Title:  Strength
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail:  gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing:  Legolas/Boromir
Rating:  NC-17
Feedback:  is totally groovy.
Disclaimer:  Just me being weird.
Warning:  Recollections of rape and general unpleasantness.
Summary:  Boromir has suffered a different sort of damage at Amon Hen.  Legolas is 
having trouble dealing with the aftermath.
Author’s Note:  Couldn't help wondering, after all the years Boromir has been fighting 
Orcs, what would happen if some of them recognized him there at Parth Galen?  The Plot 
Bunny wondered, too.

##############

Under heaven all can see beauty as beauty only because there is ugliness.
All can know good as good only because there is evil.
					~~Lao Tsu

*****************

The Elf’s thoughts were dark and bloody.  Crouched hawk-like in the chill sun atop the 
stone wall, the prince of Mirkwood grimly scanned the valley below Meduseld.  A storm 
was coming in from the northwest.  There would be rain by nightfall.

He had killed over a hundred orcs just days ago during the battle at Helm’s Deep, had 
thought a friendly competition with the enthusiastic Dwarf might lift his mood.  A river 
of orc blood had not been enough.

He heard Aragorn approach, Gimli in his wake.  Smelled the pipe tobacco drifting about 
the Dwarf.  The Ranger stood near Legolas, his gaze following the elf’s out across the 
Riddermark and off into the sharp mountains.  Rohan awaited a sign from Gandalf, now 
swiftly on his way to Minas Tirith with Pippin.  Aragorn waited impatiently for the 
lighting of the beacons that would summon Theoden King and the fierce Rohirrim to the 
aid of the White City.  Aragorn and his friends would ride with them.

“You do not sleep,” Aragorn said.

“Elves need little sleep.”  Legolas replied without looking at the Man.

The dwarf snorted, puffing smoke.  “You take none, roaming the halls at night like an 
unsettled shade.”

The elf did not dispute this.  He heard the soft footsteps of Meriadoc Brandybuck cross 
the stone flags.  “It’s got something to do with Boromir, hasn’t it.”

“My troubles are my own, no fault of his, Master Brandybuck.”

“He doesn’t sleep either,” Merry told him.

Legolas knew this.

The young Hobbit came quickly to the heart of the matter.  “What happened in Fangorn 
forest?”

“I was asked not to speak of it.”  Had Aragorn suggested that the hobbit ask this 
question?  If anyone could get the truth from the elf, it would be Merry, and the Ranger 
knew it.  Legolas braced for Merry to press, hoped he would not.

“Legolas, I see the shadow of something dreadful in his eyes.”  Merry stood close to the 
Elf bowman.  “Pip and I tried sleeping in his room with him once, and he slept a little, but 
then he woke fighting nightmares.  Now he spends all day riding with Eomer, and at 
night he returns but still doesn’t sleep.  I don’t think he can.”

The hobbit put a hand to Legolas’s elbow.  “Please.  Tell me what happened!”

“You should be asking Boromir, not me,” the elf advised.

“We did, Legolas - Pip and me, but he says it wasn’t so bad and not to worry about it.  
Legolas, he’s never lied to us before!”

Legolas shook his head, refusing to look at the worried hobbit.  “Something dreadful.  
Just as you said.  Give him time.  Let it go.”

They were at war.  They did not have time.  Aragorn turned to the elf, suggesting evenly, 
“What if I guess?”

Legolas fixed him with a defiant stare.  “Guess, then.”

Aragorn had never seen such a dark expression in Legolas’s fair face.  The sunlight 
gleamed from his bright hair, but in his face was only the darkness of cold, unsated fury.  
It was unnerving.  Two of his best fighters, and the very same two of his closest friends 
were slowly, quietly unraveling.  It had to stop.

“Talk to me about rape, Legolas.”

The elf flinched.

It was Merry who broke him, just as Legolas had feared.  Such a small word.  “Please.”

He shook his head, already knowing he had been outmaneuvered.  “You know I tracked 
him.  I found him.  You do not need to hear the rest.”

Gimli had approached, and put a solid hand on his other shoulder.  The elf found the drift 
of his pipe tobacco oddly comforting.  “This sort of thing,” the dwarf told him with gentle 
matter-of-factness, “is never about sex.  It’s all about power.  Any woman will tell you 
that.”

“As long as you and Boromir can not move past what was done to him in Fangorn, they 
have power over both of you,” Aragorn said.  “Why do you suppose they let him live?  
Did one of them recognize him from some battle in Gondor?  Decide it would be more 
amusing than killing him to think of the mighty Blade of Gondor walking ruined?”

“Ruined?”  Legolas argued hotly.  The wind raced up the hill and whipped at his hair.  
“He fought like a madman at Helm’s Deep, you saw him!”

Aragorn smiled, just a little, his own dark hair flying about his face.  “Boromir always 
fights like a madman.  But how long can he go on this way?  Minas Tirith needs him 
whole.  I need both of you whole, mind and body, when we ride to battle!”  *The two of 
you are hollowing out in front of me, and I don’t know what else to do but this.*

Legolas turned sharply away, staring out at the valley again.  His hands clenched into 
fists, lips drawn back from his teeth.  “It seems I can not kill enough orcs to quench this 
anger.  I could kill a thousand, and I would still feel it.”

“Then you must speak,” Gimli told him sensibly.  “Or go mad, which is no use to 
anyone.”

“I…”  The elf shook his head, then relented.  He looked down at Merry.  “I would never 
wish to say these words.  Worse to speak them in your hearing.”

Merry took the elf’s hand.  “I’m not a child,” he reminded Legolas.  “If I had begun this 
journey a child, I’ve certainly left that behind by now!”

Aragorn leaned back against the stone wall, watching the promenade to be sure they 
remained just the four of them as Legolas confessed.  This was a lonely corner, and 
unlikely to be interrupted.  The elf had come here hoping to be left alone.

Legolas held Merry’s hand, taking comfort from the hobbit’s gentle strength.  He let his 
gaze roam the green valley again, focused his thoughts on the storm in the distance and 
took a deep breath.

*Boromir, please forgive me.*  “Remember, we three fell into the chasm at Parth Galen.”

