into the work room where
leather clothing, belts, gloves, and boots were mended. Engrossed in the
craftsmen's activities, he did not notice the two soldiers approaching him.
Finally, they drew so close he was startled and looked up. Both were tall and
much alike at first glance. Their hair was dark and pulled back, and they were
clean shaven. Their faces were stern yet handsome. They were smiling at him, and
their smiles were unpleasant. His greeting died on his lips. 

"So, this is the boy who likes to watch," the soldier on the left, the taller of
the two, said in a low voice. His eyes were grey, his expression mocking.
Boromir guessed he topped six feet by four inches or more. The soldier on the
right, only two inches shorter than the other, stepped directly in front of
Boromir. 

"Did you get an eyeful, boy?" The taller one on the left spoke.
 
"I'm sorry," Boromir said, and lowered his gaze to the floor. He had last seen
the two soldiers undressed and intertwined on a bed. 

The soldiers each took one of his arms and pulled him, unresisting, down a
little-used hall off the main corridor. A hand grasped his chin and tilted his
downcast face up. 

He nervously looked into the face in front of him. The man on the bottom. His
eyes were brown and had thick, dark lashes. When he had seen the men that night,
he had noticed how handsome both were. He had thought that men who lay with
other men were girlish, soft. These men were not; they were taller and stronger
than he. He felt a thrill of fear. 

"Give him something to remember you by," the taller one whispered. The man in
front of him nodded, and bent down to kiss Boromir's mouth. The touch of the
lips did not last long, but Boromir felt his stomach plunge down sickeningly,
and his legs trembled. The hand on his chin stayed and the man looked him up and
down. A smile warmed his face, and he almost appeared friendly. 

"Well, well. I think you liked that," he whispered. The taller man laughed, and
the two men walked off together, their laughter echoing in the hall. 

Boromir stood frozen in place for several moments before he could force his
limbs to move.

***

Hours later, he was alone in his room at last. He was still shaky from his
encounter with the men. What he had seen, what they had said, what he had
explained to Faramir: it all swirled in his brain unpleasantly. Why had the men
been cruel to him? He had meant them no harm.  Could they not see that? 

The experience had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. When the man had
kissed him, he had grown hard, and the two men had seen it. *You liked that.*
Not until he had moved did he learn of his condition. 

He imagined being kissed by the brown-eyed man again, the two of them naked, on
a bed, the man on top of him. He could feel the touch of the man's hair on his
shoulders . . .  

Grimly, he undressed for bed, getting under the blankets, not looking down. He
had stayed hard, on and off, all day. He didn't want to touch himself in the
state he was in. To do so would be to acknowledge that he had corrupt desires.
But how would he ever sleep if he did not relieve the ache? 

Closing his eyes, making himself invisible, he touched himself reluctantly. The
familiar sensation made him utter a low groan, only there was a greater urgency
this time. He reached from the bed and took a candle off the table next to it.
Trying not to contemplate what he was doing, he put the candle end in his mouth,
wetting it, and sought to push it inside himself. 

He struggled to find the right position. Finally he managed it, lying on his
side, one leg pulled up so his knee touched his chin. He was surprised at the
ease with which the candle entered his body. For a moment he stayed still, then
he pushed it experimentally, moving it in and out. It felt . . . strange. He
grasped his cock to stroke it at the same time, but it was difficult. His hand
slipped on the candle end and a bolt of pleasure shot through him. Dear gods,
what was that? And could he make it happen again? 

He rolled onto his stomach, one hand below him and one reaching behind him. He
bent his knees and lifted his hips, his head and shoulders resting on the bed.
Quickly he found a rhythm that was going to shatter him if he kept it up. He
imagined brown eyes with dark lashes, and teeth on the back of his neck. In two
minutes, he came harder than he had had in his entire short life.

***

May 2994 T.A.

Boromir breathed in deeply. The green smell was so good he wanted to eat it. He
had left the city behind for his first campaign. 

An easy one, admittedly: surveying the borders of Gondor and Rohan along the
Anduin to the North. Thanks to the easy terrain, the company were all on
horseback. 

His first chance at "sleeping rough" fortified his belief that being a soldier
was what he was born to do. He loved it all: shooting game to eat, the meals
cooked over a fire outdoors, washing himself out of a bucket, falling asleep by
the firelight; so superior to his life in the city, where his every move was
watched, evaluated. 

What he loved most was the company of the soldiers. Wary of him at first, they
had accepted him warmly, and the miles sped by effortlessly when surrounded by
their good humor and high spirits. There did not seem to be an arse bandit among
them, although their jokes were obscene, embracing lewd subjects such as which
soldier had bedded the most women. The married men boasted crudely of what their
wives had suffered their last night at home. His vocabulary expanded rapidly. 

After a day or two, Boromir laughed freely with them, even when the target was
himself. They wasted no time labeling him "the maiden," although the name did
not stick, as someone came up with a better: shining one.

Boromir realized, too late, that he should have resisted his father's and his
swordmaster's attempts to make him impressive. His chain mail was too new, his
horse too elegant, and his beard too sparse. Among the men's somber and
well-worn gear, he was out of place in his luxurious clothes. But his horse --
he wasn't going to give her up, no matter what! 

The mare had been his since he turned fourteen, and they loved each other. She
was pale gold with a white mane and tail, and he had named her Vingilot, or
Foam-Flower, after the vessel of Earendil. It was his golden horse, his dark
gold hair, and the brilliant newness of his equipment that had spawned the
nickname.

They were fifty leagues from Minas Tirith, about to meet up with a company of
the same size that patrolled the northern borders. Some of the one hundred and
twenty men he had ridden with would replace the soldiers afield, giving them a
chance to ride back to their homes for a few months. The men would be,
therefore, ecstatic to see them. From the comments of the soldiers, he gathered
that they would have an informal party, with song and music by the few amateur
musicians in the ranks. 

Late in the afternoon, they drew near the multiple streams of the Entwash, where
they flowed into the Great River, the site of their rendezvous. It was late
Spring, and the air was swiftly growing chill. 

Ah, it was wonderful to be sixteen, to have a fast horse, and to ride out in the
open plains! Boromir took another breath of the rich grassy air. 

***

The two companies met on the border of Anorien. They immediately made camp by
one of the streams of the Entwash, and the two hundred men milled about as if
they were at a fair. Over twenty men, on horseback and on foot, patrolled the
borders of the camp, so Boromir did not see all of the company at first. 

Boromir settled at the large fire where the best singers had gathered. Half a
dozen of the Rohirrim had joined them, and a vocal duel was taking place.
Boromir listened with delight  as each group took turns singing, the winners
being judged by the applause they drew. He considered joining in, for he knew he
had a good voice, then decided it would be better this first night if he stayed
to himself, remembering too well the hard stares he had received from the men in
the company they had joined. He smiled; he would prove himself to them, though
many would be gone in a few days.

He did not notice the foot sentries coming back. Then he heard a few men at the
fireside sighing exaggeratedly about it being their watch, and they shuffled out
into the darkness. Returning sentries on horseback rode within the circle of
light from the fire.

It was like a blow to the stomach when Boromir first saw him. He saw the man's
horse first, a well bred animal undoubtedly from Rohan, with an unusual spotted
white and brown coat. Then he noticed the man leaping from the horse in one easy
movement. The man was tall, strong, with pale golden hair. He walked up to the
fire and held his hands near it. He looked up and his eyes went straight to
Boromir. 

That was when it happened: a burning that started in Boromir's groin and seared
down his legs. He forgot to breathe. An enormous smile came over the man's face
as he held Boromir's gaze, making him even better looking, which seemed
impossible. He had long straight hair, like the riders of the Rohirrim, and he
was clean shaven, yet his features were those of a man of Gondor, with a strong
nose and chin, and well defined eyebrows darker than his hair. He tethered his
horse and walked around the fire to Boromir, sitting next to him on the ground. 

"I've never seen you before. I'm Mardil." He offered his hand to Boromir, who
clasped it briefly. To Boromir's horror, his hand shook as it met Mardil's.
Mardil's smile widened again and Boromir felt a silly grin crawl onto his face. 

"Leave that one alone, Mardil!" a burly man shouted from the other side of the
fire. "That's the steward's son. He's our shining one." The men within range of
the declaration -- and there were many, for the man was blessed with a booming
voice -- laughed, and Boromir saw that the men who had looked at him coldly
earlier were smiling in a friendlier fashion.

Mardil's manner changed, taking in Boromir's appearance at a glance: the rich
fur-lined cloak,  new boots, and shirt of supple leather. "Your pardon, my
lord."

"Please." Boromir managed to form a few words. "Call me Boromir." 

Mardil smiled again. Not the beautiful unrestrained grin that Boromir
desperately wanted to see again, but still a smile of warmth and friendliness.
"Very well, Boromir." 

Companionably, they sat by the fire together for the rest of the evening. Mardil
courteously shared food with him; Boromir could not swallow more than a few
mouthfuls. There was little ale to drink, as they had traveled far and light,
yet what Boromir had went straight to his head. 

He stood up to relieve himself, and Mardil stood with him. Boromir stumbled;
Mardil's hands closed on his waist to steady him. He fled, embarrassed. After
finding a secluded place to make water, it took a long time because he had grown
hard, and had to wait to soften. 

Later that night, wrapped in his cloak, surrounded by sleeping men, Boromir
wished desperately for the privacy of his room back in the Citadel of Minas
Tirith. He positively ached. Like a giddy dream, his mind played over and over
his meeting with Mardil, from his first glance, to his smile, to his hands
touching Boromir's waist. Thankfully, the day's long ride caught up with him,
and he slept. 

The next day, he learned that Mardil was among the men leaving in two days to
return home. He was crushed, for Boromir would be staying with the company for
two weeks to learn the terrain, and then he would ride home with a few men,
chiefly surveyors. 

Dejectedly, he prepared to ride north with the surveyors up the western shore of
the Anduin. The Entwash was a land that was lesser known to the men of Gondor,
hence the Rohirrim that had joined them: the Riders would guide them through the
frequently marshy land.

Boromir glanced over the two dozen men assembling, and gaped when he saw Mardil.
Mardil rode up to Boromir, who sat stiffly on his mare. 

"I'm going to ride with you today," Mardil said. His smile was polite. "I know
this land well. My mother came from Rohan." Boromir nodded tensely. 

They rode side by side in silence. Boromir finally broke out of his constrained
manner when he noted the way the Rohirrim periodically rose in their saddles and
looked about, like the small animals of the grasslands he had seen while riding,
popping their heads out of holes to look for predators. The sight made him grin. 

"Can you do that?" Mardil asked suddenly. "It's harder than it looks." He
signaled his horse to gallop, rose in his saddle, and looked over his shoulder
at Boromir. 

Boromir didn't hesitate. Vingilot was surprised, but, as he expected, she didn't
bat an eye. He stayed standing in the stirrups as his mare passed Mardil at a
gallop. He heard the man's laughter behind him, and waited for him to catch up. 

"Your horse, she came from Rohan, did she not?" 

Boromir nodded: so much easier than speaking, as he could not trust his voice.
The gallop had exhilarated him. He sat back in the saddle and smiled at Mardil.
He realized belatedly he was allowing more of his feelings to show than he
wished and tried to alter his expression to one of ordinary friendliness. 

Mardil leapt off his horse in one quick movement. Boromir tried to do the same
and fell hard on his rump. Vingilot stood next to him, unperturbed as always.
Boromir folded his arms across his stomach and laughed. He bent his knees to
ease his jarred back. 

Fighting a smile, Mardil stood over him. He offered Boromir a hand and pulled
him up. Boromir was laughing so hard it took him a moment to realize Mardil held
his hand tight to his chest, forcing Boromir to stand close. Boromir stopped
laughing as abruptly as if he had been dunked in the Entwash. 

"Boromir," Mardil spoke low. "I'm delaying my return. I've spoken to the
captain, and he's agreed I shall ride back with you to Minas Tirith in two
weeks. One more man to protect the steward's son would not be remiss." 

His grip on Boromir's hand loosened, and Boromir watched as his hand, moving
with a will of its own, took Mardil's hand, his fingers sliding between Mardil's
fingers. Mardil's flashing smile came for a moment, and Boromir leaned into him,
his eyes closing. The taller man put his hands, palms down, on Boromir's chest,
holding him at a distance. 

"Good," Mardil said quietly, as if they had settled a matter after a long
discussion. He mounted his horse in one swift movement.

Boromir did not attempt to copy the older man's skill this time. He clambered
onto his horse as if he had never seen one before. His cheeks burned as he
thought of how close he had come to kissing Mardil. 

*** 

A few days passed , and Boromir thought he had a grip on himself again. The men
due to ride back had departed, and Boromir breathed a secret sigh of relief, as
he had feared that a last minute change would force Mardil's departure after
all. Knowing he would be with Mardil for at least a month, he relaxed slightly.

Nearly every day, he managed to get away from all the men and relieve the
tension that kept building up in his groin. It was not enough, however, so at
night he removed himself from the fire and found he could wrestle himself into
submission with reasonable quietness, sleeping twenty feet away from the other
soldiers. For the last year, somewhat to his horror, he had thought of the two
soldiers in the barracks whenever he touched himself. Now Mardil was there in
his mind . . . much more agreeable company!

Mardil was extremely friendly towards him, but did not touch him, or spend any
time with him in private. Boromir nearly sulked, but it was not in his nature to
hold a grudge. Merely being near Mardil filled him with joy, and if the man did
not think it right to do more at this time, Boromir would trust him and wait.
They had a month. A month!

***

Two weeks passed, and they turned for the long road home. Boromir was
accompanied by two dozen men including Mardil and the surveyors. He thought the
number excessive, but the captain of the company had insisted on it. Boromir had
not put up a fuss, imagining what would happen to the man if any harm befell
him. His father Denethor would . . . well, it did not bear thinking about. 

