Title: The Decision, parts 1-3  
Author: winter storm  
Author's Email: winter_storm31@hotmail.co.uk
Pairing: Legolas/Boromir  
Rating: R  
Summary: The path of true love never ran smooth  
 
Any feedback is very welcome

Part 1

Chapter 1

To the south, beyond the mountains and the valleys, there lay the land of 
Gondor as a swathe upon the earth, and at its head, Minas Tirith, the city 
of the White Tower.  It was here that the Lord Denethor stood in his 
guardianship, between the west that was the Sea, and the east that was the 
Nameless, and always watching, waiting, with dark and hooded eyes.

It was not a time when the weak were spared their fate by the hand of pity, 
or when the virtuous were rewarded with the riches that were their due.  
Status brought wealth, fear brought obedience, and cruelty brought power.  
Such was the way of things.

Now it so happened that this Denethor had a son, named Boromir, and the 
Captain General of his army.  Boromir was in truth the pride of the old 
steward, as strong and as forward a youth as the wily father could ever 
hope to succeed him on the glittering seat of Minas Tirith, a man who 
would stretch the arm of Gondor beyond its widening borders.  And the 
people praised him, for such was he:  tall and handsome, his dark hair 
caught up in the wind as he rode, his commanding voice spurring the 
troops onwards, and then all enemies before him would fear the mighty 
sweep of his sword.

And Boromir felt that such praise was only his due. His manner was proud 
and lordly, for many hundreds of men obeyed his every decree, and his 
leadership ws never called into question. There was another son, the gentle 
Faramir, much beloved by his brother, but he could never supplant 
Boromir’s place in the hearts of the people, nor in the heart of his father.

Now it can be that the weight of power on a young man’s shoulders turns 
his mind to seek the pleasures of life, and so it was with Boromir.  In the 
city of Minas Tirith, long fallen into a decadent excess, such temptations 
were everywhere for a wealthy and headstrong young noble.  And so 
Denethor’s son indulged in drinking all night with his fellows, in gambling 
away his gold, and taking those women that pleased him to his bed.  But 
the nights he lay down with young soldiers and serving boys he kept close 
guarded, for this was a weakness that might invite censure from the people 
of Gondor, the very people who looked upon him as a hero.   

Faramir feared something of his brother’s faults, but the hot-tempered 
Boromir would have nothing of his interference, and angrily rebuked any 
attempt at reasoning.  It was shame that led to such resentment, Faramir 
knew, and this saddened him all the more, for he had sometimes glimpsed 
a pain in his brother’s eyes that spoke of the guilt festering in his heart.  
But any such feelings were pushed to the bottom of Boromir’s mind, while 
there were banquets to attend and lovers to embrace.  And so it might have 
carried on, had something not occurred to change his life forever.


One hazy autumn evening, the Lord Boromir was abroad in the 
countryside of Gondor, as was his wont.  Whatever his failings, he had a 
child-like fondness for his birthplace that lent to him a true pleasure in 
strolling its byways and in feeling its fresh breeze on his face.  As the light 
began to fail, there came upon him an old man on horseback, and cloaked 
all in the garb of a traveller.  His face was shadowed by a wide brimmed 
hat.  On seeing the young nobleman, the rider halted to call to him:
“Ah!  Now, tell me boy, how far to the White Tower?”
Boromir turned to him.
“And what business might you have there, stranger?”
“My business is my own,” replied the rider gruffly.  “I wish only to know 
whether I may reach there before nightfall.”
Boromir laughed. “I return there myself, sir.  Perhaps if you follow me, 
you will come quicker to the end of your journey?”
The man lifted off his hat, as if to look at Boromir’s face the closer, and in 
doing so he revealed a pair of bushy eyebrows over two very bright eyes.
“You go there yourself, you say?  You are not, then – but yes – you are 
Boromir, son of Denethor?”
“I am.”
The stranger did not bow or apologise for his earlier ignorance, as 
Boromir perhaps supposed he would.  Instead, he lifted his eyebrows and 
muttered “How they do grow”, before replacing his hat and taking up the 
reins. 
“Come then, my lord.  I shall follow.”  And with these words they set off.

It was dark as the two entered the last wall of the city and came to the 
great hall to stand before Denethor.  As Boromir stepped forward, his 
father raised his hand and smiled wryly.
“There is no need, my son, for you to announce this man to me.  He is 
already known.”  Boromir looked at the stranger in surprise.  Again, the 
man took off his hat.
“I remain, Lord, always grateful for your warm welcome.”
“And I remain grateful for your visits, Gandalf the Grey, though they 
come whenever the time should so suit you.  What news, then, do you 
bring me this time?  Something of worth, I hope.”
“Of worth indeed.  And I ask that you see it as such.”
“That remains for myself to judge.”
“Then mark these words.  The lord of elvendom, Elrond the Wise, has 
called to Rivendell a council, where matters of great import are to be 
revealed.  He has asked that you be present, for you may learn of many 
things that concern both you and your people. In one month, then, he 
awaits your arrival.”
Denethor settled back in his chair.
“Elrond may make such summons as he pleases, and wait for all the kings 
and princes of Middle-Earth to do his bidding like dogs.  But I am no 
lackey.  Like as not, he has some business in which he needs my aid, and 
wishes to parley with me.  But Gondor asks nothing of the elves, and will 
give nothing to them.  Tell him those are my words.”
The wizard had known that the stubborn will of the Steward might lead to 
such an answer, and yet he was vexed.
“Elrond’s will is not to beg favours, my lord, but to give counsel.  The 
invitation is held out for your good purpose, not his.”
“Be that as it may, but still I shall not go.  It is not my place to leave my 
lands on some elvish errand.”  He paused, and then seemed to reflect.  
“But perhaps it does no good to offend.  Hear me, then – my son Boromir 
shall go in my stead, and bring me back any news he deems worthy.”
Gandalf did not take his eyes off Denethor’s face.
“Very well then.  Stay here, as you will, like an old spider in his web.  I go 
now to the head of my order at Isengard, before I too must make for 
Rivendell.” Without ceremony, he bowed and left, as if the swifter to quit 
himself of Denethor’s presence.  The steward himself turned to his 
firstborn with a dry smile.
“Well, my son, you must prepare yourself to journey come tomorrow.”
Boromir raised his eyebrows. 
“It is truly your desire that I should go seek this Elrond?”
“It is.  I am curious to see what these elves have to say.  In words, at least, 
they do much; if in action we men have to bear the brunt of Mordor’s 
wrath while they sit safe and idle.”
“As you wish, sire.  I will ride tomorrow.”

Chapter 2

When daybreak fell, a tall proud figure rode gallantly out of the city gates 
upon a dark stallion into the north.  The winds blew full and fresh into 
Boromir’s face as he galloped with speed, for these lands were all well 
known to him, and had been since the time of his childhood.  He had 
always relished the outdoor life – it had a savage beauty which seemed to 
remind him of the stories of old that he loved:  stories of battles long since 
fought, and men who had risen to glory through deeds of renown.  If truth 
be told, the young nobleman had always envisioned his own name in the 
songs of the great, and thus he strove so that men might praise his 
boldness and daring in all ventures. 

Boromir stopped to rest his horse now and again, where the pathways 
were sheltered and the going less clear.  When darkness fell each night he 
would sleep in the open, beneath the stars, for the weather was mild and 
fresh; the quiet and solitude were a comfort to him now, for he had spent 
much of the last year in defence of the borders of his land, and had lived 
with all the noise and chaos of battle.  

Fondly he would think of his brother, now left in command of the troops.  
Unlike his father and most of his people, he thought Faramir a far better 
man than himself, and he was certain that in time he would prove his 
worth.  For his part, he knew that Faramir reverenced him as his elder, and 
had done so since their mother died young and left him to Boromir’s care.  
He thought now of how eager he would have been to visit Rivendell and 
see the elves. Yet in his own mind, there was little curiosity or excitement.  
He had never before spoken to one of the fair folk, nor seen them in their 
own homelands, but to someone of such straightforward and frank 
approach, their knowledge and power held neither fear nor fascination.  
Boromir saw the world simply, and he knew his own place in it well.  
Thus he felt himself to be content, and he continued his journey at ease.

It was darkening as he came at last to Rivendell.  Behind him the wide 
plains opened themselves to the sun as it sank red and blazing towards the 
earth.  The sky was blushed with the soft fire of it last rays, as if the very 
air itself held on to the dying light.  That night the breeze was mild and 
sweet in the land of the elves, and the scent of the dry grass rose up to 
meet the now weary traveller.  All about him, he seemed to hear the sound 
of a thousand humming voices, as if the land had let forth strains of its 
own music, and he listened as he went on to the Last Homely House.  

When he reached the stables where he tethered his horse, he could see that 
the lights from the house streamed like gold from the many windows.  The 
trees gave off a heavy scent around the courtyard, and the leaves and 
blossom drifted off their boughs into a stone bowl full of water that stood 
at the entrance.  Above it were carved two tall and dignified figures, which 
Boromir recognised as those of Earendil and Elwing.  He passed into the 
main entrance, where he was met at the door.
“Your name, sir?”
“Boromir of Gondor,” he said.  The elf bowed his head and opened the 
doors, whereupon he was ushered into a vast hall with high ceilings, full 
of light and laughter.  He looked around as he saw that the room bustled 
with elves, men and dwarves, sitting at long tables which groaned beneath 
the weight of fruit and flowers and jars of wine.  In the corner, a band 
played merrily as other guests danced away the night.  It was a sight 
indeed, for Boromir had spent the past days alone in the deserted forests 
and vales.  He was a little bewildered by this crowd of people unknown to 
him, but glad to sit down and partake of a large and hearty supper.  
Quickly, several elves offered him food and welcome, while another 
assured him that he would tell Elrond of his arrival and yet another went to 
fetch the ale he called for.  It was with pleasure that he kicked off his 
boots and sat down to rest in the warmth, and he was at leisure to look 
around him at the peoples who had gathered that night at the house of 
Rivendell.

If Boromir had tarried awhile at the stables, he may have seen another 
traveller alight there upon a horse later that night.  The rider slipped from 
the saddle as lightly and as easily as a shadow, and moved with grace and 
silence to the stone figures that stood above the water bowl.  He was 
cloaked in grey, tall and slender as a willow, yet as he bent his head to lift 
the water to his brow, it seemed that his hair gleamed like white gold 
beneath his hood.  For some minutes he stood with his head bowed, 
murmuring the ancient elvish chants in gratitude for his safe passage.   
Then he turned and swiftly secured his steed, with many gentle words 
spoken in a strange and sweet sounding tongue.  

By this time of night, the corridors and hallways lay almost deserted when 
the traveller entered the house of Elrond.  There was no movement save 
the flickering of candlelight in the stone recesses, the flames shining gold 
into his long hair as the elf took off his hood.

As he did, a tall, dark figure crossed his path and startled, as if he did not 
believe his eyes.
“Legolas?  Can it be you?” And he laughed in delight.
The fair-haired elf smiled as Elladan embraced him, saying:  “It has been 
too long, friend, since I have seen you. I have been so long absent from 
this blessed place.”
“Your presence here, Legolas, make it more blessed still.  You are more 
beautiful than even I remembered. But come, you should not have entered 
so silently and without ceremony.  Let me take you to my father, and you 
will receive the welcome that a prince deserves.”  So saying, he put his 
arm around his guest and led him to the banquet, from whence the sparkle 
of many lights and the riot of voices arose.

Boromir still sat quiet in his chair as he sipped his ale.  Even to one such 
as he, born into the pomp and splendour of the court, the feast of Elrond 
was a sight of wonder.  The music played spirited and fast, the cups 
overflowed with wine and the many-coloured sashes of the dancers 
swirled as they circled the long tables heaving with delicacies.  As he 
looked, he saw Elrond seated at the head of the table, with his two sons 
and daughter in attendance, and beside them an elf with long fair hair.  

It was with great wonder that Boromir beheld this guest, for he seemed in 
his eyes to shine with an unearthly beauty like a star fallen to the ground. 
His white skin was purest alabaster, unstained and untouched, and his eyes 
were mossy green, as if the lushest leaves of the forest had been reflected 
in those orbs.  His delicate, high-cheekboned face was full of a wild and 
haunting passion that the man had never seen before. Boromir watched, 
rapt, as Legolas turned to Elrond and greeted him. The sunshine in his 
sweet voice rang in Boromir’s ears as clear as a bell across the vast hall.
“Such a creature,” he murmured below his breath, transfixed until the 
servant returned to fill his cup.
“Who is that elf yonder,” asked Boromir, “whose beauty would shame 
Luthien herself?”
“That is Legolas, my lord, son of Thranduil king,” replied the servant.  
“He is the pride of Mirkwood.”
“Ah., I should have known it.  See how he holds his head, how he bears 
himself, as one of royal blood.”  Boromir paused a moment, before asking:
“Surely a youth so pleasing must have been promised to some great elven 
king?”
“That I do not know sir,” replied the servant, and left.  Boromir’s eyes 
stayed upon the prince, who was talking to his fellows, and did not turn to 
see this one man sitting alone.  It was a great pleasure for him to see again 
the friends he had known since childhood, now that he was approaching 
maturity in elven-years.  Though in age he had far outlived any human 
upon the earth, his time in Mirkwood had been spent in preparation for 
royal duties and he had been sheltered from the world beyond his home.  
Thus it was that though his knowledge of lore was deep, and his skill with 
weapons formidable, still he had about him an innocence and simplicity 
that charmed all around him.  To ride swift through the trees was his 
greatest delight, as he shared that joy which all elves took in the world 
around them.  But as one trained to use his eyes and ears in battle, his 
glance fell onto others rather than himself, and of other men’s stares he 
guessed little.  He was helplessly innocent of his own loveliness.

Even now, dressed as he was in his simple green travelling clothes, he 
shone bright against the company around him.  In his face, he showed the 
goodwill that came of spending his life amongst the friends and family 
who loved and cared for him.  It was in peace he slept that night, while 
Boromir was left to brood restlessly the hours of dark.

Chapter 3

Long days had passed since that night. Of the tale of the Ring, much has 
been spoken.  It has been told how at the great council of Elrond, the one 
ring was revealed and its doom was sealed.  The young lord of Gondor 
had seen it with his own eyes, and volunteered himself as part of the band 
that should carry it thence.  Thus the fellowship began their slow and 
treacherous journey.