“Aye,” Gimli recalled, in his memory journeying back with his friend.  “Aragorn wedged 
into a rocky place scoured out where the river had eaten out the hill.  Me, deeper – thank 
Aule for my hard head - and down the hill a bit.  Orcs died in the depths below all of us, 
curse ‘em.”

“You were at the top of the hill,” the Ranger continued for Legolas.  “Part of the ancient 
ruin sank beneath you, then more of it came down after you.  We nearly lost you then.”  
These things they all knew, even Merry by now, but Aragorn let the reluctant archer 
gather his tale as he would.

“Boromir…”  Legolas cleared his throat.  “Boromir was left alone, and finally 
overwhelmed.  He was carried off after the hobbits.  The larger group of orcs carried 
Merry and Pip straight toward Isengard, while the smaller group took Boromir north of 
Isengard into Fangorn.”  His face hardened again suddenly.  “Probably back at Isengard 
now, boasting to their friends…”

“Legolas.”  Gimli squeezed his arm.

“I am sorry.”  No more stalling, trying to get up his nerve.  “You and Aragorn went after 
Merry and Pippin.  I  went after Boromir.  They were moving quickly, pushing hard to 
cover distance, but once inside Fangorn it was a little easier for me.  Fangorn is an old, 
angry forest, still fond of Elves, and only too willing to betray an orc to its enemy.  I 
found the camp at night.  The orcs had already gone.”  He was shaking, and Merry patted 
his hand. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Merry told him.  “You still have a gash in your head from 
where that stone fell on you.  It would have smashed me flat.”  He pictured in his mind 
the determined Elf stalking his quarry through the darkness of Fangorn, a trail of deep red 
blood trickling down the side of Legolas’s face from the wound nearly healed now at his 
hairline.

“Go on,” Aragorn urged quietly, not really wanting to hear what he needed to hear.  
“What did you see?”

“I found him,” Legolas gritted into the wind.

More words jammed at the back of his teeth, backed up and choked him until he gave a 
soft cry of outrage and let them all out in a rush.  “He was just lying there, so still by 
moonlight, his back was to me, all his clothes torn off, covered in his own blood, bruises, 
claw strikes, bite wounds, worse, everywhere.”

Legolas’s fists clenched.  “Blindfolded, gagged.  Lengths of rope trailed off his ankles, 
his wrists bound, a broken branch tangled...  Aragorn…”  He turned haunted eyes to the 
ranger.  “Aragorn, they left him hanging by his wrists up in a tree!  Just left him there, 
bleeding, blind and silent!  He broke the branch off by himself, after they had all gone, he 
broke it with the last of his strength, fell to the ground cold and battered and alone in the 
dark, with no one to catch him, and then I came along, too late to stop anything.”

Legolas bared his teeth against his emotion, and he turned away again, snarling into the 
greying half-sun.  His darkening eyes narrowed sharply, and his voice lowered to a 
growl.  “He was bleeding everywhere, he was… They used him hard, Aragorn.  They 
used him hard, made it hurt, used him often.  I knew that just by looking at him.”  The 
Elf’s eyes had turned black with bitterness.   “He was so cold to the touch!  I wanted to 
howl, call the moon and the stars to witness, but I did not know how far away the orcs 
were, so I made no outcry.  None at all.  I could not do even that much for him!”

*So the high, hot flames of your grief and your outrage banked themselves in your fair 
breast as waiting embers, cold and terrible,* Aragorn thought miserably.  *And now you 
can not kill enough to satisfy that low, chill fire.*

“I am so sorry, Merry!”  Young Brandybuck’s face was flushed and wet with angry tears.  
Legolas unfolded himself from his perch on the wall to kneel and hug the hobbit to him, 
each taking comfort from the other.

It was Gimli’s turn to stare grimly out at the Riddermark, muttering dark curses in 
Khuzdul.  He had entertained a feeble hope that the Gondorian’s ordeal had not been as 
bad as he had suspected.  “The two of you sauntered into camp as though nothing of any 
great import had occurred,” the dwarf rumbled.  “Boromir’s face bruised, impressive 
black eye, and worrying over a loose tooth, but what is that, after all?  Dressed, armed, 
and making jokes.  We could not see what damage lay beneath his clothing and his 
demeanor.”

Legolas sat on the stone flags and leaned against the wall.  Merry hovered protectively.  
“He just wanted a bath,” the elf said.  “After I had got some water into him and managed 
to bring him round, all he wanted was a bath.  We found a stream, and though the water 
was cold we cleaned him up as well as we could, and went to find you.  And he asked me 
to say nothing that I have just said.”  The elf drew up his knees and hid his face in his 
arms.

“We needed to know,” Merry assured him.  Aragorn was silently grateful to the hobbit 
for that.

“Why?”

“Because we’re his friends, and we can’t be properly sorry or angry for him if we don’t 
know,” the hobbit reasoned.

“Merry, he does not want your pity.  It is the last thing he wants.  It will make him feel 
weak.”

Merry sat next to Legolas, clucking impatiently.  “It’s not pity.  It’s sharing.  You tell 
your friends when something wonderful happens to you, don’t you?”

The elf considered this for a moment, then lifted his head to regard the hobbit.  “I had not 
thought of it that way.”

Merry shook his head.  “You Big People too often overlook the simplest things.”

Gimli chortled quietly at that, but added soberly, “Someone’s going to have to talk to 
Boromir about all this.  We can’t leave him wandering about sleepless and trying to carry 
all those nightmares Merry’s told us of all by himself.”

Aragorn agreed, running a hand through his hair.  “If he’s going to get angry it may as 
well be at me.  We’re annoyed with each other half the time anyway, and I’ve got a good 
chance of outrunning him long enough to…”

“No,” Legolas said.  “It should be me.  He and I started this together, and together we 
shall finish it.”  *Even he does not know the lay of his wounds the way I do.*  “It might 
not be a sword and hot anger you would face, Aragorn.  Worse than that.”

*Silence then,* Aragorn thought.  *That look of betrayal, shut out of him, left to watch 
helplessly while he disintegrates.*  Aragorn regarded the Elf.  “You know him well.”