Most of the men accompanying him would not ride all the way to Minas Tirith,
however. They would turn away to Cair Andros during the last fifty miles of the
journey. 

For five days, they jostled along the western shore of the Anduin, then they
struck due west to the base of the White Mountains. Boromir jumped when he
noticed Mardil riding at his side; usually, Mardil was far ahead. 

"We've had an easy journey this time; no thieving Orcs." Mardil spoke
authoritatively. 

Boromir was puzzled. "What could they possibly thieve from us? We have nothing
of value." 

Mardil kept his face straight. "They would be after what's between your legs." 

Boromir flushed, then laughed. His horse! 

Mardil chuckled. "Most of the attacks here are raiding parties, after the horses
of Rohan. They are not likely to attack us, as we are all armed, and they prefer
to steal in under cover of darkness to attack poorly defended homesteads. Still,
I'm glad to leave the riverbank behind us." 

They saw no enemy, and the days passed peacefully. They did not ride in haste,
going no more than twenty or thirty miles a day. Boromir started to panic. Cair
Andros was near and from there it was only two days more to Minas Tirith. Mardil
had not touched him since the day he had fallen from his horse. They had barely
spoken. 

That evening, gloom overcame his sunny nature and he stared morosely into the
fire. One of the younger soldiers joined him and looked at him with a
sympathetic expression. 

"Not happy about going home?" he asked Boromir. He introduced himself as Iorlas.

Boromir smiled with relief. He hated being trapped in his foul mood. "Not
really. I love . . . this." He gestured at their peaceful surroundings. 

"No doubt you will make another journey soon," Iorlas said. He resembled many
other men of Minas Tirith, tall and proud, with dark hair and grey eyes. His
face was gentler than most.

"Yes, I'll be riding south next time. And then to Ithilien. My father wants me
to see as much of Gondor as possible before I receive a permanent posting. I
hope to serve at Cair Andros or Osgiliath."  Boromir knew it was unlikely; they
were dangerous postings for an inexperienced soldier. Yet a fierce love of his
land burned in him. He wanted to be on the shores of the Anduin, where
encounters with Orcs and other servants of the enemy were frequent. "But that is
better than four or five years away," he said softly.

Iorlas looked thoughtfully at him. "My lord -- Boromir -- I want you to know
that the men like you." 

Boromir flushed. Iorlas continued speaking, kindly ignoring his embarrassment.
"When I heard that the steward's son would be riding with us, well, you don't
want to know what we all said." He grinned. "You are nothing like what we
feared. In fact, I think -- as do others -- that you have the makings of a great
soldier." 

Boromir beamed. "Do you really think so?" 

"Yes," a new voice said, and Mardil's hand came to rest on Boromir's shoulder.
Mardil used him, unnecessarily, for support, sitting down next to him
gracefully. Boromir swallowed and forced himself to look into the fire. Mischief
flickered in him, and he turned to address Iorlas. 

"Do you think I'll ever be as good as Mardil?" he said, making his voice a trace
mocking. 

Iorlas laughed. "He has more than ten years on you, so who knows. Certainly you
look like him, so perhaps you shall come to resemble him in other ways." 

Boromir turned to Mardil in surprise. It had never occurred to him that he
looked like Mardil. The words passed his lips before he had a chance to recall
them. "But I'm not that beautiful." 

He nearly crumpled to the ground in embarrassment as Iorlas's eyes went wide.
Mardil laughed, defusing the tension slightly. 

"You are kind to an old man, Boromir." Mardil patted Boromir on the back. 

Iorlas raised his eyebrows, stood, and walked away. Boromir did not understand
his expression. Was it a look of warning?

He turned at last to Mardil. They were alone at the small fire. It was high
summer and there was still light in the sky. Around them sleeping forms lay. The
sentries were hidden. Mardil stood and took his hand, pulling him up. 

They were far away from the Anduin, at the base of the White Mountains, near an
enormous wood. Mardil led him into the trees. As soon as they were out of sight,
he let go of Boromir's hand. He stood in front of Boromir, his arms relaxed at
his sides. 

"They say Wild Men live in these woods; they are rumored to eat the flesh of
men." Mardil was plainly disbelieving. His smile vanished. 

"What do you want, Boromir?" 

Doubt slithered down Boromir's spine. Had he been a fool? Had Mardil been kind
to him because he was the steward's son? 

He had to acknowledge that Mardil had done absolutely nothing to make him think
that . . .  Despair filled him as he was forced to put his longings into words:
he wanted Mardil to make love to him. 

He had fought his unnatural desire for the last year;  over and over, he told
himself that his craving for a man's touch would lead to disaster, that no
happiness could ever come from it. Meeting Mardil had demolished his scruples. 

Tears stung his eyes. In the last three weeks,  he had learned something
terrifying about himself. He did not simply desire men; he wanted their love, as
well. He wanted Mardil's love.

"I want to learn how to be a soldier," Boromir said, his own words surprising
him. He heard the challenge in his voice, bordering on rudeness. By the gods, he
was not handling this well. He was alone with Mardil at last, and he was trying
to start a fight! He was relieved when Mardil smiled at him and did not take
offense. 

"I think we can make a soldier of you," Mardil said gently. He leapt forward,
tackling Boromir. They crashed to the ground. Mardil moved to pin him, but
Boromir's training enabled him to elude the older man's strong grasp. They
grappled on the ground, grunting when an elbow or knee pressed into a tender
spot. Boromir fought back fiercely, his roiled emotions inflaming him.

Again and again, Boromir slipped out of Mardil's grasp, but at last Mardil
pinned Boromir beneath him. Mardil's hair was wild about his face. His blue eyes
gleamed, catching the last of the day's light. His lips parted and he breathed
hard. Boromir responded to the body above him and moved so that Mardil was not
resting on his groin. His maneuver failed; Mardil pushed his legs apart and lay
full length on top of him. Boromir was no longer pinned, but he was even less
capable of moving than before. Mardil's weight pressed into his erection.

Mardil smiled, a predatory smile Boromir had not seen before. "You are as
beautiful as me. More, Boromir. Give me a kiss." 

Boromir trembled as Mardil's lips closed on his. Mardil's mouth opened, and
tentatively he opened his own. Their tongues touched. Unconsciously, his hands
slid down to the man's buttocks, and he ground himself into Mardil's groin. 

"Not so fast," Mardil gasped. He kissed Boromir harder, and the kiss was
overwhelming: so deep, so wet, Boromir was lost in it. His hands were in
Mardil's hair, and he stroked the wild softness of it as his mouth was invaded
by Mardil's tongue. Boromir groaned as Mardil's erection rubbed against his own
through their clothing.

They parted lips for a moment to breathe. 

"I want you," Boromir said, answering Mardil's question at last. He was rewarded
with the gleaming smile. 

"You will have me," Mardil whispered. 

***

Boromir would have cried in frustration if he had known what was going to happen
next. He followed Mardil back to camp, and watched, stunned, as Mardil calmly
rolled up in a blanket and went to sleep. Boromir was awake for hours,
alternately grinning with joy and sighing with disappointment, unable to sleep
until long after the middle of the night had passed.

 The next day, the party headed south-east. The men going to Cair Andros took
their leave, and a moment passed before Boromir saw that he was completely alone
with Mardil. He watched the last of the soldiers and surveyors fade into the
distance, then looked at the man at his side. The blinding smile dazzled him,
and Boromir had his first kiss while riding on horseback. 

"Now do you forgive me for waiting?" Mardil said. His smile was wicked. "I
convinced them all you were not keen to return home with so many minders." 

Boromir was ready to drag Mardil to the nearest bush; Mardil appeared to have
another destination in mind. Boromir eventually calmed himself sufficiently to
talk about soldiering and warfare with Mardil as they rode along. 

He was stunned to find that Mardil was thirty years of age -- he had thought him
only twenty-five or even less by his appearance -- and he listened humbly as
Mardil told him of the many skirmishes he had fought in. For the first time,
Boromir realized that he had heard of the man at his side. 

Mardil of Anorien was renowned among the soldiers for seeking postings where the
danger was greatest, and his bravery and skill were considered to be
unsurpassed. His current assignment in Anorien had been given to him against his
wishes, due to his extensive knowledge of the countryside. It was a brief
peaceful interval in his ten years as a soldier of Gondor.

Near the end of the day, when they were thirty miles distant from Minas Tirith,
they came to a hamlet, large enough to have a small inn. They dined there in
comfort, their horses getting attention first. 

They ate hugely, their first hearty meal in weeks, and drank two pints each of
the inn's excellent ale. Boromir sat back drowsily. It was good to be out of the
wild, with a roof over his head, and a roaring fire close by. Mardil excused
himself to speak to the innkeeper.

With half closed eyes, Boromir watched Mardil walk back to him. Mardil had shed
all of his heavy outer clothing in the warm air of the inn, and Boromir relished
the sight of him. Mardil passed six feet by two inches. His hair hung nearly to
his waist. Boromir smiled as he realized Mardil's hair matched the pale gold of
Vingilot. They sat together for a few minutes in companionable silence.

"Come on, sleepy head. The innkeeper will give us hot water for baths. You can
go home tomorrow smelling respectable." 

He followed Mardil and the innkeeper down a long hallway with many doors. At the
end of the hallway was a large pleasant room with two beds and two wooden tubs. 
Boromir saw their luggage in a corner. The innkeeper left, saying kindly, "Good
night, lads. Rest well." 

The door shut and Boromir stared at it, astounded. He turned to Mardil and saw
the dazzling smile. He ran to Mardil and hugged him tightly. Mardil pushed him
away, laughing. "Get into the tub, you filthy soldier." 

Boromir hesitated, suddenly shy of undressing before an audience. Mardil raised
an eyebrow and said, "I'll be in the common room. Hurry up because I don't want
that water to get cold!" He left, and Boromir immediately stripped and got into
the tub. 

After having cold baths out of a bucket for a month, it felt wonderful to wash
his hair and get completely clean. He put on his last remaining clean clothes,
the most luxurious he had, completely unsuitable for soldiering, then went in
search of Mardil. 

Mardil was drinking ale, talking to a couple of local farmers. He smiled at
Boromir's elegant appearance, and handed the rest of his drink to Boromir.
"Drink that up. Give me twenty minutes."

Boromir nodded, and his heart began to pound. Mardil had steadily steered him
towards this place. Perhaps he had had it in mind ever since he told Boromir he
would ride back with him. Boromir shivered, and smiled at everyone in the room.
They smiled back at the happy young man. 

He gave up after fifteen minutes. He could not wait any longer. He knocked on
the door and entered when Mardil replied indistinctly. 

***

The room was dark. Boromir spied Mardil in the largest bed. The blankets were
over him and only his wet golden hair was visible. Boromir walked up to him and
touched the wet hair. His nervousness was abruptly gone. He was relaxed, dreamy. 

Mardil turned under the blankets. His sopping hair was in tendrils around his
face. "Come here," Mardil said. 

Boromir shed his clothes and got into the bed. He lay under the blankets a foot
away from Mardil and stared at him. 

Mardil did not appear to be in any hurry. He reached for one of Boromir's hands
and brought it to his mouth, kissing it. He opened up Boromir's hand and licked
the palm. His tongue traveled slowly all over Boromir's hand, and then he put
Boromir's middle finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Boromir moaned. He had
had countless fantasies about this moment, and he was grasping at last that he
knew absolutely nothing, nothing at all. Only a few minutes had passed and
already he was more aroused than he had thought possible. 

"What do you want, Boromir?" Mardil asked, a faint smile on his lips. 

"You," Boromir breathed. They drew together at the same moment, embracing each
other, kissing, stroking hands over bare flesh. Mardil's leg was between his
thighs and Boromir rubbed against it. He cried out, climaxing from the brief
contact. He was deeply embarrassed, then his arousal shot up a few more notches
when Mardil ran a finger through the come on Boromir's leg and licked it off his
finger. 

"Don't worry, eager one. There is more where that came from." Boromir gasped
when Mardil's hand closed on his cock. It was getting hard again already! 

Mardil released him and lay on top of him, then slid down, licking his chest. He
licked all of the come off of Boromir's stomach and thighs until Boromir was
incoherent. He groaned when Mardil's tongue touched his cock. He writhed on the
bed as Mardil licked him slowly, and his toes curled so hard, when Mardil took
him in his mouth, he feared his legs would cramp.

This was something he knew nothing of; it was astonishingly good. His one fear
was that it would stop. His anxiety about his unnatural wants was not even a
glimmer in his mind. Mardil's fingers stroked his balls and beneath; Boromir
parted his legs so the fingers could touch him everywhere, anywhere. A finger
stroked across his opening, and he erupted in Mardil's mouth, his hands pulling
hard at Mardil's hair.

Mardil pulled himself up, licking his lips. "I want to take you. Do you know
what I mean by that?" 

Boromir whispered, "Yes." Mardil's erection pressed into his thigh. Mardil
reached to the bedside table and grasped a small bottle. He poured some of the
contents in Boromir's hands. "Put it on me." 

Trembling, Boromir rubbed the oil on Mardil's cock. It was alive and warm in his
hands. He moaned in anticipation. He bent his knees and spread his legs as
Mardil rubbed the oil on his opening. It was awkward for a moment, for he did
not know what to do to make it easier, but eventually Mardil had his erection
aimed at the right place and started to push. He moved slowly. Boromir gasped as
the first inch went in. 

He watched Mardil's face change, the muscles in his face going slack, his
eyelids getting heavy. His mouth was open in a faint smile. Suddenly, he pushed
hard and was fully inside. Boromir's legs and arms wrapped around Mardil
involuntarily, and he bit Mardil's shoulder. It didn't hurt, only burned a
little, and that was going away already . . . 

