TITLE: Warriors of Gondor 

AUTHOR: HEL ( helthehorrible@yahoo.com )

RATING: R

PAIRING: Boromir/Faramir, mainly

WARNINGS: incest(barely, more later), slash, het,
violence, let me know if I missed something

ARCHIVE: Sure, let me know where.

DISCLAIMER: Inspired by Tolkien's lotr series, I own
nothing, and if I did I'd probably give it away.

SUMMARY: The two brothers growing up in war torn
Gondor. 

NOTES: I plan to write more following their lives
until after the ring is destroyed. 

SPOILERS: None

Part 25: HOPE

Eomer’s dream refused to let him go. Sometime in the night the two shieldmaidens who’d
joined him had left, telling him they had to get some sleep. Rolling up in his blankets,
he forwent thinking of companionship and sank into the dream. It was so vivid he could
even smell the women and men as Boromir wore them down into trembling piles of sated
exhaustion. It was such a lovely dream, especially after the weeks of subtle tension.

“Come, Eomer,” Theodred said entering the tent. “There are horses to gather and your
eored is already off to their herds.”

“Come here first, cousin,” Eomer said huskily, looking up at him with lust glazed eyes.
“The horses will still be there when we are done.” Throwing off his cover, he turned and
stretched on the furs exposing his body to the younger man.

Theodred’s mouth went dry as he walked to where his cousin was shamelessly running a
finger up his engorged cock, catching a drop of precum from its tip. “I take it Boromir
is no longer pining alone in the wilds,” he commented before grabbing the offered hand
and licking the salty liquid from the fingertip. He was able to shed his clothes quickly
as he’d dressed for riding, not fighting. “A fast ride on a good stallion would be an
agreeable way to start the day.”

Straddling Eomer, he slowly lowered himself onto the waiting erection. It had been a
while since they’d done this, so he took his time in adjusting to his cousin’s generous
cock. “I can see you going into battle like this, cousin,” Theodred said as he finally
was firmly seated against Eomer’s groin. “So full of lust, your breathing uneven, all
your muscles tense with your desire.” He rose so that just the tip of Eomer’s cock was
still within him. “You would impale the enemy with your stout spear.” On the word spear,
he dropped down quickly, causing the man beneath him to arch in pleasure.

“Yes, my liege,” Eomer hissed.

“You would wield your mighty sword with the skill of a great warrior,” Theodred whispered
as he wrapped his cousin’s hand around his own raging cock. “You would pleasure yourself
in the blood of our enemies.” He moved his body swiftly, ascending and descending on
every other word.

In only moments, Eomer was lost in surrender to his strong, young cousin. Theodred was
not long in finding his own release as Eomer firmly stroked him. After a few minutes of
resting his head on Eomer’s chest to catch his breath, Theodred sat up and looked into
his sated cousin’s eyes.

“Come, Eomer,” he told him. “It is time to ride with the herds. Time to feel the power of
a good steed beneath us, the wind in our hair. It is time for us to range the open
steppe.”

There was no hesitation as they both dressed and went to their mounts, ready to ride as
they’d been bred to do. It was good to ride free beneath the autumn sun and feel the hope
that was so hard to come by rise in their hearts.


“There is no need for you to join the Steward for dinner tonight, Uncle,” Borril said
once they’d finished discussing the day’s meetings. He sat close against Faramir’s side,
leaning his head on his uncle’s shoulder, Calinir mirroring him on the other side. “Or at
all tomorrow either. I already told him that this was a particularly strong vision and
that I expected you to take longer to recover than usual.”

“It is only an indulgence, nephew,” Faramir smiled as he brushed Calin’s hair from his
face. The young man sat on the floor between his feet resting his head on his sire’s
thigh as he had done since childhood. “I should not have given in today or yesterday.
There is still much to be done.”

“Listen to him, Uncle,” Calinir’s voice joined his brother’s. “Everyone could see the
strain that has been growing upon you. If you overextend yourself now, who will be there
to take care of us when you are needed?”

“Besides,” Borril added with a wide grin, “if you’ve run out of bedmates already I can
find plenty of more-than-willing people from my own household. It can’t be easy, this
contact with our sire as he ravishes an entire town. Maybe he should have taken a
companion with him; I bet he never thought of this aspect of traveling alone.”

“Neither did I, Borril,” Faramir said with his own grin. “We’ve been apart but never
alone before.”

“Think of it as indulging him, my sire,” Calin said, watching the ever-present guilt
disappear momentarily from his Faramir’s face. “He knows you are with him, he can feel
it. After so much time alone, doesn’t our beloved Lord Boromir deserve a little
indulgence?”

Throwing his head back in defeat, Faramir sighed deeply. His two nephews smiled down at
their cousin who always seemed to know just the right words.


“I’m glad to see that you have finally recovered,” Denethor said as Faramir took his seat
at the breakfast table. “Our forces along the Anduin and in Ithilien have need of your
inspection, I would wager. It is easy for men to become lax when left without
supervision.’

“I can set out after the midday meal,” Faramir confirmed, even though he had full
confidence in his field commanders. It would be good to be outside the city and out from
under the Steward’s heavy scrutiny. He’d never told his father of the bond with his
brother, or of the dreams they shared. There was a bit of guilt in not sharing with him
that Boromir was well and in the company of others, but he knew that Denethor’s jealousy
would make sharing that news dangerous. So he kept his silence.

“So, you are confident that you will be able to fulfill your brother’s duties?” Denethor
asked, testing his youngest son’s resolve.

“Of course, my Lord Steward,” Faramir answered with no trace of wavering. “We thoroughly
discussed what needed to be done, I am quite sure of my duty. I am acting as his agent as
he instructed me.”

“Tomorrow should be soon enough for your tour,” the Steward said with a nod. “That will
give Borril time to bring you up to date with everything you have missed.”

“As you wish, my Lord Steward,” Faramir acknowledged with a hidden smile. Things couldn’t
be going better.

There seemed to be a lessening of tension around the table as the lords present listened
to his words. Even though they all had plenty of confidence in Faramir, they still needed
more because of the Steward’s lack of support. Borril smiled broadly, as did Calinir, at
Denethor’s words, though Calin kept his same stoic countenance. Those who wished to
ferment discord amongst the ruling houses of Gondor drew sustenance from their seeming
discord. It would not be many more months before moves would be made to claim the power
in Minas Tirith.


There were other places in the White Tower that were just as secure, but Borril had grown
used to meeting here. Everything they needed was in the desk; the room and its contents
were not only magically protected, but also constantly occupied by three or more of the
most loyal members of the ‘House’. Also, he was honest enough to admit to himself, he’d
developed the same voyeuristic urge as his Ada to watch his uncle and sire as they had
seemingly endless rounds of sex. That they would remember the conversations around them
while so occupied was an added bonus.

Occasionally he had seen a thing or two that he’d later used with his own wife, but other
than that, there was nothing really arousing to him about their activities. He knew that
if he’d ever felt the urge he could have joined them, for they would deny him nothing,
the same for all his siblings and cousins. But being here was more of a comfort than a
thing of desire. It let him know that he was loved and trusted in the heart of the
family, which was more important to him than anything else.

Calinir and Calin were a little less circumspect. Often, they would stop what they were
doing to watch with unveiled interest what was happening. He knew that they’d ventured
into the oversized bed a time or two, but had only seen them brush sweaty locks of hair
from lust filled faces or press soft kisses to their sire or uncle’s face. They had three
wives at home, shared like their mothers shared and even another husband to make it an
even six in the adults in their family. Here, they had only each other and the few they
allowed to join them from time to time, such as Borril, whom they had always welcomed.

Today, Calinir was dressed as Calin and vise versa, an exercise they did a couple of
times a month to stay in practice. They were identical physically, even their eye color
and hair shade, but their dress and manner in public made them so distinctive from each
other that few realized how close the resemblance was. No one had spotted the deception
yet, but they kept their distance from the Steward, knowing that he often saw more than
he revealed.

The three of them had never known anyone who could think of Faramir without noting his
beauty. Even the Steward’s eye could be caught filled with lust as he watched his
youngest son on the practice field or when the sun turned his auburn hair to that glowing
color. Naked, he was beyond compare; the designs carved and colored into his flesh
highlighted his lean form as he drove his large cock relentlessly into the body below
him.

This morning, it was Stefle who had been unable to hide his growing melancholy at his
Lord Boromir’s long absence. His hands were clenched into the sheets and he was no longer
able to cry out in pain or pleasure after the long hours that Faramir had spent fucking
him into the bed. They waited patiently, knowing that the rising sun would soon see him
riding out of Minas Tirith. All of the plans had been made and the details worked out for
the next several months, only a few signatures were needed. But neither Borril nor Calin,
in this case actually Calinir, would be present as Faramir left the White City. Today’s
version of Calinir would escort the Steward’s youngest son to Great Gate, causing
speculation on the loyalties of the three young men.


Riding alongside the caravan leader, Boromir was fascinated at their method of
transportation. Teams of donkeys pulled laden barges up the wide river. It was something
he would never had thought of and it amazed him how much the little creatures could pull
while the steersmen kept the barges on course with long poles that they used to push the
craft away from obstacles. He wondered if the method would work in Gondor, after the war
was over, of course.

The riverbank had been cleared of brush and trees for the barges and it was fairly easy
going. He had plenty of time to observe the countryside and the customs of the
inhabitants. The towns were spaced close enough that each night was spent within
protective stockades or next to them. The few parties of orcs and goblins were easily
overcome.

As they came closer to Mirkwood, he began to see elves. At first, it was hunting parties
that would parallel the caravan for a while. Then, as the river entered the forest, there
would be smaller groups and sometimes individuals who would approach the caravan master
to discuss possible trades. They were thin and tall and almost blindingly beautiful, but
something about their carriage made Boromir think of children when he saw them. Their
voices were fair and they always acknowledged Boromir’s presence with a slight bow, which
he returned, though none of them addressed him directly.

“They used to ride alongside us and join us in our camps at night,” the caravan master
said as the latest group rode away, having warned them of a band of orcs in the area.
“But since the fighting has broken out, they have been less friendly. King Thranduil
doesn’t much care for men or any of the other races; rumor says he even avoids many of
the other elves. But his sons are a different story, there are often competitions between
them that spill out of the forest and into the cities of men and dwarves. I’ll be very
surprised if we don’t find a couple of them wagering in Esgaroth when we get there. They
seem to know who you are though, or at least your rank.”

“I’ve been told that I have a reputation, even in these parts,” Boromir laughed, his eyes
constantly watching the surrounding forest, which was thick in this area.

“Yes, there have been many who have wished to tell me tales they have heard of you and
your brother as we have been traveling,” the older man told him. “Hopefully, you won’t
have to put your martial skills to the test. So far, it has been very quiet on our
journey.”

It was only moments later that Boromir peered into the overhanging forest ahead and
slowed his horse, which was fidgeting nervously. “I think we may have unwelcome company
ahead,” he told his companion. “Orcs, by the smell of them.”

At the Caravan Master’s signal, several of the guards came forward to ride with Boromir
to check out the suspicious section of the trail. With his shield in place and his sword
drawn, the Steward’s son led them into the thickening trees. It took only moments to
discover that an ambush had indeed been established. Boromir led the others to charge, as
he felt sure they could easily overcome their adversaries.

These northern orcs were smaller then the Uruks he was used to dealing with and not
nearly as good at setting traps. Still smarting from having to run from the group south
of Lorien, he was merciless in his attack. He’d always hated orcs of any variety and took
great pleasure in killing them, as did his borrowed mount. Even in the dense brush at the
side of the road, they managed to find and kill their prey.

After a few minutes, he heard the sound of arrows and saw that elves were in the trees
overhead raining death on their common foes. It was only after all the orcs were dead
that Boromir realized that only ten of the guards from the caravan had followed him this
deep into the forest. As the elves dropped from the trees to gather their arrows, their
leader approached Boromir.

“It seems that you live up to at least half of your reputation, Lord Boromir,” came the
beautiful, melodious voice. “I am Ororin, third son of Thranduil the King. If my father
wasn’t waiting for my report, I’d tarry to find out if the other half was as accurate.”

“I am glad to meet you, Ororin,” Boromir replied with a polite nod of his head and a
wink. “And would be glad to prove my reputation when there is time. For now, I seek
Imladris, which I’ve been told lies on the other side of your forest.”

“If I could spare even one of my company to guide you, I would, my Lord,” Ororin told
him. “With the awakening of Dol Guldur, the forest has become infested with the monsters
of the dark ones and it is unsafe, even for our people. If you join the caravan into the
forest from Esgaroth, I will try to arrange for you to travel with the next courier to
Imladris. That is the best I can do for now.” Looking over Boromir’s shoulder, he saw the
rest of the caravan guards approaching. “If you could make sure that this offal is taken
care of properly, we will be off?” he asked, anxious to be on his way.

“I’ll make sure that none of these are left to pollute the forest,” Boromir assured him,
though he was disappointed.


Nothing he’d ever seen before could have prepared him for the sight of the Long Lake. The
sea was larger and wilder, but this was a work of men. The small lake before they reached
it was larger than anything he was used to in Gondor, and at first he thought it was
their destination. Then he saw the dam rising above it at the other end and knew that he
was in for something special. It took them a whole day to unload the barges and load the
pack animals to haul their cargo up the portage to their goal.

As they topped the hill and he saw the lake, he was astonished that it disappeared in the
distance. The huge stone wall that held the water back had been there for centuries.
Planned by a man and built with the cooperation of men and dwarves. It was not a large
construction compared to Minas Tirith and some of the other Gondorian marvels, but it was
still impressive.