“I hope I do.”

Merry offered, “I could come with you.”

The offer was extremely tempting, but Legolas suspected that Merry would be too easily 
persuaded to believe that all had been made well when it had not.  Boromir would want 
too much to reassure him, even if he had to lie, and Merry might be too willing to believe 
it.  Had he not just warned them that Boromir had recently learned how to lie to kind-
hearted hobbits?

Legolas shook his head, smiling.  “Thank you Merry, but I would like to try on my own.  
If I need help I will surely come and ask you.”

A bell rang out from somewhere below them, and Merry’s ears perked up.  “Supper!  I 
thought I smelled something roasting!”

Aragorn wished that Men could be made as thoroughly happy so quickly by the mere 
thought of Supper.  Hobbits, he reflected, really were uncommonly wise folk.  “Go on 
Merry,” he suggested.  “Gimli, Legolas, shall we?  Perhaps we can get Boromir to eat 
properly tonight.”

He felt Legolas lay a restraining hand on his wrist, and amended, “Legolas and I will join 
you in a bit.”

Gimli gave the ranger a questioning look, but Merry was making a dash for the dinner-
table, and as his own stomach had been rumbling hopefully, the dwarf decided to follow.

Aragorn sat on the ground near his friend.  “What is it Legolas?”  He frowned at the elf’s 
expression.  “What have you not told us?”

The bowman took a deep breath and told him quietly, “They knew where you were.”

“What do you mean?”  

“You saw the Uruk tracks all around the edges of the cave-in.  Of the three of us, you lay 
closest to the surface.”

“Yes…”   A nameless fear stirred in him.

“When we were trying to pick up their direction I discovered where Boromir had made 
his final stand.  He could have escaped.  If he had abandoned us and just run, he could 
have got out.  But he did not run.  I believe they had spotted where you lay.  They did not 
know who you were, but knowing where was enough for their purpose.  Just as you 
surmised, some of the yrch had recognized Boromir from the battlefields of Gondor.”

Aragorn laced his fingers, drew up his knees to match the elf’s position, but his body 
refused to quit shaking.  “They were in a hurry, didn’t want to spend the time digging me 
out, but they could have done it.”  He felt nauseous, covered his face with his hands.  “So 
he negotiated terms for his own surrender.  They were sent for the hobbits, but Boromir 
became the one some of them most wanted.”

They sat together in silence for a time.  Legolas would have offered ease to Aragorn, but 
he had none to give.  His heart was full of darkness and icy fire.

At last Aragorn asked, “Why would he not speak the truth?  He lied to the hobbits, he has 
lied to us.  Why?  Was it…”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Surely not because he tried to 
take the Ring from Frodo?  He confessed that to me after the two of you returned.  He 
lost himself for a time, that is all, and I told him...  Legolas, did he go with them because 
he felt he deserved whatever they might do?  Did he expect to die, and take his shame 
with him?”

“Aragorn.  You are his friend.”  *Big People overlook the simplest things.*

Aragorn stared at him for a moment, as though he had been struck.  Then he hid his face 
against his knees.  Legolas waited patiently.  He had no comfort for the Man.  He wished 
he did.  His thwarted rage was a barrier between them, and he perversely clung to it.  His 
thoughts were dark, lit only by the fires of imagined carnage.  He clung to those, as well.  
Otherwise, he might weep until he collapsed.  Which, as Gimli had put it, would be of no 
use to anyone.


Supper at Meduseld was a noisy affair.  Boromir sat between Merry and Eomer.  Merry 
entertained his neighbors with juggling tricks, and Boromir startled him by stealing one 
of the apples Merry was juggling as he juggled them, making Eomer and his lieutenants 
laugh.  The rest of the apples fell to the table, rolled onto the floor, and in his effort to 
catch them the hobbit would have toppled from his seat, had not the Man of Gondor 
quickly snatched at his waistcoat and pulled him forward.

It seemed like such a normal evening.  But the question remained: would Boromir sleep 
when the time for it came?  He alone had chambers to himself.  Meduseld’s chamberlain 
had offered them as a matter of course, given Boromir’s rank, and though initially he had 
declined, in the end he had pleaded simple restlessness, and as much for the sakes of his 
companions as his own he accepted the chamberlain’s offer of  a small set of rooms for 
him.  It was no trouble.  The Golden Hall had been built generously.

In the quiet long past supper, when the great fire in the Hall had been safely banked, and 
the last warriors had ambled off to bed, Legolas prowled the hall.  He had stood under 
what he could find of the stars, watched the moon come up bloodied and half-hidden by 
clouds and trails of foul smoke oozing northward from Mordor.  The storm clouds were 
rapidly covering Edoras.  Legolas could smell the rain in them.

There was no ease on the promenades tonight.  It was cold, there were no trees, and even 
the moon’s sweet silver light was denied him.  He thought on Frodo and Sam, making 
their way in the dark toward deeper Darkness, and he sent his love into the night, what he 
could conjure of it from a heart heavy with guilt and the wish for vengeance.  Tonight he 
must speak to Boromir.  Aragorn and Gimli had been right.  He and Boromir would both 
go mad if this charade kept on.   He took a deep breath.  Perhaps a miracle had happened, 
and Legolas would find Gondor’s son peacefully asleep.  He cursed himself for a fool, 
and went inside.

The storm broke furiously behind him.


Now he stood before Boromir’s chamber door, irresolute in the dark, quiet hall.  He 
licked  his lips, straightened his tunic, shrugged his shoulders, thereby crooking his tunic 
again, and knocked lightly at the door.  He hoped there would be no answer, prayed there 
would.  He had no idea what he might say, wondered how to even begin.  The door 
opened, startling him, and Boromir, dressed but lightly, stood framed by dim firelight 
behind him.  “Legolas?”

“Boromir.  I know the hour is late.  I would speak with you, but I thought you might be 
asleep.  If it is too late…“

“Not at all,” Boromir assured him.  “Please. Come in.”

His hair lay damp to his shoulders, wisps of it beginning to dry in the warm room.  He 
had bathed recently, the tub of bath water still tepid before the lowering fire in the small 
sitting-room.  Legolas eyed the tub, a certain memory sharp in his mind.