He let out a sharp cry when Mardil brushed against the sensitive area inside
him, and immediately Mardil changed his movements so he was rocking on it over
and over. Boromir gasped when Mardil grabbed his erection and stroked it
swiftly. "I'm going to . . . "

"Come!" Mardil demanded, and watched Boromir climax for the third time. As
Boromir's contractions squeezed him, Mardil pushed in hard and fast, climaxing
immediately.

They collapsed together. Boromir kissed Mardil's face frantically. "I love you,"
he said, and watched the older man's eyes widen in surprise. 

Mardil looked at him solemnly.  'By the gods, I think you do," he said, and
kissed Boromir gently. "And if I don't love you now, I'm going to very soon, my
shining one."

Boromir kissed him fiercely. "Can we do this again?" he asked. Mardil laughed,
and Boromir was momentarily embarrassed. 

"Don't worry, the night is long. We will do everything you wish." 

They rested for a while, and then Mardil turned him over onto his stomach and
took him again. He was much more demanding this time, and Boromir dissolved
under him. If it had not felt so good, he would have flushed with shame at the
soft cries that came from his mouth, the way he spread his legs and raised his
hips so that Mardil could take him completely. Being possessed like this was so
satisfying he never wanted it to stop. How could anyone mock it, sneer at it? It
was a gift from the gods. 

***

Boromir opened one eye.  Faramir was in his bed, his expectant face inches away.
Boromir had arrived at Minas Tirith the night before and he was sleeping in for
the first time in weeks. Or so he had hoped. The night at the inn had left him
with only three hours of sleep. Over and over, Mardil had roused him, until
Boromir was completely and blissfully drained. In the morning, before they had
ridden on the last leg of their journey, he pled with Mardil to see him as soon
and as often as possible. 

But now he had an eleven-year-old boy  to contend with, one insane with
curiosity to hear about his travels. He crawled from the bed and stretched,
groaning. Faramir left and brought breakfast back to him, and Boromir accepted
the bribe, eating as if he were starving -- which he was. The night before, he
had had only a meager cold supper. 

He told Faramir as much as he could remember. Faramir was thrilled with all of
it, and howled with laughter when Boromir told him of falling off his horse.
Boromir embroidered his tale freely, playing up the danger of the unseen Orcs
and Wild Men. He told his tale without mentioning Mardil by name. He knew he
could not speak of  Mardil, even in passing, without Faramir figuring out more
than he should. He had never been able to fool Faramir.

Shining One Chapter Two

January 2997 T.A.

Faramir rose from bed before dawn and lit his fire. He had heard a commotion
during the night, and he suspected that Boromir was home from his stint in
Ithilien.  For nearly three years, Boromir had traveled all over Gondor on short
expeditions, and, thank the gods, Faramir thought, his brother would finally get
a regular posting, most likely in Minas Tirith to begin with. 

Faramir opened the door to his brother's bedroom, saw the body on the bed
muffled in blankets, and grinned as he lit the fire. He jumped onto the bed,
bouncing Boromir on the mattress.

A snore greeted him. Boromir had certainly learned a lot from the soldiers, who
could sleep like the dead whenever they got the chance. 

Soon Faramir would be old enough to travel as well.  Knowing his father
Denethor's opinion of him,  he would be sent with the supply wagons, but he
didn't care. Everything Boromir had told him made him eager to explore, even
though he loved the quiet hours he spent with his books. He sighed and slid
under the blankets. His freezing feet were covered in woolen stockings, his
welcome home gift to Boromir. He poked Boromir's ribs with a finger. 

Boromir muttered and rolled over, settling against him. Faramir wriggled his
nose as his brother's hair tickled it. 

Boromir's appearance had changed greatly since his first journey with the
soldiers. He had grown his hair long, and was clean shaven. He was six feet in
height, muscular, and as hard as wood. His head and upper body were an
uncomfortable weight on Faramir's chest. Faramir took some of his own hair and
tickled Boromir's nose with it. Boromir snorted but didn't move. 

Faramir had grown his hair longer as well, emulating his brother, and shaved off
his sparse beard every other day. His childish roundness had vanished, and his
form was lean and angular, though he had a long way to go before he had his
brother's strength, he thought. Stretching his feet down, touching his toes to
Boromir's, he estimated his brother had three inches on him in height. Boromir
muttered something again and his hand thudded onto Faramir's stomach. 

Ha! Faramir was not going to submit to tickling. His belly had suffered greatly
over the years. He made himself ready to counter attack, then grunted when
Boromir put a leg over him. For the gods sake, when was Boromir going to wake
up? Boromir's breath on his neck was oddly disturbing. 

At last, he could make out Boromir's words. "Shining one," he whispered into
Faramir's neck. Faramir flinched as soft lips brushed his neck. Boromir's hand
dug at the waist of his breeches.

"Boromir!" he shouted, sitting up and pushing his brother off. Boromir shook his
head and looked at him blankly, then went from confusion to fury instantly.
"What are you doing in my bed?" he shouted. 

"Trying to wake you up, you idiot. Get up, and I'll bring your breakfast." 

Boromir grabbed a strand of Faramir's long hair and said, "What is this?" His
intent gaze took in Faramir's newly angular face, the slender body. Boromir
turned away as a flash of desire blazed downwards from his groin through his
legs. He shivered and buried his face in a cushion.  

Faramir tentatively touched his back. "Are you all right, Boromir?" 

"You startled me."

"You thought I was someone else!" Faramir said teasingly.

Boromir looked at him angrily. "How do you know?"

"You chewed on my neck and called me shining one, you ass." Faramir was confused
by Boromir's expression. He thought it was funny, but Boromir seemed stricken.
"Boromir, if you have a maid somewhere, I don't care in the slightest, and I'll
try not to be insulted you took me for some foolish woman!" 

"No insult intended," Boromir whispered. He attempted a smile. 

"Good. I'll get your breakfast."

Boromir moved like someone sleepwalking, occasionally letting his eyes steal to
Faramir. He had seen him little in the last three years,  and his brother's
transformation agitated him. 

"I was surprised, that was all it was," Boromir told himself sternly. "You
confused him with Mardil for a moment. Nothing more." And yet he found himself
watching his brother with guilty delight as they walked and talked together that
day. Faramir brushed against Boromir continually, touching his arms, his back,
even placing a hand on his thigh when they sat down together. "He doesn't know .
. . he has always done this. It is nothing." 

Boromir went to bed that night distraught, for his desire had returned again and
again. He lay down on the bed and imagined turning to see Faramir there again,
his gold-red hair streaming over the pillow, his face wearing that familiar and
yet curiously new half smile. He reached for himself and stroked furiously,
picturing Mardil thrusting against his back. But the face changed, the eyes
larger, a darker blue, the lips fuller, the hair redder. Boromir came in his
hand, shame sweeping through him.

***

 Three days later, Boromir watched Mardil across a table in the Third Company
mess in Minas Tirith. They had not seen each other for five months. 

Mardil was laughing and talking with their ten companions at the table. During
the last three years, Boromir had assembled a group of friends among the
soldiers he had met on his travels. He and Mardil were the informal leaders of
the group. The two of them were jokingly called the Shining Ones by the others,
after someone had heard Mardil address Boromir that way absentmindedly. 

Making a jest of it protected them, Boromir thought, as did their friends. The
friends carried messages to each other throughout the ranks, and that made it
easy for him to meet with Mardil unnoticed. 

If there was aught else in the group other than friendship, Boromir overlooked
it. The ten men were young and fair, and all of them grew their hair long and
shaved every day, in conscious or unconscious imitation of the Shining Ones.
There were two he thought longed for Mardil with unrequited passion, and he
watched their adoring approaches to his lover with amused tolerance. 

Boromir sipped thoughtfully from his mug of ale. He would be staying in Minas
Tirith, or near it, for at least a few months, and he hoped that Mardil would be
able to do the same. They had not yet had a chance to discuss it. 

Mardil got up from the other side of the table, carrying his mug and chair with
him, shoving the chair between Boromir and his neighbor. 

"I have news that may surprise you," he said, smiling into Boromir's eyes. "I've
found myself a home in the Pelennor." He picked up his mug and took a swig of
ale. Boromir did the same to cover his emotion. "An old farmhouse, small but
solid. The farmer who owns the land has built a finer home, and he thinks the
old one too good for his pigs." He leaned closer to Boromir. "Would you like to
see it?" he said in a low voice, his voice drowned by the clash of mugs and the
raucous cries of men.

"Boromir! Why so quiet? Tell us more about your brother!" The mocking demand
came from across the table. The company laughed at his expense, and he grinned.
He had bored them all to tears, or so they claimed, with his accounts of
Faramir's riding abilities, his skill with weapons, his ready understanding of
battle strategy, geography . . . was there anything the lad could not do? 

The answer came to him sourly: earn the respect and love of Denethor -- that was
his brother's only failure. Boromir brooded on Denethor's words to him the day
before, the steward recommending that Faramir's excursions be delayed for six
months or a year,  because Faramir "was not hale enough." Boromir glowered at
his mug. He had meant to fight it, but perhaps he would not; it would mean
Faramir would be with him in Minas Tirith for a time.

***

He rode Vingilot slowly down the dark country lane. Mardil had promised to leave
a lantern burning, and gave him clear instructions to the small farmhouse, but
it was a moonless night and he was not familiar with the area, four miles north
of Minas Tirith. At last he saw it, the only light seemingly for miles. 

He tethered his horse in a shed next to Mardil's steed, and knocked softly on
the front door. It opened immediately, and he was in Mardil's arms. After the
first kiss, Mardil broke away and showed him his home. It was one large room,
with areas for cooking, washing, dining, and sleeping. A hearth dominated one
wall. Mardil had partitioned off the sleeping area with a finely made woven
screen that he said had belonged to his mother. The room was well furnished,
embellished with curiosities that Mardil had found on his travels. 

"It must be costing you, to let this," Boromir said admiringly. 

Mardil smiled proudly. "I own it. As you know, when my parents died years ago,
they left me their farm in Anorien. My uncle farmed it until recently; he has
died with no heirs, so I've sold it." 

"I'm sorry to hear about your uncle. I didn't know you had an uncle." Boromir
was always astounded at the meagerness of Mardil's family. The man was alone in
the world. All of his immediate relatives were dead.

"We weren't close," Mardil said mildly. "He was far more interested in the land
than he was in me." He drew Boromir to a couch by the fire. "Tell me of
yourself. What have you been doing when you aren't mooning over that brother of
yours?" 

Boromir laughed, and told him of his time in Ithilien. The land had fascinated
him with its strange combination of beauty and danger. He had finally clashed
with Orcs there. It was a small band, but they fought with a ferocity that
surprised him. And the stench! Mardil nodded knowingly, pouring them both wine
while Boromir talked. 

Boromir fell silent and they kissed again. He could not continue the pretense of
comrades in arms much longer. His eyes strayed to the bed. 

Since he had encountered Mardil three years earlier, he had met with him many
times, yet rarely longer than for a day or two. His travels, and Mardil's
service, had prevented it. Although Mardil was skilled at making arrangements,
an entire night together was rare. Boromir was salivating at the thought that
all would change, that he could have Mardil frequently, constantly . . . 

"I hope you are not thinking of your brother right now. You have a dangerous
gleam in your eyes." Mardil said. 

Boromir smiled. "I'm thinking of you." 

They rose and went to the bed, stripping off their clothes as they went. Without
speaking, Boromir rolled onto his stomach and got up on his knees, Mardil
immediately covering him with his body. Boromir felt oil splash his body and
then Mardil entered him abruptly. 

Every time they had been apart, they always began this way, with a half frantic
coupling, Mardil riding him hard, stroking Boromir's cock until he came.
Something was wrong, however, even as Boromir groaned out his climax. Then he
realized what it was. Usually, Mardil kissed and bit his neck, breathing
endearments in his ears, as they made love. He had not done so, and Boromir
wondered at it. He turned and gathered Mardil in his arms, seeking closeness. 

"I'm going to be posted to Osgiliath. I asked for it." Mardil said quietly.
Boromir stiffened. While Gondor currently controlled Osgiliath, the control had
been tenuous for centuries. It was a dangerous place to serve, with frequent
injuries and fatalities. Mardil kissed Boromir softly. "I'll only be a day's
ride away, my love."

"That wasn't necessary," Boromir said angrily. He sat up. "I think I'll ask for
a posting to Osgiliath myself." He watched with satisfaction the alarm that
bloomed in Mardil's face. 

Then Mardil gave him an odd smile. "Are you angry with me, my love?" he asked. 

Boromir snorted. "Of course I am. I do not approve of your plan to get yourself
killed so that we can have a few more nights together." 

Mardil embraced him, still smiling as if at a private joke. "I want you to take
me tonight." 

Boromir failed to control his surprise. He had never taken Mardil. As time went
by, he was less and less inclined to bring it up. If Mardil had wanted it, he
would have asked for it; certainly he was not shy about his other needs. And
Boromir knew, deep down, he liked things the way they were, as much as that
needled his manhood. 

Mardil rolled over and knelt on his hands and knees. He looked at Boromir over
his shoulder, his face expressionless. Boromir finally moved behind him and
traced a finger across his lover's opening. He had slid a finger inside Mardil a
few times when sucking on his lover's cock, so he had no fears he would hurt
him. Something else, nameless, made him hesitate. His rapidly returning erection
overcame his reluctance. He put oil on himself and started to push inside. He
was surprised at the resistance, and pushed harder. He miscalculated the force
needed and abruptly he was all the way in, gasping at the sensation. 

Mardil cried out. "Take me," he moaned. His upper body sank down onto the bed,
his back arching.

Sweat broke out on Boromir's body. Mardil's muscles clenched him and tried to
push him out. When he pushed in, the resistance was exquisite . . .  He stopped
abruptly. He had been pounding into the body beneath him.