They reached Esgaroth just before sunset. Boromir took his leave from the caravan master
as soon as he was sure there were no caravans leaving to the west the next day and his
mount and baggage were safe for the night. He was intercepted by an agent of the Master
of the Town and escorted to the main hall. Brushing at his clothes as he walked to remove
some of the trail dust, he wished he’d been given time to clean up before having to
present himself. It was more a city than a town, with business booming despite the
growing orc and goblin problem.

His footsteps echoing on the broad wooden walkways stretching over the water, Boromir
strode toward his destination. There were faces peering at him from the surrounding
houses and openly staring from the sides of the path. Esgaroth was equally as impressive
as the lake itself, having spread to the far side, though there were fewer platforms near
the middle where the water was deepest. The main hall was located there and was actually
a floating building attached to large pylons, which held it in place.

Despite the layer of trail dust he knew was still with him, Boromir felt confident that
his appearance was suitably impressive as those within the hall turned startled eyes upon
him. No doubt the story of the ambush along the river had preceded him, adding to the
already over-exaggerated (to his mind) reputation that had spread here in the north. But
he was more than willing to use that reputation if it helped him to accomplish his goal,
the quicker the better.

The Town Master rose to greet him, giving him the deference he would to one of
Thranduil’s sons, and Boromir accepted it as his due. In his life, he had only bowed to
his father and then, only in high ceremony, and he would bow to no other except his king.
He felt a pang at the thought of his king and his head turned to the west of its own
volition, as if he would be able to see something. There had been a growing anxiety in
his heart for the last few days that was definitely coming from the west. Turning back to
his host, he smiled an apology, which was quickly accepted, and joined him at the head
table.

The other people along the river didn’t keep track of time in the same way that Boromir
was used to, but here in Esgaroth they used the old Numenorean calendar. To his surprise,
he learned it was the 10th of October, making his journey now ninety-six days. Suddenly
he felt almost desperate to reach Imladris and solve the riddle his brother and he had
heard in their dreams. It pushed him to inquire of the Town Master if any were to be
heading into the west. By the end of the meal, he’d managed to convince the man to send
him with a single escort into Mirkwood to ask aid of its king, as the men of Esgaroth had
close ties with the wood elves.

As the food was finished, the main section of the hall was cleared for dancing and
musicians began setting up for an evening of celebration. It wasn’t often that such a
distinguished person came from so far away. He joined in the merry-making even though his
heart wasn’t into it. It would have been rude to refuse. As his eyes roved the hall he
recognized the three musicians Faramir and he had rescued years ago in Anorien. Moments
later, he was joined by the twins Felida and Feleda, now showing a few signs of age,
though still beautiful.

Later he found himself in their bed with their two husbands who were also twins, a most
happy circumstance as far as he was concerned. Since he’d been given no clear idea of how
far his journey would be yet, he decided to make the most of this night. Lying on his
back with Felida impaled on his hard cock and her husband buried balls deep in her ass,
he reveled in the feel of them. Feleda and her husband lay one on each side of him, their
hands and mouths touching him everywhere. It wasn’t as good as when he was with Faramir,
but some part of him could still tell that the two women had been with his brother
before. It eased his heart somewhat and he could almost hear the voice of his beloved
little brother.


In his bed in Henneth Annun, Faramir felt his brother’s contact with the twins. It made
him smile as he thought of the nights they had spent with them nine years previously. The
young ranger who straddled his hips and rode his hard cock held only part of his
attention as he let the bond with his brother feed his lust. It was so good to be able to
share this in their limited contact, making Faramir hope that Boromir would always have
companions with him until he returned home.


It had been made clear to Eowyn before they’d even started that it was a dangerous
endeavor to test the blood of a wizard’s minion. Still, it took only a moment and the
slightest of mistakes to demonstrate what could happen. The knife lay on the dressing
table waiting to be cleaned of its sample of blood. As Brinel stepped closer to the
table, her knee gave out again and without volition her hand went to catch her balance,
her fingers coming in contact with the blade.

At her choked cry, Eowyn turned from a cupboard where she was gathering supplies to see
what had happened. She saw Brinel’s hand held out before her slowly blackening and
withering, small wisps of smoke rising above it as if it were burning in invisible
flames. The older woman had her other hand nearly all the way in her own mouth to stifle
the screams she couldn’t quite hold back. From the lore she had learned, Eowyn knew
instantly what had happened and grabbed an axe from its place on the wall, rushing toward
her beloved companion, hoping she wasn’t too late.

Knowing that she was immune to whatever potions Grima might ingest, she grabbed the
shriveling limb and pulled it outward so the she could have a clear strike at it. As she
straightened the dying arm, it came away in her hand and she watched Brinel slowly sink
to the floor, the withering blackness rising up her neck to her beautiful face. Dropping
the axe and the disintegrating appendage, Eowyn stepped back and could only bite her lips
in horror as her friend, teacher and confidant turned into a pile of dust before her
eyes.

Beside Eowyn, Rina took several shallow breaths, followed by a deep one as her automatic
systems took over and she prepared to scream. Again acting on her careful training, the
princess turned and slapped the young maid hard enough to knock her to the bed. “Be
quiet, you fool,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “We cannot let this be discovered.”

Tears streaking her face, Rina nodded in agreement, the blow helping to bring her to her
senses.

“Build up the fire, I will dispose of everything there,” Eowyn said, battling her own
tears, knowing that too much would be revealed if Grima discovered Brinel’s fate. With
half choked sobs, she gathered the ashy remains in the now almost empty clothing. ‘It is
too soon, I still need you,’ her heart cried out to her now dead mentor.

“It never hurt you, my Lady,” Rina whispered through her tears.

“He has to make sure I am immune to his poisons if he is to claim me,” Eowyn said
bitterly. “But my maids are not immune, so bethink you, a moment’s inattention can loose
all. You are all I have left, Rina, do not fail me.” As the maid wept at her feet,
swearing her undying allegiance, the princess worked her own minor magic to hide what had
happened from any eyes that may be prying. She regretted not being able to speak with
Gandalf when he’d come to see her uncle; she might have been able to learn more.

But Grima had been able to keep her from exchanging more than a few innocuous words
before the wizard had been rushed from the hall. Eowyn knew that her allies within the
city of Edoras and Meduseld itself were beginning to become dangerously thin. To hold the
Riddermark, they needed the Eorlingas afield, so she was becoming isolated amongst her
enemies. She hoped that she would be strong enough to hold against the rising tide.


It was just after the evening meal when Grima felt the wave of unease that told him some
magic associated with the endless spells his master had cursed him with was occurring.
Since he was attending the king, he couldn’t rush to his scrying bowl to see what it was.
He could only hope that the White Wizard would know and that he would be willing to share
his knowledge with his servant. Often, Saruman would scoff at him and berate him for his
weaknesses, only telling him what he thought was absolutely necessary. It had been part
of his training that he be kept fully aware of just how
was.

Wiping the drool from the king’s chin, he decided it was just as well that he didn’t know
everything. He wasn’t even sure that the wizard himself even knew half of what was going
on. If he had found out about Grima’s weakening in the presence of both Boromir and
Eowyn, he would have punished his servant in any of a thousand horrible ways. When no
retribution had come from Isengard, Grima had begun to believe that maybe the all-seeing
eyes of the palantiri weren’t as infallible as he’d been told. Maybe somewhere in the
future he would be able to make a break from the evil wizard that held him as thrall. As
unlikely as that was, in a small corner of his heart he held to the smallest bit of hope.

Only time would tell.


The smell of the endless fires and unwashed orcs no longer registered in Saruman's mind
as he watched the busy production going on below him. He smelled only victory as a steady
stream of uruk-hai moved about the business of preparing for war. Despite the escape of
Gandalf, there would be no escape for the race of men. Already the Ringwraiths were on
the move, scouring Middle Earth for the one ring, and soon his own hosts would join in
the hunt.

A small tendril of unease touched him, some disturbance in the magics he had cast over
Rohan. It was too small, or too shielded for him to be able to tell what it was. There
were so many spells he had set in motion there. He would see if he could catch it on the
palantir later, if not it was too insignificant for his notice. After all, he was
destined for greater things and nothing in that primitive land could seriously challenge
him. Soon, his uruk-hai would destroy the horsemen's forces and his agent in Edoras would
take over the throne. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to think of the beautiful, haughty
princess forced to marry Grima, who was nothing more than his creature, owned body, heart
and soul.

In the end, it would be Saruman who would triumph. He had been working toward his goals
for a very long time and knew all the players well. When Boromir returned, his orcs would
succeed in making sure the Steward’s son never made it back to Minas Tirith alive. Then
it would be a simple matter to take the power in Gondor from the doddering and greedy
Denethor. Faramir was too weak to resist him, and already Borril and Calin were showing
signs of being as corruptible as their grandfather.

It was clear to him that there was no way he could fail. The weak men of Rohan and Gondor
could cling to their vain hopes. But in the end, it would do them no good.


Part 26: THROUGH THE WOODS

It had been approved for older boys to stay behind in Minas Tirith if they had an adult
relative to look after them. The boys knew that they were to spend a portion of each day
helping to garrison the city, mostly by working as messengers and food and water bearers.
Still, time was made for them to spend time in play after their work and lessons were
completed for the day.

As Calin watched one of the large supply drays come through the main gates, he noticed
two young boys riding on one of the oxen that pulled it. Dirty and dusty from the road,
he almost didn’t recognize them. Barely a year apart in age at eight and nine they were
even harder to tell apart than he and his cousin Calinir.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked them as he took one in his arms and turned so the
other could climb on his back as he walked beside the oxen. Carrying them to the side of
the road he placed them both on the ground in front of him, careful to keep a hand on
each.

“We’ve come to help protect the city, brother,” Sayil, who was youngest but most daring,
told him.

“Our mother doesn’t need our help anymore, cousin,” Faril added. “She has returned to her
life in the brothel and left us with Belgar, who has no need for us either.”

“So he sent you both here, little ones?” Calin asked, knowing that he would never do such
a thing, especially since they seemed to be without escort.

“We didn’t see the need to bother him with such petty details as ourselves,” Sayil told
him with an impish grin.

“We do not belong in Lamedon,” Faril continued. “The city is our home.”

“Just as I thought,” Calin informed them. “We will see what Borril has to say about your
mischief. He is in charge of the family here while our sires are gone.”

The two boys looked at each other with wide grins. Borril was a favorite of theirs and
they knew that he would wait until Faramir returned before sending them back into exile.
That would give them a chance to convince everyone that their place was here in the city
they had always called home.


They were woken before dawn by a messenger Prince Ororin had sent to escort Boromir to
him. Dressing quickly, Boromir was more than happy to have a personal guide into
Mirkwood. Hopefully, it would shorten his journey so that he could return home to his
brother. The night spent with the twins had added to the homesickness that was beginning
to beleaguer him.

To Boromir’s surprise, they didn’t follow the river but headed directly west toward the
forest. Chail, his guide and obviously half-elven, started out at a ground-eating canter,
which barely diminished when they entered the dark wood. The trail was narrow, but
Boromir’s mount was well able to keep pace with the half-elf’s horse. He couldn’t help
but notice that his guide was not quite as good a horseman as his brother, and no where
near Eomer. The thought of the two of them caused another flash of loneliness as he
watched Chail, who had long brown hair and wasn’t anything at all like them.

There was no chance to speak with each other until almost midday, when they reached a
wider bit of trail and dismounted, leading their horses to rest them. “Prince Ororin was
most favorably impressed with your ability to fight and your bravery, your grace,” Chail
let him know. “It is also known that, despite the lack of aid from Lorien, you evaded a
large force of orcs while traveling the borders of that land. There is a long-time feud
between our king and the White Lady, so it pleased him to allow you special passage
through his realm.”

“I will be glad to give him my thanks, Chail,” Boromir replied courteously.

“I doubt you will get the chance, your grace,” the half-elf answered. “The fighting has
increased in the south and King Thranduil leads most of his fighters against the minions
of the dark. The only princes not at his side are Ororin, who guards the home caverns,
and Legolas, his youngest son, who is now on his way to Rivendell from the south as
emissary.”

Nodding at Chail’s words, Boromir continued at the quick pace his guide had set. They
talked companionably as they went, although each kept a wary eye to the surrounding
woods. The Steward’s son learned that Chail’s mother had given him his name from her
people who had originated further north and east than Esgaroth. The half-elf told him of
his people, both Silvan elf and human. He was much older than he looked, over three
hundred years, and had participated in many wars and battles. He’d seen the dragon Smaug
drive the dwarves from Erebor and nearly destroy Esgaroth, only in turn to be driven out
and destroyed himself. At Dol Guldur, he’d nearly been killed as he rode with the elvish
forces to drive Sauron out of Mirkwood. Again, Boromir felt pangs for Faramir. How his
brother would love to hear these tales from one who had been there.

It was nearing dusk when Chail slowed and called out to a guard that was hidden in the
trees before them. Boromir was gratified that he’d spotted the guard before his guide, in
fact had been noticing others among the foliage for a while now. Some had smiled in
acknowledgement when he looked at them, while others ignored him. But he felt no doubt
that they all knew he’d seen them, while his companion had barely noted one or two.
Despite his age and experience, Chail spent too much time indoors to be a real woodsman.

To Boromir’s surprise, they were led to a well hidden cave entrance, which was barely
wide enough for their horses to enter. The interior was well lit; it could almost have
been one of the passages through the walls of Minas Tirith. Tired from the long day, he
followed his guide into the caverns of Mirkwood.


It had been amazingly easy for Mordel to join the ranks of servants in the White Tower.
Many had been evacuated to safer posts, leaving a large number of vacancies. It had
helped that his references were impeccable, even if they were unable to be checked
thoroughly with all the confusion in Anorien. Hopefully, by the time any faults were
found it would be too late for anything to be done about it.