Many nights had gone, and still Boromir spent his hours perturbed.  It 
seemed that no rest would come to him, though the heavens grew blacker, 
and the company about him breathed slow and silent.  As they slept, he 
would lie on his back staring up at the sky, eyes open wide, and thoughts 
lodged deep in his skull.

The first thought that irked him was that there was no fool like an old fool.  
The rulings of the wise elders, so sure of their own merit and so closed to 
any other path, had piqued him much.  By all that is holy, he thought, let 
me keep my judgements to myself when my hair is silvered.  Let me not 
hold back the young and the strong when it is their time to move the 
workings of this world.

The second thought fell upon the ring itself.  Only once had he seen it, and 
that once would return in his mind again and again.  So simple it had sat 
upon the table of stone, like a gold circlet to sit upon the head of a king, 
and yet he seemed to have seen the world reflected in its band as if it could 
watch them all like an eye.  Yes – exactly that – like an eye it had seemed, 
watching and waiting and never ceasing its steady gaze, not even when the 
dwarf’s axe had shattered over its head and left it unscratched.  It had sat 
squat and heavy like a dead creature, but still it watched them all, and in 
Boromir’s mind it seemed to be burning like a brand.

He tried to shake the thoughts of the ring from his head, but whenever he 
succeeded, it seemed that he remembered how it hung upon the neck of 
the hobbit that lay not three feet from him. Almost to him the world 
seemed dulled and blurred at night, and only the ring would glow strong 
and sharp in their midst.

Almost, but not quite.  For something else also troubled Boromir’s 
thoughts, and this something at first he did not quite understand.

He was uneasy in the fellowship, that much he knew.  From the first he 
had felt it, and to one who had been so comfortable among all the peoples 
he had commanded, it was a disconcerting state of affairs.  In the 
beginning he believed he knew the cause.  The ranger, Aragorn, had 
revealed himself at the council as the king that all had thought lost.  It had 
been Aragorn, he was sure, that troubled him.  Next to him, with his wise 
eyes and his gentle speech, he felt like a child in front of his master.  His 
natural spirit and zeal seemed to dampen down in Aragorn’s presence, and 
whatever he would propose, Boromir acquiesced.

And yet Boromir in truth had admiration for Aragorn’s noble and candid 
leadership. The frank and the unadorned always agreed with his character.  
Perhaps, he thought, it was instead the wizard Gandalf that caused him this 
unease.  He had some mistrust of his keen eyes and tremendous 
knowledge.  More than once, he had answered him back and earnt a sharp 
rebuke, and now he amused the hobbits and Gimli by wry remarks about 
old men and their eccentric ways.

As for the good old dwarf and the four Halflings themselves, they had 
taken to Boromir well from the first.  Like him, they felt somewhat out of 
place amongst the grand and the great, and like him, they enjoyed the 
simple pleasures of life.  He would often entertain the hobbits, especially 
Merry and Pippin, teaching them swordfights and tricks, or telling them 
stories of the great cities he had known. He was fond of children, and the 
hobbits were like children in his eyes, lively and full of laughter even 
when the road was rough.  He loved them well, for they were what they 
were without apology, and there was no affectation or pretence in their 
nature.

And last of all, there was the elf.  He was an altogether different story.  
Cool in composure, and speaking rarely, he would stand upon the high 
rocks as tall and still as a statue carved from marble.  Boromir could never 
read the expression in his large clear eyes, nor tell what passed through his 
mind.  He stood his distance apart from the rest of the company, talking 
only to Gandalf and Aragorn, and he seemed to regard the others as not 
below his graces, but separate to them.  His place was not among the 
humans of Gondor or the hobbits of the Shire.  Indeed, the face that 
Boromir had thought so fair now seemed to anger him.  Then, indeed, did 
Boromir realise the source of his disquiet – the elven warrior who was so 
proud and beautiful looked down on him with something like scorn.

He turned over on his sleeping mat, and rubbed his eyes.  Perhaps it was 
too early to make such judgements about the company.  He had not yet 
had a chance to talk to Legolas and learn of his character, for the elf had 
so far remained aloof.  Tomorrow, he thought to himself, I will approach 
him.  As he was pondering, again the thought of the ring as a bright gold 
loop entered his mind.  It hung like the sun, suspended in the air.  Restless 
and twitching, Boromir turned over again, and resigned himself to another 
sleepless night.

Chapter 4

Frodo was happy to set off early the next morning, for he felt the fears of 
the journey ahead of them more acutely in the long night hours.  But when 
they walked all together in the day, he would feel the comfort in knowing 
that these strong and fearless warriors were close by to defend him, and 
that Gandalf was there to lead them with all the knowledge and wisdom of 
his years.

Over the last few days, there had grown a trust and warmth in their 
companionship, which helped ease his mind.  Aragorn was stern and 
spoke little, but his face softened into a smile from time to time, and Frodo 
thought that the ranger had a renewed steel in his eye since they had begun 
their new journey, as if he saw his destiny closer and clearer than he had 
ever done before.  Gandalf, always a little irritable even at the best of 
times, would sometimes lose his temper with the younger hobbits, but 
Frodo could have no real fear of him.  He knew that the wizard was there 
to help him when he needed it, and his trust in him was absolute.

The tall young man from Gondor, Boromir, was also a reassurance.  He 
impressed the hobbits, for out of all the people they had seen, he seemed 
most like a warrior of old.  He was strong and forthright, with a rugged 
and handsome face, and his tall and muscular frame was strong over the 
punishing distances.  Indeed, they had been a little wary of him at first, for 
he had stared at their small statures with curiosity and not a little 
amusement.  But it did not take long to discover that Boromir was gruff 
but kindly, and that he laughed easily, even at himself.  For him they were 
grateful, especially Frodo, for he saw that the man kept a special eye on 
the two younger hobbits to make sure they were safe.

If there was any discordance, it was between the elf, Legolas, and the 
dwarf, Gimli.  They did not really see eye to eye, with Gimli being 
crotchety and the elf rather disdainful.  Frodo was himself rather in awe of 
Legolas, whom he remembered well from the time they had sat at the 
council of Elrond:  a tall, strikingly beautiful figure who had spoken out in 
his own language.  He looked as if he could be both gentle and deadly, and 
Frodo was shy of speaking to him.  He was about to turn to Sam and ask 
him what he thought of their companions, when Aragorn stopped very 
suddenly and lifted his finger to his lips.

“What is it?” whispered Pippin under his breath.  
“Will you look around for us, Legolas?” said the ranger, turning to the elf, 
who immediately walked to higher ground and scanned the landscape with 
his bright, keen eyes.  Frodo nervously looked at his sword, but the edge 
was dull and plain, with no warning of nearby orcs.  But Legolas came 
back to them swiftly with a nod and a gleam in his eye, his hand on his 
bow.
“Wargs,” he said softly.  “They are close.  I do not know many, but I know 
their scent.”
Aragorn sighed.  “I thought as much.  Look -” and here he gestured to the 
ground, where feathers and bones marked with teeth were strewn.  “We 
must be very careful, and very quiet, and keep on the move.”
But no sooner had he said this, then a low and horrible growl came from 
behind them, and in a rush of fur and snarling jaws, the wargs attacked.

The beasts numbered thirty at least, and they came at them all together like 
a roll of thunder.  Frodo barely had time to cry out before he was knocked 
aside by the sheer force of the onslaught:  he dived to shelter behind a 
rocky outcrop and watched in terror as hooked teeth met the clash of steel.  
Gandalf beat back the creatures with his staff and Aragorn brandished his 
sword high, as one by one his attackers fell writhing to the ground.  The 
hobbits jumped nimbly from rock to rock, out of the reach of those 
snapping teeth, while Boromir cut them down with heavy sweeps, and 
everywhere was full of their jabbers, yelps and roars.  In the noise and 
confusion, Frodo ran from here to there, desperate that everyone should 
remain safe.  But he slipped and fell to the ground, and in the blink of an 
eye, a warg was upon him.

There he was, flat on his back, staring into a pair of glowing eyes as the 
creature slavered with anticipation.  He could not breathe for fear and for 
the reek of the mangy fur.  There could be no escape – he looked from left 
to right in a panic, but his muscles were so paralysed that he could not 
summon the strength to roll away, let alone scramble to his feet. He could 
not even force himself to scream, as the large head loomed above him and 
blocked out the light.

In an instant the warg howled with pain and surprise, and fell heavily to 
the ground beside him.  Hot drops of its red blood spattered across Frodo’s 
jacket.  He was too sick with fear and shock to move until strong arms 
hoisted him up and dragged him away.
“You have had a lucky escape, young master!” said a clear voice, and he 
looked up to see Legolas fitting another arrow to his bow.  His last had hit 
the warg in the back of the throat.
“Thankyou!” was all Frodo could manage.  The elf merely nodded and 
smiled, and leapt once more to help the others.
Shivering from where he stood, Frodo watched him in battle with 
mounting wonder.  Boromir may have been strong and powerful, and 
Aragorn fought with keen skill, but the elf had a fearless grace that made 
him utterly lethal.  His sharp eyes hunted out the weakest spots of his 
enemy, and in a thrice, his slim fingers would hold another arrow taut to 
the bow and send it soaring to hit its target.  So quick were his movements 
that the hobbit could barely see how he manipulated the weapon to such 
effect.  And he was as light and lithe as a dancer, leaping high in the air 
and swinging his knife so effortlessly that it seemed haphazard:  but every 
stroke would meet its mark.  Wherever there was need for him, the elf 
would be there, his aim and motion never failing.

And then, from high in the sky above them, a shrill scream pierced the air.  
Even in the midst of the chaos, they looked up, and saw nine shrouded 
figures flying fast against the clouds.
“The black riders!” cried Merry.  “They are in the sky!”
“They must have set these beasts upon us!” said Aragorn, furious, and it 
was with a sinking feeling that they all saw their progress tracked by those 
terrible spirits.  
“Let them circle us, and send their dogs!  We will show them how to 
fight,” exclaimed Legolas, proud and bold as always.  Indeed, it was 
almost as if the Nazgul heard his words and were angered by them, for 
now they swooped low and swift towards them, diving down at the 
company from all angles and bellowing their horrible cries. But they had 
underestimated the courage of these travellers:  little by little, the wargs 
were beaten back, and the Black Riders, enraged with the failure of their 
ploy, retreated into the skies.  It was not long before the chief of the wargs 
fell, and the survivors fled from them, their barks and howls finally fading 
into silence.

Sam flopped in exhaustion onto his back.  He could have done with a mug 
of beer, or maybe several.
“What do you think they will do, Gandalf, now they have seen us?” asked 
Aragorn.  He was talking, of course, about the Nazgul.  They had struck 
more fear into him than any warg, no matter how sharp its teeth.
“Follow us, of course.  There is nothing we can do about that.  But let us 
keep on the move, now.  I think our fighting spirit took them by surprise, 
and they will not return until much later.”
The men cleaned their swords on the grass, while Legolas went from here 
to there to retrieve his arrows.  Even the broken ones he took back, for he 
could fashion them anew into darts.  And at every carcass, he would stop 
for a moment, and murmur some elvish words.
“What are you doing?” called Boromir, noticing this strange ritual.
He did not answer until he had finished at the last one.
“Saying blessings for the departed.”
“For the wargs?”  He was incredulous.  “I hope they rot.”
The elf looked at him steadily.
“Every living thing deserves some respect, however vile.  Sometimes I 
have to kill, but I do not destroy any creature gladly.”
Boromir shrugged.
“Well, each to their own.”  Privately he thought he might have gone round 
the bodies himself, but only to give each one another stab to make sure it 
was dead.
“You fought bravely, elf,” he said after a while, as if to apologise.  The 
courage and flair of the warrior had not escaped his eye, and he admired it 
instinctively.  Legolas smiled in response.
“I have had practise,” was all he would say.