"Faster," Mardil gasped. Boromir kissed his neck, still moving cautiously. 

"Not like that. Harder." Mardil pushed back against him. Boromir complied
unwillingly while Mardil begged him to take him hard. 

Then something changed. He could no longer hear Mardil's pleas. He was alone
with his need and the body he drove into; he gripped Mardil's hips hard enough
to leave bruises and slammed into his lover, pulling out fully and plunging back
in with each stroke. An overwhelming urge to dominate Mardil's yielding body
heightened his suddenly savage lust. As he came, he bent forward and bit
Mardil's shoulder to silence his scream of satisfaction. 

He rolled off Mardil, shocked. He didn't want to look at him. 

He came out of his haze when Mardil kissed his ear. "I thought you had that in
you." Mardil's voice was smug. 

Boromir took him in his arms and held him close. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing
Mardil's forehead.  He slid a hand down to Mardil's erection and then bent down
to take it in his mouth. Slowly, lovingly, he brought Mardil to climax. He moved
up and kissed Mardil. "I'm sorry," he repeated. 

Mardil's face was flushed, dreamy. "I will want that again," he said. 

"Not like that," Boromir said. 

"Yes, like that," Mardil said. 

***

The Shining Ones and their companions were together four months later  in the
Third Company mess hall of Minas Tirith. Boromir's request to be posted to
Osgiliath had been denied by Denethor, who insisted he was needed at home for a
time to learn the duties of his future role as Steward. That meant meetings with
his father's counselors and captains, entertaining guests, and other monstrously
boring activities. He was kept sane by daily weapons practice with Faramir and
his old swordmaster. 

Thankfully, it was not hard to get away, and at least once a week he made his
way to Mardil's home. Sometimes he arrived there and found Mardil had not been
able to come, and he slept alone. If he was lucky, Mardil would arrive later
that night or in the morning.

Mardil continued to insist on being taken,  although they still began with
Mardil taking Boromir. Boromir's misgivings did not ebb; he was baffled by
Mardil's demands for roughness during the act. Although he told himself he found
it distasteful, each time he gave in to Mardil's pleas and took his lover as
hard as he physically could. Which, as he was growing older and stronger, was
too hard, in his opinion. 

He found that he could make Mardil climax by his thrusts alone, and for a time
this overcame his resistance, but after four months had passed, he was
increasingly uneasy. 

Mardil had changed, and Boromir didn't like the change. Mardil was free with his
money, and he seemed to have plenty of it, so their circle of friends expanded,
and he did not find pleasure in that, either. Their meetings were hectic and
unsatisfying, too many people competing for attention from the Shining Ones. 

He knew how they appeared to people: the young lord who idolized the older
heroic soldier. Their friendship was well known now; the two beautiful warriors
who were always side by side. What legends were made of, Boromir thought
gloomily. Had the legends been as discontented as he was? 

Dissatisfied, Boromir looked around the mess. His friends filled two large
tables. They were calling for more ale, their day of soldiering at an end.
Boromir planned to spend a quiet evening with Faramir, eating dinner in their
rooms. He watched two men join them, noting that with their clean shaven faces
and long hair, not to mention their striking looks, the two would fit right in. 

One of the men, the taller one, looked him in the eye. He froze. Bottom and Top.
Those were the absurd names he had given to the men in his mind, never having
learned their real ones. It was Bottom who had kissed him, four years ago . The
men walked to him unhurriedly. For once, he was sitting next to Mardil. He tried
not to do it often, but tonight he had, curse his luck!

"The Shining Ones," Top murmured. "My lord Boromir. Mardil." Mardil smiled
pleasantly and invited them to sit. Boromir's stomach clenched as the two men
sat next to him and Mardil. Their recognition of him was obvious. They had
probably known who he was for years; there were not many young men out of
uniform who had access to the armoury and barracks. He tried to meet their gaze
directly, and his heart sank when he saw that Top was eyeing Mardil with a
predatory look. Bottom was looking at Boromir in the same manner.

"Perhaps, Mardil, you do not recognize us? We are of your company in Osgiliath."
Mardil gave a cry of welcome, and the three were quickly engrossed in a
conversation about their fellow soldiers and the garrison of Osgiliath. It was a
topic Boromir was deeply interested in, but he said nothing. He listened,
distracted, as they introduced themselves, and found that Top was named Galdor,
and Bottom, Wulf. Under the table, Wulf's hand slid onto his thigh. Boromir
stood and bowed to the company. 

"I will be dining with my family this evening. Please excuse me." 

Mardil rose and followed him to the door. "Will you come later?" 

Boromir eyed Galdor, whose gaze had followed Mardil hungrily. "You can count on
it," he said grimly. 

***

The roasted fowl was tasteless in Faramir's mouth. Boromir's mind was so clearly
elsewhere that Faramir was crushed. The last five months, with Boromir around
almost constantly, had ended his loneliness. He was happier than he had been for
years.  

Faramir took a sip of his heavily watered wine and stared at the table top as
gloomily as his brother. "Boromir, if you need to leave, please do not delay it
on my account." 

Boromir turned to him, his expression distant. Suddenly, his face relaxed into a
smile. "I'm sorry, I met up with some . . . old friends today and they had
unpleasant news for me." 

Faramir put a hand on top of Boromir's reassuringly, then snatched it away when
his brother frowned at their joined hands. Now what, Faramir thought, his
frustration building. "Please, Boromir. Go, if you must." 

Boromir looked at Faramir with the guilty expression Faramir had noticed
frequently. *Am I that wearisome to him*, Faramir wondered. *I do not understand
him: one moment he is as  loving and kind as always; the next, he treats me as
if my touch was poison.*

"You are right, brother. I should go. I am afraid I have been poor company this
evening." Boromir stood and kissed Faramir on the brow, greatly relieving his
younger brother with the familiar caress. 

***

Boromir rode towards Mardil's home. His mood was dark.  Earlier in the week, he
and Mardil had had a troubling exchange. Mardil had met him in the city, and the
first words out of his mouth were shrill. "Who was the young man I saw you with
on the city walls this morning?" 

Boromir was baffled, then laughed. "That was my brother. Faramir." 

"The delectable Faramir." Mardil's tone was biting. "Now that I have seen him, I
understand why he is so much on your mind. A pleasing appearance." 

Boromir frowned. "He's my brother." 

"And do you always embrace and kiss your brother when you part? Even if your
parting is for the space of no more than an hour?" 

Boromir got angry. "He's just a boy." *Faramir has always been affectionate
towards me; there is nothing wrong with it!*

"I beg your pardon. Is he not soon to be fifteen?"  Mardil did not need to spell
it out; Boromir had been sixteen when he became Mardil's lover.

Boromir said nothing more. Mardil's jealousy was so unreasonable, so . . .
grotesque. He had noted Mardil's jealousy soon after they met; the first
instance of it was when he had inserted himself into Boromir's conversation with
Iorlas. If Boromir was speaking to a fair young man, he could count on Mardil
turning up at his side in short order. But Mardil never made accusations, so
Boromir had let it alone, even found it endearing.

As he tethered his horse outside the farmhouse, he reflected that Galdor and
Wulf were complications he did not need. 

He knocked on the door and did not get an answer. Cautiously, he opened it.
There was no light in the room except for a dim red glow from the fireplace.
Panic seized him. He imagined Mardil caught by Galdor and Wulf on the dark road
home . . .  

"Mardil," he said sharply. The word reverberated in the apparently empty room.
Then he smelled it: brandy or another strong spirit. He looked behind the screen
and Mardil was there, partially unclad, stretched out on the bed. He was awake
and his eyes glittered. 

"Ah. You have finally torn yourself from Faramir's side." 

"I was worried. I need to speak to you. About Galdor and Wulf. The two men we
met tonight." 

"Of something other than Wulf pawing at you?" 

"Yes. Something other than that." He saw he finally had Mardil's interest.
Mardil rose from the bed. Boromir realized his lover was not clothed at all; he
had mistaken shadows cast by the fire for garments. Mardil stood directly in
front of him. He was still taller than Boromir by two inches, but Boromir was
now the more powerful man, his chest broader and his muscles stronger. When they
had met, Mardil had outweighed him by thirty pounds, but no more. 

Several emotions warred in Boromir: relief that Mardil was safe; anger at his
jibe about Faramir; wariness of his drunkenness. He took hold of Mardil's upper
arms and leaned forward to kiss him. Mardil pulled back. "You smell of your
brother." 

Boromir pushed Mardil onto the bed. Anger seethed in him. He knew some of the
anger was at himself for wanting his brother, something he could never act on.
And Mardil was accusing him . . . as if he would ever hurt his brother . . . his
shining one. He pushed and pulled at Mardil until the older man was on his
knees. Mardil was unsteady because of the spirits he had drunk, and Boromir's
superior strength made it even easier. Boromir pulled down the front of his
breeches. At some point, he had gotten hard. He didn't want to think about when.  

Mardil did not resist. Boromir hastily slicked oil on himself, then pushed in
all the way, burying himself in Mardil's body. He heard Mardil cry out, muffled
by the bed, and then he pounded Mardil as hard as he could, letting his anger
drive him. He groaned when his release came swiftly, leaning forward over
Mardil's body and forcing it down, trapping it beneath him. Mardil was shaking,
and Boromir roughly turned him over. Tears trickled from Mardil's eyes, a
strange sight on that strong face. Mardil was also smiling, and that was
stranger.

"That was good, my love," Mardil said seductively. "I want you to use me like
that. It keeps you mine." 

Boromir shook his head. "It does not. I do not want it." He nearly wept,
learning the appalling reason for the rough usage Mardil demanded. His lover did
not understand him at all if he thought such a thing.

"You don't want it with me, yes, but you want it. From your brother." 

Boromir stood. All of his pity vanished. He walked to the washbasin and cleaned
himself hastily, then laced his breeches. His jaw clenched as he fought to keep
silent. He should leave without a word. His control broke.  "How dare you say
that!" 

Mardil's tears were still streaming, and he still smiled. "My love. You have
called his name when you take me. And when you clutch at me, dreaming, in the
middle of the night."

"I have never touched him. Not that way. My brother is my life."

"Then what does that make me, my love?"

"I do not know!" Boromir spat out the words and left, banging the door. He
untied his horse's reins and prepared to mount her. Then he heard a brisk
clip-clop on the country lane. 

He went back inside and lit a lantern. "Get dressed," he said brusquely to
Mardil. "Someone's coming." 

***

Boromir was not surprised to see Galdor and Wulf at the door. The two men pushed
him aside and entered the house. Mardil, sitting up on the bed, had pulled on
breeches and a loose shirt. 

Boromir seethed. The tension of the evening had exhausted him, and his nerves
were on the point of shattering. "What are you doing here?" he said in a deadly
voice. The two men ignored him.

"You are keeping you lover well, Mardil," Galdor said.  Boromir was shocked to
see Mardil turn away from the men in fear. He had never seen Mardil back down
from anything. 

Galdor addressed Boromir. "We made an arrangement with your lover, my lord. Our
silence for his money." 

"Get out," Boromir rasped. 

"Boromir!" Mardil's tone was desperate. Boromir went to his lover and held him,
shaking with rage. His fight with Mardil was forgotten as anger at the two
blackguards swept through him. How dare they threaten harm to his lover! He
imagined Galdor and Wulf dead, hacked with his sword, bleeding on the hearth . .
. 

"Do as they say," Mardil whispered. "Please." 

Boromir stepped away from him to the mantel. "How much?" Boromir asked. "How
much do you want?"

"Fifty silver pennies." Galdor spoke.

Boromir stared, aghast. "Mardil doesn't have that."

"He does."

Boromir turned to look at Mardil, who mutely nodded his head. Boromir searched
the mantel for the dark blue box where he knew Mardil kept his valuables. He
opened it and saw silver. Gold. Unset jewels. Galdor and Wulf looked over his
shoulder, then Wulf took the box from him.

"We will take it all, Mardil," Wulf said. Mardil nodded his head, staring at the
floor. 

"No!" Boromir shouted. 

Mardil rose from the bed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "You must," he
hissed. "Let them take it." 

"Too late, Mardil. Your lover has called off the deal we made. So we will take
the other." Galdor spoke tonelessly. "Or perhaps we will take both."

Boromir watched, fear shooting through him, as Mardil walked shakily to the bed
and sat down. "May I speak to Boromir alone?" Mardil asked. Galdor and Wulf
looked at each other, then stepped outside the house without a word. 

"Mardil, what are you doing? Do not give them your money! They will never stop,
once you have paid them!"

"Boromir, for the gods sake, listen to me." Mardil's words tumbled out,
trampling upon each other. "I had to beg them to take the money. They wanted
you. You were the price they asked." 

Boromir clenched his fists. "Let them try." 

His body went cold when Mardil spoke. "No! You must do what they say. Or they'll
hurt Faramir." 

***

Boromir sat down on the bed. The anger and rage drained from him. He watched
Mardil pull himself together, picking up a corner of a blanket to wipe his face,
raking his fingers through his hair. "They asked for both of us. But I think
it's really you they want."

"I know them." Boromir said. His voice was surprisingly steady. Quickly he
explained to Mardil his encounter with the men in the barracks years earlier. 

Mardil tried to smile. "And here I thought I had given the game away. I couldn't
imagine what I had done wrong." 

"Perhaps never touching a woman?" Boromir suggested wryly. "That may have led to
a few rumors." A hot flash of love ran through Boromir: Mardil would sacrifice
his entire fortune to protect Faramir.

Belatedly, he realized that Mardil's rude treatment of him that evening had been
meant to drive him away before Galdor and Wulf arrived. "Next time you want me
out of here, my love, put on some clothes," Boromir whispered. 

Mardil touched his cheek and smiled. "I couldn't make up my mind if I wanted you
gone . . . or not." 