Stefle, who kept an ever-vigilant eye on those who served the Steward and his sons,
assigned him to mostly minor and unimportant tasks. But, with the months of comparative
calm after Boromir had departed Gondor on his quest, it hadn’t been difficult for him to
slowly bring himself to the Steward’s notice. Mordel had been trained to gain the
Steward’s trust, and was firmly ensconced as his chief servant by the first day of fall.
Now, as the day for the reinstated harvest festival approached, he was nearly ready to
begin acting on some of the plans that his master had been forced to abandon when Galmar
had been killed.

Saruman was well aware that his minion had been executed by the Steward’s sons, even if
Denethor didn’t know it himself. That left Mordel with only the smallest and most
unreliable of networks to help in his efforts, as well as the knowledge that certain
death awaited if he was discovered. So he felt little joy as he made his way to the
Steward’s private chamber, advancing one more plot to bring down the ‘House of Hurin’.
But he was a more cautious creature than his predecessor and had taken every precaution.
The one constant for the agents of Saruman was that failure meant death.


The horses were long gone, led away by elves who’d assured Boromir that his mount would
be well cared for. He had little choice but to trust them since he would be lost in the
labyrinthine tunnels if he tried to set out on his own. After about an hour, they came to
a large, well-lit hall where Ororin was waiting with food laden tables.

“I’m glad you could join me, my Lord Boromir,” the prince told him, taking his hand in a
firm clasp. “I was worried that Chail might have missed you.”

“I’m glad he found me so quickly and that you were able to help me with my journey, your
Highness,” Boromir said.

“My father was most pleased with your aid with the orcs and decided that it would be only
proper to aid you in your quest,” Ororin said with a broad smile as he ushered Boromir to
a chair at the high table. “I hope you will accept an evening’s hospitality from me
before beginning your quest in the morning?”

Looking about the beautiful hall, Boromir was impressed with its opulence. It was far
beyond anything he had ever seen. “Your father’s hall is most glorious and I would be
more than happy to spend this eve with you. If my journey didn’t beckon, I’d gladly stay
longer.”

Ororin looked surprised at his words, then laughed good-naturedly at his guest’s mistake.
“This is my hall, Lord Boromir,” he told him, pressing a warm hand to his shoulder to
make sure he didn’t take offense. “Compared to my father’s hall, this is but a side-room.
It has been nearly six thousand years that we have been building and expanding our home.
The depredations of the dark one keep us from building in the trees as some elves do, but
I think our halls are comfortable enough to suit our needs.”

Joining his host in laughter, Boromir looked around the hall again. “I don’t think you
need envy any, elf, dwarf or man, my Prince,” he said with a smile. “After all, your own
beauty outshines the brightest jewels and is worth more than the best mithril.”

Ororin laughed again at his words. “You flatter me, Boromir,” he said huskily. “Of course
you haven’t met my father yet, who is of the oldest and most glorious of the Sindarin,
even if others call him wild. Or my youngest brother, Legolas, who is the most beauteous
combination of Sindarin and Silvan elf. He is the only son of my father and his treaty-
wife from the marriage that gave him control of the whole north of Greenwood the Great. I
am indeed fortunate that he has already departed for Imladris, or you would not be able
to pull your eyes away from him.”

“No, it is I who am fortunate, my Lord Prince,” Boromir assured his host. “If my brother
had accompanied me, none would have noticed my presence. He outshines me like the sun
does the moon. But I think you and I shall fare well enough in each other’s company.”

With that, they turned to their meal and shared it with great amusement and familiarity.
Each was confident in his own appeal, while sure that their younger brothers would have
cast them into shadow.


Rarely were there fires in Henneth Annun. It was never cold enough to need heating and a
hot spring in one of the lower caves allowed them to warm their food and bathe without
betraying smoke. The inner caves were lit by smokeless candles, though they mostly
counted on filtered daylight to see the maps and dispatches they needed. Faramir missed
the great fireplace that added a comforting crackle nearly year round in his bedroom in
the White Tower. It always calmed him and helped him to clear his thoughts. Without that
aid, he stood in the shadows behind the great waterfall and gazed at the surrounding
forest.

He could almost hear the whispering of elves. In the months since his brother had left,
he seemed to hear the voices of the past more often and with more clarity. He didn’t mind
the elves; their voices were usually raised in song and laughter, fair noises from a fair
people. Tonight’s murmurs blended with thoughts of Boromir and he knew without a doubt
that his beloved brother ate in elvish halls. It seemed to echo through his mind and he
hoped that it was a sign that he had reached his goal, but the underlying tension
wouldn’t let him believe. It had taken him so long already that he despaired of seeing
Boromir again before the end of the year.

With a sigh, he turned away from the forest and back to his room for the night. The
Steward expected him to return soon and he needed to make sure all his reports were
complete before he retired. Even with his and Boromir’s children so close to Denethor,
there were still many things that could go wrong. He tried not to let his sadness show in
his gait as he made his way to the room.


It always surprised Denethor that this new servant, Mordel, could make his favorite tea
as well as Galmar had been able to. Or at least it was close enough to fool his memory.
He felt as if he must have done something right somewhere to be rewarded with one who fit
so well in the shoes of his lost serving man. When the servant had quietly followed him
to the room at the top of the tower and stripped before placing his hands against the
wall in the place that had been worn smooth by decades of similar usage, the Steward knew
he had at last found someone who could again fulfill his needs. The echo of the whip in
the nearly bare room was soothing to his nerves, calming him.

Mordel was much younger than Galmar had been and Denethor felt he might have many years
of service from him. He was beginning to feel like he could cope with Boromir’s absence
and having to rely on Faramir in his place. His grandsons were a comfort to him, but they
would never provide him with this. And this is what he had always needed, since the years
when he was just a teenager when Galmar first came and showed him.


It was late and Boromir was just getting ready to follow Ororin to his lodging for the
night when a messenger rushed into the hall. Orcs had broken through in one of the
southern caverns and the whole stronghold would be endangered if they managed to
establish a stronghold. Boromir was quick to offer his aid.

“I am grateful for your offer, Lord Boromir,” Ororin told him. “But it would delay you
far too long. There are many gathering at Imladris and I feel that it is important that
you share your news of the far south and the black land with them. Chail knows the way, I
will have him lead you. You can travel much of it through the western caverns, but you
will have to cross the Misty Mountains on one of the northern passes. It will still be
nearly two weeks before you reach your destination.” He paused at Boromir’s look of
protest. “This is not the first time we have faced our foe, and there are many things
which give us advantage in this effort,” he assured Boromir. “Trust me and the knowledge
of our people, we will drive them back before you reach the edge of the forest. I’m not
sure that you will be able to reach Imladris before it is too late.”

Boromir was used to his brother’s premonitions and easily accepted the elf prince’s. He
would miss a chance to fight at his side, but his quest drew him on. He also felt the
need for haste in his journey. Therefore, he spent a few hours in rest before starting
out on the final leg of his quest.


It was cold in the pass. Though they had been able to swing further south than they
originally hoped, it had taken over a week of travel, topped by this seemingly endless
climb. Thankfully, it hadn’t snowed and their only obstacle was the never ending cold
which froze everything. Even Chail suffered greatly from the cold.

To their surprise, an outpost was set up at the top of the pass. A small building,
obviously built to be defensible, held a small group of elves. Their leader greeted
Boromir warmly and offered him shelter for the coming night. “I can have someone lead you
the rest of the way tomorrow. It is a four day ride and my Lord Elrond asks that you make
haste, for there is much evil afoot and he would have the son of the Steward of Gondor
give his counsel.”

“It is I who would be grateful for his advice,” grinned Boromir. “But I will do my best
to aid where I can. If my mount is fed and rested well this night, the journey may be
quicker. He was loaned to me by Eomer of Rohan from his personal stock and I doubt there
are many who could beat him on the trail.”

“I will send my best to guide you then, my Lord,” the elf smiled in challenge. “I think
urgency warrants that we put your horse to the test.”


It was only a few hours before sunrise, not quite forty-eight hours later, when Boromir
and his guide reached the top of a ridge that marked the northern boundary of Rivendell.
A new escort waited to lead him the rest of the way to the ‘Last Homely House’, which is
what Lord Elrond called his home. His gelding was showing signs of fatigue, but was
clearly in much better condition than his guide’s mount. It made Boromir proud to receive
praise for the breeding and training skills of Eomer.

As he followed at a steady lope down the trail, he could see the lights in the near
distance marking their goal. In less than an hour, he would be in Imladris. It had taken
him one hundred ten days to reach the fabled land. He prayed to all Valar that it would
hold the key to defeating the dark lord.


Part 27: THE COUNCIL OF ELROND

Boromir followed his guide beneath a beautiful arch into a well-lit courtyard. There were
elves waiting to take their horses and more to welcome them to Imladris even though the
hour was late. A group of elves had just arrived from the west as well and, as he looked
at them, a blond elf was dismounting his horse. He was the most beautiful creature
Boromir had ever seen. The elf turned as if feeling Boromir’s eyes on him and froze, his
eyes widening in disbelief. After a few moments, the elf smiled at him and winked,
causing Boromir to laugh.

The blond elf moved as if to approach him, but was stopped by another of his blond
companions who was obviously distraught. With a sigh and a shrug in Boromir’s direction,
he returned to his party to attend to the other elves.

“I am Erestor, Chief Councilor of Elrond,” a black-haired elf introduced himself. “I’m
sorry about the delay in welcoming you but, as you can see, the prince from Mirkwood has
just arrived as well.” This elf didn’t sound as if he really approved of the prince. Just
then another blond elf joined the other party amid loud cheers and much hugging. “Of
course, Glorfindel is there to aid and abet, I mean keep him company.”

Boromir laughed again when he saw the mischievous gleam in Erestor’s eye.

“You laugh now, young man,” he told Boromir leading him toward a doorway. “But those
older elves are nothing but trouble. “King Thranduil’s youngest has been banned from
several places and Glorfindel was even evicted from the Halls of Mandos. A terrible
twosome if ever there was one.”

“Gossiping again, dear Erestor?” said a melodious voice as a proprietary arm went across
the elf’s shoulders. The tall blond elf Boromir assumed was Glorfindel smirked at him
from the far side of the councilor, only to cry out in pain a moment later as the object
of his amusement gave him a hard elbow in the side. “We just want to meet your human
friend here,” he said with a pout, rubbing his side.

“You know very well that this is Boromir, heir to the Steward of Gondor,” Erestor
snapped, all sign of playfulness gone. “You also know that he hasn’t slept in two days
because you were there when the messenger arrived. So none of your nonsense will be
allowed tonight. The man needs some sleep before tomorrow’s council, not a sample of your
immature pranks. This, my Lord Boromir, is Glorfindel of Gondolin, Seneschal to Lord
Elrond, and Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.” He paused in his leading to introduce the two.

If Boromir had been any less tired, he would have challenged the protection of Erestor.
As it was, he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself with some faux pas because of it. “I
would be happy to meet with you both after the council tomorrow,” he told the two blond
elves who were watching him with strangely curious eyes.

“That would be splendid,” said Legolas, whose voice was even fairer than Glorfindel’s,
with a slight accent.

“Yes, I’m sure it will,” Erestor cut in. “Now off with you two or I will have a talk with
Lord Elrond.” At the threat, the two blonds returned to the courtyard. “Watch yourself
with those two, they are full of trouble. I don’t know what Thranduil was thinking,
allowing Legolas to attend such a gathering. A recipe for trouble if ever there was one.
Of course, everyone knows that Thranduil doesn’t think of much beyond his bed, other than
fighting that is. Who else would ever have thought of staging an orgy in the forests of
Mirkwood just to lure giant spiders into a trap? Well I guess the sex thing was part of
it too. Unbelievable sluts, those Mirkwood elves. Of course, Glorfindel is just as bad.
He’d fit right in there if Thranduil didn’t have that silly prejudice against the Noldor.
It’s not as if he even took part in all that kinslaying, even if he is a slut.” Erestor
showed him into a well-decorated room. “This is the best I could do with such short
notice and all the other guests who have dropped in recently. Lord Elrond sends his
greetings and thanks that you have agreed to attend tomorrows meeting. There is so much
going on, he felt it best that we all should get together as soon as possible.”

"This room will do just fine," Boromir assured the elf, trying to hide his smile as he
entered the room he'd been assigned. “I am also anxious to consult with Lord Elrond and
his council. It is no problem for me as I am used to long travel and little sleep.”

With a courteous bow, Erestor left him to settle in for a bit of rest before the council
that was due to start in just a few hours. It was a pleasant room, though small. After
washing his neck and face, he realized he was still too wound up to sleep, so he decided
to look around a little. Maybe he could find the two elves from the courtyard for a
little relaxing diversion.

He passed down ethereal hallways and across fragile looking bridges. There was a vague
similarity in design here to the caverns of Mirkwood, but everything was open to the air
rather than surrounded by the earth. Finally, he came to a large chamber with an equally
large picture of Isildur cutting the ring from the hand of Sauron. Standing before the
picture, he admired the workmanship as well as the subject matter. That this was a piece
of legend that had probably been painted by one who had been there sent shivers down his
spine.

Suddenly he felt a chill on the back of his neck and turned to see a man, not an elf,
watching him. There was a strange familiarity to this man’s face and a strange pull that
made his heart race. Even though his greeting was rebuffed, the stranger not even giving
his name, Boromir tried not to take offense. He was here as a supplicant, after all.