Later on, as they made their way ever further east, he had cause to speak 
again.  It happened that their path took them through a grove, and the elf 
breathed in the air deeply, looking at the leafy trees with clear approval.  
He turned to Aragorn beside him.
“You must be staunch-willed, to have travelled so far and wide.  For years 
you have not seen your homeland, and lived in the forgotten places of the 
earth.  But I have not been from my home for less than a month, and yet I 
yearn to be in Mirkwood again!  Each wood and forest we pass through 
reminds me of my birthplace.”
“You are a wood-elf, and it is only to be expected.  You gain your strength 
and spirit from all that grows and blossoms.  But we humans are different.  
We may be weaker than the elves in many ways, but we are resilient, and 
resourceful – and we can learn to live wherever we find ourselves.”
“Yes, I see it.  I have lived so long that I believed the knowledge of any 
human no better than a child’s.  And yet I am astounded at your world, 
and of how you live!  I have much to learn.  I wish now that my father had 
not kept me so close.”
“He was thinking only of your safety, Legolas. It is not wise to let a prince 
out of your sight for long.  Especially one such as you.”  He said it with a 
glint in his eye, and Legolas laughed, because he knew that Aragorn had 
heard the stories of his upbringing.  He had been high-spirited as a young 
elfling, often landing in trouble and mischief, and it was no wonder that 
the king had been unwilling to let him go far.  
“But I have grown up now,” said Legolas.  “I have learnt my royal duties, 
and I have followed the traditions of my House in all ways.  Honoured as I 
am to be in my position, I would have liked to have seen more of the 
world, and to have had more freedom.”
Aragorn nodded.  He understood the feeling, and they both knew it.  
“But I thought that perhaps you might have made Rivendell your home,” 
he said shrewdly. Legolas coloured immediately.
“Elladan is a wise and noble elf, and I was flattered by his proposal.”
“But you decided not to be his consort, and take your place at his side?”
“It was many years ago, Aragorn.  I was not ready for such a 
responsibility.  Everything in good time.”  Aragorn nodded, accepting that 
Legolas did not wish to talk about it any more. Gandalf then called the 
ranger to the fore, and he left Legolas to ponder. The elf was 
uncomfortable talking about his private life, even to his friends.  So many 
men had sought to make him their own, that his demeanour in front of 
them was often reserved and diffident, a contrast to his natural vivacity.  
Because he was embarrassed, he turned away for a moment, and it was 
then he saw Boromir behind them.  The man had cut himself a stick as he 
went along, and he was lazily thwacking the trunks and branches as he 
passed.
“Don’t do that,” said Legolas, with a sharp note in his voice.
“Why not?  They can’t feel it,” he replied, giving the next tree a hefty 
strike.  
“Stop it.  What do you want to do it for?”
“No reason,” he shrugged.  And indeed, there was no reason, but Boromir 
was a stubborn man, and if someone told him not do something, he was 
likely to do it anyway.  
“You should have some respect for the things that grow around you.”
His contemptuous air annoyed Boromir.  The elf had been proud and 
disdainful from the beginning, and now he was telling the son of the 
steward of Gondor what he could and could not do.  Boromir had been 
itching for a while to take him down a peg or two.
“I am sorry I do not share your respect for every living creature, but you 
would do well to show me some respect by not always strutting about so 
high-and mighty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You seem to be more concerned with dead wargs and a few trees than 
you are with your fellow companions, that’s all.  Barely a word you’ve 
chosen to speak to me since we left Rivendell.”
“What nonsense,” said Legolas, and he was about to leave.
“I’ll remember to apologise the next time I need to relieve myself against 
a tree, then, shall I?” called the man sarcastically.
The elf turned around and looked at him with disapproving eyes.
“You should not talk of such things so lightly. The trees of the earth have 
lived for many more years than you, man of Gondor.  Their roots are deep.  
Mock them if you will, but do so out of my hearing.”
“There are things in this world that I cherish greater than leaf or branch, 
elf.  And I will speak in whoever’s hearing I please.”
Legolas shrugged.
“Then do so.  But it is your own pride and folly.”
He turned and walked away, following Aragorn along the path.  Behind 
him, Boromir whispered in Gimli’s ear:
“Look, there comes another copse ahead.  I believe we should all go and 
embrace the trunks, to show how sorry we are.”
The dwarf tried to hide his guffaws.
“And then you and I will make him a wreath of leaves as a gift.”
“Oh no,” said Boromir sternly.  “That would never do.  How could he 
wear it?  It would spoil his lovely long hair.”
They both started to laugh.
“He must wash and comb it each night like a woman, when we are all 
asleep!”
“He has no need.  He never sits near the dirt, like the rest of us.”
“These elves are all the same.  They look down on us simple folk.”
“And how can we blame them?  When we are so rough and uncouth.  The 
very smell of us must drive them to distraction.”
“Ah, but he preens himself so that the men come panting after.  Do they 
not say that about the elves?” said the dwarf knowledgeably.
“Say what?  That no man can resist their temptations?  Well, for myself I 
say this.  He is a pretty little thing to be sure, but I will not decide until I 
see his body stripped bare.”
“I can assure you, gentlemen,” came a scornful voice, “that you will wait 
long for such a pleasure.”  They stopped laughing at once. Legolas had 
heard their words with his sharp eleven ears, and now he stood staring at 
Boromir defiantly.
“Is this how you talk in your palaces and at your banquets?  I had thought 
better of a man in your position. But perhaps I should expect nothing more 
from a line that rules as if it were king, and yet has no royal blood.”
This last comment rankled, and Boromir, ashamed at being caught out and 
at the same time furious at the insult, replied in a sudden blaze of anger.
“I want no royal blood, if it makes me as vain and haughty as you. You 
may think yourself better than all of us, because you are elfkind, and 
because you are a prince.  But that means nothing, for all your airs and 
graces.  You don’t know anything about the world, or how people really 
live.  You’ve never known true suffering, or seen your comrades fall in 
battle beside you.  You’re pitiful! You may be honoured in your own 
lands, but you know nothing of me.”
“I know enough,” came the immediate and furious retort.  “Your name is 
not unheard of, even in Mirkwood.  And let me tell you this – it does your 
reputation no great service.”
Boromir stared at him open-mouthed.  Legolas nodded grimly.  “Your 
servant boys may fawn on you and lavish you with their attentions, but I 
am not one of them.”  With that, he turned and strode away.

Chapter 5

He did not say another word to either Boromir or Gimli for the rest of the 
day.  Indeed, he barely seemed to look in their direction.  Some tense 
moments had passed between the dwarf and the elf in the previous weeks, 
but such antagonism was only to be expected between members of such 
different peoples.  Boromir instinctively felt that his case was different, 
and that Legolas reserved for him a particular contempt.  

It was this which made him uneasy when Gandalf asked him to go and 
find the elf that evening.  They had stopped after many days of hard travel 
in a sheltered spot beside a wooded glade, and after so long in the heat of 
the sun, Legolas had dropped his pack and gone to bathe.  The elf had 
smelt the fresh water of a shallow lake, though it was some minutes’ walk 
into the woods, and mired with the grime of their long journey he had 
wasted no time in finding it.  The others had made their camp, and settled 
down to nibble their provisions, or kick off their boots and rest their sore 
legs.  

Boromir, meanwhile, was charged with preparing their dinner.  It had not 
been hard to catch the rabbits that scampered nervously around the edges 
of the forest, and several now roasted on the spit, where he tended them 
carefully. As they came ready, he called the others.

“Is Legolas not with us?” asked Gandalf as he came up.
“No. There is a lake in the woods.  He went to wash.”
“Go fetch him, will you?”
It was said innocently enough, but Boromir felt that the wizard had 
somehow heard of their argument and wanted the two to be reconciled.  
Else why did his eyes twinkle so knowingly?  But whichever way, he 
could not very well refuse to go.  So reluctantly, he stood and went 
towards the woods, far from relishing the prospect of talking to Legolas on 
his own.

He made his way slowly, as if to kill the time, noting the scratching of 
small creatures in the undergrowth and the calls of the birds.  But he had 
not gone far before he heard a new sound, a light voice that floated high in 
the air.  He followed it, and came to the lake where Legolas sat.  At first 
he did not understand where that pure, lovely sound came from, but then 
he realised.  The elf was singing.

Perhaps he had already bathed, because he sat with his clothes on, trailing 
his slim legs in the water.  His back was to Boromir, and he did not appear 
to have noticed the other’s arrival.  The young soldier said nothing, but 
stood and listened to the elf, as if suddenly entranced.  

He had never heard anything quite like it.  The voice was haunting and 
sweet, and it seemed to pulse through the forest as if it were part of the air 
around them.  The song had words that he could not understand, but the 
melody ebbed and flowed like the sea, and the sea was what it must have 
talked of – vast, powerful, and beautiful in its strangeness.  He did not 
know how long he stood and listened, but eventually the elf stopped, and 
got to his feet with a sigh.  Now was the time when Boromir should have 
stepped forward, but he felt that he had intruded on something private and 
deep, and he was ashamed.  So instead, he stole back quickly, and told 
himself he would wait awhile.

There he stood, in the shadows of the forest, with the elf’s voice still 
ringing in his ears like words snatched from a dream.  He brooded over it 
in his hiding place, wondering if the proud and composed warrior often 
sang out his heart so sweetly in his moments alone.  It seemed yet another 
part of the nature of Legolas that Boromir could not quite understand.

But there was no more time for wondering, for as he waited, he was sure 
that he heard a small cry from the glade.  It was not especially loud, but 
the tone of it was fearful and alarmed, and without delay he rushed back 
towards their camping place.  So great was his hurry, for his keen instincts 
told him that something must be amiss, that he did not see the nine tall 
shadows which flitted close by through the tangled foliage.  And so dim 
had the light become, that he passed through the faint greenish mist at his 
feet without noticing its menace.

Legolas, meanwhile, heard nothing.  He lay out on his back beside the 
lake, in the shelter of a great willow, and slowly stretched out his long, 
graceful limbs.  The elf felt at peace, for the water had been cool and 
refreshing, and the night air was clean and calm.  To be amongst the trees 
again was a blessed joy to him, the smell of the woodland floor awakening 
his senses more than the finest foods or wine.  He traced the stars in the 
sky, and murmured his thankful prayers to the Valar.

The surroundings were so soothing, that he thought he would sleep for a 
while before returning to the group.  It did not occur to him how strange it 
was that he should feel such drowsiness.  Elves could go without rest far 
longer than their human counterparts, and treasured their gift of 
watchfulness.  But some power in the air was weaving its way through the 
forest, as strong and as subtle as fog, and it lulled Legolas to sleep with its 
poisonous tendrils.  The magic was cruel, and strong, and alien to a place 
such as this.  The woods knew it, and they tried in vain to warn the 
creature that loved them so dearly - the wind hissed through the 
undergrowth, the trees rattled their leaves, and the birds called out in 
distress, but around the elf, everything was silent, as if it had been blanked 
out.  And still, the dark figures moved swiftly towards him, floating on the 
mists of their cunning enchantment, bearing down on him with no one 
standing in the way.  But the elf was oblivious:  in the darkening woods 
which shivered and trembled with horror, he lay sprawled upon his back, 
innocent and asleep.

Boromir had hurried back, and not a moment too late.  As soon as he 
returned, sword in hand, the snarling face of a huge orc loomed in front of 
him, and he slashed it down with one stroke before plunging into the 
tumult.  
“Boromir!  To me!” came Aragorn’s loud cry.  He was battling the chief 
of the marauders, a hulking oaf of man-size.  Boromir rushed to his aid, 
unable to gauge the number of their attackers, or how the others fared.
“What happened?” he cried out.  Gimli growled behind him.
“The orcs were waiting for us, curse them!  You weren’t ten minutes gone 
when they took their chance,” he muttered.  “Good hit, Master Merry!”  
The hobbit had just knocked down an assailant with his sword hilt.
“Gimli, you must back Aragorn – I will defend the hobbits,” said Boromir, 
and ran to where the orcs encircled them.
“Thank goodness you turned up,” said Pippin.  “I was beginning to think 
we had got ourselves into a mess.”
“You can thank me later, when I need my clothes washing,” was the reply. 
“Get behind me now!”
The orcs seemed intent on pushing them all apart, for then it would be 
easier to pick them off one by one.  The struggle was now in earnest, and 
they were each so intent on every move, they forgot that one of their 
company was still alone in the woods.

Legolas was in a daze, his elvish senses blunted as if he were deep below 
water.  His limbs were weighed down like bars of iron.  He did not even 
question why he was unable to react to the sound and lights that seemed to 
move around him, as if from a great distance away.  And then suddenly, 
there came a rustling, and a voice spoke loud and close beside his head:
“What is this we have here?”
That voice was full of venom and a repulsive sense of glee.  Legolas 
started and opened his eyes, and it was as if he had surfaced from a deep 
dive.  No longer were his senses dull – he was alert and ready, and he 
could see and hear with a brightness so sharp it was almost painful.
“Who are you?” he said hoarsely. But a fear in him took hold, for he knew 
who they were that had come across him. Tall and black hooded they 
stood around him, their ragged cloaks floating in a breeze of their own 
making.  Nine figures he counted, circling his resting place, as they 
loomed above with faces cruel and terrifying.  It seemed as if a ghostly 
light shone from their blank eyes, and the lips of their leader were twisted 
into a deathly smile.
“We are the Nazgul. We are the Nine Riders.  We come by order of the 
Master.” As he spoke, he leant close, so that Legolas could smell his 
breath which stank like rotting flesh.  It seemed then that a red flame 
caught light in those eyes, and they travelled over the body of the elf.
“A prince, no less, my brothers,” hissed the rider to his companions.  “An 
elven prince, as beautiful as the moonlight on the sea.”  Legolas struggled 
to stand, but the Nazgul drew their blades together and raised them to his 
throat.  The elf looked up with defiance in his eyes.
“Shame upon you and your cowardice!  Is this the way of the great 
Ringwraiths, to steal upon their prey when it lies weaponless and 
defenceless? Fie on such dishonour!”
The air was full of the sound of a terrible laughter.
“See here my brothers!” said their chieftain, full of mirth, “see what form 
elven royalty takes when it is at the point of a sword! When he lies at our 
mercy, he asks that we spare him for honour and for nobility.”  The 
laughter stopped, and a heavy silence took hold.  The face of the 
ringwraith darkened as he bent forward and growled beneath his breath:
“We have no honour.  We have no nobility.  We know only destruction 
and death.”
The elf looked into his burning eyes, and seemed to see no soul beyond 
them. 
“Where are my fellows?” he whispered. The ringwraith smiled.
“Dead.”
 The lie fell heavy on his ears.  But it was too harsh and too soon for grief 
– instead, anger welled up in Legolas’s heart.
“You are monsters, and you shall be avenged, if not by me, than by others.  
Mark my words, your end will be near for the deeds you have done.”
“And what, your highness, might be your own end?”
Legolas trembled in spite of himself, for he knew that outnumbered and 
without weapons or aid, his death might be very close.  There could be no 
hope of mercy from creatures of such power and cruelty.  Holding his 
head high, he pulled down his shirt and spoke out clear and defiant:
“If it be your will to slay me here, then I give you my throat.” Now he felt 
keenly the pain of his lost friends.  “I would rather die with my comrades 
than be captured and ransomed by such loathsome wretches!”
But to his amazement, the Nazgul sheathed their swords and stared at him 
expectantly, as if they awaited something which he knew not.
“What, then, would you have of me?” he beseeched.
The leader of the Nine laughed high and shrill.
“Can you not guess, Prince of Mirkwood?” he said.  There seemed to be a 
moment when time stood still. And then, to his horror, Legolas saw the 
lust in the face of the ringwraith as he licked his lips and spoke:
“From the first moment I saw you, as I rode the skies, I desired but one 
thing from you.” His voice dropped low.  “I desired your body, Prince.  I 
desired that you opened your lap to me and let me take my pleasure until 
my greed be sated.”
“No,” whispered Legolas.
“I hungered for you, Prince.  I hungered to lie upon you, to feel how a 
creature so pure and chaste would feel below my lips.”  He reached out 
and stroked Legolas’s face.  His skin was rank with sweat and his breath 
panted heavily.
“You have inflamed me with such yearning, Prince, that if you be as tight 
as your virginity promises, I fear I will tear your tender flesh too deep in 
my passion.”
“Let me go,” said Legolas, though he could barely hear his own voice.  
“You cannot do this. You cannot countenance so shameful a crime.”
“If you do not lie still for me and let me take my fill, I will force myself 
upon you, and you will not have the strength to fight me.”
“Do not do this,” he pleaded, and a note of panic entered his voice.  
“Please – I beg of you – it would destroy me . . .”
He knew that he would not be heard.  He caught his breath as strong arms 
clamped him down on either side and struggled in vain when the chief of 
the Nazgul pressed his lips to his own mouth.  It is over for me, he 
thought, and he tried to shut his mind away from his body as he begged 
Elbereth for deliverance.