“Come into the other room,” Boromir suggested.  “I’m letting this fire die, and just 
started the one in the bedroom.  Eomer sent me some wine,” Boromir offered as Legolas 
sat in a soft chair near the fireplace.  The elf accepted, and the man poured a clear, 
gleaming purple red into a glass.

Boromir settled across from Legolas, watching the fire grow.  His blackened left eye had 
nearly healed.  “They don’t drink a great deal of wine in Rohan,” he commented, “but 
Eomer knows I enjoy it in the evening.  It might help…”  He glanced up at Legolas, 
stretching out long legs in front of him.  “Here’s to Gandalf and Pip.  May they have the 
best of luck dealing with my father.”

The elf raised his glass to that, rolled the fine wine thoughtfully in his mouth.  *Why 
bathe in the sitting room?  How deep has this darkness gone, that he can not leave a 
bathtub overnight in his bedroom?  Or is it just an innocent quirk? Everyone has them.  
Hobbits eat breakfast eleven times a day.*

Rain lashed at Meduseld, the wind rushing at walls and thrashing around corners.  

“You look tired,” Boromir observed.  

*I..?*  Legolas thought.  To his eyes tonight the Man appeared just this side of haggard.  
The angles below his cheek bones seemed more acute than mere days past.  It tore at 
Legolas, making him fear the future and wonder how many more nights watching the 
long hours his friend could endure.  “I have been somewhat restless these days,” was the 
elf’s soft reply.

Boromir admitted, “I have spent little time with you – with all of you lately.  It is just that 
by the time of Helm’s Deep, after…”  He frowned into the wine, “…after I had healed up 
a bit it seemed best to be out, riding, watching, doing something.  I suppose I need to feel 
busy, waiting for word from Gandalf.”

Legolas took a breath, spoke the truth.  “And it keeps you from those people most likely 
to ask you questions.”

Boromir glanced at him sharply, a sudden stiffness to his body.

Legolas continued, apprehensive, but his voice calm.  “Questions such as How are your 
wounds?  Do you sleep, or are your nights long, full of wakeful hours and nightmares?”  
He could see Boromir’s hand shaking, winced inwardly at the fading rope burns on the 
man’s wrist.

Green eyes regarded the elf warily.  “Legolas…”

“I told them.”

Boromir blinked.  “You - ?”  He set his wineglass carefully down on the hearth stones.

Legolas noticed that his own hands were less steady than he might have wished.  He met 
his friend’s eyes.  “They came to me this afternoon - Aragorn, Gimli, Merry.  I told them 
what happened to you.”  His heart thumped against his ribs.  “I told them what you asked 
me not to.  Seems I could not hold your secrets well at all.”

The man looked away from him, into the fire, only a few moments, yet an infinite agony 
for the elf.  When Boromir turned back to Legolas he smiled wryly.  “They set Merry on 
you, didn’t they.”

Legolas nodded mutely, and Boromir shook his head.  “Don’t know what it is about 
hobbits.  I should never have asked you to keep silent for me.”

The Elf’s stomach clenched.  “I am sorry Boromir!  They worry for you, they have felt 
that something…”

“No, no,” the Man corrected him gently.  “I should never have burdened you with my 
silence. You feel things deeply, though you do not often show them.  I never considered 
how this would affect you.  That was unfair of me, Legolas.”  He retrieved his wine and 
finished it at a gulp.

They could hear thunder in the distance, lightning in the hills around the valley.

“Your friends would share your life,” Legolas told him.  “The bad along with the good.  I 
think…”  This would be the horrible part.  “I think you tried to spare us, to spare Aragorn 
especially the truth of what really happened at Amon Hen.  From even me you have kept 
it, but I believe I know.”

Boromir regarded him narrowly, eyes dark jade.  “What do you think you know?”

Legolas could see the pulse in Boromir’s throat quickening.  “They had discovered 
Aragorn.  You could have run.  You did not.”

All the color had drained from Boromir’s face.  His voice was low, close to menace.  
“Did you speak this belief to Aragorn?”

*Please, not silence.  Strike me, but not silence.*  “Only to Aragorn.”

Lips pressed into a hard line, Boromir stared into the fire.  His hands closed into fists, and 
he said nothing.

*I will beg you if I have to.*

A sharp shake of his head, and the Man turned.  “He has enough worries already!  
Legolas, how could you?”

Anger, then.  Two could play that, hot or cold.  “Were you even certain whether or not 
Aragorn had survived his fall?  Or was that beside the point when you handed yourself 
over to torment?”

“What do you mean?”  The look on Boromir’s drawn face told Legolas that he knew very 
well what the elf meant.  “My life.  My own decision, no one…”

“I know every mark on you,” Legolas said.

“What?”

The elf regarded him steadily.  His blue eyes were dark. “That night I found you, bloody 
and bound in Fangorn forest.  I knelt there on the ground, held you still and silent in my 
arms, believed you dead.”

He stared into the wine glass.  Across from him, Boromir’s green eyes watched him 
intently. 

“By moonlight I counted the marks they had left on you, it was irrational, I know.   We 
washed you in the brook, I watched you shiver with cold and pain and exhaustion, how 
dull your eyes appeared.  I counted the marks again.”  Legolas’s teeth set, his pleasant 
voice growing rough with strain.  “Here, finally in a hot bath when I helped you scrub the 
dried blood and filth that had not come loose from your body in the cold water of 
Fangorn, I counted again and memorized every wound.  Each one.  I can not…”

Boromir’s clenched hands loosened.  His pulse beat hard in his throat.

“I can not kill enough orcs to ease the shame that I did not find you in time to keep them 
from inflicting each one of those wounds, each one marking another moment that I was 
not there to kill for you when you needed me!”

“Legolas.”  Boromir crossed the short distance between them.  He took the wine glass 
from him, set it on the table and knelt before him to hold his friend’s hands.  The two 
remained so for a little time, the man pressing his face to their clasped hands.  At last he 
said, “I never thought at all past my own humiliation.  Please forgive me.”

Legolas bent his head to Boromir’s.  “Elrond made me the eyes and ears of the 
Fellowship, but what a slow hunter I proved myself!”