The shattered sword caught his attention and he couldn’t help but to draw near it. Taking
the hilt in his hands, he could feel the connection to the history of his people and the
power that had once stopped Sauron. As his finger touched the blade, a jolt of energy
seemed to pass through it and, for the first time in his memory, he cut his finger on the
blade of a weapon. At that point the urge to leave, which he had felt almost since he had
spotted the other man, became overpowering. He was almost overcome by a wave of dizziness
and hastily returning the broken piece of sword to its resting place, he turned to leave.
The sound of Narsil hitting the floor made him pause and caused a pang of pain to his
heart that he could be so disrespectful to an heirloom of his people, but the compulsion
to leave wouldn’t let him hesitate for long.

When he reached his chamber, his mind was in a muddle from the encounter and he hoped
that it would not cause him difficulties at tomorrow’s council. Shaking his head in
dismissal of what he had no control over, he stretched out on the bed for a couple of
hours sleep. Pushing the strange ache of disappointment from his mind, he closed his
eyes. He would wait until the meeting to worry.


Aragorn had been startled by Boromir’s sudden appearance. He had known that the Steward’s
heir would be at tomorrow’s council, but had expected him to seek his bed rather than
roam the halls. This long awaited meeting had caught him by surprise and he secretly
wished that it hadn’t happened and that Boromir would leave soon. Then, as if the
Steward’s heir had heard his thoughts, he carelessly set the sword hilt on the edge of
its resting place and all but fled the room. The open, friendly greeting followed by the
swift and almost embarrassed retreat puzzled him as he reached to pick up the hilt of
Narsil from where it had landed on the floor.

"Is he the man you told me of?" Arwen asked as she approached him from the shadows of the
room, ever close to him when possible.

"Yes, that is him," he answered rising to his feet to replace the sword in its resting
place.

"He is quite beautiful," she commented. “It is a shame that you sent him off so quickly,
we might have been able to offer him comfort from his long journey.”

“I didn’t send him away,” denied Aragorn with a puzzled expression. “He left on his own
and seemingly in a rush for all that he was so congenial at first.”

“It was your reticence and desire for him to leave that sent him away, my Lord,” she told
him with a frown. “Don’t you feel the connection? He has sworn himself to your service
through blood and strong magic and has been bred to be your right hand. If you don’t wish
him to be in a room, he can’t stay in it. I thought you realized this?”

Aragorn’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “I should have, my Lady,” he said with
mortification. “We have discussed this enough, my surprise at his sudden appearance is no
excuse.”

“Do not be too hard on yourself, my love,” she said with a smile as she leaned her head
against his shoulder. “I didn’t foresee his nocturnal wanderings and I should have. It is
only logical that his oaths would drive him to seek you out, whether he was aware of it
or not. Tomorrow after the council, you can speak to him and ease any ill feelings that
may arise because of this.”

“I hope so,” Aragorn agreed. “This is not how I planned to start out with him. Hopefully,
it won’t make him as resentful of me as Denethor was.”


As Seneschal for Lord Elrond, it was Glorfindel’s place to introduce all those in
attendance at the council. They sat at a large table on a sun-filled porch. First, he
introduced Gloin and his son Gimli, both dwarves of Erebor. Next, he went clockwise
around the table and named Legolas and his attendants, the two hobbits Bilbo and Frodo.
With a laugh, he stated that everyone knew Gandolf or Mithrandir or whatever he was going
by this week. This brought a slight release of tension in the group, for all but the
wizard, of course.

All of the attendees nodded their heads in acknowledgement of their introduction until he
came to the man who Boromir had almost met a few hours earlier. “This man most of us here
know as Estel, foster son to Lord Elrond.” At the name, Boromir’s heart skipped a beat.
“And many also know him as Strider, leader of the Dunadain. He also has a large
collection of names he has used through the years but, as the time has come for all to be
revealed, I must tell you that his given name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” There was a
gasp of surprise from those assembled who were not previously privy to the information
and also knew the meaning of the name.

Boromir paled at the knowledge that his future king had rejected him at their previous
meeting. Through his own introduction he managed to nod graciously, though the smile that
was usually ever quick to appear was gone. The loud ringing in his ears from the
embarrassment he felt drowned out most of the rest of Glorfindel’s introductions. He was
devastated that without so much as a word, he would be found lacking by the one he had
sworn his whole life’s purpose to. Long experience with the court of Gondor allowed him
to hide his true feelings, but his peripheral vision showed him that Aragorn was becoming
unsettled and casting glances in his direction.

Calming himself forcefully, Boromir relaxed back into his chair. This was not the time
for him to be worried about his personal problems, time would solve them. He needed to
concentrate on the meeting at hand.

The dwarves were called on to tell their tale first. Gloin spoke of how Balin had
followed the call to Moria and, after a few years, they’d lost contact with him. Even
more disturbing was the messenger sent from Moria to Dain and King Brand, demanding the
hobbit thief who had aided the dwarves in retaking the Lonely Mountain. Both communities
were vulnerable to attack, especially with the Mirkwood elves so busy with Dol Guldur.

Next, Aragorn spoke of the increased orc and goblin activity everywhere in Middle Earth.
He told of his long search for the creature Gollum, and how he had finally caught him in
the dead marshes near Dagorlad the previous fall. Boromir looked upon the king/ranger and
realized that it was he who had been in Forlong’s camp when he and Faramir had stopped on
their way to Rohan. Aragorn continued until he told of leaving the sad creature with the
elves of Mirkwood.

There, Legolas took up his portion of the tale. Gollum had been quite docile in
captivity, only begging for a bit of freedom in the night. It seemed the creature
couldn’t stand the light of day and barely tolerated the moon. Prince Legolas had taken
it upon himself to escort Gollum a short distance away from where he was imprisoned and
let him move about a bit each night, weather permitting. “We let him climb upon a tall
tree in the center of a clearing, it seemed to cheer the wretched creature so. One night,
when the moon was dark and clouds covered the stars, a large band of orcs fell upon us as
we guarded our charge and he escaped as we fought them.”

“Once we had driven them back,” continued Legolas, “we discovered that Gollum had fled
and we lost his trail amongst those of many orcs. It did lead us to discover a sneak
attack from Dol Guldur and we have been fighting them ever since. In the last few weeks,
the strength of their attacks has increased, but my father released me to come share our
dire news with you anyway.”

“Let me tell all present of the history of what seems to be transpiring in our world,”
Elrond said, his voice sad but strong. He told of the rings of power and Boromir saw that
not a few present weren’t familiar with the tale. The whole tale unfolded through the
second age of the world until the final battle at Gladden Fields, where Isildur cut the
ring from Sauron’s hand. It passed out of the knowledge of the world at Isildur’s death
and had been all but forgotten for many long centuries.

Here the old hobbit, Bilbo, told his part in the tale of finding the ring while fleeing
goblins in the depths of the mountains. It had been his constant companion as he lived
peaceably once he returned home to the Shire. At Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, which
was also his nephew Frodo’s thirty-third birthday (as well as his coming of age), he left
the ring and all his earthly belongings to his nephew and left to travel the world before
coming to settle here in Rivendell.

Now came Gandalf’s part of the tale. He told of the portents that led him to suspect that
Frodo’s ring was dangerous and of his visit the previous year to Minas Tirith to find a
way of testing the ring, letting them all know that it was indeed the ‘One Ring’. Many
were alarmed and surprised when he told of his imprisonment by Saruman when he went to
Isengard to seek his aid. Boromir alone seemed to expect his tale of the perfidy of the
white wizard and also the failing health of King Theoden. Frodo, who looked very pale and
weak, finally brought forth the ring at Gandalf’s bidding and all fell silent as he set
it before Elrond.

Finally Boromir spoke up, telling those assembled of the dream his brother had on the eve
of a great outpouring from Minas Morgul. His tale was carefully edited of the incidents
of sabotage, but he was quite honest about the current state of Gondor and the hideous
loss of life while they kept the dark forces from crossing the last bridge of Osgiliath.
Long used to discussing the ever- increasing death toll of his people, his voice was
dispassionate as he told of the imminent fall of Minas Tirith. As he spoke, his eyes
remained locked on the gold ring that lay before Elrond and it was almost as if the dark
lord himself stood there.

The fatigue from so many months on the trail and the last two days with almost no sleep
weighed heavily upon him. The despair from the desperate plight of his people and the
rejection of his king made his head pound in agony. His heart ached with loneliness and
the long separation from his beloved Faramir. There before him was the symbol of all that
was wrong and evil in the world, disguising itself as an innocent piece of jewelry. Then
came the voice, sweet and seductive, whispering promises.

Suddenly he recognized the voice. It had plagued his brother’s nightmares and stolen
their sleep when Denethor had first disturbed the palantir at Minas Tirith.

Boromir rose suddenly, knocking his chair over behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said to the
council, “but I cannot abide one more minute in the presence of that abomination.”
Turning swiftly, he left the gathering and returned to his room.


Faramir woke before dawn and could not return to sleep. He was too agitated to attend the
day’s meetings and sent for Borril to take his place for the day, knowing that his nephew
was well able to cover for him. By lunchtime, the stress was so bad he threw up
everything that Stefle had forced down him earlier. It was obvious to him that Boromir
was in some sort of difficulty, though he didn’t sense anything life-threatening.

Finally, he allowed his servants to lead him to his bed where they washed his brow with
scented cloths and did all they could to calm him. He tried his best to send soothing
thoughts to his poor brother, wishing that he could be there to help him.


The council was shocked at Boromir’s sudden departure. Aragorn felt even guiltier for
alienating the younger man. “He has had a long journey after many long months of
fighting,” he told the others, “once he has had some rest, he will be all right.”

“I’m surprised he made it to the meeting at all,” added Erestor in Boromir’s defense. “He
has had less then three hours sleep in the last two days and arrived only this morning.”

“That is surprising from what I’ve seen of men,” Gloin said. “Many of those we have to
deal with are lazy and greedy.”

“I think you will find Boromir of Gondor to be quite different from any other man you’ve
encountered before,” Legolas told them, the gleam of lust in his eyes only discernable to
those who knew him well. He looked across the table at Erestor who carefully mouthed the
word, ‘slut’ with a straight face. Giving the chief counselor his most innocent smile, he
was well aware of Elrond’s slight frown at their exchange and Glorfindel’s smirk of
complicity.

“He is the most capable general and brave man I’ve ever met,” Aragorn added, making sure
that all present knew his opinion. He only wished he had told Boromir before the meeting
started, now he had to seek him out at his earliest opportunity and make reparations.


He was tired. There had been only enough time for a short rest before the council of
Elrond, he'd not even had time to change his travel stained clothes. Once he’d reached
his room he had fallen asleep for a few hours despite his upset. Upon waking he found a
tub of hot water awaiting him, with several full buckets at the fireside ready to add.

The bath felt wonderful, he just hoped he didn't fall asleep and drown himself. Of
course, if his brother or father ever learned of just how much a fool he’d made of
himself, drowning just might be a good idea. Maybe he could die heroically on his return
and his family need never know what an absolute idiot he’d been. With a wry smile, he
sank beneath the hot water to thoroughly wet his hair. He really hated having dirty hair.

Legolas knocked on the door to Boromir’s room. He had promised Aragorn that he would make
sure the man understood that Aragorn was proud of him and would explain his actions of
the previous evening as soon as he could escape his pressing duties. Legolas had been
scandalized by Aragorn’s behavior and not at all shy about telling him. Not hearing an
answer, he opened the door anyway. The man was completely beneath the water, causing the
elf to pause, not quite sure if he was drowning. Then the man rose from the water and
Legolas was captivated by beautiful green eyes.

Surprised by his visitor, Boromir said the first thing that came to his mind. "Did you
come here to drown me or to keep me from drowning?" he asked with a lopsided grin.

"I wanted to talk," the mesmerized elf said haltingly. It had been several millennia
since he'd been caught so flat-footed by a pretty face.

"Yes?" Boromir queried, with a raised eyebrow.

"Let me help you while we talk," Legolas said, rolling up his sleeves and moving to take
up the shampoo. Despite his intentions to speak with the Gondorian, the feel of soft hair
beneath his hands held him mute. His mind wandered completely off track to thoughts of
what was hidden under the water, teased by the sight of the delicious scars that marked
his shoulders. He had heard rumors.

Quite sure that he recognized the look in the elf's eyes, Boromir spoke to his royal
attendant. "I think you should know that I have been on the road without another’s touch
for almost two weeks now," he said. "It would be terribly cruel to tease me, and I'm not
sure what my reaction would be."

With a lustful grin, Legolas kissed the man’s shoulder running a hand down his
beautifully scarred and muscled body until he reached the fully erect cock. He broke off
the kiss with a look of surprise; the man was huge. Boromir grinned at him as the elf
wrapped his hand around the waiting erection and began expertly working it. It had been
too long since Boromir's cock had felt the touch of a hand other than his own. He leaned
his head back on the edge of the tub and arched his back, exposing his throat to
Legolas's greedy mouth. It only took a few minutes for him to reach orgasm, his whole
body convulsing into it.

Legolas returned to washing the man's hair, wanting him to have plenty of time to
recover. The elf rinsed the soap away, Boromir completely relaxed in his hands.

"Would like to join me?" Boromir asked him.

"Are you ready for more?" Legolas asked surprised again.

Without a word Boromir took the elf's hand and held it to his hard cock. Legolas's eyes
widened at the man's quick recovery. His clothes seemed to just disappear, and then
Boromir had a lap full of horny elf. Surprised by the enthusiastic response, the man
laughed and kissed him.

"We can talk later," Legolas said as he grabbed Boromir's cock and began guiding it into
his ass.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Boromir moaned.

"We don't have much time," Legolas panted, once he had taken all of him. "The banquet
will start soon and we both have to be there."