Chapter 6

The swords and shields of the attacking orcs lay scattered throughout the 
clearing.  Frodo breathed hard and fast, the fear still with him.  Where 
were the others?  He had Merry and Pippin beside him, and Sam was leant 
against the trunk of a nearby tree, but of the rest there was neither sight 
nor sound.  A terrible thought came to him, that in the chaos and furore of 
the battle, they might have forever lost sight of their friends.  Hurriedly he 
stood up and began to call them.
“Frodo!” replied a familiar voice, and at that moment, it was three times 
more blessed.  He saw Gandalf pick up his crushed hat as he came toward 
the hobbits.  
“Thank goodness you are all safe,” said the wizard.  “Boromir, Aragorn 
and Gimli are looking for you.  You are not hurt?  Good, good.  Come 
Sam, let us all go together.”
Quickly they gathered together and followed Gandalf back to the 
campsite. 
“But where is Legolas?” asked Frodo, still finding that he shook with cold 
or fear, he did not know which.  
“He will return here too, I hope.  We are fortunate to have those here who 
make short work of a group of marauders.”  He looked as Gimli cleaned 
the blade of his axe.  “When he is back, we will carry on once again.”
But Aragorn was walking around the edge of the forest, his eyes on the 
ground and a frown on his face, when he looked up.
“Gandalf, I do not think it would be wise for us to wait for him.  Look at 
these marks on the ground.  These are no orcs.  They are of some other 
creatures, and they head for the lakeside!”
As he spoke, a shrill scream tore through the air, and the travellers looked 
up in terror as nine winged shadows took to the sky.  
“Nazgul!” cried out Aragorn.  “Gandalf, Boromir, Gimli!  Come quickly!  
Let us find him, and hope he has escaped them!”
Without a moment’s delay, they rushed into the forest and found no sign 
of the elf.  By Aragorn’s command, they each took to different directions, 
calling as they went.

Boromir’s heart was full of fear.  He still remembered how he had turned 
away from the elf and left him alone before the orcs had made their 
charge.  The thought that he might have abandoned him to the mercies of 
the Nazgul spurred him on in his search.
“Legolas! Legolas!”  He kept calling, when he heard a moan so soft that 
he thought at first it might be an illusion of his mind only.  Then he came 
upon a figure, crushed and broken like a rag doll and barely moving.  
Boromir stooped fearfully and reached out to lift away the long hair, but 
his heart was so pained by what he saw that he could not speak.  Legolas 
lay half conscious on the ground, his clothes torn and soaked in his dark 
blood.  His golden hair was tangled about a face so pale that Boromir 
thought that he must be dying.  Aragorn found them a moment later and 
his face darkened when he saw the charred earth around them.
“They have been here,” he said softly.  “They must have caught him 
unawares.”
“The brutes!” replied Boromir with wrath. “What have they done to him?”
He took the injured elf into his arms and lifted him, but though did so with 
great care, Legolas cried out in pain.
“Hush, hush,” said Boromir below his breath.  “I will take him to 
Gandalf,” he told Aragorn, who nodded and hurriedly began to search for 
herbs that would help heal the elf’s wounds.  It was with great gentleness 
that Boromir laid Legolas at the feet of the wizard, who without delay put 
his hand on his forehead and whispered words of an ancient chant.  The 
elf’s breath seemed to come more easily and his rigid, trembling body 
went limp.  Gandalf, his brow furrowed deep, lifted off his shirt to see his 
wounds.  
“He has been viciously beaten, even tortured.  I believe that they left him 
for dead.”
“But he will recover?” asked Boromir eagerly.
“I should say so, yes. There are some bones broken, but an elf will heal 
quickly. Although I fear he may be bleeding from injuries within his body, 
for these bruises and scratches alone could not have caused such damage 
in a warrior so strong . . .” As he was speaking, Gandalf was looking 
carefully over the body of Legolas, and suddenly he stopped and a cry fell 
from his lips.
“What is it?” cried Boromir in fear.
“Where is Aragorn?” asked the wizard.  He stood as he saw the ranger 
return with leaves and roots in his arms.  
“I am here, Gandalf.  Come, let us soak and clean him of the blood.  The 
orcs are scattered for now, and if we bind his wounds he will have time to 
rest and recover his strength.  With these herbs he will heal well.”
“Have you herbs for his soul then, Aragorn?  For his body will recover, in 
time, but I fear that his mind may be lost.”
“What can you mean?” asked Boromir, as he saw Gandalf’s stern face, 
and Aragorn rushed to the fallen body.
“It cannot be that . . .”
“Yes, Aragorn.  See here – it is the mark without a doubt.”
Aragorn seemed to swear under his breath.  Boromir craned his neck 
forward eagerly to see what Gandalf pointed to on the elf’s throat.  It 
seemed to him to be a mark or scar, a bite mark in shape, but livid white 
against the pale of his skin.  He looked at Aragorn, whose head was bowed 
onto his breast.  
“Tell me, Aragorn, what this mark means?” demanded Boromir.
Aragorn looked towards Gandalf with pain in his eyes. The wizard sighed 
deeply and then turned to Boromir.
“This bite is the mark of the Witch-King of Angmar, the leader of the 
Nine.  A merciless creature, and a mighty one. No one has ever been 
known to withstand him, if it be his will. I should have guessed that 
having one such as Legolas with us, he might have been in danger – but it 
is too late now.”  He looked sadly at the body of the fair and slender elf.  
“There is no doubt in my mind that Legolas has been ravished by him 
against his will.”
Boromir stood unbelieving. Not an hour ago, he had seen Legolas lying 
serene and peaceful by the lake, and now he was on the bare ground, 
having been raped by a pitiless fiend.
“He has been taken by force?” he asked softly.
“I am afraid so.”  His face was bitter and angry. “It was a cowardly act, for 
I see now that they used bonds of enchantment to take him by surprise 
while we were distracted.  I blame myself for not looking after him 
better.”
“We are all of us to blame,” said Aragorn heavily.  “But blame will not 
cure his ills.  Come.  Let me speak to the others, and we will keep him 
warm for tonight.  Clean his injuries, Boromir, and dress them.  Give him 
water if he can take it.  I will come back soon.”
Boromir rubbed the elf’s shoulder. Any disagreements between them were 
forgotten in his mind, for he felt a burning fury within him that seemed to 
make his throat tight.  How could anyone have harmed such an artless 
creature?  It was a foul crime.  
“What did you mean, Gandalf,” he asked, “when you said that his mind 
may be lost?”
Gandalf shook his head.
“You have heard, surely, that an elf’s heart can be broken by grief?  I fear 
that he may not have the will to survive this attack, although his body is 
healed.”
Boromir did not know what to say to this.  He looked for a long time at his 
fallen companion. 
“He will survive,” he said at last.  “We will make sure of it.”


That night was a cold and unhappy one.  The hobbits sat huddled together, 
not daring to think about the unspeakable horror that had befallen one of 
their companions.  Gimli, who had forever been the first to speak against 
the elf, was the most bitter and vocal in his condemnation of the cruelties 
of the ringwraiths. Despite his roughness, his heart was warm and true, 
and he was eager to deal out revenge with his axe.  Boromir, for his part, 
sat close by Legolas and tended him.  He wrapped his body in blankets 
and combed out his long hair, so that it fell like a golden curtain across his 
face.  As the others slept, and the night grew dark, Boromir kept a lamp 
burning so that he might see any signs of distress in the elf’s fair features. 

It was very late when he suddenly realised he had been asleep.  Looking at 
the wrapped figure on the ground, he saw that Legolas’s eyes were open 
and aware.  The elf did not seem to be moving.
“Legolas?” asked Boromir softly.  There was no response.
“Do not fear, Legolas.  You are safe now.”
He looked more closely and caught his breath when he saw there were 
tears in the elf’s wide green eyes.  Gentleness was not the first quality of 
Boromir’s nature, and he had lived his life as a man of war.  He did not 
know what to say to comfort his injured companion, or how to put right 
the wrong that had been done.  Hesitantly, he reached out and wiped away 
the tears with all the tenderness he could muster, and clumsily stroked his 
slender back. 
“Hush, now,” he murmured.  “Do not weep.”
He looked over his shoulder, as if to call Gandalf or one of the others.  
Never had he felt so helpless on his own.  Bending forward, he said 
gruffly:
“Let me bring you some water, or some food?”
Legolas shook his head.  The green eyes were dark and storm-ridden.
“Try to get some sleep, then.”
“I am so cold,” whispered Legolas.  “I can still see their faces – their eyes 
. . .”
Boromir felt sickened.
“They will not come again,” he said. “Here.”  He gave the elf his blanket, 
but even then saw that Legolas trembled like a leaf.  
“Perhaps you will be warmer if you lie beside me?  Come, let me help 
you.”  He brought his arms around the elf’s slender form and pressed him 
close to his own body so that he was warm and sheltered.  Legolas looked 
surprised and unsure at this unexpected gesture.
“Come, can a soldier not offer comfort to his comrade?” asked Boromir.  
Legolas nodded and rested his head on Boromir’s shoulder, allowing 
himself to rest upon the larger man.  A sudden burning heat flooded 
Boromir’s face and chest as he felt the elf so close to his body, but he held 
back his emotions and lay still as Legolas fell deeply asleep.  For once, in 
many days, he did not think about the ring, and it did not even enter his 
dreams as he, too, fell asleep.

Part 2

Chapter 1

In the days that followed, a change came over Boromir that they all 
noticed.  Instead of his usual sullen and derisive manner, he became 
attentive and helpful, always willing to lend a hand to the others and never 
uttering one word of protest.  The horror of the attack had sobered him, 
and the guilt that wracked him over leaving Legolas alone in the forest 
meant that the elf became his own special charge.  Each night, they would 
lie down close to each other, and Boromir would put his arms around him 
in a gesture of brotherly comfort.  

Indeed, Boromir treated him as if he were as helpless and as fragile as a 
babe, always making sure he was supported and protected from harm.  His 
rough affection amused Legolas somewhat, for it made him smile to think 
how it looked to see the sturdy and serious soldier crouching in front of a 
warrior prince and feeding him soup.  One evening, Boromir was helping 
him to dress when the elf began to laugh. The young lord looked at him in 
astonishment.
“What is so funny?”
“It is nothing,” he said, but he continued to chuckle.
“What do you mean, nothing?  If it were nothing, you would not laugh.”  
His obvious irritation only served to increase Legolas’s mirth.
“It is only that I have caught sight of us both in the river.”
“What of that?”
“But what a sight it is!  A grown man helping an elf with his jacket and his 
belt, as if he were new born!”
“But you need to be helped.”
“Yes – and now I will have to helped again, because I see that you have 
braided my hair wrongly!” He laughed again.  “How strange it looks!  Did 
you not see?”
Boromir looked at him, a little offended.
“I am sorry.  I do not know much about putting up hair.  I have never done 
it before.”
Legolas smiled at him.
“You should not worry.  I will leave it loose for now. I should be thanking 
you, for I have not laughed in many weeks.”
Boromir shrugged and then smiled.  “Well, if it amuses you so much, I 
will tie up your hair a different way every day.”
“It is a handsome offer, but if you did so, I could never bear to be seen by 
another elf ever again!”
Boromir went along with Legolas, making light of the incident, but he 
could not help but be secretly embarrassed.  In truth, as he had been 
helping him with his clothes, his eyes had been roving over his slim yet 
powerful body.  The creamy white skin was warm wherever Boromir’s 
large hands had rested on it, on his chest and on his shoulders, and he 
longed to be caressed by those soft lips. But whatever he felt, he said and 
did nothing, for the white scar on the elf’s throat reminded him of how 
much Legolas had been through.  There was a time and a place for love 
affairs, and this was certainly not it.  Yet in a small way, he was pleased. 
The gentle and noble Legolas often hid his emotions from those around 
him, but Boromir had made him laugh out loud.  That was something, 
after all.

The journey of the fellowship now took them to the depths of Moria, lair 
of the dwarves, for the path through the mountains had been closed to 
them.  It was unwillingly that Boromir contemplated the long days ahead 
in such a dank and gloomy place, but there was no choice in the matter.  
As they began, he would stay behind Legolas at all times, so as to catch 
him if he should fall or stumble in the dim light across the broken stones.  
The elf’s senses had been weakened since his assault, and his eyes were 
not so keen, his poise not so steady.  Yet he never breathed a word of 
complaint or bitterness, and kept up with the others as well as he could.

One time, when they were about to stop and rest, he had fallen heavily on 
his knees, and let out a gasp of pain.  Boromir had quickly stooped to help 
him to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” he cried out, concerned.  
“No, no, I only missed the step.  Thankyou.  I should have been more 
careful.”
The man brushed the dust off the elf as Legolas still clutched him for 
support, and waited until he got his breath back.
“Take it slowly.  Your injuries are still healing.  It is no wonder you are 
stiff and sore.  I will change your dressings for you after you have eaten.”
The affection and anxiety in his voice seemed to touch the elf, for Legolas 
suddenly turned to him and took his hand in a simple and lovely gesture 
that made Boromir catch his breath.  
“Please, son of Gondor, forgive me if I was ever ill-mannered with you 
before.  You have been very kind to me, and helped me greatly.”
“Of course,” said Boromir huskily, so overcome by the startling green 
eyes glowing radiantly at him that he could not say much more.  Then he 
cleared his throat and said:
“I must ask your forgiveness also, for I mocked you before.  I am not used 
to the customs of the elven folk.”
“And I had never been among men until this time, and so I was wary. In 
truth, I was told by my father that you were all alike: greedy and selfish, 
and seduced by power and lust.”
Boromir was not as appalled as he might have been at this damning 
assessment.  In fact, looking at the wild and regal beauty of the young elf 
before him, he understood perfectly why Thranduil would choose to warn 
his son about the lust of men.  
“But now that I have known you, I see that it is not true.  I would like to 
hear more about the race of men, and how they spend their days.”
“Then let us be friends, and let any disputes between us be forgotten.”  So 
they clasped hands and sat down to eat together.  