“You were swift!  The creatures guessed they were being tracked, and made a poor job of 
their sport because of it.  I might have fared much worse than I did.”  Boromir’s grip 
tightened on the Elf’s slender hands.  “I accepted death as a risk… aye, perhaps too 
readily.  But you found me and brought me back, and now I will mend.”

Caution in the elf’s mind, centuries of caution, told him This was too easy.  “If you ever 
sleep again.”

“If,” the man admitted.  “There is that.  Can’t seem to quite manage it, can I?”

Legolas removed one hand from his friend’s grasp and brushed at Boromir’s face.  “What 
happened was such a perversion of something fine, there is the added tragedy.”

The Man regarded him curiously.  “What are you talking about Legolas?”

Lightning arrived at Edoras, racked down into the valley, briefly flashed in the window.
         
He shrugged.  “It is a way with Elves sometimes.  With friends.  Have you never shared 
physical affection with another man?  I - ”  He stammered a moment, remembering the 
rough ground he was treading.  “I mean, that both of you desired.”

Seven seconds to thunder.  The lightning was close.

Boromir sat down on the carpet at Legolas’s feet, facing the fire.  “A man?  Kissed a 
soldier once.  Young fellow, just as we were going into a tough fight.  Poor lad had seen 
too much, was losing his nerve.”

“Did your kiss help him?”

Boromir scratched his chin.  “Got his attention.”

Legolas laughed, and the man at his feet looked up at him.  “Now that is a sound I have 
not heard in too long!”

Legolas trailed his fingers through Boromir’s fine hair, nearly dry now.  “Neither of us 
has been himself lately.”

Boromir turned and leaned back against Legolas’s shins.  “Do that again?”

Legolas opened his knees and the man maneuvered back between them against the chair.  
The elf shifted forward a bit and settled himself to the pleasant task, long fingers moving 
slowly, feeling the gold silk against his skin, the warmth of Boromir’s broad shoulders 
between his legs.  They went on in companionable silence for a while, listening to the 
rain on the roof, until Boromir draped one arm over Legolas’s left knee.  “Legolas, I can’t 
seem to get hold of my old self again.  As long as I keep moving, in busy daylight I feel 
close to being whole, but in the quiet… the nights are damned long.”

Boromir rested his chin atop the arm over the elf’s knee, Legolas still gently carding the 
long, gold hair through his fingers, a soft smile on his face that Boromir could not see.  “I 
would see Frodo again, ask his forgiveness.”

“I am certain it would please him to find you again, under better circumstances than the 
last.”

“Better?  Different now, anyway.”  Boromir moved away, piled more and heavier wood 
onto the fire, stared into it for a few moments, then knelt facing Legolas.  He knelt in 
close, pressed up against the chair between Legolas’s knees.  “Do something for me, 
Legolas?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me.”

Legolas’s heart thumped, voice of reason cautioning, This is dangerous ground.  “Wh - 
kiss you?”

“Yes.  I want to know what it’s like to kiss another fellow.  Soldier doesn’t count.”

“Curiosity, then?”

“Exactly.  Though if you’d rather not, that’s alright, I’m not an Elf, and – mmmph!”

He should not have done it.  Legolas knew he should not have done it, but the plain truth 
was that he wanted to.

Had he given Boromir some chaste brushing of lips, perhaps all might have ended there, 
but Legolas kissed the Man well, kissed him thoroughly, his elven caution shouting at 
him in the back of his mind only to be ignored as Boromir leaned into the kiss and 
opened to the Elf, let Legolas hold his face steady in long hands, slip his tongue between 
Boromir’s teeth, Boromir’s hands rushing over Legolas’s slender thighs to his hips, 
pulling him abruptly closer, unbuckling the belt at his tunic, slipping warm hands up the 
elf’s lean back as Legolas kissed him deeply, his pulse hammering in his throat, and 
Boromir pulled backward with his body, pulling Legolas off the chair and onto the floor 
with him, knees straddling, the sensible voice in Legolas’s head shrieking *Do not do 
this!* and Legolas stopped, lifted his mouth from Boromir’s, the two of them panting for 
breath.

“Boromir, I – I am sorry!  I don’t understand this – me – I shouldn’t – this is not what 
you need right now.”  He was crouched on all fours over Boromir, staring down wide-
eyed, face flushed and hot, his pale hair falling forward onto the man.

“You’re right, I expect,” Boromir agreed breathlessly, “but for something that may not be 
good for me I seem to be enjoying it just fine.”  He grinned up at Legolas, easy, a laugh 
between friends, but his green eyes were feral, the way Legolas remembered them in the 
heat of battle.  *”Boromir always fights like a madman”* ran briefly through his mind, 
that urgent voice warning him that neither of them was quite right in his head at the 
moment, but it was hard for Legolas to fight it, when he could feel the man’s body heat 
rising from beneath him, Boromir’s scent like incense, sanctified just to him.  He needed 
to get up and leave, at least, for the love of Elbereth, get up before Boromir spoke again 
in that voice that could roar commands above the mind-numbing tumult of a raging 
battlefield, but now rose like the smooth rumble of a great cat, eyes of a winter lynx 
glittering up at him.

“We could end this now, Legolas, we likely should, but I don’t want to.  I couldn't 
understand, never admitted before…”  He reached up, took hold of the back of Legolas’s 
neck and pulled him down, brushing the elf's lips with his words in that rumbling purr 
that had always slid straight down from Legolas’s ears to his chest to the low part of his 
belly, “…how much I’ve wanted to touch you.”  He swallowed, speaking honestly.  
“Touch you like this.”

“Boromir…” a small sound of protest.

“Legolas, there are very few people in this world I trust with my life.  One of them is you.  
You should have been my first this way, Legolas.  If it was going to be anybody, it 
should have been you.”

Legolas’s face twisted with grief, hating to admit to himself how many times recently he 
had caught himself thinking that very thing, and he let Boromir pull him down, kissed the 
man, was kissed, hard and strong and deep, hands rending at clothing, buckles, ties, 
breath coming fast, a moan of frustration, a curse at a stubborn boot, the voice of 
Legolas’s common sense howling in his head *This can not end well,* one last attempt at 
sanity before it was obliterated by the sight of Boromir, hot-eyed and naked beneath him.