The elf began moving energetically and Boromir felt another orgasm quickly approaching.
He grasped Legolas's not inconsiderable cock and used his own expertise to bring the elf
with him. Legolas slumped against him and licked his neck.

"I wanted to make sure you were all right after you left the council," Legolas said
sheepishly.

"I didn’t make a very good impression, I’m sure," Boromir admitted. "My father would skin
me alive if he found out."

"I know how that is, my father has assigned me a watch dog for when I'm here in
Imladris," Legolas laughed.

Just then there was a knock at the door. "It is time to get dressed your highness," came
a voice through the door.

"Did you bring my things, Saelbeth?" the elf responded.

"Of course, your highness," came the reply.

Legolas looked to Boromir for permission, who shrugged in acceptance. "Come in
Saelbeth," The elf prince called, rising from the tub.

"You got your hair wet," the newcomer said with distinct dismay. He dumped the robes he
was carrying on Boromir's bed and went to the dressing table fussing over the toiletries.
Picking up a brush and comb, he gestured to Legolas impatiently. "Come, let me fix your
hair,” he said through clenched teeth.

Boromir almost laughed at the poor elf, realizing that Legolas was unrepentantly spoiled.
"Come Boromir," the prince called. "I can dry your hair while Saelbeth braids mine."

This brought an exasperated sigh from the other elf. "You're going to be late again and
you know who will get the blame," he hissed. Then his breath caught in his throat as he
saw the naked man drying himself. He was staring open mouthed, not sure if he was
attracted or repelled. The muscles, the scars, the tattoos, that huge cock, all presented
a picture that made his own cock harden and sent tingles down his spine. A hard pinch
from Legolas brought him back to the task at hand and he gave a sharp, retaliatory tug to
the braid he was working on.

Boromir sat at Legolas' feet and allowed him to towel dry and then comb his hair. He
found himself craving physical contact after spending so much time alone. The prince
kissed his head when he was done and indicated the clothes that had been left for him to
wear while his own clothes were cleaned and repaired. As he dressed, he noticed the blush
and quick glances from Saelbeth and recognized the name as the one Eomer had told him.

Legolas grinned at Boromir impishly. "I was wondering if you would be interested in
sharing my quarters while we’re both here in Imladris?”

Saelbeth threw down the comb and dropped the braid he was working on. "You are trying to
either drive me crazy or kill me. Your father will have my head if he finds out."

Turning quickly, Legolas took the distraught elf in his arms. "Ada knows that you can't
control me, my sweet one," he said, nuzzling his ear. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Let's finish your hair and get you dressed," Saelbeth sighed in resignation. “It is just
the punishment I deserve for running off on an adventure without his permission.”

"Are you interested in my offer?" Legolas asked the man.

“Since I hate sleeping alone and I'm sure you will make it worth my while as well, I say
let's give it a try," Boromir answered, while putting on the soft shoes that fit his feet
perfectly.

"Good," the prince said, taking over the braiding of his own hair and sending Saelbeth to
hold up the various robes he had brought so that he could choose. He picked out a floor
length green robe with matching shoes, waving away the pants. "They'll just get in my way
later," he said.

"Later?" Boromir asked.

"It's a surprise," Legolas answered.


The emotions he was sensing from his brother were stronger than ever before on the
journey. Faramir felt sure that Boromir had reached his goal but that there was some
problem there to greet him. He sent as many soothing and loving thoughts as he could,
hoping it would help. By dinnertime, Boromir was greatly relieved and Faramir was almost
feeling good enough to join his father. However, he decided his most important duty was
to make sure he was there if his brother needed any more comforting.

Hopefully, Boromir would be able to get some real sleep soon and his worries would be
resolved.


The all too familiar guilt ate at Aragorn as he hurriedly dressed for the banquet. He
knew that it was quite likely that Legolas had completely forgotten to give his message
to Boromir. He could only blame himself, for this and for all the other mistakes he had
made in dealing with the line of the Stewards. With a heavy sigh, he left to the great
hall, hoping to have a chance for a word with Boromir before the festivities started.

There was too much conflict in the past for him to ever be able to work with Denethor and
he had counted on having Boromir as his chief advisor. It was what he still desired, but
he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t already destroyed that choice. 


Part 28: FEAST

As Legolas escorted him to the great hall, Boromir felt his stomach tighten at the
thought of seeing Aragorn again. He knew he had to settle whatever differences were
between them as soon as possible. There was too much at stake.

When Aragorn saw them coming down the hall, he knew that Legolas had not made any
explanations to Boromir. Stepping forward, he intercepted his future Steward. “I would
have a word with you, Lord Boromir,” he said, placing his hand on the other man’s arm.

“Of course, my liege,” Boromir said without hesitation, willing to do whatever was
necessary to make his peace with his future King.

The title made Aragorn shudder as he guided Boromir to a side room. At the same time, it
gave him comfort that he might not have totally lost Boromir’s loyalty. “I’m sorry that I
didn’t make myself known to you last night,” he began.

“There is no need to apologize to me, my liege,” Boromir interrupted. “It is my duty to
serve, not to stand in judgment.”

“I need you to understand me,” Aragorn interjected, unsure of how to deal with the
unflagging devotion. Rivendell was not as formal as Gondor and even the years he had
served Ecthelion had not prepared him for this.

“Of course, my liege,” Boromir responded, clearing his mind and preparing to listen to
Aragorn.

“It surprised me when I saw you last night,” Aragorn began, feeling a chill go down his
back at the rapt attention he was receiving. “I had no intention of insulting you or
rejecting your service.”

“You are my liege,” Boromir told him. “Nothing you do could insult me, I am yours to
command.”

The look in Boromir’s eyes made Aragorn unsure of himself. He could think of nothing he
had done to earn such unbridled devotion. Everything he had heard of Boromir spoke of a
stubborn leader of men who bowed down to no one, not even his father. Yet here the man
stood surrendering his will to him.

“It is late,” Aragorn said, unable to think of anything else at this time. “We can talk
tomorrow. Maybe we can meet in your room?”

“I’ve accepted an offer from Prince Legolas to stay with him,” Boromir advised. “I can
let him know if you would rather I didn’t.”

“No, that should work out quite well,” Aragorn waved the offer away. “Legolas can be
discrete and probably has the best suite in all of Rivendell. You will be quite
comfortable there and our privacy will be assured. There is a special feast tonight in
honor of Frodo’s recovery, as well as your and Prince Legolas’s arrival. Let us go eat
and I will tell you what happened after you left the council.”

The fatigue from his long journey and depression at being parted from his brother, as
well as the earlier events of the day, fell away from Boromir as he spoke with Aragorn.
As they left to go to the room, he was advised of the decision to destroy the ring and
the only method of doing so. That the sad little hobbit had volunteered to carry the ring
when arguing had broken out astounded him, almost as much as the idea that those present
would agree to such a thing. “He is much stronger than you might think,” was Aragorn’s
comment as they moved to their seats in the great hall.


While more formal than the Mirkwood elves, those of Rivendell were casually relaxed
compared to Minas Tirith. Denethor had always insisted on strict formality at meals,
especially those of any importance. Aragorn was seated at a side table instead of the
main one where he would normally sit with his foster father and as the future king of
Gondor. The reason seemed to be the hobbits, five in all, who seemed to look to him as
their guardian.

Boromir sat on Aragorn’s right, where he would sit as his Steward. Arwen, who sat on his
left, was introduced to Boromir as Aragorn’s betrothed and Elrond’s daughter. Legolas,
completely forsaking even the little bit of formality of the house, sat next to Boromir
sneaking his hand under the table frequently to fondle the Steward’s heir and flirting
shamelessly with everyone, including the dwarves. The hobbits sat across the table from
them, the Erebor dwarves sitting next to the old hobbit, Bilbo.

The dynamics of those gathered at the table were unusual, to say the least. The dwarves
were craftsmen, miners and not big on table manners. Their beards made such splendid food
catchers that Boromir was convinced that they only behaved this way to show their dislike
of certain elves. The hobbits seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, the two youngest
talking quickly and in tandem. They regaled Boromir and Legolas, the two newest arrivals
to Rivendell, with the tale of their journey from the Shire.

As he listened, Boromir gained respect for the little men. They’d come from their
pastoral home and faced people-eating trees, Barrow-wights, and even the Nazgul without
losing their nerve. He could tell that much of the journey had frightened them, but they
had continued any way, strong in their sense of duty. That the younger hobbits intended
to accompany Frodo the rest of the way to Moria was obvious. It was easy to fool himself
into thinking of them as children with their small stature and friendly natures, but many
brave men that he knew would have balked at the thought of what they had already faced,
let alone what they still intended.

It caused a pang of homesickness to watch Sam tend to Frodo, reminding him of how Garus
had tended Faramir. Despite the good food and drink and the better company, he dearly
missed his beloved brother and all those who made up his family. ‘Tomorrow,’ he assured
himself, ‘I will do what I can to hasten my own return home.’


After the meal, the hobbits and dwarves rose to follow Elrond and Gandalf as they led the
Lady Arwen from the room.

Aragorn and Legolas were deep in conversation and slowly going in the opposite direction
from the others. Boromir rubbed his face with one hand and wondered what the elves would
think if he just slept here for a while. He'd slept in much worse places, and would be
here ready for breakfast.

A lovely elf maiden came to his side and addressed him. "You look tired, my Lord, perhaps
you would care for a little restorative drink? Something to see you through the rest of
the festivities." She arched an eyebrow at him, and held out a small glass.

Bemused and intrigued, he took the drink and swallowed. It tasted sweet like fruit, but
none that he could name. It also worked very quickly, making him more aware of the room
around him. Most of the feasters had departed; only elves seemed to be left in the room.
And Aragorn.

"There is dancing and more, if you would follow me," she told him, rising and taking his
hand in hers. Aragorn and Legolas were both moving in the same direction, so he let
himself be pulled along.

When he asked her name, she laughed and gave him a decidedly mischievous grin. "This is
no time for names, my Lord. Not until after."

They came to a large room filled with soft lighting and sweet, seductive music. The
musicians were scattered throughout the room and would change from time to time. There
were several drummers who played steadily, like a slightly elevated heartbeat. The
singers were likewise scattered and seemingly random. He couldn't understand what they
sang, and felt that each sang somthing different, but it blended together perfectly. They
weren't dancing like the court or country dancers he was used to either. Instead, each
one seemed to dance their own dance, but they touched and slid against one another
sensuously and without restraint.

He'd never seen anything like it, and desperately wanted to join in. His guide, still
holding his hand, pulled him into the seductive press. Locking her eyes with his, she
kissed the palm of his hand. Then she guided him past her, rubbing her body against his,
and lightly pushed him into the dance.

The drums pulsed in his blood as he flowed through the room. He knew what this was
leading to, though he'd never done this before. His hands touched others and he was
touched by others’ hands. Bodies pressed and slid across one another. For an endless time
he danced with the elves, happily sharing himself with them.

The drumbeat increased a little and hands began catching at clothing, pulling it loose,
easing it off. Contact grew more intimate, caresses and kisses pressed to bare flesh.

Some of the elves had flasks of oil, which they poured over their companions. Boromir
gasped, as he was anointed front and back by two elves. They spread the oil with their
hands and bodies over every part of him, touching him intimately, spreading it on his
cock and deep into his ass.

He found himself at the center of the room surrounded by touches. A beautiful elvish
woman was nearly climbing him until he took her hips in his hands and raised her so she
could wrap her legs around his waist. He lowered her onto his rock hard cock while she
licked, bit, and kissed his chest. From behind her, a tall elf leaned into them and
kissed his mouth greedily, his hand running through Boromir's hair. Behind him another
male pressed close and slowly pushed his dick up Boromir's ass. He was covered in bodies,
and he stood almost still, to feel the hands, breasts, penises, and other flesh wherever
it touched him. His body screamed for release, but he held back, wanting it to last as
long as possible.

A firm hand turned his head and he locked gazes with Aragorn over the shoulder of the
woman impaled on his cock. Aragorn's hands joined his at her hips, adjusting her
position. Then he felt the other man’s cock slide into her against his. The feeling was
so intense he nearly lost control. Instead, he moved his hands so that his fingers
interlocked with Aragorn’s, and they began moving the woman’s hips together. Around them,
voices began to cry out with completion.

Boromir was hyperaware, he could feel each touch, even though most of his attention was
on the other man whose dick caressed his deep inside the elvish vagina.

Their eyes, half-lidded with passion, were locked and their movements were synchronized.
Soon the woman was crying out in release, her flesh contracting around them. On the edge,
Boromir leaned forward, inviting Aragorn’s kiss. When their lips met, he began to cum,
long and hard.

As they slid out of their female companion, strong elvish hands took her, carrying her
nearly unconscious form to a low couch. Strong hands also touched and held them, as if to
keep them safe from collapse. Boromir untangled his fingers from Aragorn’s, laughing
joyously. He took the other man’s face in his hands, kissing him passionately, deeply,
thoroughly. Then, with another laugh, he turned to find another lover, reveling in the
touching, unwilling to let this end just yet.

Aragorn watched Boromir with surprise, trying to keep his knees from giving out. He knew
of the other man’s long journey and earlier fatigue. He'd even approved the restorative
given to him, but was amazed by his stamina. He had already been here for over three
hours, and showed no sign of flagging.

He saw Legolas reclining on a nearby couch and moved to speak with him. "If he fights
even half as well as he fucks, we have little to fear from any foe," Legolas said as
Aragorn approached, a movement of his chin indicating Boromir, who was again covered in
people. "Have you ever seen a cock that big? I think Mareil is out for the night from
getting stuffed by the two of you at once."