At Gandalf’s request, the fellowship set off once more, but this time, 
Boromir and Legolas walked side by side. They spoke for many hours of 
their lives past, and of the lands from whence they came.  In this way, 
Legolas learnt of the glory of the city of Minas Tirith, its seven gated tiers 
topped by a magnificent tower of white and pearl.  He heard with delight 
the tales of Boromir’s childhood at the feet of the mountains, in the wide 
open plains of Gondor.  In turn, Boromir listened with wonder to the ways 
of the elves of Mirkwood, and their love of every tree that grew and every 
bird that sang in that strange and forbidden place.  Legolas talked most 
warmly of the family that had nurtured him.
“My life was very happy.  I always had my father and my brother to care 
for me, and I was sheltered from everything untoward.”  They were 
following the soft light that wavered from Gandalf’s staff.
“You were fortunate, then.”
“Yes, although I only see it now.”
“But your mother?”
“My mother died a few weeks after my birth.  I have no memory of her.  I 
believe that spared me much pain – for my brother talks of her often.  And 
the King tells me that I remind him of her each day.”
“I lost my mother also.”
Legolas looked at him with wide and gentle eyes.
“I am sorry.  Do you miss her?”
“Always.  I was a boy when she sickened, and I remember her wasting 
away over the months.  I do not think my father ever fully recovered.”
“But perhaps he takes comfort, like my own father, in the children he had 
by her.”
Boromir lifted his eyebrows.
“I do not think so.  I love him, to be sure; but he grows more and more 
withdrawn with each day, and sees me as a means to flatter his great 
name.”
Legolas nodded.
“It is difficult to be the eldest in a family of repute.  My brother has the 
weight of succession upon his shoulders.  I have seen what a burden it can 
be, and how much he berates himself for his supposed failures.  You, too, 
must feel the same strain.”
“I do.”  He smiled suddenly.  “Although, in all honesty, I have never 
admitted so before.”
Legolas laughed.
“To always seem assured – that is half the task already done.”
“I hope so.  It is the half which I can do most easily, in any case.”
They walked on for a while, until Legolas spoke again:
“It is sorrowful to think how those who love each other are broken apart 
by sickness and death.  I sometimes think that men must live with great 
fear and grief, for they know that one day all those that they care for will 
pass away.”
“And so we envy your people, who may have lives everlasting.  And yet, 
one day, all things must pass away.  That is the way of the world.  Perhaps 
my mother did not live long, but she was a good and kind woman who 
lived her life well.”
“You are right – that is what matters most. As for me, I would break my 
immortality gladly if there was need.”  Boromir glanced at him in surprise, 
but the elf was not looking at him.  He seemed thoughtful and reflective.  
“For the Eldar called it the Gift of Men before they renamed it the Doom.  
And I believe they were right in the first, for I see what passion and 
courage there is amongst men, who treasure each of their days and who 
know how precious their short life is.”
“So say our wise elders, that we should live to the full, for one day we 
shall die.  But it can be a painful philosophy.  So much suffering and 
cruelty in the world, and nothing for some of our people to look forward 
to.  Is it not harsh for them to know that this little life is all they shall ever 
have, and that if they cannot make the best of it, they will fail? And it is 
more painful still, when they see the wealthy and well-born, filling their 
days with pleasures and indulgences.”
“More reason, then,” spoke Legolas, “for those of privilege to come to 
their aid.”
“True.  But there are miseries and humiliations that neither wealth nor 
luxury can ease.” Legolas was silent, and Boromir suddenly turned to him.
“I am sorry!  I did not mean to refer to – to what happened.  Forgive me if 
I reminded you.”
“It is no matter. Indeed, my friend, I could never forget, however many 
years pass.  But I will learn to live my life again.  It is all I can do.”
Boromir reached out and put his hand gently on his shoulder.
“We are all here for you, Legolas.  You have many friends that care for 
you, and you are precious to your brother and your father.  We are so 
thankful that you have been strong enough to bear this.”
“It is no question of strength.  Whenever misfortune befalls any one of us, 
we can only do as best we can.  But I thank you for your kindness.  
Without all of your help, I could not have borne it.  Especially your help, 
Boromir.”
Boromir flushed, but in the dim light it could not be seen.  After a while, 
he said quietly:
“How is it that you lived on after the Nazgul came?  I was told that many a 
time an elf would die after such an attack.”
Legolas seemed to look far off into the distance, as if he struggled to take 
his mind back to that time.
“I cannot say.  I remember that when I lay, I felt as if I was floating away, 
like a ghost or spirit, but that I held onto my bodily form because I wished 
to live.  I do not know why.  Perhaps it would have been more honourable 
to choose to die.”
“No!  No, that is not right.  It is more valiant to face such insults and 
overcome them, than to give up and die.  You showed your strength and 
your defiance of those monsters when you chose to live your life – and 
you will live it well, and show everyone that you are still pure and noble, 
whatever has been done to you against your will.”
Legolas sighed and shook his head.
“I can no longer think what is wrong, or what is right. It is too much for 
me.  Please - let us not speak of it.”
He had been resolutely silent about his ordeal, and this was the most he 
had said ever since the night of the attack.  Boromir did not push him to 
say anymore. He was hurt that he could do so little to ease the elf’s pain, 
but he respected his choice to keep his darkest moments to himself.

Some time later, they stopped again in a stone hall from which three 
passages ran.  The weary travellers unrolled their bedding and settled 
down to sleep, for Gandalf could no longer remember which way they 
were to take.  Boromir grumbled at the delay but in truth he was glad to 
rest, for none of them knew how long they had been walking.  In Moria 
there was no day and no night, only darkness perpetual.

Legolas lay down close beside the tall man once more.  Boromir watched 
him carefully as he stretched out on the floor, and in his mind there was a 
great debate.  Even as the others closed their eyes and, one by one, fell 
asleep, still he turned restlessly.  Could he tell Legolas of what he felt for 
him, or not?  The prince was so proud that he feared his suit would be 
rejected, and such were the ways of the elves that he would never 
surrender to one night of sensual delight and no more.

He sighed into his mattress as he looked at the beauty of the sleeping 
figure, so pleasing in every way, a vision of ivory and gold.  If only he 
could wrap his legs around that slender body, and moan his pleasure into 
those ears, he could rid himself of this yearning. The elf was so alluring, 
and so kindling to his desire – just like the ring itself, he thought.  And 
surely that golden heirloom was his birthright, if it was anybody’s.  To put 
it in the hands of a common little hobbit was the worst kind of madness.  
No, he should be the one to keep it, and use it for the good of his long-
suffering people.  That was the only course which made any sense.  And if 
he should have the ring, and take it when he pleased, why should he not 
take Legolas?  He had courted many men before, and all had succumbed 
to his will.

Then he started at his own thoughts.  Legolas was not like any other man.  
He felt ashamed of seeing the prince as no more than another conquest.  
Yet Boromir’s heart had never truly loved before, and in truth, he did not 
know how to go about it.  So he did what he did best whenever he had a 
problem that could not be resolved by any physical means: he ignored it 
and went to sleep, and hoped it would take care of itself.


Chapter 2

But Legolas was not asleep.

He usually lay to rest, as all elvenfolk did, with his keen eyes open, while 
his spirit would wander the streams and pathways of his beloved 
woodland home.  But that night, his open eyes were unglazed, and he 
stared up into the vastness of the dark. There were not even any stars to 
comfort him.

His soul was not flying swiftly past the birches and the elms, nor singing 
with the larks of the forest. It was with him where he lay, against the cold 
stone floor. And it was cold, to him as well.  The passing of all weathers 
and all seasons had never discomfited before, but now he felt a chill which 
ached in his bones.  He flinched in the gloom.

A prince, no less, my brothers.  An elven prince.  

The words came back to him, in that harsh, high voice.  And I was always 
so proud, he thought to himself, to be of royal parentage and to have all 
the wisdom and delight of my kin.  Now it seemed a curse, for it was an 
elven prince that the Nazgul had picked out as his prey, and an elven 
prince who had to bear the humiliation of the assault.  He sometimes 
thought, with guilt, that it would have been better if he had bled to death 
by the lake.  He was not afraid of death itself, and it would have spared 
him his disgrace.

And then he thought of the words of Boromir, so anxious for him and so 
sure.  He found it strange how much he was comforted by the attentions of 
the burly soldier.  Boromir had taken all his cares onto himself and stood 
at his side as if he could not fail.  He had never been treated as something 
so fragile and precious, and as a warrior so powerful, he was surprised it 
did not irk him. 

I leant on him as if he were my brother, he thought wryly.  For Boromir 
seemed older than him, although he must be many years his junior - he 
had seen more, done more.  He had hunted, and gone to war, and made 
merry, and taken lovers.  Legolas felt a sudden wave of nausea at this, for 
his own body had been untouched until the day the Nazgul had taken him.

And however much the others tried to support him, he knew that they 
would never reach the core of fear and hurt that sat in his stomach.  The 
memories of it would not be pushed out of his mind, and he could still see 
the gloating eyes of his attackers, and feel the wretchedness of how his 
legs had been pushed apart for the monster to mount him.  Not one of his 
companions, however well they meant, would hear what he had heard 
when the laughter rang out as he began to bleed.  Not one of them would 
hear the creature’s gasps of delight at every thrust, or feel him biting their 
throat when his warm seed spilled forth.  He twisted in the dark, the tears 
starting up in his eyes at the memory, but he brushed them fiercely away.  
Yet he would never be able to undo what had been done to him, or forget 
what he had said when they left him, beaten and bloodied on the ground:
“Now live the rest of your life with my mark on you, so that all the world 
may know that a Prince let me rut him like the basest whore of Middle 
earth.”
And they had gone, while he lay so shattered that he could not move or cry 
out, his blood pooling around him and his mouth and legs sticky from 
where he had been forced to take the creature’s seed.  The humiliation and 
dishonour of the act left him without any defences in his mind to help him 
heal.  It would be a long, long time before he could ever sleep peacefully 
again.

Chapter 3

A little of the weak dawn light came in through the cracks in the stone 
vault of Moria.  Gandalf had his pipe in his mouth as he looked at the 
others asleep, and every now and again, smoke would billow out around 
his white beard.  Aragorn was beside him, and the two were crouched 
together quietly, speaking in whispers.

“If you truly believe it can be done, then I will follow you.  Never mind 
what others think or say.  I trust your judgment alone.”
Gandalf sighed wearily, and seemed to show his age.
“Well, that is something.  But my judgement is based on hope only.  We 
have a chance, to be sure, or I would never have let Frodo take the ring.  
But it is only a chance, after all.”
“He is brave, and steadfast.  With our help, we can make it yet.”
“And when all is said and done, we have no choice.  It is this, or nothing.  
That seems to make decisions easier, at any rate.”
Aragorn leaned back.
“I wonder how much he understands of the danger he is in.”
“He has come to know more, little by little.  But perhaps it has turned out 
better that he does not know too much.  There is something about a 
hobbit’s innocence, and good faith, that makes me relieved that it was he 
who took the ring, and no one else. It makes him safer, I think.”
Aragorn nodded languidly, taking another deep breath from his pipe.
“Although he is not the only one in danger from it,” he commented 
quietly.
Gandalf looked at him straight in the face, his eyes glittering in the gloom.
“Ah.  So you have noticed it too, have you?”
“From the moment he looked at the ring, he was caught.”
“Yes, yes, you are right.  It doesn’t surprise me much, I am ashamed to 
say.  He is his father’s son.”
“A bold man, I think.”
“And a headstrong one, and a stubborn one, and one who is used to always 
getting his own way.”
Aragorn only smiled to himself.
“I don’t say that he is a bad man, Aragorn.  But he worries me.  He has a 
great yearning to prove his own worth, and despite all appearances, a great 
insecurity in his heart. The ring feeds on those weaknesses like a leech.  
Out of everyone here, I fear that he will be the first to be tempted.”
“I will keep an eye on him.  He may prove us wrong in the end, and let us 
hope that he does.”
Gandalf looked to where Boromir lay asleep, his brow furrowed.
“That is not all you need to keep an eye on him for, my friend.”
Now it was Aragorn’s turn to look at Gandalf closely.
“So you have noticed that as well?”  He shifted his position on the rock.  
“I thought so myself.”
“There is lust in his eyes, when he looks at Legolas.  He tries to keep it 
hidden, but there is no doubt that he desires him.”
“Can you blame him?  Legolas is a worthy and noble elf.  It is no surprise 
that he has awakened the man’s interest.”
“Maybe not, but it is a dangerous thing.  It is not healthy to want what you 
cannot have.”
Aragorn’s face became grim.
“That is what I was always told, when I wanted Arwen to marry me.”
Gandalf put a hand placatingly on his shoulder.
“Your case is different.  You were brought up among the elves, and know 
their ways.  And you have royal blood.  But Thranduil has poor opinion of 
mortals, and he treasures his son like a jewel.  Boromir should be warned 
that it is not his place to interfere, for it will only ruin Legolas’s 
reputation.  One night of diversion for that man’s satisfaction is not worth 
damaging a prince’s future prospects.”
Aragorn remained unconvinced.
“I think that Legolas is wise enough to make his own decisions regarding 
anything of that matter.  But if it will ease your fears, I can talk to Boromir 
in private.”
“Would you, Aragorn?  He would listen if it came from you.”  The man 
lifted his eyebrows, not certain that Boromir would be pleased when he 
warned him off, but he nodded anyway.
“I am more worried about Legolas for other reasons.  He is pale and weak, 
still.  And his injuries have not healed as fast as I had hoped.  An elf 
should have been back to fitness by now, but some power in those foul 
spirits has kept the wounds open and raw.”
“He is shaken,” replied the wizard.  “It will take time.  It was a dreadful 
misfortune, to befall someone so pure and blameless, and the recovery will 
be slow.  Think of it: he is one of the Eldar, and he can scarcely 
comprehend the greed and cruelty of Men that leads them to such dreadful 
deeds. Has he spoken to you, about what happened that night?”
“No, he has said nothing.  And I have not dared to ask him.”
“Neither have I, Aragorn.  Neither have I.”  And he shook his head 
thinking about it.  There was a long pause, when Pippin’s small voice 
suddenly piped up.
“Are you awake, then, you two?  What are you gossiping about”
“Yes, Master Lazybones, we have been awake for hours,” said Gandalf 
good-naturedly. “And never mind what we were ‘gossiping’ about, it has 
nothing to do with you.”
“So have you found the right way for us?”
“Of course I have.  What sort of question is that?  Come along – let’s get 
the others up.”  And in a few moments, they were off again, ever further 
into the darkness of Moria.

Part 3

Chapter 1

Boromir lay dreaming in the groves of Lothlorien.  In his mind’s eye he 
saw at first only darkness, and then a wreath of smoke and flame, 
tumbling unstoppably towards him, and he could hear a terrible screaming 
that echoed around him.  His face was cold and drenched with sweat.