He came up short at the sight of a vicious bite mark on Boromir’s shoulder, still bloody 
red and scabbed over.  He felt his stomach lurch, felt the rage, the fire for vengeance, set 
all that aside for Minas Tirith, and kissed the healing wound, moved down Boromir’s 
body, counting the mending wounds with his tongue and his lips, Boromir’s hands in his 
hair, the fair silk sliding over the man’s body.  Beyond the damage Legolas found pale 
skin, old battle scars, muscle shifting, full of power and grace.

He followed the line of fine gold hairs down below Boromir’s navel, reached the dark 
gold curls, and paused, looking up at Boromir with eyes dark as midnight.  “If you wish 
this.”

Boromir nodded, gasping at the first touch, breath taking an edge, a soft cry as Legolas 
licked him, savored him, stroking hips, reaching up to lace his fingers with Boromir’s, 
grip tightening as he took the man in, warm and wet, tongue welcoming, caressing, 
enjoying, at last.

“Legolas,” the man’s voice entreated, body writhing, heels digging into the carpet.  
“Legolas,” Boromir’s back arched as Legolas swallowed the taste of his skin, his scent, 
clean, half-wild.  *Mine.  Mine now.*  He let Boromir’s hips arch up into him, let him 
cry out, pulled out another cry, deeper, drawn out, a groan of completion, their fingers 
crushing together, Boromir’s breath stuttering as Legolas let him go, gently, turning him 
loose with caresses and kisses to his hips, his thighs.  He reached for his wine, licked his 
lips, took a moment to enjoy the sight of Boromir lying there quietly now, with one 
forearm thrown across his eyes, the fire gleaming over the sweat-sheen on his skin.

Boromir sat up, green eyes gleaming in the shadow of his face, and Legolas had just 
enough time to set aside the wine glass before Boromir pulled him close and bore him 
backwards with him to the floor, kissing him, licking his throat, his neck, his collar bone, 
rolling over to stretch out on top of him, warm and heavy.  He kissed a tender nipple, 
licked at it, his short beard pleasant on Legolas’s skin.  Legolas ran warm hands over 
Boromir’s broad shoulders, over his back, skirted the healing lash marks, felt the heat of 
the man beneath cooling sweat, tangled fingers in soft, gold hair.  Boromir paused, 
looked up at him, that battlefield lynx voice close to his skin.  “Tell me what you want.”

Legolas told him, heedless of what he was asking.  “Inside me.  You.”

The gleaming green eyes hardened.  “I will not do that to you.”  And it should have ended 
there.

“No, you won’t do That," Legolas insisted.  "You shall take me good and proper, and 
we’ll both enjoy it.”  He sat up, caught Boromir’s shoulders before he could move away, 
trapped him in hot sapphire.  “You have oil, I can smell it – bay, rosemary, bitter orange, 
for easing your bruises and sore muscles.  Get it, and I’ll show you how your first time 
should have been.”

Boromir brought the oil, knelt between Legolas’s legs.  Nuzzling him, reassuring, 
Legolas spoke against his neck.  “Put it on us both.  Use plenty.”  He sighed, feeling 
Boromir’s hands on him, noted the change in Boromir’s eyes, the fascination, lust 
kindling, as Legolas guided his hands, touched him, led him in, lay back sighing, raising 
his knees and opening himself wide for Boromir, who filled him with care and caressed 
him with that cat’s-eye gaze, quick and shining, a tangible energy brushing over 
Legolas’s skin, his lips, his chest, his belly, the place where Boromir’s flesh penetrated 
his, initial discomfort easing to pleasure that the man could read in Legolas’s face.

“’t’s good,” Legolas assured him, breathless, rushed.  “D’you feel – ah!  Do you feel that 
place, I told you – yes there gods Boromir it’s good…”  He wrapped his legs about 
Boromir’s waist, pulled him in tight, heard his surprise, a sharp intake of breath.

Boromir leaned over him.  Legolas met Boromir’s gaze above him, the green eyes hot 
and fierce.  “Put your arms about my shoulders, and hold on.”  Boromir wrapped his arms 
about Legolas’s slender hips, rocked up from his knees, and in a strong, fluid movement 
lifted Legolas, held him tucked in tight against himself, and shoved the elf firmly up 
against the wall next to the fireplace.

A startled gasp and “Boromir, what – unhh!” were all Legolas could manage before 
Boromir was moving in him again, his fingers pressing into Legolas’s hips beneath his 
thighs, holding him in place, and it was too late for questions.  Long legs curled around 
Boromir’s waist, hitched high.  The elf clung to broad shoulders, felt sweat slick 
Boromir’s skin, muscles working beneath.  The soft scratch of his short beard was 
delicious, deepening breaths rushing over his skin, the feel of the man’s warm face 
pressed close to Legolas’s throat, his lips against the archer’s pulse.

Light-headed, Legolas clung to the solidity of Boromir’s shoulders.  Moans of pleasure 
matched the rhythm of body and body moving together, Legolas’s eyes shut, dizzy with 
the sensations, fair hair falling over them both as the Elf’s body moved with the Man’s.  
Words in Sindarin, words of endearment slid and crashed together in his head, rose from 
him as inarticulate cries, intensifying as Boromir’s movements intensified, deepened, 
became ferocious, brutal, fear suddenly clawing at Legolas’s chest, the fear of what he 
might see if he were to look Boromir in the eyes.

Legolas’s thoughts fragmented in the torrent of pleasure and fear as Boromir drove 
himself relentlessly into him, and Legolas clutched at him helplessly, cried out, spilling 
hot between himself and the man.  He groaned from down deep in his belly, his head 
thrown back as Boromir’s thrusts lifted him, the Man’s breath coming in harsh, rhythmic 
moans from between his teeth, quickening until he crushed his body fiercely into 
Legolas, uttering deep, wrenching cries, and Boromir pressed his face into Legolas’s 
neck, shuddering, his hands bruising as they grasped the elf in the fury of his release.