'I didn't know he was so big until it was too late to stop," Aragorn replied. "Elrond and
the others are expecting me to join them soon. And Arwen won't forgive me if I don't
rescue her. Will you keep an eye on our companion? We don't want him to get too
exhausted."

"It is a pleasure to watch him," Legolas replied, "almost as much fun as having that cock
of his."

Aragorn noted the lustful look, and smiled at his longtime friend. "Just remember, we
need him still alive."

"I think you need worry for me more." He gave Aragorn a quick kiss, then pushed him
toward the door. "Go, Arwen waits."

Legolas returned his attention to Boromir. He'd never seen anyone like him before; so
strong and tireless and horny and sexy. He watched for an endless time, as everyone
seemed to want to touch and be touched by the man. Though some of the elves were taller,
none were as broad and muscular. Boromir would hold one or more of them in his arms
completely clear of the floor, kissing them, thrusting into them with his unbelievably
large cock. He was still on his feet after two more hours. Legolas started making his way
toward him, and was relieved to see Boromir eased down onto a couch by those around him.

Legolas stood to the side and watched as elf after elf impaled themselves on the man.
Boromir no longer had orgasms, just one unending erection. His eyes were glazed, but his
hands and mouth still moved to good purpose on any elf flesh they encountered.

As enthralling as the sight before him was, Legolas realized it was time to stop. It had
been hours since Aragorn had left, and Boromir had to sleep sometime. Easing through the
elves pressed around him, he took the man’s hand and began to pull him to his feet. In
elvish, he told the others to let the man go. As much as they wanted to keep him, the
Prince of Mirkwood commanded obedience, and this was his party.

Robes were placed about their shoulders, and he led the bemused captain from the room.

"I would like to stay longer," Boromir said, running his free hand through his hair, the
other still held by Legolas.

"You need sleep," the elf told him, amazed by the man’s lucidity.

"I know," he said," where are we going?"

"My rooms, they are just around the corner, you won't be bothered there and your things
have already been moved."

"I like being bothered."

"I could tell," Legolas opened the door to his rooms and led the man inside. "You need
sleep though."

Boromir glanced around the large sitting room, and followed Legolas into a bedroom, with
a huge bed in the center of it. He casually slid the robe off his shoulders and began
removing the one the elf wore. "I'll need to get rid of this." He said, drawing Legolas's
attention to his hard cock. He picked the elf up and carried him to the bed, "then I will
be able to sleep."

Soon they were in the center of the bed, Legolas on his back beneath the man. He was
almost helpless as Boromir's hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere on him at once.
Expert fingers prepared him for the enormous cock, which slowly entered him.

"What did they give you?" Legolas groaned as Boromir pierced him with slow, deep thrusts.

Taking the elf's cock in one hand and working it with great skill, he laughed. "I can do
this forever, I have no need for elvish drugs."

"So you have done this before?" the elf asked, trying to keep coherent.

"Not with so many, three, four others at the most." he answered with an evil grin, and
then lowered himself so he whispered in the elf’s ear. "But, I have gone for days."

"Please, Boromir," Legolas begged. "Don't make me wait."

Boromir increased his speed, making the bed creak dangerously. Then, with a twist of his
hand and slam of his hips, he brought them both to a most incredible and satisfying
climax.


The man slept. Legolas found himself returning often to the bed. Boromir smelled strongly
of sex, sweat, and his own unique scent, which the elf found to be irresistible. He even
rubbed himself against the man occasionally to capture it on his own body. He hadn’t been
this lust crazed in centuries. Tracing Boromir’s scars with his fingers, he recognized
those made in the repeated performances of the Numenorean sword dances, which he hadn't
seen done properly in over a thousand years. Boromir's scars were perfect. Whoever he
danced with was a master from the first cut, making him wonder whom it could be and who
had trained him.

Many of his other scars were obviously battle wounds, some grievous and life threatening,
others barely worth note (except that Legolas had a strange attraction to scars). There
were intriguing bite marks that lined his collar bone both front and back, there were
also a few scattered here and there about his body. The elf’s experienced eye told him
that they were all made by the same person who was definitely a lover and male, some of
them being made before this person was fully-grown. A beautiful rendition of the White
Tree of Gondor was carved into his chest, topped by seven stars in a close copy of the
tattoo on his right shoulder. The initials in the bole of the tree were intriguing as
well and done in fine Rohirrim script.

Of course, the three tattoos on the inside of his hip said a lot about who his favorite
lovers were. The oldest was his brother’s coat of arms, then Eomer of Rohan, and last
Eowyn of Rohan. Legolas assumed Faramir had made the bite marks, and he was burning with
curiosity about the relationship with the children of Eomund. He had plenty of experience
with his own brothers, but nothing lasting, and even his father had succumbed to his
seduction a couple of times. But sisters were a whole different proposition, too much
danger of damaged offspring. There were always alternatives, most of which he'd used.

The largest tattoo, the seal of the king of Gondor, gave Legolas the most deliciously
wanton ideas. He wondered if Boromir understood that it signified him as property of the
king. He fantasized that he could convince Estel to sell his Steward, even though he knew
he never would.

When Aragorn stopped by to meet with Boromir, Legolas was sitting next to him on the bed,
counting the scars on his back again. He went swiftly to the other room so that they
wouldn’t disturb his sleeping guest.

So, how many scars does he hav

“Many more than you, my friend,” Legolas responded. “Some of them are very interesting,
as well.”

“Such as?”

“There is a complete set of scars from doing the old sword dances,” was the answer. “They
are so perfect it’s hard to tell how many times, but he’s been marked at least two dozen
times, probably more. In the last year, he’s done all five. Wouldn’t that be something to
see?” he exclaimed. “I haven’t seen a worthy performance in a very long time, and I don’t
think I’ve ever seen anything this perfect.”

Aragorn laughed at the elf’s enthusiasm. “So you think his fighting prowess might equal
the other dancer’s?” he asked remembering doing the dances and how hard it was to find a
worthy opponent among elves, let alone men.

"He would have to be close, you can't be that good on your own. I wonder if he would be
interested in doing a dance or two with me. " The elf started to rise, looking towards
the bedroom, then with a rueful smile sat back down. "I don't think I've been this
fascinated with someone in quite a while. He doesn't feel anything like his father,
though there is a strong physical resemblance. Where Denethor repulsed, he draws me."

"I feel it too," Aragorn told him. "He is everything Denethor could never be. There is
nothing cold about Boromir."

Rising to his feet, Legolas went to the doorway and looked at the man in his bed. Seeing
that he was still sound asleep, he rejoined Aragorn. "I think I'm in danger of becoming
obsessed," the elf admitted. “I even like his tattoos.”

"If he lives up to even half of his reputation, he would be worthy of your interest,"
Aragorn told him. “I only know of one tattoo, the seal of Gondor. What are the others?”

"There are three more in the hollow of his hip, three coats of arms. They belong to his
brother, Eomer of Rohan, and Eowyn of Rohan,” the elf said. “I think they are his lovers,
though I’m not sure how that would work. He also has a few small decorative bits to
accentuate the tree carved into his chest.”

“Rohan allows extended marriages and families, though it is not common knowledge outside
that country,” Aragorn admitted. “Brothers or sisters are common in such unions, but a
brother and sister is very rare. They obviously have some sort of arrangement worked
out.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out eventually, getting to know him will be an adventure in itself,”
Legolas said. *

Halfway through the night, Boromir began dreaming. He pulled Legolas close and began
caressing him. "I miss you," whispered the voice in his ear.

Looking at the man, Legolas saw that his mind was far away and let himself relax into the
sweet embrace. Running a hand across the bearded face, Legolas thought of the contrast
between the gentle touches and raging passion this man had already displayed. Then all
thought passed from his mind as he was pulled into a deep kiss.

Boromir began making love to him, so much more than just sex. Only he wasn't the true
object of the man's desire. His senses picked up the dreamlike presence of another. It
was intoxicating, this being caught as a surrogate lover.

Rolling him over onto his back, Boromir slid his cock deep into his ass with only a
little spit as lubrication. Startled by the rough invasion, Legolas arched beneath him.
There was little pain for him though, as he often had this kind of sex, even though the
man's cock was much larger than he was used too. As he relaxed into the man's movements,
Boromir's whispered endearments became louder.

"Faramir, my love," he called. "I need you, brother." Then he began moving with long,
hard thrusts that drove all thought from the elf's mind.

The climax was just as searing as it had been the first time, but now the elf felt the
undeniable presence of Boromir's dream lover. It felt as if his very soul was being
intertwined with the other.


Faramir sat up in his bed, his body covered in sweat and semen. This had been the
clearest dream he had ever had with his brother. He had seen his brother's face clearly,
but he'd seen someone else as well. There was no doubt in his mind that there had been an
elf in his brother's arms. One he recognized from a book in the Great Archives.

Washing and dressing quickly, he decided that he still had a couple of hours before his
father needed him. He wanted to find the book.


Faramir looked at the illustration in the book he was holding. It was a well-done
portrait of a beautiful elf. The caption said 'Legolas, youngest son of King Thranduil of
Mirkwood'. The accompanying story claimed him to be the best archer in all Middle Earth,
and the most beautiful and sought after of all the Sindarin elves, and was dated three
hundred years earlier. Idly studying the elf, he could almost feel the long blonde hair
and smell the soft skin. He wondered if his brother's companion was an elf such as this.

"I doubt he is with the Mirkwood elves, and hope he hasn't fallen in with this one," his
father said from behind him. "I remember hearing about him when I was young. He was well
known as troublemaker, always showing off and seducing men and women. Several wars were
nearly started because of him." Denethor shook his head in disapproval.

"Surely he has reached Imladris by now," Faramir said in Sindarin, not really thinking
about his words. "I wish that I had gone with him."

“What did you say?” Denethor asked, angered by his son’s use of the elvish language.

“Sorry, father,” Faramir said, bowing his head and closing the book. “I only hope for
Boromir’s safe and swift return. All this thought of elves has been distracting.”

“With the imminence of winter, I’m sure you can throw off your distraction and put your
mind to better pursuits,” the Steward said angrily. “Let your brother deal with the
elves, you have your own duty to attend.”

“Of course, my Lord Steward,” Faramir answered in a subdued voice. All the necessary
preparations for winter had been attended to, but he didn’t want his father to begin to
suspect that he knew exactly where his brother was.


Part 29: THE KING'S PROPERTY

He woke in a strange bed, with a smooth warm body in his arms. Sleeping alone had been
the second hardest thing about the long months on the road. He remembered going to bed
with Legolas, and knew it to be him in his arms.

His morning erection rubbed against the elf's back, and felt so good. Still half asleep,
he moved down so that he could lick and tongue the elf’s ass to readiness. Legolas had
far less body hair than he was used to, and smelled and tasted very different from
humans. His lithe form, the way he wiggled beneath Boromir’s mouth, the soft gasps, all
reminded him of Faramir. This incited his passion, for he missed his brother more than
anything.

He slowly entered the elf, with short pushes and withdrawals. When he was completely
within, he paused to kiss the back of the prince’s neck. Then he began long, slow
thrusts, pulling almost all the way out, than pushing all the way in. Soon Legolas
started squirming and groaning, trying to make him move faster. Boromir pinned the elf’s
hips down with his hands, and continued with his long, slow, hard thrusts. His mind was
filled with the smell, feel, and sound of Legolas beneath him, and peppered with thoughts
of his brother. He was thoroughly enjoying the wiggling male, keeping his pace steady.
The gasps became cries, which turned into begging, and then almost screams as Boromir
stroked inside his ass.

Finally, he pumped harder, just twice, and the elf screamed his release. The man
continued the long, slow thrusts until the elf started wiggling and moaning again.
Pausing, he rose to his knees and sat back on his heels, bringing Legolas with him. One
hand went to the elf’s cock and the other stroked his body. He ravished the elf’s neck
and face with his mouth, soon bringing him to the brink of orgasm again. Boromir kept him
there by tightening his hand or slowing his attentions until Legolas was again begging
and screaming. Then, he allowed the elf’s release, aiming his cock so that the cum
sprayed the front of his body.

Turning Legolas as he let him collapse onto his back, Boromir licked much of the cum off
his chest. Then he gave the elf a deep, almost endless kiss that had him whimpering.
Taking Legolas's knees in his hands, Boromir pushed them back so that they were against
his sides. He watched Legolas’s eyes widen, and his breath quicken, as he entered him
again.

This time, his strokes were fast and hard, slamming into the elf and making the bed
groan. Watching his own rehardening cock with disbelief, Legolas was at the mercy of the
man pounding into him. Sweat dripped from Boromir's brow, as he slammed harder, faster,
and deeper. The elf grabbed his own cock and pulled as he started cumming for the third
time. Boromir finally climaxed, long and hard, crying out as he did.

He collapsed on the bed next to Legolas, breathing heavily. "Good morning," he said,
brushing a lock of hair from the elf's face.

"Do you always wake like that?" Legolas asked, still almost breathless.

Boromir laughed. "Only when I can," he answered. Then a shadow fell across his face.
"There has not been much time for any pleasure of late. My brother, Faramir, and I have
spent nearly every day in the saddle, fighting our enemies, and protecting our people."
He sat up with a sigh and moved to the edge of the bed. "I need a bath and clothes. Some
food would be most welcome. I feel like I haven't eaten in days."

The elf laughed, "Well, you did sleep a whole day and a night. There is a bathing room
through that door," he pointed the way. "Your things are in that trunk," he added, then
paused as he saw Boromir's eyes widen at the life-size paintings on the wall.