Where was he?  The walls around him were made of stone, holding him 
in, trapping him.  It was pitch black, except for that dreadful creature of 
menace now approaching him, its body a burning inferno.  The Balrog.  
And then he knew – he was back in Moria, back where Gandalf had fallen.  
He saw the wizard standing small and white in his dream, his staff raised, 
and he wanted to cry out, to run and pull him back.  But no sound came 
out of Boromir’s throat.  And he could not move – his legs were frozen.

How could he win?  How could he possibly survive, that little figure 
standing alone against a mass of fire and wrath?  He knew what would 
happen.  He had to stop it.  But he couldn’t.  With its last spiteful swing, 
the Balrog pulled Gandalf into the abyss, and the screaming in Boromir’s 
head became louder and louder, until he felt he was gasping.  And then 
everything went black.

For a moment he thought he had woken up, but then the dream flashed and 
changed.  Now he saw that he was out in the open, at twilight, in a place 
he had never seen before. The air was soft and warm, and all was quiet.  It 
was peaceful and soothing, and he stood there for some time.  But every 
now and then, he would hear a strange noise, soft and rustling, which rose 
and then lulled.  He moved forward, and saw that he was beside the Sea.

It was vast, wide and glitterinng beneath the moon and stars.  He was 
awestruck by it, for it stretched beyond the realms of his mind.  
Why am I here? he thought.  It is not my path to cross into the Undying 
Realms.
Then a soft voice spoke beside him.

You are here for me, Boromir.

He looked around, and forgot to breathe.  Legolas stood before him, 
dressed in a simple white tunic, his hair loose and flying in the sea breeze.

I am here to give myself to you, he said.

Boromir inhaled deeply and put his hands on the elf’s shoulders.

I have been aching for you, he whispered, aching for you.  

Legolas looked beautiful, even more so, if possible, in his dreams than in 
reality.  His proud, high cheek-boned face and milky-white skin were clear 
even in the evening light, as if they glowed from within. Boromir leaned 
forward, and drew his face towards his own.

They kissed, for how long Boromir did not know, standing there beside 
the Sea.  And then, he felt a white heat pooling within him, and he took 
the elf’s hand, and brought it to his lips.
Please, do not leave me, he begged.  Give me what I crave.
There was a pause, in which Legolas looked at him.  And then he held out 
his other hand, and opened it to show him what lay on the palm.

Is this what you wanted? he asked.

There, in his hand, was the Ring.  It seemed to rise up off his palm, and 
float in the air, shining and gleaming.  And as Boromir looked at it, 
entranced, he felt as though the night had grown darker around them, and 
all that blazed brightly was that loop of gold.  It turned slowly, the light 
radiant along its continuous band, and the sea was full of whispers.  His 
reached out, and the gold was reflected in his wide eyes.  His hand closed 
over the cold metal.

It is mine! he thought, and he had never felt so full of triumph.  

I have it!

But in that moment, a piteous wail broke the silence, and he saw that 
Legolas had sunk to his feet, and his face was ashen grey.
No!  he cried out, trying to lift his stricken lover.

It is too late, whispered the elf.  It is too late!

And then Boromir saw that the Sea itself was darkened and rough, and had 
begun to froth, as if it were boiling with anger or pain.  He was on his 
knees, desperately trying to revive Legolas, who was now lifeless in his 
arms, and still the Sea rumbled and groaned before them. And then, before 
he could do anything, that vast expanse of water had lifted itself into a 
torrent of dark waves, and it fell upon them, engulfing them in its 
merciless jaws with a resounding crash.  

Boromir woke up with a start.  Something had just struck him across the 
face.  He had his hand on his sword at once, thinking they were being 
attacked, but then realised that Legolas was thrashing and sobbing beside 
him in his sleep.
“Wake up!” he said, shaking his slim shoulders.  “Wake up, Legolas!”  
The elf shuddered and looked around him, as if he did not know where 
they were.
“It’s only me,” said Boromir.  “Are you alright?”
The elf nodded, wrapping his blanket around his pale arms.
“I was having a nightmare,” he said softly.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It doesn’t matter.  I wasn’t sleeping well myself.”  He was still shaken 
from his own strange dream.  Now he looked at the quiet figure, and saw 
his eyes which stared so sadly and emptily into the darkness. 
“Have you been weeping?” he asked.
Legolas brushed his eyes hastily with the back of his hand.
“I was dreaming – I was dreaming of them again.”
Boromir knew he was talking about the Nazgul.  
“They can’t hurt you here,” he said.
“But they can hurt me here,” he replied, gesturing to his heart.
“Oh, Legolas,” said Boromir, full of pity.  “I am so sorry.”  Not knowing 
what else to say, he embraced the elf and held him.  He felt him trembling 
against his breast, and knew that he was trying to stop himself from 
crying.  After a few moments, Legolas was able to control himself, and he 
took himself out of Boromir’s large arms with regained composure.
“I should not trouble you like this.”
“It is no trouble.”
“Only that it haunts me so much.  It has gone through my spirit, and 
everything I think of is touched by it.  I do not know what I shall do.”
“You will fight on, son of Thranduil, as you have done so far.”
“I do not know how long I can keep fighting.”
“You are stronger than you think you are. You are a prince of Mirkwood.”  
Legolas smiled with eyes downcast.  
“You have always been strong for me, Boromir.  I am glad you are here, 
especially since we have lost Gandalf.”  His lovely wide eyes were full of 
grief at the thought of the wizard’s fate.  Boromir, looking at him now, 
could not help but think of his dream with longing.  
“If I ever come across the monster that used you so vilely, I will slit his 
throat,” he said vehemently.  But Legolas only looked at the ground, for 
nothing could undo what had been done, and even vengeance had no 
sweet taste for his tongue.  It was almost dawn when they went back to 
sleep, both struggling with secrets and fears within themselves, and both 
minds troubled by emotions which they could not control.  

Chapter 2

Legolas was called before Galadriel the next morning.  He stood 
respectfully with his head slightly bowed, for he knew how much she was 
held in esteem.  But she rose up from her chair and took his face in her 
hands gently, with all the grace and affection that there was between elven 
peoples.
“Legolas.  I am glad to meet you at last.  Your brother talks so highly of 
you.”  She spoke in Sindarin, and her rich voice was queenly.
“It is an honour to be in Lothlorien. I only wish it had been in happier 
times.”
“Yes, these are dark days.  For you, young one, especially.  I see it in 
you.”  She looked at him with such sympathy and warmth that, to his 
surprise, he felt tears start up in his eyes and was unable to reply.
“Come now.  Do not be ashamed to weep.  I know what has happened to 
you.  I understand it.”
He bit his lip and looked at the ground.
“If you would not mind, my Lady, I wish that you do not speak of what 
your powers reveal to you to my father or my brother,” he said.  “It would 
break their hearts.”
“The truth, prince, often finds a way of revealing itself. But be comforted.  
I called you here in private to offer you a vessel to pour your grief into, for 
you have none, and you have kept this secret from everyone – even those 
who have journeyed with you so far.  Tell me.  What do you plan to do?”
Legolas shook his head helplessly.
“I do not know.  Every night, I dream of him.  His face, and his cruel eyes.  
When I think of how he used me, and how great was his delight to break 
my chastity, I feel as if I want to bury my knife in my own flesh.”
“That is no answer,” said Galadriel, and she was not alarmed by his words, 
but soothing.  “That is no answer, and you know it.”
Legolas nodded tearfully.  “But what can I do?  There seems to be no way 
out for me.”
“Listen to my counsel.  Your fate is inescapable, but see it not as fate.    
See it as a gift . . .  a light that has come out of darkness.  You know what 
I talk of, do you not?”
“Yes.  I know.  But it seems only a curse.”
“You will think different when the time comes.  But trust in those around 
you, who would love and support you.  Do not be afraid of taking a hand 
when it reaches down to pull you up.”
He took in a deep breath and wiped away his tears.
“I will do what I can, my Lady,” he said.  “I will follow your wisdom, and 
trust in it.”
“And remember this, also.  The fellowship stands on a knife edge.  
Beware, Legolas.  Keep your eyes sharp.  Not all men have good 
intentions.  You should not be too trusting.  Beware.”
He looked deep into her eyes and nodded.  But his mind was elsewhere, 
still churning with the pain of what he had concealed from everyone 
around him.


“You seem fond of this place, as if it were once a home to you.”
“A home?  No, not exactly.  But yes, I am fond of it.”
Aragorn and Boromir were stretched out on the grass, waiting for Legolas 
above, in the shade of the great tree.
“It has happy memories for me,” explained the ranger.  “Does it not agree 
with you so much?”
Boromir fidgeted.
“I don’t like it.  It’s very . . .well.  It’s very elvish,” he finished, somewhat 
uncomfortably.  Aragorn only laughed.
“It is certainly that.”  He picked at the grass idly.  “This was the place 
where Arwen and I made our vows,” he said softly, almost to himself.  
There was a light in his eyes as if he could see the scene in front of him.  
Boromir turned to him and his face was softened.
“You are a lucky man, for her to make such a decision.”
“I am, and I know it.  It is a great sacrifice for her, and for Elrond.”  He 
paused, and then said, in a sterner tone: “Boromir, I do not mean to 
intrude, but listen to my counsel.  Whatever your feelings for Legolas, he 
is not for you.”
Boromir sat up instantly, and the colour fled from his face.  But he 
endeavoured to appear unconcerned.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Aragorn.”
“Come on.  You can barely tear your eyes from him.”
Boromir was about to launch into his defence, and to deny any such thing, 
but the look on his companion’s face was so shrewd that he knew there 
was no point.  Instead, he let his breath out with a long sigh.
“Is it so obvious?”
“To me it is.  Although I do not believe that Legolas himself has noticed.”
“No, he would not.  He seems very innocent of such things.”
“Well, most men look at him in the same way.  Perhaps he is used to it.”
Boromir raised his eyebrows.  “Perhaps.”  His face became tight and 
sullen. There were a few moments of silence, and then Aragorn spoke 
again:
“I do not think you have bad intentions, for you have cared for him like a 
true friend.  Your loyalty and your attention have been admirable.  But 
you are from two different worlds, Boromir.  Although your family is 
noble, he is a prince of Mirkwood, and is far above you.  I only say this 
candidly so that neither of you will be hurt. What can you hope for?  That 
he will give up his immortality, his Princehood, his home, to live with you 
in Gondor?  In the world of Men?  Think about it, Boromir.”
“I know, I know,” he replied.  “You have no need to remind me.  I have 
been over it in my own mind enough times.”
“But do you love him?” asked Aragorn.  “Truly?”
Boromir looked at his hands.  
“I think I do,” he admitted.  “At first, I thought only of his beauty, and of 
what a prize he would be if he were by my side, and of how other men 
would envy me.  I have believed I was in love many times before, and it 
was the same feeling.”  He thought guiltily of his past trysts, filled with 
the excitement and thrill of his own power, of making love to youths 
against the wall of a castle corridor, of the burning flames of passion and 
desire blown out in an instant and meaning nothing.
“But since he was attacked, he has been weaker, and vulnerable.  For the 
first time in his life, I think, he has needed another person’s help.  I think it 
made him open up to me.  He talks to me like his equal, like his friend. 
And that made me look past his beauty, and his pride, and see him as he 
was.  It made me realise that he is loving, and brave, and kind.  To see 
someone like that be treated so terribly – it made me angry, and it made 
me want to help him.  And for once, I have done something good for a 
person without expecting anything in return.  And so I think I have fallen 
in love with him.”  He shrugged, as if he were still a little puzzled by his 
own feelings.  “Now I look at him differently.  It does not matter to me 
that he is a great beauty, or a prince, or an elf.  He is something more 
important than that.  He is Legolas.  And that is all I care about.”
“Nevertheless,” said Aragorn softly, “he still is a prince, and an elf.  And 
you cannot get past that.”
“I know.  Only, he looks so young.  And after what happened to him, he 
was so afraid, and so hurt.  Instead of seeming like a great warrior elf, 
distant and remote, he seemed just like my younger brother.  So you see, I 
had to take care of him.  If my brother was weak, and hurt, and frightened, 
I would care for him in the same way.  It was too easy for me to forget 
who Legolas is, because he looked so young and so scared.”  He sighed.  
“And now I don’t know what to do.”
Aragorn thought awhile, as he plucked some flowers and looked at them 
fondly.
“I cannot say what he would think, if you were to reveal your feelings to 
him.”
“But you would advise against it?”
“My mind says that I would.  But I myself am engaged to an elf, and was 
told that I aimed too high.  So I leave it up to you.”
Boromir was about to ask him if he knew whether Legolas had a lover or 
not, when the elf himself came down to them from the tree.
“Where are the others?” he asked them.
“Asleep.  The sun is hot for them.  Is everything well?”
“Yes, yes.”
“What did she want to talk to you for?” said Boromir curiously.
“Elvish things.”
 Boromir snorted.
“You cannot escape so lightly.  Maidens gossip all day, and then when we 
ask what they talk about, they laugh and say ‘women’s things’.  So tell me 
honestly.  Why did she call you up to her alone?”
“And I will reply just as honestly.  I have no wish to tell you.”
He said it with a smile, but Boromir knew he was being firm, and he asked 
no more.  He was troubled in his heart as well, for Lothlorien was indeed a 
strange place to him.  The Lady of the Wood seemed to look at him as if 
she knew his eyes lingered on the elf, and his mind on the Ring.  It made 
him feel uncomfortable and anxious, though there was no real reason why 
it should.
“I am becoming impatient after spending too long among elves,” he told 
himself. “It is bad for my nerves.”  He would not have objected, of course, 
to spending more time with Legolas, who no longer seemed to count as 
someone different.  But that was another problem altogether.

Chapter 3

They left Lothlorien later that same day, and began their journey 
downriver.  Boromir’s mood was more and more sullen and morose, the 
further they went.  He sighed and shifted restlessly around in the small 
boat, looking at Frodo with a strange intent.  The hobbit noticed these 
glances now and again, and he could feel the man staring at him when he 
thought he was not looking.  It made him uneasy.  They went to land to 
spend the night, and as dawn broke, Frodo woke up before any of the 
others and walked around on his own.  