"Where did the money come from, Mardil?" Boromir had to ask. 

Mardil shook his head. "Not now. Let me say only that my uncle was not the most
honest of men. There is no time for me to explain further. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Boromir kissed him lightly on the lips. 

***

Galdor and Wulf wasted no time when they returned. Wulf seized Boromir in his
arms and kissed him, forcing his mouth open using the simple technique of
pinching his nose shut. Boromir opened his mouth and let the strange tongue in.
He could sense Galdor behind him, moving to the bed, where Mardil sat. 

Wulf pushed Boromir to the rug in front of the fire and issued an order. "Take
off your clothes." 

Boromir stripped quickly. He could see the bed from where he stood. Galdor was
pulling down Mardil's breeches. He saw the tall man pause, touch Mardil's
thighs, and give a short laugh. "Someone has been at you already, I see." 

Galdor turned to look at Boromir. "Somehow, I thought it would be the other way
around, that you would be the wench."

"I am," Boromir said. His mind was working furiously. What could he do to
ameliorate the humiliation coming? Drive a wedge between the men, somehow?
Refuse to be cowed? When Mardil had told him of the threat to Faramir, he had
known instantly that he would submit. He could not keep Faramir safe from the
two men forever unless he was willing to kill Galdor and Wulf, and he could not
do it, not in cold blood. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Wulf, who had stripped himself, and was
pressing his lips against Boromir's unresponsive mouth. 

"Try harder," Wulf said warningly. Boromir kissed him back in the manner the man
seemed to want. He had never kissed anyone but Mardil, so Wulf's mouth felt
strange on his. Wulf was a forceful kisser, while Mardil was a sensual one. 

The rest of Wulf he would have found beautiful in other circumstances. Wulf was
perfect, with wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, and a flat belly that
rippled with muscle. To Boromir, the old scars on Wulf's body emphasized his
beauty instead of detracting from it. 

His face was as handsome as Boromir's long ago fantasies had made it. His long
dark hair was loose, and it tickled Boromir's shoulders. An idea entered
Boromir's mind. 

"I have always wanted this." Boromir spoke softly. Wulf stopped the kiss and
looked at him suspiciously. "After I saw you in the barracks, I dreamed of you
kissing me. And other things." 

Wulf looked at him curiously, his hands gently stroking Boromir's back. "Lie
down," he said. Boromir lay on the carpet before the fire, and Wulf lay on top
of him. 

"This is what I dreamed of, your hair touching my shoulders. The day you kissed
me, I made myself come, thinking of you." Boromir's voice was husky with
suppressed anger. "I took a candle, and pushed it into myself, and pretended it
was you taking me." 

Wulf made a low growl. Boromir heard a soft cry from Mardil on the bed, and his
stomach clenched. 

"I have to admit that after I met Mardil, I thought of you less often. But, in
my fantasies, at least, you were the first to take me." Boromir lifted his hips,
pressing into Wulf, who was fully erect. 

Wulf smiled, almost a pleasant smile. "Now that you are fully a man, you are
more to my taste, lovely Boromir. I'm sorry I could not oblige you then." 

"Not as sorry as I am," Boromir whispered, kissing Wulf as passionately as he
could. To his surprise, Wulf pulled away from him and sat up.

"Galdor. I need help." Boromir heard another soft cry from Mardil. It was
abruptly cut off, and then Galdor stood over them, naked and erect. Although
Boromir was well-endowed, Galdor's cock was the largest Boromir had ever seen,
and he could not look away from it. 

Wulf laughed at his expression, and said to Galdor, "I want you to hold him. I
don't trust him." 

"Gladly." Galdor sat on the rug, spreading his legs, pulling Boromir between his
thighs until Boromir's back rested against his chest. Galdor's erection pressed
into Boromir's spine.

"Have no fear," the tall man whispered in Boromir's ear. He kissed the back of
Boromir's neck, then sucked on his neck and licked it. Boromir squirmed. The
back of his neck was extremely sensitive. Mardil could drive him into a frenzy
simply by breathing on it. Boromir's cock hardened as Galdor caressed his neck
with his teeth and tongue. 

Wulf rose and rummaged by the bed, returning with the oil. Boromir could no
longer see the bed; Galdor blocked his view.

Wulf knelt in front of him and said, "Bend your knees." Boromir tensed as he
realized what they were planning. He bent his knees and Galdor hooked his arms
under them and pulled Boromir's legs up until Boromir's knees touched his chest. 
Boromir's buttocks were in the air, exposed. A sound escaped him when Wulf
licked his cock, then his balls. Galdor's breath was on his neck. 

"Have no fear," the man whispered again in his ear. "We want you. We will not
hurt you, I promise." Boromir gasped when Wulf licked his opening. 

Boromir closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and Galdor kissed him. Galdor's
mouth was sweet and wet. Boromir opened his mouth and sucked on Galdor's tongue
when it entered his mouth. He bit back a moan when Wulf's mouth closed on his
cock. Galdor broke the kiss and bit his neck gently. Without letting go of his
legs, Galdor's fingers stroked his nipples. 

"Yes, that's good," Galdor murmured encouragingly in his ear. His teeth nipped
the lobe. Boromir was unable to stop from moaning as Wulf pushed one finger in
him and sucked harder on his cock. Galdor's teeth scraped Boromir's neck until
Boromir writhed and cried out. Wulf slid two fingers in him. The fingers curled
and he moaned again as they stroked him inside. Galdor chuckled in his ear.  

The fingers and mouth disappeared and Wulf's erection, well oiled, slid in
easily. Because of Boromir's position, no other part of Wulf's body touched him.
Wulf pushed in again and Boromir found that his position also meant Wulf hit his
sensitive spot directly with each thrust. 

Involuntarily, he cried out. "Please." He would not say the words. He refused to
say them. Galdor bit his neck. "Please," Boromir moaned. Stop before I beg you
not to stop. Wulf's hand enclosed Boromir's cock and pumped it as he thrust in
hard and fast. Galdor bit his neck nearly hard enough to break the skin.
Suddenly Wulf toppled forward, groaning as he came. He let go of Boromir's cock
and kissed him. Boromir cried out when Wulf pulled out of him. 

"Please," Boromir gasped, turning his head to Galdor. Galdor released his legs.
Boromir turned over and lay on Galdor, kissing him frantically, the tall man's
erection pressing into his thigh. He rubbed his erection against Galdor's.
Wulf's come on his thighs made them both slippery.

"Wulf, I've changed my mind," Galdor said shakily. "Please check on Mardil."
Galdor turned Boromir over so he that was on his hands and knees, then moved
behind him and covered him with his body. He bit Boromir's neck while Boromir
pushed back, rubbing his buttocks against Galdor's erection. 

"Please," Boromir begged. He could not keep the pleading from his voice any
longer. 

"Don't worry," Galdor panted. "I'm going to take you." Boromir felt the massive
erection pushing into him, and he cried out at the sharp pain. Wulf's slippery
come was not enough to ease the way.

Galdor stopped and applied oil to himself, then moved in again, slowly but
inexorably. Boromir groaned and pushed back against him. Galdor's voice hummed
in his ear. "Let me take you. Give it to me." The tall man moved in and out
slowly and Boromir cried out in pleasure. 

"Spread your legs wider," Galdor commanded. Boromir spread his legs as far as
possible. 

"Lift up your hips." Boromir raised his buttocks as high as he could. 

"Now give it to me. Come for me," Galdor growled. 

Boromir struggled against a wave of dizziness. "Take all of me in," Galdor
demanded. Boromir pushed back against him hard until Galdor's balls slapped him. 

"Oh, yes," Galdor sighed. He pulled out all the way and thrust back in, burying
himself each time. Boromir's body went rigid with pleasure. Galdor moved up onto
his knees and held onto Boromir's shoulders, forcing his upper body down,
keeping him still, the tall man increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

"Come for me, Boromir!" he gasped, and thrust even faster.  Boromir screamed as
he climaxed, his cock untouched;  his contracting flesh squeezed Galdor
mercilessly, and the tall man groaned and collapsed, the aftershocks of his
orgasm shaking them both. 

Galdor withdrew from him and turned him onto his back. They kissed fiercely,
rolling on the floor. They heard a cough from Wulf. 

"Finished yet?" the man said dryly. 

"No," Galdor said, his arms wrapped around Boromir, his teeth on Boromir's
throat. Boromir was boneless in his arms. He clung to Galdor and kissed whatever
part of the tall man was near: his nose, his chin, his neck. 

"Dear gods, that was amazing," he muttered into Galdor's chest. 

Abruptly Boromir stiffened. "Mardil!" 

Galdor laughed. "I'm afraid he's been tortured far more than we planned. I tied
him up and he's had to listen to your beautiful moans.  I assure you he is quite
comfortable." He released Boromir, who stood shakily and walked over to the bed. 

Mardil was naked, securely tied and gagged. His cock was hard and his eyes were
fierce. Boromir removed the gag and bent to kiss him. "You whore," Mardil said
in a low, tight voice. Before Boromir could react, Galdor pushed him away and
knelt next to Mardil. 

"I'm sorry I left you unfinished, Mardil. Your beautiful lover distracted me."
Galdor stroked Mardil's cock. "I'll finish you, if you take back what you said.
I assure you Boromir had no choice in the matter. I held him quite securely." 

"Untie me." 

"Of course," Galdor said softly. He cut the bonds quickly with a knife and lay
on top of Mardil. 

"No," Mardil whispered. "I want him to take me." He stared at Boromir hungrily. 

Galdor laughed. "How could he, Mardil? I nearly killed him. Let him rest for a
few hours . . . " 

Galdor had not finished his sentence when Boromir pushed him aside and lay on
Mardil. The sight of Mardil bound and aroused had made Boromir rock hard.
Boromir rubbed his erection against Mardil's leg. 

"You're forgetting he's only nineteen," Mardil muttered.  Galdor laughed loudly.
Wulf chuckled. 

"Galdor," Boromir said. "I want you to hold him for me." Galdor beamed and got
on the bed. Wulf joined him, and they nestled Mardil between them. Then they
reached down and pulled up Mardil's legs, Galdor lifting his right and Wulf
lifting his left.  Mardil groaned as his buttocks were exposed, his knees pulled
up to his chest. He turned his face first to Galdor, then to Wulf, kissing them
both. Boromir gently licked Mardil's straining cock, spending ample time on his
thighs, belly, and balls. 

"Stop torturing me," Mardil gasped. "Take me!" Boromir obliged, sinking into his
lover in one thrust. Mardil cried out loudly. Boromir clasped Mardil's erection
in his hand and pumped hard, in time with his thrusts. Within moments Mardil
erupted, twisting in the men's grip, his come hitting Boromir in the face and
chest. Boromir groaned as Mardil's contractions milked his cock; dear gods, he
was going to come . . . 

'What happened?" he whispered. He was lying on the bed, and Mardil was cradling
his head. 

Galdor wiped Boromir's face with a damp cloth. "You fainted. Luckily you came
first, or Mardil might have killed us all." 

Wulf bent over him and kissed him gently. "It was true, wasn't it. What you told
me about the candle." Boromir nodded. Wulf grinned and became beautiful.

Shining One Chapter Three

The four of them slept the few hours remaining to the night in Mardil's
farmhouse. In the morning, Galdor again made love to Boromir, this time gently,
face to face, as Boromir had seen him doing years earlier with Wulf in the
barracks. 

Boromir made it home to his rooms in the Citadel, uncomfortable in the saddle
thanks to Galdor, and slept like the dead until the late afternoon. When he
woke, doubt assailed him.

The two dark-haired men appeared to have forgotten their demand for silver. But
Boromir could not forget it. And he could not forget Mardil's wealth. Where had
it come from? 

Mardil had never been short of money. His horse was a superb animal. Mardil
always paid for the inns they met at. He paid for everything. Over the years, he
had given Boromir many valuable gifts. Boromir was forced to conclude that the
wealth had not come recently from the sale of the family farm, as Mardil had
claimed. 

Adding to his unease, he sensed that Mardil had meant every hurtful word he had
said about Faramir. 

And then there was the strange night with Galdor and Wulf. Boromir could not
believe the two soldiers meant harm to his brother. They had not been out to
threaten Boromir, but to seduce him, and they had handily succeeded. His face
flushed as he recalled their passionate kisses and tender hands. 

He pondered Wulf's hand on his thigh at the table in the barracks dining hall.
What if Boromir had not left, and had encouraged him? How would the evening have
gone?

Reviewing it all in his mind, Boromir could come to only one conclusion: His
lover was a liar. It did not help that he thought he knew the cause. Mardil had
made it painfully clear that he feared losing Boromir. To Faramir! Whatever
mystery Mardil was hiding, Boromir was certain that Mardil's insecurity and
jealousy would be behind it.

He got out of bed; he badly needed a bath. He had scrubbed himself down at
Mardil's, but that had not helped his aching muscles. He hurt in strange places:
his back, his hips, his thighs. And his arse! He headed to the small tiled room
where vessels of water and tubs were kept. The room had a large hearth where
water heated in dozens of copper kettles. Normally, he would have asked a
servant to bring the tub and hot water to his room, but he was in a hurry. 

He entered the steamy room, and saw Faramir in the largest tub, his head back,
his eyes closed. He opened his eyes and smiled at Boromir.

***

Boromir averted his gaze and dragged a wooden tub near the hearth. He peered
into the vessels with cool water and was relieved to find them full. He checked
the kettles and added water to four of them. He would not have to call a servant
for help. 

So no one would interrupt him with his brother. 

He halted, forcing himself to recognize the truth. Stop lying to yourself. You
want him. His breathing quickened as he pictured Faramir lying beneath him, the
beloved face contorting with ecstasy. 

"Boromir?" 