Stunned into stillness, they remained there for a short time, Boromir’s weight leaning into 
him keeping Legolas pressed against the wall.  He lay his cheek against Boromir’s head, 
both of them heaving for breath.  He closed his eyes, kissed Boromir’s hot, damp 
forehead.

Boromir, body shaking, spoke against Legolas’s cheek, fear underlying his voice.  
“Legolas, have I hurt you?  I never meant to be so rough, it just… Please forgive me!”

The elf kissed him, hushed him, stroked his hair, waited for words to line up into 
sentences.  “I’m not hurt.”  He would be sore tomorrow.  He was sore now.  But that was 
not the same as being injured.  

Boromir wrapped his arms about the elf’s waist, held him close, gentle in apology.

Speak of it or go mad, was that what Gimli had said?  “Boromir.  Tell me what they did 
to you.”

Boromir tensed.  “You know what they did.”

“Tell me.  They tied a gag in your mouth.  Tell me why.”

They were moving, Boromir backing away, tripping over the raised hearth, staggering 
into the space before the fire, eyes locked on Legolas, but his mind clearly looking for a 
way out.  Legolas lunged for him, had him, his hands on either side of his face.  Boromir 
twisted loose, but Legolas had a long life-time of dodging Mirkwood spiders to his 
advantage and snatched at his shoulders with a grip far stronger than his slender 
appearance might allow.  Boromir was fast, and heavier, but Legolas was the more agile 
of the two and they both knew it.  He had Boromir by the back of his neck, and drew him 
roughly close, demanding, “Tell me, why did they silence you?  To keep you from 
screaming?  Did you scream when they hurt you?”

“Yes!  No, that isn’t - Legolas, let go!”  Lightning flickered through the window, lit the 
Gondorian in frantic silver-white.

“Tell me.”  If he could keep his feet, he could hold Boromir like this half the night.
 
Boromir shoved at the elf’s shoulders, remembered horrors rising in his eyes.  “Gods, 
Legolas, you want details??”

“I do not thirst for it, Boromir, but we need for this to be spoken – for you to speak, to 
throw it out into the light – why did they silence you?” 

“Throw it out – I can’t believe you told Merry how you found me – what they did to me 
in Fangorn!  Merry, of all people, dammit, Legolas!”

“He’s not stupid, Boromir, he and Pip knew more had happened to you than what you 
were letting on!  Why did the Uruk-hai need to gag you, Boromir?”

“I cursed them when they wanted begging.”

Thunder sounded short and long, nearest at the north, rolling south.

“Begging for what?  Begging for water?  Begging for rest?  What did they do?”

Boromir’s mouth opened, uttering silence, his face vulnerable, unguarded, and just for a 
moment Legolas’s grip loosened.  The man tore himself free, but stood his ground.  He 
snarled, “You want it plain?”  His body shook visibly.  “They fucked me, Legolas. They 
blindfolded me.  They stripped me.  They beat the bloody hell out of me.  They threw me 
naked over a fallen tree, and they fucked me.  Made a game out of it.  ‘Who fucked you, 
Blade of Gondor?  Can you guess?’”

He stood chest to chest with the Elf, his face savage, stormlit.  “But how could I guess 
one orc from another, when they were all just steel-bait, to me?  And I said so.  That’s 
when the game ended, not that it made much difference.  They beat me because they 
liked it, they fucked me because they could, and they tried to make me beg them to stop, 
beg them for mercy, beg them, Please.  But I never did.  I screamed when they hurt me, 
when I thought my skull had cracked, when I thought they’d break me in half, when it 
felt as though they were ramming a spear through me, while some filthy Uruk was 
fucking me bloody and laughing in my ear, but I never begged.  That was the one thing 
they never got from me, and when I cursed them instead, that’s when they gagged me, 
but it is amazing, Legolas…”  Emerald eyes burned into sapphire, Boromir’s face close 
enough to kiss.  “…how loudly a man can scream, even through a rag shoved in his 
mouth.”

Legolas’s breath was tight in his chest, muscles tensed for flight, his will demanding that 
he remain.  “Did you wish for them to kill you, Boromir?”

“Yes.”  He kissed Legolas with a searing gentleness that left him trembling as the dark 
ropes of that night untwisted between him and Boromir.

The man drew away, watching Legolas’s face, and his eyes narrowed, then widened, 
fixed on the elf’s face.  “You begged,” he whispered, watching Legolas shake with 
memory, unable to look away, to hide.

Boromir circled him, implacable, graceful and lethal as any predator stalking the 
Riddermark.  “You held me in your arms like a child.”  He put out a hand, long-fingered 
and callused, his fingertips circling the elf’s body, back, waist, stomach, trailing through 
the sticky place where Legolas had spilled in mindless passion, his touch, his cat’s eyes 
pinning Legolas in place as Boromir circled, his voice low, remembering now a moment 
during which he had been barely half-conscious.  “When all I wanted was to let the 
darkness take me, you begged me not to die, begged me to wake up, begged me, Please.”

Legolas stood, caught between terror of where the man’s thoughts might be headed, and 
the raw pleasure of watching the firelight shift over him as he moved.  He stood there, 
fearful and ashamed, shaking and wondering if this was the edge of madness.  In the back 
of his mind a voice muttered that It had tried to tell him so.

Boromir stood before him, magnificent, frightening, leaned in to rub the side of his face 
along Legolas’s cheekbone, down his neck, the same way Legolas had once watched a 
tiger rub against the body of a fresh-killed deer.  “It should have been you,” Boromir 
purred, rubbing upwards, sliding his cheek across Legolas’s face, lips finding the elf’s, 
sinking in, tongue plunging deep, Legolas leaning to meet him, breath loud, wanting.  “It 
should be you now.”

Legolas jerked awake.  “What??”

Boromir’s eyes were burning, “Take me now, well and proper, just as you said, do it up 
right.  Do it from the back, but the way it should have been done, Legolas.”

“No.”  He took a step backward.

Boromir followed smoothly.  “Why not?”

“Not now.  Not yet, it wouldn’t be right.”  He was babbling, and he had run out of space, 
backed up against a chair.  “It’s too soon, Boromir!”