Ever since Gandalf fell, he had been worried and unsure, and nothing 
seemed right or certain anymore.  It was like a weight on his chest, this 
sudden responsibility, for now he had to make his own decisions.
“And how am I supposed to know what is right and what isn’t?” he said to 
himself sadly.  “I’m not anyone important.”
With these thoughts in his mind, he wandered further and further away 
from the group, not really knowing where he was going.  He knew he had 
to go to Mordor and take the Ring with him, and the sooner he went, the 
better.  It would be dangerous, and it would probably be best to go alone.  
He had taken his friends too far already. But knowing that and accepting it 
were two different things.  At last, he sat down on a fallen tree trunk with 
a sigh.  And just as he thought he would get up and go back, a tall shadow 
fell in front of him, and a familiar voice spoke behind him.

“Hello, Frodo.”

He turned around, and saw Boromir standing there, waiting.


When Legolas woke up a few moments later, he saw that two people were 
missing at once.  That one of them was Boromir was immediately 
apparent, for the man had never left his side before, and to have an empty 
space where once the soldier’s body would have lain came as a sudden 
shock.  He got up and walked with his small, light feet amongst the others, 
careful not to wake them, as silent as a shadow.  Frodo was not there 
either.

He felt a shudder go down his spine and his chest tightened.  For some 
reason, Frodo’s absence gave him a sense of foreboding.  Doubtless, 
Boromir was with him, but instead of comforting him, this made Legoals 
even more afraid.  
“This cannot be right,” he thought to himself.  And he heard Galadriel’s 
voice in his head:

Beware, Legolas.  Keep your eyes sharp.  Not all men have good 
intentions.  You should not be too trusting.  Beware.

He had always thought this meant he himself was in some danger, but 
what if the danger was for someone else?  What if it were Frodo he should 
be looking out for?
He began to walk into the woods, thinking quickly.  ‘Not all men have 
good intentions’.  He knew this all too well himself, but surely Boromir 
was to be trusted?  He had never know someone to be so good a friend.  
He cared for him.  Many things had changed since that day he had spoken 
out against him at the Council.

And then something hit him.  The Council!  Of course – he had forgotten 
what Boromir had said – he had forgotten how proud he had been of his 
country, and of how eager he had been to take the Ring to Gondor, of how 
he saw it as a gift to the Steward who would use it against the enemy and 
destroy him.  His pace quickened, and the fear in his heart gripped tighter.  
How could he not have realised?  The Ring had been near Boromir all the 
time.  He would have been watching, waiting for his chance . . . .

The sound of shouts, and voices raised in anger, came to his ears.  He was 
near a  clearing, and he kept himself out of sight in the shadows.

He saw Boromir get to his feet, his face was white with fury.  The hobbit 
cowered before him, clutching at the chain on his neck.  The tall man 
towered over him, his voice loud and threatening.  The elf’s hand went to 
his mouth in horror and dismay.

“It is not yours save by lucky chance!” cried the man.  “It could have been 
mine.  It should have been mine!  Give it to me!”  Frodo leapt away from 
him and ran behind the fallen trunk, shaking with fear, but Boromir was 
many times stronger and faster than he was and he caught him by the shirt.  
The hobbit struggled desperately but the man pinned him to the ground 
and fought to tear the chain from his neck.  He would have succeeded, but 
the elf sprang from his hiding place and pulled him off with a cry.  Despite 
his slim build, Legolas had immense strength, and Boromir was forced to 
let loose his grip.  Terrified and panic-stricken, Frodo turned on his heels 
and fled from the clearing.

“What are you doing?”  screamed Boromir, turning to the elf, his face 
twisted with rage.  Legolas was shocked.  He had never seen the man so 
angry.  “You fool!  I almost had it!”
“It is not for you,” said Legolas, trying to keep his voice calm, though he 
was breathing quickly.  “You should not have tried to take it.”
“What do you know?  You know nothing!”  he came towards him now, 
jabbing his finger at him.  “You elves sit around in your pretty forests, 
talking and arguing, but you never get up and do anything while the world 
crumbles around you!”
“That is not true, Boromir.  I am here, am I not?”
“You think I give a damn about what you do?” he retorted, and he seethed 
with resentment.  “Why did you jump in and stop me?  You had no right 
to interfere!”
“It was for your own good.  The Ring is not yours.”
“It IS mine!”  And he was so choked with rage, that he swung his fist and 
struck Legolas hard across the face.  He was a very strong man, and the 
blow knocked the elf  to the ground.  His head thudded heavily against the 
earth and gravel.

For a moment, there was silence, except for the sound of the his breathing 
as he lay on his back.  Boromir stared at him, and a mist seemed to lift 
from his eyes as he saw a dark bruise blooming on the elf’s cheekbone.  
“Legolas!” he cried out softly.  “What have I done?”  Legolas caught his 
breath and got his feet, his head spinning, but Boromir stepped back from 
him in shame.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered.  “I don’t know what came over me.”  He 
sat down and put his head in his hands.  
“It’s alright,” said Legolas, and he touched the bruise gingerly, still reeling 
from the force of the blow.  But the man had tears in his eyes.  
“I don’t know what I was thinking.  Please forgive me.  I never meant to 
raise my hand against you.”
“It’s alright, Boromir.”  He sat down next to him, and put a hand on his 
shoulder.  “You were not in your right mind.  Maybe you have not been 
for a while, but we did not notice it.  You were under the spell of the 
Ring.”
Boromir looked up in horror.
“Frodo!” he cried.  “I must have terrified him!”
“He will be alright.  There was no great harm done.”
“What will he think of me?  I have driven him away.  But I would never 
have willingly hurt him.”
“We will go find him, and you will explain and apologise.  Come now.”
“No, no” he moaned.  “If I am near it again – I do not know what I will do 
– it seems to have locked itself into my mind.”
“You must learn to control yourself.”
Boromir shook his head.  “I am not strong, like you are.  Not strong in my 
mind and spirit, I mean. I am used to getting my way, and I thought I 
could just take the Ring.  I thought it would make people look up to me, 
and admire me.”
“It would have done no such thing.  And people look up to you as you 
are.”
“But I do not deserve it.  I deserve nothing.”
“Do not speak so!”
“It is true.  Look at how I have acted!  I struck you.  I am as bad as the 
Nazgul.”
“No.  You are not nearly as bad.”
“Yes, yes I am.”  He was thinking painfully of how often he had been 
tempted to seduce the vulnerable elf beside him.  “I have a high position, 
but it is an accident of birth.  I have done things which are despicable.”
“Where does all this come from?” said Legolas in dismay.  
“I think about it, sometimes, in the middle of the night. I think of all the 
men who obey my commands, because I am lord of the city, and of all the 
lovers I have taken, just because I could.  And I wonder if any of them 
really cared for me or knew me at all.”
“Boromir, you cannot live with this guilt.  It will destroy you.  Look what 
it has done already – it has made you turn to the Ring for your salvation.”
“And that would have destroyed me too.  I see that now.  But I rush into 
things without thinking, because I am a fool.”
Legolas took his hand in his own.  “Boromir, you are not a fool.  We all 
make mistakes, and do things we regret.  We must learn our lessons from 
them.  And you are not worthless, either.  You are a brave and kind man, 
and your men look up to you because they respect your leadership.  When 
the time comes for you to take the Stewardship, you will be ready.”
Boromir squeezed his hand, but he did not reply.  His eyes were still full 
of hurt.
“Look how you have taken care of me,” said Legolas.  “Look how you 
have helped me to recover from what I suffered.”
“I did not do much,” said Boromir mechanically.
“Yes, you did.  Whenever I have stumbled, you have been there to catch 
me.  You are a true comrade, and no one can say otherwise.”
Boromir forced himself to smile, and turned to face him.
“I am a fortunate man to have known you, Legolas Greenleaf.  I have 
never met a creature more noble.”
The elf inclined his head.  Boromir sighed.  He was exhausted.  The 
mental strain he had been under for so long had lifted, but it left him 
utterly spent.  He still had Legolas’s hand in his lap, and he stroked in 
now, thinking of how dearly he loved him.  Perhaps this was not the right 
time to say anything, but then there would never really be a right time. At 
least they were alone together.  He sat up and took a deep breath.
“Legolas?” he said, his voice hesitant.
The elf looked at him inquiringly.
“I – I wanted to ask you something.  But I cannot be sure it will not offend 
you.”
“We have been brothers-in-arms for many months, Boromir.  I doubt that 
you could say much to cause me offence.”  He said it gently, and so lightly 
that Boromir knew he could not have guessed anything of his intentions. 
“Well,” he replied, his brow furrowing.  “Well.  I wanted to say that - ”
He stopped suddenly, and the elf also spun around, for a great thunderous 
roar had chimed from close by them.
“What was that?” he cried.
“Yrch!” exclaimed Legolas, and Boromir knew enough of elftongue at 
least to know he meant ‘orcs’.  
“The others!” he said at once.  “They must have been seen!”
“Hurry, hurry!” said the elf, and immediately they ran together to their aid.  

Chapter 4

In the battle that followed, Boromir had no time to decide whether his 
interrupted speech was a matter of disappointment, or relief.  Suffice it to 
say that the capture of the two younger hobbits, and the flight of Frodo 
and Sam, redoubled the guilt in his heart.
“I am to blame,” he said heavily to Aragorn, after the last orcs were 
dispersed.  “I acted foolishly, and now we may all regret it.”
“You cannot blame yourself for Merry and Pippin, at least,” broke in 
Gimli.  “You were lucky to escape with your life.”  The dwarf stood stout 
and grim, his axe in hand, and it was clear that the loss of his two cheerful 
companions had stung him deeply.  But he was right about Boromir.  The 
man had fought valiantly and stood his ground far outnumbered, and it 
was only a hefty strike from Aragorn which had saved him at the last 
moment from death at the hands of the orc chieftain.  He was heavily 
wounded, but more painful to him still was the thought that he had driven 
Frodo into danger.  He sat now with his back to a tree, head in his hands.
“What has been done is done,” said Aragorn.  “Whichever way, he would 
have to turn to Mordor eventually.  If he was driven there sooner than we 
planned, so be it.”
“But if he returns, he will never forgive me for letting his friends 
becoming orc-food.”
“Do not give up hope so soon,” said Legolas, as he resheathed his long 
knife.  “They were not killed outright, but captured.  Maybe the orcs have 
some purpose with them yet.”
“I think the same,” said Aragorn.  “As long as we catch up with the orcs 
before they reach their destination, there is hope we will find them alive.”
“And if they are not, more than one of those swine will feel my axe at 
their necks,” muttered Gimli.
Boromir looked up at them wearily.  Despite the pain of his injuries, and 
the guilt, and the restless tension that had plagued him ever since the 
beginning, he relished the thought of giving chase to those miserable 
beasts with his friends at his side.  

“Well, then,” he said, getting to his feet, and for the first time in ages the 
glimmer of a smile played on his lips. “What are we waiting for?

The chase was hard and long, until the four companions came at last to 
Rohan, land of the horsemen.  There they found Gandalf again, to their 
great astonishment and awe, and sought refuge at the home of King 
Theoden.  All this while, Boromir did not speak much to Legolas, unless it 
were to do with everyday matters and the tasks in hand.  But he would 
steal longing glances at him, when he was not looking, and he saw that the 
elf’s face seemed to grow paler and paler with each passing day.  Nor did 
this go unnoticed by Aragorn and Gimli.  Even the dwarf could see that 
Legolas’s eyes had become dull, and his voice had lost its music, and it 
seemed that there was a sickness in his heart.  

Chapter 5

One night, it was cool and damp in the land of Rohan, and the travellers 
had stayed indoors.  Legolas had excused himself from the company, as 
was often his will, for although he was now comfortable in the presence of 
men, still there were times when he wished to be alone with his thoughts. 
It should have been a happy time, now Gandalf was back, but much had 
passed which had been new and strange to him, and terrifying also, even 
to one so steadfast and bold.  He would have been glad to take some 
counsel with his own kin, but for now he made do with solitude as he sat 
in his small room.  