"That almost looks like you," Boromir commented. There was a front and back view of a
naked elf, both in suggestive poses. In the front view, his hands where behind his head,
displaying his well-developed chest, which had rings in both nipples and a chain running
between them. In the other picture, he was sitting backward in a chair and looking
invitingly over his shoulder. His back was almost covered by a tattoo of a double dragon
topped by elvish script. “That is truly amazing,” Boromir said, feeling himself becoming
aroused at the sight.

"That," Legolas said with a devilish grin. "Is my father, Thranduil, King of the
Greenwood."

"Does he know you have these?" Boromir asked incredulously.

"He'd skin me alive," the elf grinned. "He commissioned the portraits, and I paid the
artist a considerable amount to make these copies. I just couldn't help myself after
seeing the originals. He is even sexier in person."

"I couldn't imagine thinking of my father as sexy," Boromir said, still unable to tear
his eyes away.

"Me either," Legolas agreed.

"What?" Boromir asked, turning to look at the elf.

Blushing, Legolas realized his slip too late to take it back. "We didn't really hit it
off too well," he added lamely.

"You know my father?" Boromir questioned.

"It was a long time ago. I'm sure he doesn't even remember me," he said quickly.

"I'm quite sure my father wouldn't have forgotten you," Boromir said with a smile. "He
probably wouldn't have cared much for you either. He is a bit on the stern side."

"A bit," Legolas laughed. "My father tends to be a bit on the prejudiced side. He barely
tolerates men, but can't abide dwarves or hobbits."

"I'm going to take a bath," Boromir said heading for the door. He had better things to do
with his time then discuss his own father, even if it looked like Legolas’s father might
be interesting.

"I will send for some food and join you," Legolas said, taking a robe and leaving the
room. Mirrors lined the walls and Boromir looked at his nude body with a grimace. He'd
lost a lot of weight on his journey, and muscle tone as well. He would have to do some
serious working out and eating as well. There was a pool fed by a small waterfall; it was
warm, almost hot. He stood under the pounding water, letting it soak him. Strong arms
embraced him for a moment, then threw him into deeper water. They wrestled for a while,
before washing each other playfully.

The sight of Boromir relaxed, floating on his back, holding to the edge of the pool, was
too much of a temptation for the elf. He slid between the man’s legs and began working
his cock into his ass. As he pumped in and out of the tight hole, he was amazed again at
the size of Boromir's penis. Every time he thrust into the man, it jerked sharply and
stuck out of the water like a mast. Legolas was enthralled, watching while Boromir
floated, eyes closed and groaning his approval. Aragorn stopped in the doorway and
watched the two. Water sloshed out of the pool as Legolas sped up, and they both started
crying out as they neared orgasm. Boromir's cock was only about two inches longer than
Aragorn's, but was easily twice as thick. He was becoming increasingly turned on as he
watched them. Then the two in the pool began to cum noisily. The semen from Boromir's
cock shot in a large arc and splashed at Aragorn’s feet, splattering his shoes and the
hem of his robe.

"Not bad for an elf," Boromir remarked.

"Hah!" Legolas cried and pushed him beneath the water.

The man came sputtering and laughing to his feet. "I'll get you for that later, but I
need to eat now."

"I brought the food,” said Aragorn from the doorway.

Legolas was pleased to see Aragorn, but Boromir appeared almost angry.

They swiftly climbed out of the pool and went to find clothes. A trunk revealed garments
Elrond’s people had provided for Boromir, so that he wouldn't have to wear his trail
clothes during his time in Imladris.

The food was on a table in the sitting room. They took their places on the low couches
surrounding it. "I want us to come to an understanding, Boromir," Aragorn said. "I don't
expect you to regard me as your king."

"No!" Boromir interrupted, "We all know who you are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and if any
will ever be called king in Gondor, it will be you. I am not pleased that you did not
tell me whom you really were when we first met, but that was your choice. Even so,
whether or not you choose to fulfill your responsibilities as king, you're still the heir
to the crown. It is not meet that you should serve me, the son of your Steward, in any
way."

Legolas stifled a laugh behind his hand, while Aragorn was frankly embarrassed. "I had no
idea you felt so strongly, I am not used to being regarded in such a way,” he said,
blushing. "As foster son to Elrond, I’m used to serving his guests. There was no intent
to insult you."

"It is sometimes hard for me to remember that not everyone holds to the strict rules of
precedence my father insists on," Boromir said, ruefully. "Everything is different here,
and so unexpected. So far, elves are not at all like I was told."

Legolas laughed openly at that. "We don't always share every aspect of our nature,
Boromir. You would not have been invited to join us the other night if your reputation
hadn't preceded you." At his questioning look, the elf added, "Something about you, your
brother, and a pair of twins in Anorion. They passed through Mirkwood on their way home."

Boromir smiled fondly, "Ah, yes, they were identical, they thought Faramir and I might be
twins. Lovely young ladies, we had a memorable time. I was able to renew their
acquaintance when I passed through Esgaroth."

"I’ve heard they dance quite regularly in the taverns there," Legolas said. "Let's eat.
I'm sure you are hungry."

The food was varied and good. They talked of the scouting parties that had already left,
and those yet to leave. Boromir wished he could send a message to his brother and Eomer,
but secrecy denied that to him.

"Speaking of secrets," Aragorn added. "Elrond and most of the elves of Imladris are
pretty straightlaced. They turn a blind eye to what goes on in this wing as a courtesy to
the Mirkwood elves who keep these rooms for state visits."

"We have a bit of a reputation with the other elves," Legolas added with a smirk. "Also
with the dwarves, men, and I guess about everyone else, too. There is nothing like a
party in Mirkwood."

"Tomorrow I need to ride out and meet with some of the scouts. I was hoping you would let
me show you around Rivendell today," Aragorn said.

"I would be honored," Boromir answered.

"I would join you, but a messenger arrived from my father last night. I'll be tied up in
meetings all day," Legolas told them. "Besides, Elrond has been dying to tell me how
scandalous I've been."

"He has your best interests at heart," Aragorn said.

"Which is the only reason I allow it," the elf remarked as he left.


The two men spent the rest of the morning exploring Aragorn's boyhood home. Rivendell was
beautiful and totally beyond anything in Boromir's experience. The open view of the
valley was the complete opposite of the caves and tunnels of Thranduil’s domain, which
was all that he’d really been able to see there. It was a little disconcerting to hear
Aragorn addressed by so many different names, and in such a familiar manner, but he soon
became used to it. This was clearly not Gondor.

During their private lunch in Aragorn's rooms, Boromir felt the connection, which had
begun in dreams strengthening. They talked idly while they ate, with frequent comfortable
silences. They had been quiet for some time, when Aragorn turned to Boromir. "What does
the tattoo on your shoulder mean?" he asked.

"It means that I am your property," Boromir answered, looking him in the eye. "My brother
and I have dreamed of you for years. We both decided that we belonged to you above all
else."

Sliding from the couch to his knees, Boromir took one of Aragorn's hands in his. "It is
my destiny to serve you," he said. "My brother's dreams have never erred, and he has seen
you saving our city and our people, as have I. He has seen me bringing you back to
Gondor." He shared the dream with Aragorn, except the part about his own death. “We
established a rather large following in preparation for your return. My father still
resists the idea, but he has made several grievous errors in the past year and has become
more amenable to my counsel.” Then Boromir proceeded to tell him of the sabotage of the
bridge at Osgiliath and of his father’s use of the palantir.

Aragorn drew Boromir back up to sit beside him as he continued. Boromir gave him a
complete report of the state of both Gondor and Rohan, including the intelligence
gathered from their extensive network of spies. “I should probably apologize to the
wizard for not trusting him. If we had warned him of Saruman’s activities, he might not
have been captured,” Boromir said.

“He can be stubborn sometimes as well,” Aragorn told him. “He might have sought to verify
your findings and accidentally revealed your knowledge and sources.” He paused, thinking
of his old friend for a moment, “but I’m sure he would appreciate an apology.”

“Then I will be sure to give him one as soon as possible,” Boromir assured him. “What of
this quest to destroy the ring? It will be difficult for the hobbits, even as brave as
they are, to travel all the way to the black mountain.”

“I had hoped that you might agree to accompany them with me, at least as far as Gondor,”
Aragorn told him. “However, if your father is using the palantir, we might not be safe
there.”

“My brother has showed me how to detect him using it to spy on me,” Boromir advised. “If
Frodo keeps the ring concealed, we shouldn’t even need my warning.”

“But if Saruman or the Dark Lord learn that you are traveling with hobbits, they may
guess our errand,” Aragorn worried.

“They would more likely believe that we sought to use it ourselves, my Liege,” Boromir
disagreed. “Gondor is sorely pressed and I could easily see those of the Dark Lord’s ilk
thinking we would stoop to using their vile tools.”

“The ring affects you so strongly then?” Aragorn asked. “Even now that you’ve had some
rest?”

“I could tell that the halfling still carried it when we saw him earlier,” Boromir
acknowledged. “Though with it out of sight, it didn’t cause me as much distress as it did
at the council. I’m sure I could travel with them. We’ve lived for quite some time with
the unshielded effects of the palantir; this isn’t any worse.”

“Then I will tell Elrond that you are willing to go at least as far as Gondor,” Aragorn
said. “I’m sure that your knowledge will be invaluable.”

They discussed possible routes for their journey and what they might need. Aragorn began
to feel more comfortable with Boromir’s manner; even as leader of the Dunadain he wasn’t
treated with such deference. As afternoon faded into early evening, a knock at the door
brought servants with food and drink for them both.

“I made plans for us to spend the evening together,” Aragorn told Boromir. “That is, if
you wish to, my Lord.”

“I am honored, my Liege,” Boromir accepted.

“I’d wager that you always knew your place in this world,” Aragorn said, putting a hand
on Boromir’s cheek.

“Since birth,” Boromir agreed, placing his own hand over Aragorn’s. “My father has told
me as often as possible that I am the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor. My brother made
sure I understood the history of our line and, together, we swore ourselves to your
service.”

“I was twenty when Elrond told me of my heritage,” Aragorn told him sadly. “I had wanted
to be a healer and had studied at his side whenever possible. Though I did learn some
statecraft there as well, I’m sure you know he was herald to the last elven high king,
Gil-Galad.” Aragorn continued telling Boromir of his childhood among the elves and how he
had left Rivendell to make peace with his destiny.

As Aragorn spoke, Boromir realized that his face was familiar from more than just dreams.
“My uncle, Imrahil, has a portrait of you in his study at Dol Amroth,” Boromir said into
the silence that arose when Aragorn paused, trying to think of how to tell him of his
prior history as Thorongil. “You served as advisor to my grandfather, Ecthelion II, and
also to Thengel.” He paused, looking deeply into the eyes of his future king. “You were
also at Forlong’s camp last fall; you didn’t want us to know you were there.”

“I didn’t want to cause unnecessary strife between you and your father,” Aragorn
confirmed his statement. “Though how I managed to leave without full discovery is beyond
me. One of Faramir’s manciples even approached me just before the morning’s battle.”

“It was what you wished,” Boromir answered, now more sure of his connection with his
liege. “Belgar was going to tell us who you were, but I ordered him to silence. It was
what you wanted me to do.”

Aragorn was stunned. He knew that there was some measure of control he held over Boromir
from his talks with Arwen, but not this much. “I had no idea you were so sensitive to my
desires.”

“It is more than we had hoped, my Liege,” Boromir said exultantly. “My father uses the
palantir to spy on his people, usurping a power which is reserved for you. It has brought
great distress and almost ruin to us. I believe the wizard Saruman uses it to control
him, or at the least to feed him false knowledge. We decided that if we could know your
will without waiting for messengers or relying on the old ways, many of which have been
corrupted, then we would all be the better for it.” He told Aragorn of how they
originally decided on the tattoos of the king’s seal on their shoulders and how, over
time, they had worked them into the rituals and spells that their people used to
strengthen their unity and keep them safe.

“There is at least one highly placed member who bears the mark in each of the noble
houses of Gondor,” Boromir gave a self-deprecatory smile as he continued. “More often
than not, it is the heir to the house and a first night offspring of either mine or my
brother’s. We have bound them to you and to us by blood and oath, spell and kinship. If
you were to return to Gondor today, all the great houses would support your claim.”

“Unfortunately we cannot return immediately,” Aragorn told him. “We must do what we can
to assure the destruction of the ring before we turn our sights on home. If the dark one
reclaims it, all will fall into darkness and be lost, no matter how well our plans are
set.”

“I am yours to command, my Liege,” Boromir said, returning to his knees at Aragorn’s
feet. “Body, heart and soul I am yours.”

Running his fingers through the soft blonde hair, Aragorn couldn’t help but to pull the
younger man’s face up for his kiss. It was unbelievably easy to lose himself in Boromir’s
complete submission. His previous lovers were mostly equals with a few of higher rank, at
least to his mind. Even Arwen, maybe especially her, seemed to be far above him when they
came together. Boromir melted into his touch, passively urging him to take control.
Pulling his velvet tunic up enough to reach the laces in his pants, Aragorn began
fumbling with the cord.

“Let me, my Liege,” Boromir whispered, low and sultry, making Aragorn even harder behind
the restricting cloth. There was no little skill in those fingers that made such short
work of their errand that the older man gasped in surprise when his engorged cock sprang
free from its confinement.

Looking down at the blonde head, he almost began to worry at the amount of time Boromir
simply looked at his fully erect penis without comment. “You are so beautiful, my King,”
the younger man finally whispered as he leaned slightly forward and reached out with his
tongue to capture a bit of precum from the tip. All his experience and all the rumors had
not prepared Aragorn for the expert mouth that closed over him and slowly swallowed his
length. Completely. He would have orgasmed right then, except for the adept hand that
pulled his swollen balls just so.

