Title: His Master’s Call Author: Emma Keigh E-mail: emmakeigh@ithilas.com Rating: NC-17 Characters: All the usual suspects Pairings: Sauron/Boromir Category: Challenge Status: New Date: 21 February 2003 Archive: Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest Challenge Archive and where posted; elsewhere please ask first Series: nope Website: http://www.ithilas.com/chezemma Summary: Boromir hears the call of the Ring. Disclaimer: The characters and melieux from The Lord of the Rings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkein and New Line Cinema (AOL). I only play with them from time to time for my own amusement and without compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. Anything or anyone new, however, is mine (left-overs again!). Warning: This story contains explicit scenes of sex with bondage between consenting adult males of different species. If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW. Not beta-read. Notes: Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest Challenge http://www.geocities.com/slashlordsarchives. This is a “hard” pairing. HIS MASTER’S CALL a Sauron/Boromir story for Slashlords’ Fuh-Q-Fest by Emma Keigh “In a dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark and in the west a pale light lingered, voices crying, ‘Doom is near at hand. Isildur’s Bane is found.’ Isildur’s Bane.” Rivendell. He first heard the voice during the Council of Elrond. Boromir. It could have been the wind in the trees, or the river splashing over the rocky clefts of the valley. It could have been the voice of his long-dead mother. He looked about the terrace where the Council sat, and knew the voice was not from the leaves falling from the trees, nor from the rushing water of the river. He knew it was not his mother’s voice. Boromir. Did no one else hear it? He rose to his feet. “It is true,” he said under his breath. The Ring gleamed brightly from the plinth where the Halfling had lain it. “In a dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark and in the west a pale light lingered, voices crying, ‘Doom is near at hand. Isildur’s Bane is found.’ Isildur’s Bane.” Boromir. “Ah, it is a gift,” he interjected. “A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy. Let us use it against him.” Boromir. It was the voice of the Ring. *** On the west bank of the Anduin. They had floated down the river for days, paddling with the current, hugging the western bank, away from the orc hordes they knew haunted the lands east of the river. They beached the boats at dusk, pulling them onto the rocky shore and under the trees, then carried their gear far enough inland that they could not be seen from the river. Once again the Elf volunteered to stand watch, allowing the rest of the Fellowship to sleep undisturbed through the night. Boromir spread his blankets to one side of the fire, apart from the others. He lay his sword safely within reach and pulled the blankets to his chin. The dreams had begun soon after leaving Rivendell. At first, they had been indistinct, and he had awakened with feelings of dread, feelings of being watched. He told himself he was merely uncomfortable traveling through the wilds with a group of strangers, but as he got to know them better, the dreams did not stop. Boromir. After their stay in Lothlórien, the dreams changed. They became more intense, more vivid. He saw himself at the head of Gondor’s army, trumpets blaring and banners flying. He saw the White City in her former glory, Osgiliath restored. In every dream around his neck he wore the Ring, and his enemies bowed before its power. His hand ached to hold the Ring. If he closed his eyes he could feel it in his grasp. Always there was the voice in his mind. Boromir. He closed his eyes to sleep, the voice of the Ring echoing in his mind. Resist no more, the voice told him. Take the Ring for your own. Again he dreamed of Gondor. He rode a mighty steed, the Ring upon his breast. Behind him the armies of Gondor marched. Through the Black Gates and across the plateau of Gorgoroth, to the foot of the Dark Tower itself he led them, and all bowed before him. Before the Ring. He raised his hand to stop the march and dismounted. A tremendous shout went up as the army halted, its ranks in perfect order, arrayed before the Dark Tower. Alone he entered the Tower. Darkness surrounded him, but his eyes pierced the gloom. Before him stood an empty throne on a tall dais. He climbed the steps to the top and seated himself. Power surged through him. He could see beyond the walls of Barad-Dûr, beyond the Gates of Mordor. He could see all of Middle-earth, from Far Harad in the south to the Northern Wastes, to the Sundering Seas in the West. He reached out his hand, and his shadow fell on the land, and all was under his dominion. You will be my vessel, Boromir. Take the Ring and join with me, and all this will be yours. The walls of the Tower closed, and the darkness returned. Join with me. Yes, he thought in answer. I will take the Ring. I will join with you. The throne became a slab of cold stone, and he was bound to it by heavy chains. Manacles cut into this wrists, stretching his arms over his head; his ankles were shackled and his legs spread apart. An iron collar circled his throat, binding it to the stone, and a gag filled his mouth. The air thrummed with power, his skin itched as though a lightning bolt had struck next to him, and he realized he was naked and exposed. Rough hands dragged along his arms from wrists to shoulders, then across his ribs and flanks, and finally from groin to toe. It aroused him, and his manhood hardened and stood tall. The hands owned him, and he yearned for more of their touch. He wanted more — he needed more, but chained as he was, he could only arch his back to lift his hips toward his master. You offer yourself freely. Take me, he shouted in his mind. The hand gripped his throbbing member, burning as it stroked and pulled. He felt the cold metal of the Ring against his flesh, sliding from root to crown and back. As the hand moved to grasp his sac, an even hotter mouth engulfed him, sucking in his entire length. The suction was unrelenting, and the hand squeezed until Boromir erupted, pouring his seed into the unseen mouth. I have your soul, the voice said. Now receive me! Still shackled, his legs were pulled up, and his entrance was broached by iron-hard flesh, its heat burning its way to Boromir’s very center. Again and again it thrust into him, filling him with both agony and ecstasy. Thinking he would faint with the pain or perhaps die from the pleasure, a fire exploded within him, infusing his entire being with the Power of the Ring. *** Boromir awoke at the first glimmer of dawn, and he found he had polluted himself in his sleep. The others awakened to find him bathing in the river. Only Frodo saw the new light that glowed behind his eyes. The End © 2003 Emma Keigh 1,089 words 4 His Masters Call-ms.doc Last printed 0/0/0000 0:00 AM