Boromir cleared his mind with an effort. "Yes?"

"Would you please get me more hot water? I need to rinse my hair."

Boromir walked to the hearth and poured hot water into a bucket. He added a bit
of cool water and tested the temperature, then carried the bucket to Faramir. 

Faramir's hair was a tangled mess. Boromir was relieved to see that the water
Faramir sat in was soapy and could not be seen through. He relaxed slightly. He
touched Faramir's hair, trying to untangle it. 

"Ow!" Faramir said. 

"Your hair is still dirty," Boromir said, feeling the tangles snag on each
other. 

"I know. I was too lazy to wash it this time." 

"I'll do it," Boromir said. His muscles tensed. He searched for the soft soap
and found some in a bowl. He worked up a lather in his hands and massaged it
into Faramir's scalp. It was awkward, as he was bent over the tub. He didn't
want to get any closer.

"Mmm. That feels good," Faramir said, closing his eyes. Boromir ran his soapy
hands through the hair. He rubbed Faramir's neck. And his shoulders. His fingers
were inches from the nipples that begged to be touched. Abruptly, he turned away
and fetched the bucket. He added hot water to it to warm it and poured it over
Faramir's head. 

Faramir spluttered. "You could have warned me!"  

Boromir felt better, as if he had passed a test. He went to Faramir's room,
found a comb, and returned. He sat on the edge of the tub and worked on
Faramir's hair with the comb, getting out the tangles. 

"I wish you had washed my hair longer. It felt good. This hurts!" 

Boromir smiled. His smile vanished when Faramir stood up. 

"Can we do this somewhere else? I'm starting to wrinkle." Faramir stepped out of
the tub.

Boromir involuntarily looked him up and down, then hastily turned away. He stood
up and moved away from the tub. Was it his imagination, or had Faramir been
semi-erect? He fumbled with the ties of his robe. *Get out of here, Faramir. Get
out.* He jumped when Faramir spoke close to him. 

"It's all yours," Faramir said. "You can take my tub if you want. The water is
still hot." He put on a robe that covered him down to his toes. Boromir sighed. 

"Boromir!" His brother's voice was sharp. "What happened to you?" Faramir
touched his neck.  Boromir flushed as he remembered Galdor's teeth. He took off
his robe and sank into the water as fast as he could. 

"Fine, don't tell me about it," Faramir said, and sat on the edge of the tub.
"Want me to wash your hair?" 

"No!" Boromir shouted. 

Faramir left the room without a word. Boromir tried not to think about the hurt
he had seen in his brother's face. 

***

Two weeks later, Boromir left Denethor's council chambers. He had spent the
entire day with Denethor, who gave him several penetrating looks that left him
uncomfortable. While half listening to the discussions concerning Gondor's
defense, Boromir realized how far out of control his life had become. He was
unable to concentrate on the counsel the captains gave, even though he knew it
was vital.

He left the White Tower, where the meeting had been held, and wandered around
the courtyard surrounding the fountain. He considered going for a short
horseback ride to clear his mind. He had been unable to learn more from Mardil.
Everyone had been called back for duty as reports of spies near Osgiliath came
in. Spies meant an attack was pending. Galdor and Wulf were also called back. 

Boromir decided a ride would be helpful. A thought came unbidden into his mind.
He would ride to Mardil's home while he was gone and look for something. Look
for what? He didn't know. Perhaps he could find the source of Mardil's money.
His face flushed at the underhanded action he was considering. He would not do
it. It was despicable. Pacing angrily, he almost knocked down the man in front
of him. 

"Boromir!" 

The man's face was familiar. It was Iorlas, in the uniform of a Guard of the
Citadel. Boromir greeted him happily, momentarily distracted from his woes. They
went together to the mess and requested ale. It was still an hour to the evening
meal. 

They sat down together and Boromir tried to listen attentively as Iorlas poured
out his news. His brother Beregond was a Guard of the Citadel as well, and they
had returned to live in Minas Tirith, where they had been born. The brothers had
served in Osgiliath before their promotion. 

"You must have done well," Boromir said. 

Iorlas smiled with a hint of pride. "I was lucky to be made a Guard." Boromir
laughed at his modesty. "I was looking forward to seeing you again," Iorlas
added simply.

Boromir hid his surprise.  Three years earlier, he had not understood Iorlas's
expression; seeing it again, he did. Iorlas wanted him. 

Boromir kept his voice light as he gave Iorlas his own news; out of habit, he
spoke almost entirely of Faramir. 

"What of Mardil?" Iorlas asked. "I've heard of the Shining Ones." Boromir
glowered at the table. There was a brief silence. 

"Let's walk outside; the sun is going to set," Iorlas said. 

They walked to the embrasure overlooking the Great Gate and sat on a stone seat.
Boromir watched Iorlas as he sat, his body half turned towards Boromir. Iorlas
was the classic man of Numenor: tall, slender, with brown hair so dark it was
nearly black, and light grey eyes. His face was grave and compassionate. Boromir
guessed he was only two or three years older than himself. Boromir looked at his
hands, which had long, strong looking fingers. 

"Boromir, there is something I must tell you. About Mardil." Iorlas looked away
from him. Boromir froze.  A certainty filled him. Iorlas knew where Mardil's
money came from! That strange look he had given Boromir years earlier: warning
and longing intermingled. 

"And why are you telling me now?" Boromir asked softly. He moved closer to
Iorlas, curious to see how the man would react. 

Iorlas did not move away. "I'm telling you now for the same reason I did not
tell you before." 

Boromir laughed humorlessly.  "You wish him ill."

Iorlas flushed. "Yes, I do. That is why I kept silent. But I do not wish you
ill. So I will keep silent no longer." 

Boromir moved to another seat. The high walls curved around them on three sides;
sitting down, they could not be seen. Iorlas rose and sat next to him, his body
half turned as before. 

Boromir considered. Could he trust Iorlas's information? Iorlas wished to lower
Boromir's opinion of Mardil for his personal benefit. Or so Boromir read him.
There was a simple way to be certain. 

He put a hand on the back of Iorlas's neck. He slid on the seat until his body
was next to Iorlas, their thighs touching. He bent his face towards Iorlas and
watched the man's eyes close and his face turn to him. Boromir brushed the man's
mouth with his lips, and the mouth opened eagerly. Iorlas's hands grasped
Boromir's belt. Boromir stood and walked to the wall, looking down at the gate.
He heard Iorlas stand up behind him. 

"I cannot trust what you tell me," Boromir whispered. He turned to look at
Iorlas.

Iorlas regarded Boromir steadily. "You can." There was an intensity in his
expression that frightened Boromir.

Unsteadily, Boromir walked away, returning to the White Tower. He was fifty feet
away when he heard Iorlas cry in alarm. Boromir rushed to his side and saw wains
coming. From Osgiliath. The wains that brought the dead.

***

He ran down to the gate, wondering why no messengers had arrived ahead of the
wagons. Later, the dead bodies of the messengers were found, despoiled by Orcs,
their dispatches stolen. The work of spies. 

Boromir abandoned gathering information from the exhausted soldiers that rode
with the wagons, and went up to the Citadel to find his father. If there was any
information to be had, Denethor would get it first. 

He found Denethor with his advisors. Extra help was being recruited for the
Houses of Healing to tend the wounded. Boromir learned that most of the wagons
were full of injured soldiers, not the dead. He felt the first rush of hope. 

Yet the company of Osgiliath had suffered heavy losses, and the captain was
dead. There was no list of injured or dead available. Denethor snapped out
orders to see that it was done. In the absence of a captain, he demanded that
the company's surviving senior men be brought to him to give an account of the
battle. 

Denethor gave him an unexpectedly kind look. Boromir's grief was close to the
surface, and his father was keen at reading men's minds. Boromir's heart lurched
when his father took him aside. "I've heard that a soldier known to you, Mardil
of Anorien, acquitted himself well. There are rumors that he was hurt, but there
are none that he was killed." 

"Thank you for the news. He is . . . my dearest friend." 

Denethor placed a hand on his shoulder. "I want you to stay here. Help me take
the statements from the senior men when they arrive." There was no faster way to
find out what had happened to Mardil, and Boromir agreed readily. He almost wept
at the tender concern in Denethor's eyes. Boromir smiled wryly as he reflected
on how neatly his father had given him the one task he was fit to do at that
moment.

***

Four senior men were interviewed, and, slowly, they pieced together what had
happened. Following the trail of the rumored spies, the company had been
ambushed in a ravine. The losses had occurred in the first ten minutes of
battle, and then the survivors had retreated, fighting to protect their wounded.
Mardil's name was mentioned over and over as the man who held their rearguard as
they fell back.  His whereabouts were unknown. 

Boromir rose from his seat when Galdor came into the room.  The tall man was
splashed with black Orc blood. His clothing was torn, and he had lost his helm.
He looked at Boromir without a trace of recognition in his eyes. Boromir pushed
a seat against him until the tall man sat, and poured him wine. "Drink it," he
said. 

Galdor complied. "Wulf is dead," he said. 

Hot rage swept through Boromir, leaving him lightheaded. Why had he not been
posted to Osgiliath! He could have prevented this disaster, somehow. Being
caught in a ravine meant they had not used sufficient scouts, or scouts with too
little experience. His rage ended when he looked up at Galdor's face. 

"I didn't recover his body," Galdor whispered. Tears finally streamed down the
tall man's face. Boromir tried to speak but could not; Galdor knew too well the
fate of the dead in the hands of the Orcs. The tall man sobbed in his chair and
Boromir knelt to embrace him. The room went quiet as the others looked up at the
disturbance. 

Boromir feared that Galdor could be badly wounded and ignoring it. Some of the
blood on him looked like his own. He led Galdor out of the White Tower to the
Houses of Healing.

Boromir found the wards less chaotic than he had expected. Quickly he informed
the healers of Galdor's condition, and watched as the tall man was put to bed.
His garments were cut off and his body cleaned. There was a massive bruise on
his ribcage where a horse had trod on him, and several shallow knife cuts on his
arms and chest. 

The knives had not been poisoned, the healer reassured Boromir. "We gave him a
draught to make him sleep. Two ribs are broken and he must stay abed. Has he
suffered a heavy loss?" 

"The heaviest," Boromir said shortly. He walked to the end of the ward, his
heart sinking. Then it leapt into his throat when he saw pale gold hair spilled
across a bed.

***

Mardil had suffered countless cuts and bruises, but the serious injury was to
his left foot, which had been smashed by a mace. The healer was uncertain what
would happen. "We may have to take the foot off. I have advised it, yet our
Warden believes most of the foot can be saved. There is too much swelling now to
make a decision." 

Boromir found the Warden and urged him to save whatever he could. He sat for the
rest of the night by Mardil's bedside, assisting the women of the house.
Mardil's foot had to be kept elevated, which was difficult because he thrashed
in a mild fever. 

Towards morning, Boromir went to check on Galdor, and found the man sitting up,
drinking broth. Galdor looked at his face and smiled. "Mardil is alive, isn't
he?" 

"Yes, but . . . " Boromir was suddenly nauseated. His relief at Mardil's
survival had been so great, he had not considered the effect the injury could
have on his lover. "He may not walk." He sat on the edge of the bed and Galdor
held him while he sobbed. 

"We're a fine pair," he muttered into Boromir's ear. 

***

The next six months were busy.  Boromir did something he had never done before:
used his influence with Denethor to have a friend, Galdor, made a Guard of the
Tower. 

Mardil healed better than the Warden's wildest dreams: he lost his three
smallest toes and part of his instep only. Boromir was sickened whenever he
remembered that day. He and Galdor had held Mardil's hands while the healers cut
through the foot, removing the mangled flesh. Mardil had not uttered a sound.

 After the first month, Boromir arranged for Mardil to return home, finding a
farmer's wife that would visit Mardil daily to bring him meals and take care of
the house. He rode out almost every evening, even though he could not stay the
night that frequently. 

Denethor heaped responsibility on him, and, somewhat to his surprise, he
embraced it. The losses in Osgiliath haunted him. He wanted to be in a position
to prevent something similar from ever happening again. 

Within two months, Mardil could walk, limping, with padding in his boot. He
could ride as well as ever, he pointed out to Boromir. 

After Mardil had healed sufficiently not to feel constant pain, which took
nearly four months,  he stripped Boromir's clothes off and took him. Boromir
wept afterwards and Mardil soothed him. 

"It's really not that bad, my love," Mardil assured him. But they both knew his
days as a soldier had ended. 

Boromir sought to find Mardil a position he could perform on horseback only; all
that turned up was duty with the supply wagons, which he didn't bother to
mention. Mardil would not be content with such a dull task. 

Finally, he found something that might suit; the army horsemasters needed men to
guide and protect the fresh horses, and their minders, traveling from Rohan to
Gondor every six months. The journey took three months round trip. It meant long
separations, but Boromir thought it ideal in all other respects, and was
relieved when Mardil agreed. 

Six months after he had feared Mardil was dead, Mardil rode to Rohan. 

***

Boromir was grateful for the return to sanity in his life in all areas, but for
one: Faramir. His younger brother had turned fifteen, yet he was still treated
as a child by Denethor, who thought his youngest son lacked firmness of purpose.

Relations between the two brothers, however, had returned to normal. Faramir had
stayed away from him for a few days following Boromir's outburst in the bath,
then had swiftly returned to his affectionate self. 

Boromir noted, however, that his brother had not come to his room early in the
morning for months. So it surprised him when it happened shortly before 
Mardil's departure to Rohan.

He felt the familiar weight of Faramir on the bed. He waited for his brother to
do something -- poke him, tickle him -- but nothing happened. He kept his eyes
closed and tried not to smile. He rolled over when he felt a finger touch the
back of his neck. Boromir's neck was marked with love bites once again. 