Boromir’s left eyebrow twitched upward, “Not too soon for what we’ve just done, but too 
soon for that?  Too soon for you to have me willingly on my knees…”  He brushed his 
body against the elf, and Legolas found himself short on clear thoughts.  “Too soon to 
have me crouching beneath you, writhing and moaning your name…”  He leaned in and 
spoke beneath the elf’s ear, “… while you take me, rule me with the pleasures of your 
body, Prince of Mirkwood, show me what it should have been like - to feel pleasure 
instead of pain, your hands on me, your flesh within me, your sweet voice in my ear 
calling my name while you bring us both to ecstasy, too soon for that, Legolas?”

Breathless, fighting the pull of the imagery, fire-edged and wondrous.  “Boromir… don’t.  
Please.”

Lynx eyes fixed him, hard, ruthless, voice too smooth to be anything but dangerous.  
“Too soon for me, Legolas, or too soon for you?  What did we just do, anyway?”

Legolas groaned miserably, ranting, “I was wrong, I wasn’t thinking, I won’t do this!  
Can’t, please, Boromir, stop it, I can not!”

Boromir’s touch had turned him slowly away from the chair, warm breath beneath his 
ear, delicious strokes down his neck, across his shoulders, the heat of the man’s body 
pressing against his guiding him into the open space.  He put his arms about Legolas’s 
waist, held him, pulled him in, sighed deeply, “I know.”

“You - I - what?”  Relief and confusion together washed over the elf in the heartbeat 
before Boromir kissed him, and for a split second Legolas considered flight, but his body 
went nowhere, instead opening to receive the man, blood humming, the heat of Boromir’s 
skin pressed against him.  Legolas pulled him in, moaned at the feel of Boromir’s flesh 
against his, firm and hot, small yearning noises rising from the elf’s chest up into 
Boromir’s mouth, not understanding what he most desired, what he most feared.

Boromir’s hands slid up Legolas’s back, over his shoulders, softly raking his teeth over 
Legolas’s throat, licking down the center of his chest, hands curving down his sides, and 
Boromir sank to his knees, licked at the shimmering trail of pale hairs leading down from 
Legolas’s navel, curved his hands over the elf’s backside, pulled him forward, gently 
kissing and licking at the soft flesh at the hollow of his thighs, first one, then the other, 
while his cheek, his beard, flyaway wisps of his hair brushed the elf softly, and Legolas’s 
breath heaved deep and quick, waiting for that touch.

Boromir shouldered between his legs and behind his knees, jerked Legolas’s legs out 
from under him, and he fell with a startled cry into Boromir’s hands.  “Lie back.  I have 
you.”  Boromir’s shield arm extended along Legolas’s spine, strong hand splayed wide 
against his back, sword hand cradling the elf’s pelvis, close in, tight against Boromir’s 
body, Legolas’s long thighs balanced over the man’s shoulders, heels tapping at 
Boromir’s lower back, as graceful and fair a curve together as any found in Rivendell, 
muscle and bone of Man and Elf bending and twining into one another, spanning their 
portion of earth.  

Legolas let his head fall back, pale hair falling and pooling on the carpet below him, let 
his breath out in a long, soft moan as he felt Boromir’s mouth on him at last, hot and 
eager.  He reached for the man, tangled long fingers in gold hair, the muscles in 
Boromir’s arms and shoulders adjusting thoughtlessly to the elf’s shift in balance, the 
sudden twitch of a smooth thigh, the arching of his back.  Breath came deep and loud, 
blood rushing, sharp in his veins.

He forgot where the ground was, how far below him, knew nothing but the feel of 
Boromir’s mouth and Boromir’s hands, and how much he trusted him, had to trust him, 
here, now.  

All the pieces of himself that had splintered off of Legolas in recent days suddenly 
returned to him like leaves blown in through the window, settled in where they belonged, 
and his body shook, rocked, breathing harshly through clenched teeth.  He tried to say 
Boromir’s name, called to him in his head, while from his throat came only a rising 
groan, his fingers fisting in Boromir’s hair, until his body arched desperately, strung and 
weightless.

“Yes,” Boromir whispered, gently disentangling himself from elven hands and legs, as 
though he knew.

“Boromir…”  Breathless.  Find the words.  “Couldn’t quite figure it out tonight.  Bit 
muddled in my head…”

Smiling softly, gathering him in, warm, “Yes.”

“Boromir, will there be a time..?  I wish…”

“Yes.”  Quiet certainty.

The Man folded himself neatly about the Elf, shared the last of the wine.  He buried his 
face against the back of Legolas’s neck.   “Legolas.”  Deep breath.  Legolas stroked the 
man’s shield arm as it wrapped about him, settled into the comfort of it.  “Legolas, that 
they passed over Aragorn to get to me kept me sane when I would have welcomed 
madness,” Boromir told him, words soft against his skin.  “Your voice forced me to 
wake, and to struggle to my feet when all I wanted was to sleep, and to perhaps die 
quietly.”  Boromir drew his fingers lightly along the contours of Legolas’s face, as if 
touching him for the first time.  “You could not help what happened to me in Fangorn.  
But on my oath, my friend, you found me when I most needed you.” 


Legolas woke in pre-dawn darkness.  The fire had burned low, but the embers glowed 
brightly.  His shoulder was cold.  His back was warm.  A muscular arm draped across 
him.  Shifting carefully he turned to find Boromir there, his face peaceful, his hair fallen 
across his eyes.  Outside it was raining, but the wind had ceased.  Lightning flashed still, 
but the count to thunder came long.  The man sighed deeply, wriggled onto his back.  
Legolas gently tugged the blanket up from Boromir’s far side to cover him properly.  He 
pulled another over his own bare shoulders.

*Your blade, my bow…*  Legolas smiled to himself as he watched Boromir’s quiet face.  
*…Gimli’s axe.  A trinity for Elessar.  And you and I… tomorrow we do not know.  But 
Now is good.  I shall take as much Now as I am granted, whenever I am granted it, and 
be grateful.*  He draped himself comfortably over the Man, resting his head on 
Boromir’s warm chest, where he could hear the steady heartbeat, the slow, even breaths, 
and he lay contented, listening to Boromir sleep.

--end--