Title: The Price to Pay
Author (including email): Nanjo Koji (nanjokoji@yahoo.com)
Pairing(s): BoromirXLegolas
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tensions and confused feelings come out of their brief meeting at
Rivendell. Can both of them hold back their tempers?
Disclaimer: *insert usual LOTR disclaimer*
Authors Note (if needed/desired): My second LOTR fic. Need a panadol...

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The footfalls that followed him were measured, perhaps in hope that they would
not be noticed. Too heavy for an Elf, too heavy for a hobbit, but it did not
resemble the tramping of a dwarf. A man, Legolas concluded, one that smelled of
rich earth.

He made as if he had not noticed being followed and rounded the corner to his
temporary quarters in Rivendell. His sky blue eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the
outrageous but it was not all in anger. A thin vein of anticipation and wariness
ran through his thoughts as he guessed who it might be.

There were only two Men present at the Council of Elrond. One was Aragorn, whom
he had long known by fame and otherwise. He was too learned in the way of the
elves to risk such insult unless it was a matter of life and death. What's more,
his gait was loping because of his long limbs-- the one behind sounded more used
to walking on firm ground than the precarious paths of Rangers.

This left Boromir. No one had questioned his identity when he had come riding
into the gates of Rivendell for all had noted the polished white horn that hung
at his hip, the shield he bore and his manner of dressing. There had been a
storm dancing in the dark pools of his eyes. They were as black mirrors that
reflected the chaos that could be unleashed upon those around him. The Elves at
the council had been able to sense this most keenly, so none of them had moved
against him or raised their voices to calm his brash flood of words. It was not
that they feared him or held him in awe, but they all knew in their minds that
this was yet another mortal who tread a perilous path.

It was only he who had rose up to defend Aragorn when Boromir's words had cut
the fallen monarch. The insolent wretch, he had seethed, his eyes turning from a
summer afternoon skipping abruptly to winter.

He turned now, back stiff in anger, mouth set hard against the inexplicable
anxiety he felt.

His gaze settled on the darkly blonde man leaning casually against the white
marble pillar. He remembered the intense moment at the table when their eyes had
clashed, and how he had felt the grip of Boromir's will closed itself around his
heart. It was as strong as twenty men of the same size and stature. It could
have challenged Aragorn.

Fascination.

That was the word he had for it when he finally took to his seat again. Men were
fascinating creatures, and he had two prime examples before him, of the same ilk
yet almost completely at odds. While both were steadfast in their belief and
love for Gondor, Aragorn was a controlled energy. He was like a river that ran
in underground caves, slowly wearing the rocks with purpose. Boromir had the
force of water crashing over a cliff in abandon, cracking the stones below.
Aragorn could be dangerous is aroused. Boromir could be dangerous. Period.

The Gondorian clicked his tongue once; a gesture that Legolas was sure had no
intention of insult in it. The man could just be plain crude.

As alone as they could get in the Last Homely House, and with nothing between
them save a few paces, Legolas felt the acute awkwardness of the situation. He
did not wish to worsen it by letting Boromir know that he had been aware of
being tailed. His left hand gripped the handle of his door tightly.

"Boromir," he said sharply, "You have a matter to discuss with me?"

Something stirred in the man's face though he held the eye contact steadily, but
it was far from physical. More like a hunter waiting for his prey, watching, and
not wanting to let it go.

"Oh yes. Yes, but wouldn't you invite me in first? It seems improper to conduct
business in the hallways."

Business? Legolas chewed back his misgivings as he gestured for Boromir to enter
with a sweep of his long hand.

"Have a seat, " he said, shutting the door. By this, he meant the richly
cushioned couches overlooking Elrond's most sumptuous gardens, but Boromir chose
to seat himself upon the embroidered coverlet of his bed. His fingers touched
the velvet drapes on it, as if admiring the designs that had been worked into
them.

Legolas didn't comment on this, even though the gesture was a slap in the face
of common courtesy and deserved the reproof. He forced his teeth to unclench
long enough to ask, "A drink for the parched tongue? You must have talked
yourself dry today."

"That would be most excellent."

Had he ignored the catty remark on purpose?

Swiftly, Legolas prepared the crystal goblets. For a while, there was nothing
but the clink of the glasses and the scent of the wine as he decanted it in a
clear red stream. He meditated on the scent of crushed roses and violets to ease
his mind off the thickly muscled man who sat on his bed in such an obscene
manner.

Despite the breach in propriety, he offered the crystal to Boromir with both
hands as he had been taught. The latter made as if to take the cup, but grasped
the ivory fingers that held it instead. Legolas froze, allowing for the precious
vessel to shatter on the ground.

"Why do you oppose me?" His hands clasped the elf's as if he sought to crush
them. Legolas barely flinched in response, his features frosty.

"You offend me, " he declared, the usually gentle voice suffused with ill
concealed wrath.

A laugh issued from Boromir, throaty and tinged with bitterness, "Look at you.
An rough country prince speaking high words to me while serving me wine. Petty
decoration. All royalty is the same."

"You're one to speak. Being discourteous to Aragorn and daring to come into my
room only to treat me such contempt. Know your place, steward of Gondor!"

Legolas realized the folly of his words when he felt the dizzying rush of wind
as Boromir yanked him forward roughly. He lost his balance and fell, cutting
himself on the shards of the broken cup. His thin breeches could not prevent the
lacerations he sustained.

"*My liege*, " he drawled into his pointed ear, "Please accept my apologies for
my rudeness."