After Mardil's injury, Boromir had refused to take him, roughly or otherwise. He
could see it made Mardil fume, yet his lover said nothing, taking out his
frustrations on Boromir's body, especially his neck. Mardil had broken the skin
a few times. 

Boromir would never again comply with Mardil's request to take him. There was
only one man he wanted to yield to him, and it was not Mardil. And Mardil did
not yield to him out of love. Boromir stirred uneasily at the thought: Mardil
yielded to him to control him.

He looked at Faramir, his brother's face filled with love and concern. He still
touched the marks on the back of Boromir's neck. 

"What, no breakfast?" Boromir said roughly. Faramir smiled. Boromir let out a
yell when frozen feet touched his legs. 

***

He was walking through the barracks two weeks  after Mardil's departure to Rohan
when a hand on his shoulder spun him around. He was shocked to see Iorlas,
looking as if he wanted to beat Boromir with his fists. 

Boromir raised his hands, palms out. What was wrong with the man? His gentle
face was a mask of fury. Iorlas took a step back, holding a hand up as if to ask
for time. Boromir put his hands down and waited. 

Iorlas spoke low, his voice unsteady. "Is it true that you seek to honor
Mardil?" 

Boromir raised his eyebrows. It was true. The suggestion had come from the
captains, who had approached him about it two days earlier.  Boromir distrusted
them, fearing the captains wished to honor his friend to curry favor with him,
though he could not deny that Mardil's actions in Osgiliath had been valiant. He
was credited with saving dozens, even hundreds, of lives. 

"Yes, it is true," Boromir said. If Iorlas knew of it, the captains must have
mentioned it to some of the men. What honor would be given to Mardil they had
not yet decided. Boromir wished to award him a new steed, as Mardil's mount had
been killed in the battle. 

"I need to speak to you. This will take some time, and we must not be
disturbed," Iorlas muttered. Distrust crept over Boromir. He recalled Iorlas's
hands on his belt. 

"How about my rooms?" Boromir said caustically. 

 "Yes, that would be best." Iorlas smiled faintly. "I know where they are." 

***

Boromir paced up and down his rooms, waiting for Iorlas. Iorlas had been on duty
until sunset, and the wait was driving him insane. He could not imagine what
could have angered Iorlas so greatly, and he feared learning the answer. Boromir
called for wine and food to be brought to his rooms so that they would not have
to interrupt their discussion for a meal. 

Iorlas arrived immediately after getting off duty, still in his livery, though
he had removed his helm. He was subdued, but there were two bright spots on his
cheeks, and he moved clumsily. He had changed his mind about something. 

Iorlas walked to the table set with food and wine. "May I, my lord?" he asked.
Boromir nodded and watched Iorlas pour himself a glass of wine and take a sip.
Iorlas sat down and rested his elbows on the table.

"Boromir, if I ask you not to give Mardil any honors, would you take my word for
it that he does not deserve them? Or would you insist on an explanation?" Iorlas
looked at the table as he spoke.

Boromir sat down at the table and poured himself wine. He put his unsteady hands
in his lap. "I would not take your word for it," he said evenly. 

Iorlas's face darkened. "If you will not listen to me, Boromir, I will speak to
the captains. I would die before I saw him honored!" 

Boromir's stomach churned into an icy knot. He could not imagine anything foul
enough to make Iorlas this enraged. "Then I will listen," he said, unable to
keep a quaver out of his voice. 

Iorlas's rage vanished. He was haunted and full of pain. He closed his eyes as
he spoke.

"Mardil is a corpse robber. He steals from our men as they lie dead on the
field. I saw him."

Boromir rose and moved backwards, knocking over his chair. His eyes searched
Iorlas's face desperately for a sign that Iorlas was not speaking the truth. He
did not find it. 

"No," Boromir whispered. He bellowed in anguish. "No!" He clenched his fists,
then put his hands to his stomach as a sharp pain cut through him. He staggered
to his washbasin and was noisily sick in it. Vaguely, he was aware of Iorlas
holding him as he bent over it. 

At last the spasms ceased. Iorlas guided him to the bed. He looked at Boromir's
grey face and hurried from the room. Faramir returned with him almost instantly. 

"I heard raised voices," his brother was saying, and then he saw Boromir and
rushed to him. 

Faramir looked at the washbasin and gave sharp instructions to Iorlas, then sat
on the bed, taking Boromir's hands. Boromir thought of the gifts Mardil had
given him, and he was sick on himself before Faramir could bring a basin to him. 

Faramir pulled off the soiled blankets. Iorlas returned with clean basins and
hot water, and a servant brought a steaming flask. Faramir took it to Boromir
and said, "Drink it." Boromir smelled it, and his stomach rebelled. It was hot
milk with a touch of mead, something he had not had since he was a child. 

"Get it away from me," he growled, but did not resist when Faramir held it to
his lips. 

Iorlas gathered up the soiled blankets and washbasin and departed with the
servant. 

Boromir's stomach relaxed slightly as the hot liquid soothed it. Faramir pulled
his soiled shirt off of him and cleaned  him with a steamy wet cloth. He rubbed
Boromir's face and arms briskly. Before he could finish, Boromir doubled over in
grief, sobbing. Faramir held him, uncomplaining when Boromir dug fingers into
his back. 

His pain was as fierce as if Mardil had died, for he was now dead to Boromir.
Dead. Even worse, the man he had loved had never really existed.

Iorlas was back in the room, busying himself with clean blankets, putting a
fresh washbasin on the stand. His face was drawn. Boromir's sobs halted, and
Iorlas knelt by the bed. 

"What can I do?" Iorlas asked.  The knowledge that he had destroyed something
Boromir thought precious haunted his face. 

"I need to talk to you," Boromir croaked. "Faramir, please leave us for a
moment."  He watched as Faramir immediately went to the door. Not a word of
reproach ever falls from his lips, Boromir thought. He shivered, and his stomach
twisted again. 

"Get me out of this bed," he asked Iorlas. 

***

Dressed in clean clothing, he sat at the table. Iorlas urged him to eat, and he
slowly chewed two pieces of bread. Iorlas gave him watered wine to wash it down. 

"I have but one question," Boromir said. "Why did you not tell me years ago?" He
could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Iorlas hunched miserably in his chair,. "I didn't know then; I found out this
year. I tried to tell you, but you would not listen." Iorlas took a sip of wine
and sat up straighter. 

"I heard hints of Mardil's dishonesty when I first became a soldier. He had more
money than could be explained. The rumors were that he had taken it from
brigands. I distrusted him because he always had a plausible explanation for the
money. A relative who had died and left it to him, for instance. Not all of my
dislike of him was rational." Iorlas smiled softly. "I hated him that night,
when he joined us at the fire and dazzled you." 

Boromir was too drained to react. "And that is why you said nothing?"

"Yes. I knew my motive was not an honorable one. I wanted you to dislike him as
much as I did. But . . . I saw him. I saw him take a purse from a dead soldier's
coat. It meant nothing to me at the time -- he could have been taking it for the
soldier's family --  then a month later I saw him take the purse out of his own
pocket and buy ale for everyone at an inn. That was when I knew. It all came
together: why he sought the most dangerous postings. Why he would be suddenly
flush." 

Boromir laid a hand on top of Iorlas's hand on the table. "It took courage to
tell me this." 

Iorlas shook his head. "I would have said nothing if you had agreed not to honor
Mardil. That, I could not live with. I could not bear to be the one who told
you. You will hate the sight of me now. I don't blame you."

Boromir took his hand and squeezed it. "I do not hate you." He smiled weakly.
"But I'm  a bit sick at the moment." 

They sat at the table for an hour. Iorlas pressed Boromir to drink more water
than wine. They spoke of other things. Iorlas's brother Beregond had married and
hoped to start a family. 

"My brother is after me to marry as well, and I might," Iorlas said. "Certainly
my brother seems happy enough." He smiled widely, and for a moment all the grief
was gone. "You and I are lucky men, for I see that, in your brother, you also
have a true friend. He will be a fine captain some day. He had me jumping and
scurrying!" 

"Tell my father that," Boromir said dryly. 

Iorlas laughed. "Boromir, do not blame your father overmuch. You shall always
outshine Faramir, I fear." He stopped smiling when Boromir's face clouded. 

"I am sorry," Iorlas said. "I did not mean to cause hurt. Alas, with you, I am
cursed to do so." 

Iorlas rose and gathered up his coat off of a chair. He had removed most of his
livery to prevent it from being soiled. 

"Don't go," Boromir said. The thought of being alone filled him with dread. He
stood and wrapped his arms around Iorlas, who yielded to his embrace instantly.
Boromir stepped away from him and secured the door, then turned back and
embraced Iorlas again. The slender body pressed into him and a long denied
hunger rose in him. 

They were the same height, so kissing was effortless. Boromir started out
gently, but the softness of Iorlas's response inflamed him. He wanted to push
the gentle man until he could take no more . . .  And he wanted to blot Mardil
out. 

Roughly, he pushed Iorlas onto the bed. Iorlas had on only a shirt and breeches,
the rest of his livery still hanging over a chair. Boromir pulled off his boots,
then his breeches, leaving Iorlas in his long shirt. He kept his eyes on
Iorlas's face while he undressed him. He watched, almost detached, as Iorlas
responded to his hard gaze: Iorlas could not lie still on the bed. 

Boromir stripped his own clothing off and lay down next to Iorlas, pulling a
blanket over them. He kissed Iorlas hard, leaving the man gasping. He lay on top
of the slender man and groaned with desire when Iorlas wrapped his legs around
Boromir's waist. 

"I want to take you," he whispered in Iorlas's ear, drawing pleasure from
Iorlas's shivers beneath him. 

His desire was urgent. He slid his hand between Iorlas's legs and stroked his
opening. Iorlas moaned and spread his legs wider. His hands were in Boromir's
hair, twisting it. He sucked on Boromir's neck. Boromir rubbed his erection
against the opening, testing it. Iorlas's body tightened.

"I have never done this," Iorlas gasped. 

Boromir pulled away slightly. His desire increased so sharply he almost drove
into Iorlas that moment. Watching the strong, slender body yearn for him, yield
to him . . .  He knew what it reminded him of. He wasn't going to think about
that now. He kissed Iorlas and stroked his nipples, trying not to smile as the
man moaned. 

"Have you done *nothing*, Iorlas?" he asked. 

"I was with a maid, three years ago," Iorlas panted. 

Using every bit of control he had, Boromir licked and sucked his way up and down
Iorlas's torso, ignoring the man's erection until Iorlas made frantic pleading
sounds. He took Iorlas in his mouth and caressed him with his tongue. With his
fingers, he teased the slender man's opening, stroking it, not pushing in. 

"If you don't stop now," Iorlas whimpered, "I'll come." 

Boromir pulled away and kissed Iorlas hard. "You don't come until I say so," he
said sternly into Iorlas's ear, nearly coming himself at the delightful way
Iorlas trembled beneath him at the words. 

 "Will you . . . " Iorlas closed his eyes and shivered.

"Don't worry, I'm going to take you," Boromir said, smiling as he thought of
Galdor. "Turn over; it will be easier for you." He moved the slender body so
that Iorlas was face down. He reached for the bottle of oil under the bed and
coated himself, then lay on top of Iorlas, lifting himself slightly, so he could
rub oiled fingers over the trembling man's opening. 

He gently pressed a finger in. Too tight. This was not going to work. Iorlas
pushed back, driving his finger in deeper. Perhaps it would work after all. He
pushed two fingers in and slowly moved them in and out, aiming the fingers in
the direction of Iorlas's navel. Iorlas moaned and pushed his buttocks against
Boromir. "Oh! Please Boromir do that again . . . " 

Boromir gritted his teeth,  his fingers telling him how good Iorlas was going to
feel.  He slid his fingers out and pressed his groin into Iorlas, sliding his
erection in the cleft of Iorlas's buttocks. He bit Iorlas on the neck. 

"Have you been saving this for me?" Boromir whispered. Iorlas cried out softly.
Boromir pressed himself in, going slowly. The effort left him gasping. He was
only halfway in when Iorlas pushed back against him. He heard sheets tear as
Iorlas dragged his fingernails down the bed. 

"Give it to me," Boromir panted. He thrust in and out at last. He pulled Iorlas
up onto his hands and knees. "Spread your legs. More." He stopped holding
himself back and pounded in. "I'm taking . . . what's mine. Give it to me,"
Boromir growled. Iorlas bit down on a cushion to stifle his cries. 

Boromir reached beneath Iorlas and grabbed the man's cock. It was slightly
smaller than his own, and was satiny in his hand. So smooth.  He groaned as
Iorlas pushed back against him to meet each thrust.  "Come for me!" The body
below him convulsed, and Boromir heard a muffled scream. Iorlas's come drenched
his hand. He let go of Iorlas's softening erection and grabbed the man's hips,
taking Iorlas until the man was limp beneath him. He came while biting down on
Iorlas's shoulder, shuddering, each aftershock taking him by surprise with its
fierceness. 

He moved off Iorlas and collapsed on the bed. Iorlas kissed him feverishly.
Boromir felt a wave of guilt and regret; he had imagined that the yielding body
beneath him was Faramir. *Forgive me, Iorlas. Forgive me, Faramir.* Boromir fell
asleep, a thought drifting through his mind: Mardil had perhaps known him better
than he had known himself. From now on, Boromir would never yield, only take.

***

He awoke in the middle of the night to find Iorlas gone. He was not surprised;
Iorlas would be protective of his lord's reputation. 

Boromir lay awake, thinking, for the rest of the night. In the morning, he
dressed and went in search of Galdor.

***

Galdor looked at Mardil's small farmhouse, then looked at Boromir. "Why are we
here?" Galdor asked. His face was sad. Boromir knew he was remembering his night
there with Wulf, Boromir, and Mardil. 