The moonlight came in dimly from a single window, but a fire burned 
warm in the grate and lit up the lodgings with its red flicker, where the 
elf’s travelling things lay in the corner still unpacked.  He did not get up to 
arrange them now, but sat motionless on the bed in deep thought.  And his 
face wore an expression which did not suit its youth and nobility:  an 
expression of weariness and great sorrow, which he had not shown before 
to the others.  His eyes were glazed and unfocused when there came a 
knock upon the door, and immediately he snapped into full consciousness.
“You may come in,” he called, and his voice was as clear and as assured 
as it had ever been.
The door opened slowly to reveal Boromir, who looked in hesitantly.
“I am not disturbing you, am I?”
Legolas shrugged gracefully and smiled.
“As you see, I am not occupied.”
Boromir nodded, and came and sat beside him on the bed.  He looked at 
the elf with a slight frown.
“You ate little this evening.  I thought that perhaps you were unwell.”
“No.  I am quite well.”  There was a long pause.  Then Legolas continued:  
“You did not wish to stay with the King and his men?”
“I was worried about you.”
“But as you can see, you have no need to be.”
Boromir looked at him.  “Do I not?” he said.  
Legolas shifted uncomfortably. “I only wished to be alone for a while.  I 
have had little privacy these past months, and it has wearied me.  Not that 
I could have asked for better company,” he added hastily.  There was 
another long silence, and the two of them sat watching the flames dance at 
their feet.
“I suppose, then,” said Boromir at last, “that you desire me to leave?  
Since it seems there is something on your mind.”
“Oh no – I did not mean to be discourteous. I have no such desire, if there 
was some weighty purpose to your visit.”
At this, Boromir looked into his eyes.  “There was,” he said softly.
“There was?” reflected Legolas, puzzled.
There was no reply at first, but then the tall young man leant a little closer 
and whispered:
“You are an extraordinarily beautiful creature, Prince Legolas.”
He thought he would have been afraid to say those words, but in the 
firelight, with the prince beside him, they were so true and so heartfelt that 
they came easily to his tongue.  Legolas parted his mouth in an expression 
of surprise, but his open lips were so tempting that Boromir gathered him 
in his arms and kissed him feverishly.  There was no resistance – Legolas 
was as limp and motionless as if he had fainted into Boromir’s lap, and he 
did not fight against the caress.  To the man, the elf’s lips tasted like the 
sweetest honey, and they were softer than he could have imagined.  He 
could not help but sigh into his mouth, and the blood burnt in his veins.  
He kept on kissing him, possessively, not wanting to let go, as if by 
pouring his passion into his beloved he could somehow make him his 
own.  And then he felt the heat within him become uncontrollable, and he 
began to fondle Legolas and unfasten his shirt.  But a soft cry of protest 
came from the prince, who broke the kiss and turned his head away.
“Please,” whispered Boromir to him as he held him close, “do not be 
afraid.  Lie with me tonight.”
“No – I cannot!”
“Yes, yes.  Come, lie with me – let me love you.”
“No, Boromir!” He stood up, and now Boromir saw that the elf’s face was 
flushed and full of self-loathing.
“Why?  What is the matter?”
“How can you do this?  How can you bear to touch me?”
“What do you mean?”
“After what has happened!  Another man kissed these lips.  Another man 
touched where you have touched.  How can you do the same without 
feeling disgusted?”
“I have no shame in touching you.  I beg your pardon, if I have reminded 
you of that time when you were so brutally assailed.  But you cannot 
disgust me.”
“Then maybe I disgust myself,” he said softly, his eyes full of tears.  “My 
body has been soiled by his foul hands.  No one could truly love me, if 
they knew what you knew.”
Boromir looked at him in astonishment:  the most honourable and virtuous 
creature he had ever known, and yet consumed with self-hatred.  He shook 
his head.
“You are wrong, Legolas.  I will show you how much I love you.  Listen 
to me, and I will tell you.”
“No!” he said, and he was white with fear.   “Sometimes, it is better to 
keep things locked away from others.  It is better not to know.”
Boromir fell to his knees and grasped the prince’s hand, and the slim white 
fingers looked helplessly delicate against his own rough palm. 
“You must at least hear me.  I will speak out my heart, whatever should be 
your reply.”  He gazed deep into the eyes of the elf. 
“I know that my birth is far below your own, and that the great kings do 
no suffer union between our peoples, and yet I would ask you this: if you 
give me your hand in marriage, I will honour you until my dying day.”  He 
spoke hoarsely, such was the fervour in his voice.  Legolas turned away 
his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.
“Legolas? You are a prince, and a warrior, and I fear that I cannot be 
worthy of you.  But you have stolen my heart, and have it in your keeping 
forevermore.”
Legolas shook his head, as if to say that such a thing could never be.
“You have been my comrade in arms,” tried Boromir again.  “As a brother 
you have been to me.  But you must know that any man who looked upon 
you must desire you.  I am as any other man, Legolas, but I will care for 
you like no other, if you would consent to lie in my bed.”
Legolas turned sadly towards him and put both hands on Boromir’s 
shoulders.
“You have been a dear friend to me, and I would never willingly cause 
you pain, but I cannot accept your offer.”  He looked with shining eyes 
into Boromir’s face.  
“Please do not think that all your kindness to me has not been valued.  It 
has – and I thank you for it.”
There was silence.  Boromir turned away.  He felt curiously flat, as if all 
the words and thoughts within him, now let go, had left him hollow.  
“You have then, as I thought, some other lover to whom you owe your 
loyalty?”
“No,” he replied softly, unable to lie.
“Then why do you turn me away?” demanded Boromir with bitterness.  
“Do not speak so!  I owe you my very life, Boromir, for I might have 
wasted away with grief these past months, had you not been by my side.  
But there are reasons for my reply, which I cannot now explain.  You must 
be satisfied with my answer, and ask no more of me.  Please, Boromir, do 
not ask any more.”  He stifled the sob in his throat, and Boromir took him 
in his arms.
“I would give my life for you, if you would accept my love.  What are you 
to other men?  Nothing but a beautiful plaything, an adornment for them to 
parade.  That will never be what you are to me.”
But Legolas tore himself from Boromir’s embrace and turned away from 
him.
“I will leave this place tomorrow morn.  I should have left earlier for my 
home, many days ago.”
“What is this?  Why do you run away?  I would never hurt you, Legolas.  I 
could never cause you harm.”
“You would harm both of us, Boromir, without knowing that you did.  I 
will say no more,” he said, resolute.  “It is enough.  You have my answer, 
and you must be content.”
Boromir saw the blaze of determination in his eyes.  It provoked an 
utterance that he would never have spoken, had his heart not been so 
bitterly disappointed.
“Go, then!  Go and seduce some other poor fool and play him with your 
wiles.  Small wonder the Lord of the Nazgul used you as nothing more 
than his whore.”
No sooner had he closed his mouth he repented his words. But it had been 
done. The colour drained out of Legolas’s face, leaving it ashen pale.  He 
did not speak, and fled from the room, leaving Boromir wretched and 
alone.


Chapter 6

The morning dawned foggy and chill, with the sun no more than a pale 
sphere of light in the misty air.  Aragorn stood on a high grass verge, his 
boots sunk deep into the damp soil, listening to the birdsong of the early 
hours.  Every now and then, he looked to the house, where Legolas stood 
at the entrance and prepared his horse.  They did not speak to each other as 
he continued to load his packs.

After a while, the ranger came slowly down towards the elf.  
“You truly mean to leave?” he asked in a low voice.
Legolas pursed his lips and carried on his work, as if he did not wish to 
reply.  A moment later, he nodded. Aragorn sighed, and helped him load 
the last of the baggage.
“What has he said to you?” he asked suddenly.  “Last night – you spoke 
not a word to each other at supper.”
“It does not matter now.”
“Would it not be better to settle your quarrel, than to leave so sudden and 
so secret?”
“Perhaps.  But I should have left long before.”
Aragorn looked at him with curiosity.
“Legolas?  You would tell me, would you not, if something were amiss?  I 
have feared that you have not been well, these past few weeks.”
Legolas laughed at him lightly, although the sound seemed forced.  “All is 
well, my friend.  Be assured, I will be more than content once I have 
reached my homeland.”
Aragorn nodded, knowing that he must be satisfied with this answer.  All 
the same, it seemed wrong to him that the departure should be so abrupt.  
He knew that this might in all likelihood be the longest that Legolas had 
ever been away from home, and yet he had misgivings about allowing him 
to return on his own.  

Finally, it seemed, the elf was ready to leave.  He mounted his horse and 
wrapped his cloak around his shoulders.
“Farewell, Aragorn!  Good fortune be with you!  Take strength from those 
around you, for I know that you shall be victorious.”
“Farewell, Legolas!  I thank you, my friend, for the help that you have 
given us.  We could not have travelled so far without your aid.  Go safely 
now, and may you live in peace.”
Legolas clasped his hand and then swung around as he prepared to make 
for Mirkwood.  But before he had taken hold of the reins, Boromir came 
running from the house crying out his name.
“Wait!  Legolas, please wait!”
At first it seemed that Legolas would ignore his cries and spur on his 
horse.  But something held him back, and hesitantly, he let his hand fall.  
Boromir came up to him breathlessly, his face pale and unhappy.
“Legolas, how could you think of leaving, without a word of goodbye?  
Please forgive me, for I spoke rashly the other night.  I would be wretched 
forevermore if you had left this morning and I had known nothing of it.  
You cannot go so silently, and think that I would not miss you!”
Legolas struggled to keep his icy composure.
“I am sorry.  I thought it would be easier for both of us, but I see it was the 
wrong thing to do.  Come.  Give me your hand.  I forgive you freely, and I 
would have done so, even had you not asked.”
Boromir looked at him desperately.
“But you would still go?  It may be that I will never see your face again.”
“It may be so.  But let us hope that one day, when victory is ours, we will 
perhaps cross paths.”
Boromir shook his head and smiled.
“How could I bear to see you, if you were on another man’s arm?”
“Come, Boromir.  Do not let such bitterness destroy our friendship.  
Forget the painful words that have been spoken in the past.”
“I cannot forget. I have loved you.”
Legolas trembled. 
“You must learn not to love me.  You must think upon the battles ahead, 
and how you shall overcome your foes.  And then you will return to your 
home, and to your father and brother, and the people will laud you beyond 
your dreams.  And then you must look to the affairs of stewardship, and 
take a wife, and have children of your own.  You must go back and live 
your own life, Boromir, and be happy.”
Boromir stepped back and bowed his head in silence, but Legolas leaned 
down and put his hand upon his shoulder.
“I pray for your happiness, Boromir, and wish that your life is prosperous 
and content.  Blessings be upon your head!  It is well deserved.”
“It is only because of you.  I have done many things in my life that I am 
ashamed of, and only your good soul made me want to be kind and to 
better myself.  May the winds speed you safely to your home, and take this 
as remembrance of our friendship.” With this, he stood on tiptoe and 
kissed the elf’s forehead.  Legolas embraced him and then took hold of the 
reins.
“Farewell, Boromir! Farewell!”  He turned and galloped off into the 
distance, as swift as a shadow on the wind.  As he left the house of Rohan 
further and further away, he allowed himself to break down at last.  
Boromir stood watching the distant figure for many moments, and it 
pained him that not once did Legolas turn around and look at him again.  
But it was only because the elf wept, and he could not bear another to see 
his tears.

Chapter 7

Several days had passed since Legolas had begun his homeward journey.  
He made steady progress, riding day and night when his horse was able, 
and eating little.  But one night, it happened that as he approached a wood 
beside the river, a dreadful pain gnawed in his stomach.  At first he tried 
not to think on it, for it passed some moments later.  But as he continued, 
the pain would return, and with it a feeling of faintness.

Determined not to be delayed on his journey, he did not stop to rest.  
Several hours later, the pain came back very sudden, and this time it did 
not fade away.  Instead, it worried at him insistently and made him sick 
and dizzy.  Yearning for some respite, he breathed in the cool air deeply, 
and yet he knew in his heart why he ailed in this way. Please no, he 
thought as the pain became even stronger.  He gripped the reins tighter but 
his skin was white and clammy with sweat.  

It was no more than a few leagues to Mirkwood, surely; he thought that he 
would struggle and make it before nightfall. Yet the horse had only gone a 
few yards before the elf slipped and came off the saddle.  Now he was 
bent double with agony and stumbled towards the riverside, the sweat 
dripping down his back and his legs.  The horse whinnied and paced up 
and down as his rider fell again to the ground in pain, and crawled as best 
he could towards the cool water to wash his face.  It could not be this, he 
thought to himself in desperation.  He had been praying that he would 
reach Mirkwood and be able to speak to his brother before the first signs 
appeared.  But it had been too late and now he was stranded, alone, with 
no one near.  He lay on the ground, panting, and then he cried out as he 
saw that his leggings were seeped in blood.  There was no choice for him 
but to stay by the river bank, and he bit on his sleeve as the waves of pain 
continued.  So it was that Legolas lay alone as he gave birth to his first 
child, fathered upon him against his will by the Nazgul.  Such was his 
suffering that he swooned as he delivered the infant, and remained 
insensible when the babe gave its first cries.



The sun had come higher in the sky as Boromir sat looking towards the 
horizon, a mug of tea in his hands.  It was only a half hour since he had 
watched his only love ride away and leave him alone, and it felt to him 
like tasting a sweet nectar for only a moment, to have it snatched away 
again from his lips.  Now the bitterness was sharp.  He drummed his hand 
absently on the table, thinking of that gentle pale face, and of the scent of 
him when he kissed his forehead.  He was angry now, at himself, for 
letting him go – he should have caught hold of him, begged him, anything 
– anything just to let him hold Legolas close to him and kiss his lips again.  
But it was all too late now.

“I am sorry, Boromir,” said a quiet voice.  Boromir looked up to see 
Aragorn, who sat down beside him.  
“Sorry for what?” he shrugged.  
“For what you go through.  It is never easy, loving an elf.”  He said it with 
such compassion and understanding that Boromir sighed.  
“No, it is not,” he replied after a moment.  “But at least Arwen returns 
your love, though your courtship has been troubled.  At least you know 
that she will think of you always – she must be thinking of you now, even 
as we speak.”
“I hope so.”  He could not help but smile for a moment at the thought, and 
then his face was grave once more “He has refused you, then, outright?”
Boromir laughed bitterly.  “He has, and he has done so in no uncertain 
terms.  I was told it could never be.  And perhaps he is right.”
“You must not take it to heart.  It does not mean that he has no care for 
you.  He has had many suitors, but not even the best of them has won him 
yet, for his brother will allow no engagement.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.  And perhaps Legolas does not accept anyone now, before he has 
the chance to seek his brother’s approval.  Why, even Elladan himself, son 
of Elrond, sought his hand, and was refused.  Imagine how it rankled!  He 
will be highest among the elves, in time, and Thranduil leapt at the chance 
to arrange such an advantageous match, but the brother held the marriage 
back.  This was many years ago, and he feared that Legolas was too 
young, and too green, for him to be wed.”
“And does Legolas himself have no say in any of this?”
“He is royalty.  Of course he has no say.”
Boromir nodded, and thought on his words a while.  He looked up again 
with a weary face.
“It may be as you say, but if his family’s judgement was all that stood in 
the way of our marriage, he would have told me so.  He would have 
confessed his love, but explained that his duties prevented the union.”
“Then what were his reasons?”
“That is just it – he would give me none.  He asked that I did not press 
him, for he could not explain them.  And all I can conclude from that, 
Aragorn, is that he cannot love me, and wished to spare my feelings by not 
telling me so plainly.”
“He may have been taken by surprise.  It is a great sacrifice, for an elf to 
wed a mortal.  He may have been overwhelmed and have thought it safer 
to refuse.”
“I do not think so.  He was very clear on the point.  Too clear, as far as my 
pride was concerned.”
Aragorn paused and looked at the man in front of him for a few moments, 
and saw how dejected and hurt he was.  He felt moved to comfort him, 
because he himself had known the rocky path towards love, and he did not 
want another to suffer as he had.  And also, there was a suspicion in his 
mind, for he had known Legolas for many years, and the way he had acted 
had been brusque and uncharacteristic.  It was not like him to leave so 
suddenly, with no proper explanation.  No, it was clear to Aragorn that 
something was not right, or that there was something troubling the elf, 
although what that was he did not know.  
“Well, Boromir.  There is only one way to find out if he loves you or not.”
“And what is that?”
“You know what it is.  You must find him, and ask him again.  I can see 
that your feelings are true, and there is no reason why you should let him 
go.  Follow him!  He left barely an hour ago.  Follow him, and ask him 
once more, and leave only when he has given you a full answer.  You 
deserve that much.  He may say yes, or he may say no, but at least you 
will understand why.”
Boromir shook his head.
“He will say no again.  I spilled out my heart before, to no avail.  It will be 
no different.”
“How can you tell?  What are you going to do, sit here and forget him for 
the rest of your days?”
“No!”
“Then do as I say.  Everyone should