How mocking, how caustic. Legolas was arrested by indignation, sheer shock from
Boromir's boldness and the sudden sensation of his blood throbbing wildly. His
face had lost some of its usual composure, being flushed a light pink, but he
made no move to break away.

"I've heard of many stories of Elves. People hold them in high esteem because
they were the First Children but let me tell you one thing. All are equal to me
unless they are judged by the merit of their actions. Even the Hal fling may
rise higher than you, my prince."

Boromir unbuckled the high collar of his leather jerkin and drew from within a
medallion thickly encrusted in jewels. He blew softly on this and continued, "I
do not hold the Elves of Mirkwood in high esteem. Your king lusts for treasures
such as this to the point of distraction. Another example of weak monarchy,
desperate for material things. I suppose you are the same, as his blood runs in
you. What would you do for this little bauble?"

Legolas flinched, feeling the cool, smooth edge of the medallion graze curve of
his cheek and felt he could hold back his anger no more. The evil stories were
obviously spread from the wagging tongues of boatmen from old Esagaroth.

"True, my father has a terrible desire for glittering wealth, but is that not
true of Men as well? At least Elves are not foolish enough to challenge power
that is greater than theirs."

The trinket flew to a corner of the room in a swift arc, where it rotated to a
halt beneath a chest of drawers.

It was like opening a floodgate for the man. With a growl, he lunged forward and
twisted the elf onto the bed. The Elf choked on his breath, but he had no
opportunity to refill his lungs Boromir's weight pinioning him firmly in the bed
covers.

"And pray tell me what is it that you are doing now?"

Boromir leaned in, pressing a knee between his legs and inciting a half audible
moan from him. The man had a point. What had made him lose his head? What had
allowed him to be caught in such a demeaning position? He had underestimated the
man's speed and strength, of course, and that was the most humiliating part.

Wrenching his hands away, he tried to rear up, only to realize that this served
to rub his crotch against Boromir. The contact was maddening, drove stakes of
wild ideas into his head even while he was thinking of escape. In the end, he
simply slumped against the pillows.

"Let me tell you, my prince that you are immortal, but far from untouchable. You
may heal easily should I defile your pretty face, but there are some atrocities
that even Elf magic will not heal."

So saying, he reached down and unsheathed a small, wicked dagger from his belt,
"I wonder how much torture and mutilation it would take to turn you into an Orc.
That's how you do it, isn't it?"

He raised the blade, preparing to strike. Legolas shut his eyes quickly, waiting
for the blow to fall, but it never came. He only heard the snick as the front of
his tunic was sliced open. The tip of the dagger drew a ragged, red line halfway
down his chest. He felt the flat of the blade slide under the cuffs of his
sleeves and the cord that held his breeches in place. When he re-opened his
eyes, Boromir had flung the dagger away and was ripping away the rest of his
clothes.

Hands, moving roughly down his body, and he did nothing to stop it. Why? He
cried out as one of them grasped him below, a low sound that he stifled towards
the end. Boromir was making no effort to be gentle. Swift strokes brought him to
full arousal, causing the pupils of his eyes to dilate with an aching desire.

"You are so pretentious. Did you know that I have been watching you?"

A shake of the head. His throat felt like cotton wool.

"Liar," Boromir said, quite calmly, " You tempt me without saying a word. You
tempt me with your actions."

The buckles of his leather jerkin clicked free, but Boromir divested himself of
nothing else. It felt alien to Legolas, that he should be stripped down to
almost nothing, yet have his captor fully clothed. He felt the impromptu cruelty
of the act more acutely than before.

These thoughts fled when a grip that would have surely bruised human flesh
dragged him upwards onto the hard planes of the man's thighs and he felt
finally, the burning nakedness of Boromir's passion. Whether it was passion out
of desire for him or passion from wounded pride, the Elf could not be sure.

Whatever it was, he sensed the sudden rush and the impalement of it, the
keenness of the pain and the sharpness of high pleasure laced in between. It
touched a part of him that made his insides sing a crazed, wanton melody. It
happened over and over again until sunbursts of bright, impossible colours
appeared spasmodically under his eyelids. Until he could not separate what was
agony and sweetness for surely they were the same thing?

His damp face turned to the side, as if seeking to bury himself in the floral
fragrance of the pillow or to conquer the tight trill that was fighting its way
out of his throat. It finally evolved into a hiss as he felt the crest of carnal
pleasure. All the shades of shocking red and black in his head melded into one
blazing fireball as the release of his desire spattered onto his stomach like so
many pearls.

He was floating then. Even the ragged breaths he drew sounded faraway from him.
The shudder he felt as Boromir reached the same pinnacle as he was felt as if
his entire body had numbed. Slits of pale blue peered out at the man when he
pulled away, watched as he tipped his chin up, his fingers smearing the excess
of fluids on his cheek.

"I knew you for what you were when I saw you. You could have pushed me away at
any time, but you chose not to."

He re-buckled his clothes quickly, a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment
whirling in his face, then he got up and went towards the drawers. These he
shoved aside and after knelt down to retrieve the almost forgotten medallion.
The pattern of arching wings upon it-- the symbol of Gondor-- sparkled softly in
the dying light of the afternoon.

Legolas found his voice, "I paid the price. I stepped up to you when I did not
know your strength."

"Wrong."

Boromir returned to the bedside and regarded the sprawled figure with an
expression bordering on emptiness. It was possible he did not even see the
slender trails of blood that streaked his chest and legs. "I pay you the price.
I despise you."

He dropped the trinket on the sheets and left, the door shutting behind with a
moderate click.

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End
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