Boromir told him curtly about the source of Mardil's wealth. Galdor's face
darkened until it was purple. Boromir was sure that Galdor had known nothing of
it, yet he still felt relief at the confirmation he saw in Galdor's face. 

"Galdor, what was going on that night you and Wulf came here?" Boromir asked
when the man was slightly calmer, his face lightening to a mottled red. 

"Wulf saw you in the barracks and told me you were finally old enough to take
his fancy." Galdor smiled to himself. "He preferred big men," he explained
unnecessarily. 

"I gathered that," Boromir said softly. 

"So the two of us set out to seduce you. We knew about Mardil, of course. He was
the greatest arse bandit who ever lived." Boromir flinched and Galdor looked at
him curiously. "Not after he met you, Boromir. He was faithful to you. He loved
you; never forget that. I know it is tempting to think of him as without a shred
of goodness, but Men, and love, are not that simple."

"And you . . . " Galdor smiled at him fondly. "We were sure you were his lover.
After we spoke to you both in the mess, we wanted to have the two of you. You,
however, did not seem interested. You left when Wulf touched you under the
table. I, on the other hand, did not meet any resistance when I reached between
Mardil's legs." His face darkened again and he did not speak for a moment. 

"When Mardil left the mess, we followed him and made our feelings plain. Wulf
was crushed that you weren't interested, until Mardil said he could convince
you. He told us to come to the farmhouse and demand money for silence, and then
he would talk you into giving your body instead. He even told me to use my teeth
on the back of your neck if you showed reluctance." Galdor smiled, remembering.
"It sounded insane, but Wulf and I weren't thinking clearly at that point." 

Galdor paused and stroked Boromir's hair. "Wulf burned for you, shining one. And
so did I. If Mardil had asked us to dress as Orcs and pretend to ravish you, we
would have done it. Wulf did not show his feelings readily, but when he did, it
made him . . . " 

"Beautiful," Boromir said. Galdor nodded, his eyes wet. 

Galdor's recollections broke off. "How did Mardil convince you, by the way?" 

"He told me you threatened to harm my brother," Boromir said. 

"So that's why he did it. To put you in his debt." Galdor spoke to himself.
Galdor looked at the farmhouse as if he would smash it flat with one fist. "Why
are we here, Boromir?" he asked again.

Boromir went inside, searching for the dark blue box. He found it behind a loose
stone in the hearth. Galdor remained outside, so Boromir took it to him. "I want
you to give all of it to the families of the men who were killed in Osgiliath.
If there is any left over, I am sure you know of other soldiers' families who
are in need." 

Galdor nodded. "I will do it." He gestured to the house. "What of the rest of
his treasures?"

"Burn it." 

***

Boromir rode away, his heart light. For much of the night he had lain awake, for
a terrible realization had come to him: Mardil would not pay for what he had
done. He deserved death,  and Boromir could not charge his lover with his
crimes. Mardil would expect protection from him, and would not hesitate to force
Boromir into providing it by using any means he had at hand. And Mardil had so
much at hand. He could destroy Boromir, and, through him, Faramir. 

Galdor remained behind to make sure the fire did not burn out of control. Once
the house was fully engulfed, the tall man would raise the alarm. But not soon
enough to save the farmhouse, which would be reduced to ashes and blackened
stones.

Shining One Chapter Four

The next day, Boromir convinced the captains to drop the plan to honor Mardil by
resorting to a falsehood: that Mardil, because of his great friendship with
Boromir, would refuse it, fearing accusations of favoritism. To his great
relief, the captains believed him.  

Galdor reported to him that the fire had successfully destroyed the farmhouse,
and that the outlying buildings had not been harmed. Boromir sent a message to
Mardil about the fire, referring to it as an unfortunate accident, and waited
for the reply. 

He was uncertain as to what his next move should be. He could not send a message
to Mardil telling his former lover that he despised him and wished him dead. The
only man he would trust with such a message was Galdor, and Galdor could not
leave his post. He would have to wait until Mardil returned, and that was still
a month or more away. What he would do then, he did not know.

He walked to his rooms, already half asleep. It was late in the evening, for he
had met with Denethor and the captains after the evening meal.  He started,
seeing the body on his bed. Iorlas? 

Hurriedly, he secured the door, and his heart jumped when he saw it was Faramir,
dressed  in nightclothes. His brother was lying on top of the blankets. The air
was chill in the room, so Boromir tugged a blanket over him. 

Faramir opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused. "I came to say goodnight. I got
tired." 

Boromir playfully tousled his hair. Heat rose from Faramir's scalp. He touched
Faramir's cheek. It was burning. 

"Faramir! You're sick!"

"That must be why my head aches." Faramir grimaced when Boromir sat on the bed,
jostling him. Boromir ran to the Houses of Healing.

***

The Warden looked Faramir over carefully, then drew Boromir aside. "He must be
watched closely. Come fetch me if you see anything unusual on his skin. Check
him for rashes or spots every two hours." Boromir nodded. 

"May we leave him where he is?" the Warden asked. "I would prefer to keep him
away from my other charges."

"Yes, I'll take his room," Boromir replied quickly. 

The Warden shook his head. "I have a mind to keep you out of here, and certainly
out of his room. I do not wish this to spread."

Boromir overrode the Warden's objections. The Warden settled for sending a woman
from the Houses of Healing, who aided him in tending Faramir that night. The
fever worsened and Faramir groaned and tossed in his sleep. Every two hours,
Boromir and the woman undressed Faramir and examined his flushed body. After
doing this twice, they left him naked, changing the sweat soaked sheets when
needed. Boromir lifted Faramir as gently as he could while the woman freshened
the bed; his lightest touch caused Faramir agony. 

On the third day, the fever abated, and Faramir was alert.  Boromir sent the
woman back to the Houses of Healing. 

Faramir's body still ached, and his discomfort was so extreme, Boromir fetched
the Warden again.

"Does this hurt?" the Warden asked, rubbing a finger down Faramir's arm.

"Ow!"

The Warden laughed. "The pain will ease with time; it is an effect of the fever.
Foul humors build in the body. The only way to relieve the pain is to massage
the muscles." He rubbed Faramir's arm lightly, making him squirm. 

The Warden turned to Boromir. "Massage the muscles in the direction of his
heart. Two or three times a day ought to do it. He will feel much better
tomorrow."

The Warden left. Faramir looked at his brother with alarm. "Don't touch me!" 

Boromir laughed. "I must do as the Warden orders!" He left Faramir alone for the
moment, bringing him food and looming over his brother while he ate. 

Faramir sighed. "Don't you have something else to do? Such as shave?" 

Boromir rubbed his bristly chin. "I'm growing a beard," he said, surprising
himself. "And I'm going to cut my hair. Shoulder length." 

Faramir smiled. "I like the way you look with a beard. And a soldier shouldn't
have long hair; it gives the enemy something to hold onto." 

Boromir kissed his forehead. "I'll be back soon to give you your massage," he
threatened, and chuckled at Faramir's cry of woe.

***

Boromir returned far later than he had planned. The work of the prior two days
had descended on him. It was late in the evening when he returned to his rooms.
Faramir was asleep and looked healthier than he had that morning. Boromir put
wood on the fire until it was blazing hot. He shed clothing until he had on
nothing but breeches and his leather shirt. 

He sat on the bed next to Faramir and stroked his shoulder gently.

"Ow," Faramir said, waking. He tried to stretch, then grimaced. Boromir bent
over him and stroked his hair. "Even my hair hurts," Faramir said.

Boromir laughed and brought a washbasin and a soft towel to the bed. He pulled
off Faramir's nightshirt and wiped him down briskly. Faramir gave an occasional
gasp of pain.  Boromir had swabbed down his brother several times while the
healer had been with him, helping him to pretend immunity to the sight in front
of him. 

Faramir rolled over and Boromir held his breath as he rubbed the towel over
Faramir's buttocks.  

"Boromir, did the woman who was here do this?" 

Boromir chuckled. "Many times, brother. By now she knows you better than you
know yourself." 

"If I'm ever sick again, will you take care of me? I don't want someone I don't
know touching me like this." 

Boromir did not reply, losing his train of thought as he looked at the rosy skin
on the bed. He stood and helped Faramir into a clean nightshirt. "I'm putting
you on a chair. I need to change the sheets." 

Boromir lifted Faramir and carried him to a chair while Faramir rolled his eyes.
"I can walk, Boromir." 

"Yes, but you shouldn't have to."

Boromir had the bed ready again swiftly. Faramir insisted on getting back to it
on his own. Boromir refrained from saying anything while his brother made slow
and obviously painful progress. Before Boromir pulled the coverlets over
Faramir, he pulled his brother's nightshirt off.

"Oh, no." Faramir said. Boromir covered him with blankets and went back to the
fire, adding another log. He took off his shirt as Faramir watched with
trepidation. 

Boromir laughed and sat on the bed to Faramir's left. "It's not going to be as
bad as you think. It will hurt a little at first, but the pain should fade
quickly." He uncovered Faramir's arms and chest and rubbed Faramir's left arm in
long strokes, upwards from the wrist. His roughened hands scraped Faramir's
skin. 

Faramir grunted. "You're right. It isn't as bad as I thought. It's worse!'

Boromir looked guiltily at the red marks he had left on Faramir's flesh. A faint
blush mottled his throat as he reached under the bed, felt for a small bottle,
opened it, and poured oil into his hands. He rubbed his hands together to warm
the oil, then spread it on Faramir's left arm. Boromir's hands glided smoothly
and he could apply more pressure. 

Faramir relaxed and closed his eyes. "That's better," he murmured.

Boromir did not say a word as he oiled Faramir's arms, chest, stomach, and
shoulders. He rubbed hard, Faramir twitching occasionally. After twenty minutes,
Faramir opened his eyes and admitted, "It's helping. It doesn't hurt as much." 

Boromir smiled and continued with his work. Peace filled him as he rubbed
Faramir's body. He pushed down on Faramir's pectoral muscles, the nipples
hardening under his hands. Using the heels of his hands, he pressed in a
circular motion, his palms caressing the nipples over and over . . . 

"This room is getting too hot," Faramir complained sleepily, his eyes closed.
Boromir pulled the blankets off him and oiled his legs, making sweeping strokes
from Faramir's ankles to within an inch of his groin. Faramir relaxed further
into the bed, spreading his legs slightly. 

"You're good at this," Faramir said, not opening his eyes.

"I've had practice," Boromir said. And he had; Mardil had massaged  him many
times to relieve the pain after days in the saddle, or after a long march. He
shivered, remembering the talented hands. He had learned how to do the same for
Mardil. 

He pressed his hands down, stroking up the inside of Faramir's thighs. Oh, gods.
Faramir's body moved under his hands, arching into his caress. He saw Faramir's
cock swelling. Boromir hastily pulled the blankets up to Faramir's waist. 

"It's time for you to turn over," he said briskly. Faramir rolled over with a
contented groan. Boromir oiled his back and exerted more pressure, knowing that
this part of the body throve on it. Faramir sighed, then unmistakably moaned.

Boromir stopped. "Did that hurt?" 

"No! Do it again!" 

Boromir pressed down below Faramir's shoulder blades and was rewarded with
another moan. *This was a very bad idea*, Boromir thought. *And I am to blame. I
knew it would be this bad, I wanted it to be this bad . . . *

He pulled the blankets down, uncovering Faramir completely. He oiled him from
his waist to his ankles, then moved to the foot of the bed so he could press
down hard on Faramir's calves. He heard a grunt of pain. 

"That's the worst spot," Faramir said. 

Boromir worked on the backs of his brother's legs for what seemed like hours,
adding more oil as needed. He watched, mesmerized, as his hands traveled over
Faramir's glistening skin. The fire died down and Faramir shone in the dim
light. 

In the last year, Faramir's body had changed dramatically. Golden hair covered
his arms, legs, and upper chest, and his muscles were well defined under the
skin. From what Boromir had seen of his half hard cock, part of him was . . .
fully grown. He was beautiful, and threatening to become more beautiful still.
Boromir knelt and rubbed his hands from Faramir's knees to his waist, using the
heels of his hands again, sliding his hands over Faramir's buttocks. 

"I might fall asleep," Faramir muttered. Boromir choked back a laugh, as he felt
insanely alert. He had grown hard, and it was starting to hurt, especially when
he bent forward from the waist. 

He kneaded Faramir's rump. He could see down into the cleft, where oil had
trickled. As he sat back, he let his fingers trail through the cleft, as if by
accident. Imperceptibly, Faramir's hips lifted, and his back arched.

Boromir sat back on his haunches, frightened by his impulsive, intimate caress
of his brother. He longed to do it again. He had to get out of the room. Faramir
turned his upper body, looking at Boromir over his shoulder.  His eyes were half
closed. For a moment, Boromir was held by his gaze. Then he pulled the blankets
up to Faramir's shoulders and let out a ragged sigh. 

"You must be tired," Faramir said. His voice was drowsy, like the voice of a
lover. Boromir could not bear to hear it. 

"I'm fine," he said. Faramir looked at him curiously, alerted by Boromir's odd
tone of voice. Boromir resolved not to speak again. 

Faramir turned over completely onto his back and Boromir arranged the blankets,
pulling them up to Faramir's chin. He bent to kiss Faramir's forehead. Faramir
wrapped his arms around Boromir's neck, hugging him. 

"Thank you," he whispered. "I love you, Boromir." 

Boromir did not speak; his voice could not be trusted. Confusion appeared on
Faramir's face. 

"I love you, my shining one," Boromir said. He stood and left the room at a run.

He entered Faramir's room and closed and secured the door. He climbed onto
Faramir's bed, gathering the bedclothes that smelled of his brother in his arms.
Lying face down on the pile, he undid his breeches and stroked himself swiftly,
his hands still covered with oil. After his orgasm shuddered t