As Boromir stopped moving, Aragorn almost cried out in frustrated lust. Then his hands
were guided, one to each side of his future Steward’s head. Taking control, as he knew
Boromir wanted, Aragorn began moving the sweet mouth in an ever-increasing pace on his
copiously leaking cock. Never before had he experienced such a degree of control over his
partner and knowing that Boromir could take whatever he could give him made the act even
more pleasing.

Aragorn was well endowed, but Boromir took him easily to the root. He relaxed into his
lord’s grip, only keeping the suction constant, not worrying about displaying any of his
extensive skills. This was for his king alone and Boromir wanted him to experience the
pleasure of complete dominance. It wasn’t long before Aragorn’s pace became uneven as he
reached climax. On impulse, he pulled from the warm mouth to let his cum spray across
Boromir’s face. He groaned as he saw the younger man open his mouth to catch what he
could on his tongue.

Collapsing back on the low couch, Aragorn watched in newly rising lust as Boromir brought
some of his spilled seed to his lips. It reinvigorated him and Aragorn felt himself
hardening quicker than he ever had before. Leaning forward again, he began removing the
light tunic Boromir had chosen to wear that day. With no other distractions, he saw the
beautiful designs carved and tattooed into the younger man’s chest.

“Let me see,” Aragorn whispered as the tunic fell to the floor and he began running his
fingers across the tree and the initials on its bole. “I’ve never seen anything like this
before, so beautiful.” Once started, there was no stopping his hands from exploring the
landscape of scarred and colored flesh over tight muscle. He could tell that Boromir had
lost weight and maybe a little muscle tone. “I want you to take it easy and relax while
I’m gone,” he said into a perfect ear. He gently turned Boromir until he could see his
seal tattooed on the golden shoulder. The exquisite workmanship and detail took his
breath away.

As Aragorn’s fingers came into contact with the warm flesh, a bolt of energy shot up his
arm. Boromir arched back, crying out in surprise at the flash of power that coursed
through his body. Moving restively beneath the hands of his stunned liege lord, he slid
out of the soft slippers and loose pants he was wearing. Naked, he prostrated himself
before Aragorn.

“I am yours to do with as you will, my Liege,” Boromir reaffirmed his earlier words. “I
offer myself to you in hope that you will claim me as your own.”

Aragorn had read the words and was aware of all of the ceremonies. He even knew which
rite Faramir had used to claim his manciples. This was more than he had ever considered
possible and he knew there was no way he could refuse. With gentle hands, he grasped
Boromir’s hips and pulled him to his knees, admiring the long beautiful line of the man
down to where his shoulders still rested on the floor.

“I claim you as my own, Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Hurin,” Aragorn said as
he slowly entered the relaxed body. He was still wet enough from Boromir’s saliva and his
own cum that there was little pain. “You are the first part of the kingdom that will be
mine when we return to Gondor.” Wanting to say more, be more reassuring and masterful, he
could only gasp in pleasure as his body moved of its own accord to finish the pledge
between himself and this man. Before he could totally lose all restraint, Aragorn felt
the movements and pressure from Boromir’s body guiding him back into control. It sent an
indelible image to his mind of his Steward always being there to help guide him on the
proper path.

Still, it was only moments before he reached completion, heard and felt Boromir cry out
his own release beneath him. After a few minutes of lying side by side on the floor
staring deeply into each other’s eyes, Aragorn urged him to his feet. “Come Boromir, let
us retire to my bed,” he said.

“As you wish, my Liege,” Boromir quickly answered.

“When we are in private, I would have you only call me Estel,” he told him, stopping to
put a hand to his cheek and look into his eyes once again. “It is what all those who know
me and love me call me. There is no one I would have know me or love me more than you.”

“Estel,” Boromir whispered, tears slowly running from his eyes as he felt the bonds of
prophecy and loyalty in his heart. “It is what I wish as well.”


Nervous energy had kept Faramir from spending his time with the court of Minas Tirith.
Much of his day had been occupied inspecting the siege preparations and dealing with the
unexpected problems that came up with displacing such a large populace so quickly and for
so long.

Although he feared for their safety, he was gladdened to see Faril and Sayil amongst the
children still in the city. The roads had become too dangerous to send them back with the
onset of winter rains and increased enemy activity, so he exiled them to stay with the
other boys their age. Though they pouted and protested, he knew they were thrilled to be
allowed to stay in the city at all. Since both had been training as minstrels and had
kindly brought their instruments with them, he assigned them to play for the men as they
worked and for special occasions.

Faramir returned to his room as the odd feeling that had been plaguing him all day
increased. He was about to bathe when a flash of energy passed through him. The tattoo of
the king’s seal burned in a pleasurable pain so intense that he lost his footing. Stefle
was able to catch him before he fell, his eyes widening as he saw flashes of light flare
across the seal.

“He has found him,” Faramir whispered as he tried to regain his feet, unable to control
the wide grin that covered his face.

* Looking at the elf in front of his desk, Elrond wasn't fooled by his appearance of
youth. When he had first met Legolas at the forming of the Last Alliance of Elves and
Men, he was already over a thousand years old. Now here he sat, still looking as if he
hadn't reached his majority yet.

"I am sending a dispatch to your father today," he told him. "I'm letting him know of
your intended participation in the quest to destroy the ring."

"You do realize that he will come to stop me?" Legolas asked.

"I'm sure he'll try," Elrond answered. "But there is enough bad feeling between us, I
will not conceal this from Thranduil. If you write him yourself, he might understand."

Laughing outright at the idea, Legolas shook his head. "Ada still doesn't believe I've
reached my majority. There will be fireworks in Imladris."

"What about the Gondorian?" Elrond asked.

"You haven't written about him as well?" Legolas almost jumped from his seat.

"Of course not," Elrond said. "But if your father comes, he will find out. Saelbeth will
not say anything, but you haven't been in the least discrete. Things are bad enough
without an enraged father marching on Gondor to defend his son's honor. We were barely
able to stop him the last time."

Legolas smirked at the memory, his face going quickly neutral at Elrond's outraged
expression. "If I have a half hour warning, I can take care of that problem," Legolas
assured him. Then a speculative look crossed his face. "It might solve a few other
problems as well," he added with a wide smile.

"What are you plotting now?" Elrond asked with a sinking feeling.

"Nothing world shattering, my friend," Legolas told him. "But rest assured that I have
learned how to deal with my father quite well in the last age. Of course the whole thing
with Isildur would have gone a lot better if my grandfather hadn't been throwing such a
fit. He never cared much for me since my birth gave Ada sole rulership of the northern
half of Greenwood. Besides, I never make the same mistake twice."

"I'm not sure I entirely trust your confidence, Legolas," Elrond was honest. "But you
know Thranduil better than any of us here. Just remember there is much more at stake here
than just the ring. Boromir will not thank you if you make your father his enemy."

"All will be well, Elrond," Legolas said with a grin. "Boromir is not Isildur and I am
not even the same as I was back then. You will see."

"You're incorrigible," Elrond said with resignation. "Galadriel took a lot of convincing
to lift her ban on you. If things go badly before you even leave, she might change her
mind. Will you have a letter ready for your father in two hours?"

"I have one now," Legolas said with a smirk, pulling a sealed missive from his robes.

"There are times you almost unnerve me, Legolas," Elrond told him as he took the sealed
letter. "If I didn't have Glorfindel and Erestor to counter you, I might feel completely
lost."

"Ah, yes. I should speak with them as well this evening," Legolas smirked. "Boromir will
no doubt be spending the evening with Aragorn, so I shouldn't allow myself to be at loose
ends. You never know what kind of trouble I might get into on my own."

With a sigh, Elrond dismissed the younger elf and called for the Mirkwood messenger. A
startled cry from the other office told him that Erestor would soon know of Legolas's
intention to keep him and Glorfindel occupied for the night. Despite his chief
counselor's posturing, he knew the three were fast friends and more, whenever possible.
It helped to ease his doubts. Both Noldor elves were much older than him and had proven
to be completely reliable. He could only hope that their trust in Legolas would again
prove worthwhile.


When the beautiful elven princess who was to be his lord’s queen entered the room,
Boromir made to rise from the bed in courtesy. At her signal, he relaxed against his
liege and watched her cross the room. As she sat on the bed beside Aragorn, he stirred in
his sleep until she ran a hand down his cheek and whispered words of comfort in his ear.
Sighing, the older man nestled into the man in his arms and returned to his dreams.

“He has been very worried for you, my Lord Boromir,” Arwen said quietly. “He was afraid
he had turned you against him.”

“I would die first, your Grace,” Boromir spoke up quickly. “Most of my life has been
spent preparing for his return.

"My father gave Estel’s kingship as a requirement for my hand in marriage," she told him.
"He despaired of fitting in as ruler despite his many years of service in Gondor and
Rohan. In all that time, he never really felt he fit in, even though both Ecthelion II
and Thengel placed great trust in him. I think that his failure to win your father’s
friendship affected him greatly.”

“My father calls no man friend, Liege Lady,” Boromir said with a sad smile. “I seem to be
the only one who has ever found his approval, and sometimes that was even grudgingly
given. I have read all the accounts of Estel’s leadership and even his martial treatises.
He has no need to doubt his abilities.”

“Both you and I know that, my Lord,” Arwen whispered. “But I think he still needs
reassurance. I can think of no one better than you to guide him and show him what a great
leader he is.”

“It is my privilege, Liege Lady,” Boromir assured her. “There can be no higher honor for
a Gondorian.”

“I have every faith in you, Lord Boromir,” she said before resting her head against
Aragorn’s shoulder closing her eyes to sleep, a sign of her human heritage.

Boromir also closed his eyes, secure in his liege lord’s arms. His thoughts turned to
home and, as always, his beloved brother.


Part 30: MORNING CONVERSATIONS

Shortly before dawn Arwen woke to the sound of Boromir’s voice. At first she thought he
was simply talking in his sleep, then she realized that it was much more than that.
Laying a careful hand on his head, she heard other voices answer him. Their words soon
identified them to her and she knew he was communicating with his brother and, to a
lesser degree, with Eomer of Rohan.

Having learned much of scrying and direct mind-to-mind communication from her
grandmother, she had few qualms about listening in. It was soon clear to her that most of
what they shared was the fact that Boromir was now with Estel and they were all happy
about it, though it was mostly just emotions rather than whole thoughts they shared.
Leaning back and letting the men return to the privacy of their dream- talk, she thought
about this latest development. Legolas had hinted about this, but he took too great a joy
in teasing Arwen to give up his knowledge easily.

As Boromir’s dreams came to a stop she gently pulled Estel closer to her, turning his
face so she could kiss him awake. “I must leave now or my father will be scandalized, my
love,” she whispered into his ear when he opened his eyes. Telling him of Boromir’s
dreams could wait until he returned from his scouting mission.

“Your father knows exactly where you are, my heart,” he smiled at her words. “But it is
best not to give Erestor any more fuel for his gossip, though I’ve never heard him say a
word about you.”

“He’d best not,” Arwen said, her eyes flashing. “I know all of his secrets, he wouldn’t
survive the payback.” With a soft laugh and another kiss, she quickly made her way from
the room.

Sighing heavily, Aragorn looked down at the man he held in his arms. Green eyes smiled
back at him, making it impossible for him not to respond with a kiss. “You may rest here
as long as you wish,” he whispered. “I have to meet with Elrond and hope to set out
before full light. You can even use the guest room I showed you yesterday if you want. I
know you won’t get much privacy with Legolas.”

“I am not used to privacy, unless you count my recent journey,” Boromir laughed. “I thank
you for the offer, my liege, but I seem to be more comfortable in the company of others.
Even if they are strangers or elves, or strange elves.”

“Legolas is unlike any other elf I’ve ever encountered so I guess he would fit your
description,” Aragorn laughed, thinking of his friend. He quieted again as he looked into
Boromir’s eyes. The man had his father’s features but his coloring was from his mother’s
family. While most Gondorians were pale of skin, black of hair and gray-eyed, Boromir was
almost golden. His skin was tanned from exposure to the elements and maybe a bit of
Southron blood, his hair like the brightest spun gold; those amazing green eyes betraying
tiny flecks of gold this close. Aragorn couldn’t help but think that he was a vision of
the Valar given flesh to brighten these dark days.

Knowing that he should be preparing for his journey, Aragorn couldn’t help but claim one
more kiss. Which led to another, deeper kiss. As strong calloused hands moved up his back
and pulled him over Boromir’s body, he could only moan in pleasure. With his legs now
firmly settled between the younger man’s thighs and their erections snug against each
other, he let himself be guided to gently sliding across the sweat- slicked body below
him. As quick as his arousal had overcome him, the slow pace kept him at a fever pitch
that did not allow completion. They had not broken their kiss yet and their breathing was
forced harshly through their noses. Aragorn’s hands, wrapped tightly in Boromir’s hair,
pulled them even closer together.

He’d never known he’d wanted this, needed this so much. Most of his adult life had been
spent on the trail or in precarious political positions that did not lend themselves to
the time or place for carnal pleasures. Encouraging touches led him to taking control of
their movements. He raised one of Boromir’s thighs and felt for the bottle of oil on the
bedside table. Even here Boromir had complete control of his muscles and it took only a
light coating of oil to have him ready. Aragorn sank smoothly within the tight passage
with a groan of pleasure.

Halting for a moment, Aragorn closed his eyes to block out the erotic sight of the golden
man beneath him, which threatened to undo him. When he had himself back under control, he
looked down at Boromir laying spread out beneath him as he began slowly moving with deep
thrusts. The green eyes looking back at him were heavy with lust, urging him to move
faster. He couldn’t resist their wordless plea and braced himself on Boromir’s shoulders,
feeli