Title:  Strength: Yielding
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail:  gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing:  Legolas/Boromir
Rating:  NC-17
Disclaimer:  Absolutely not my characters.  
Warnings:  References to very unpleasant things, which happened in the previous story.
Feedback:  would be lovely! 
Summary:  After the battle of the Pelennor, Boromir and Legolas confront the past and 
the future.  Sequel to "Strength." 

######

The softest thing in the universe
overcomes the hardest thing in the universe.
			--Lao Tzu

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

The Man was coming for him.

Implacable in light and shadow, the Steward of Gondor advanced on the Prince of 
Mirkwood, muddy boot heels nearly silent on the runner carpet of the marble floor.

Legolas had made his way to Boromir's private chambers by crisp questions to servants 
who had never before seen an Elf.  Nerves already frayed by the siege of the city, they 
had stared wide-eyed at him and mutely pointed the way, as though afraid to turn their 
backs to him.

All casual grace and elegance leaning against Boromir's door, the Elf smelled the rough 
mix of the Man's sweat, dust from the field, and a blending of the blood of Man and Orc.  
Boromir's chain mail gleamed dully in the lantern lights along the passageway, the dusky 
glow sliding over aquiline features, honey blonde hair splattered with gore; the contained 
grace of a soldier evident in long, fluid strides, the taught, animal sway of shoulders. 
With Denethor dead and Aragorn yet uncrowned, this man was Gondor, walking.  
Legolas felt a dark thrill of possession slice upward from his belly and down again.

Slung from one hand Boromir carried a bundle wrapped in what might once have been a 
cloak.  Legolas eyed the muck-encrusted package as he approached.  The Man reeked of 
grim satisfaction and violence.

His voice rumbled like stones grinding together, worn raw from the constant roar of 
command above the chaos of broad slaughter which had been the Pelennor this day.  "I 
have brought you a fair flower from the battlefield."

Gaze locked to the Elf's, Boromir drew forth by a crest of coarse black hair the severed 
and bloody head of a great Orc.  Gold rings gleaming through its snub nose and its ears 
proclaimed its rank.  Otherwise it bore a half-dozen old battle scars, the trimmed scalp of 
a murdered Elf dangling from one ear, and over all now a permanent expression of ill-
natured surprise.

Legolas bared his teeth in morbid fascination at the corpse and breathed, "This is the 
one?"

"The worst of the lot."

"You plucked this yourself."  The Elf's midnight sapphire gaze held the Man's.

Boromir's jade eyes gleamed with the lustre of a new blade, fresh from the forge. "That I 
did."

"Foul it was, when it lived," Legolas declared evenly, "but it is fair enough, now."

Boromir cast the severed head onto the floor of the passageway, where it rolled 
awkwardly and slithered to a stop against the carpet edge, leaving a trail of black ichor 
across the smooth stone.   He tossed the tattered cloak after it, reached behind Legolas for 
the latch to his chambers, and pushed the Elf unresisting through the door into a dim 
sitting room, lit only by the mild glow reflecting in from the fireplace in Boromir's 
bedroom. 

Boromir had just time to secure the door before the Elf pressed him up against it, 
gripping and shoving his shoulders back, kissing him, all appetite and thrusting tongue.  
Boromir scrabbled bloody hands at Legolas's back, fumbling to disarm him as rapidly as 
possible.  "Bath, food, you?" Boromir suggested breathlessly, as Legolas shrugged out of 
his weapons and let them clatter to the floor.

The Elf ripped at the lacings of his own tunic, tearing it over his head.  "You.  Me.  
Now!"

"Legolas, I'm filthy--"

"Filth and all," the archer demanded fiercely, kissing him again and ushering him rapidly 
through the sitting room and toward the bedroom, hands shredding at Boromir's clothing, 
rummaging for the man underneath.  The bedroom glowed firelit, a room of russet and 
sable shadows, shifting.

Boromir grunted as Legolas's questing fingers grasped at him beneath the lacings of his 
trousers.  He grappled with his belt buckle, swore briefly, and dropped his sword loudly 
onto the floor.  "Legolas, you're not helping!"

The elf laughed, and as Boromir undulated half out of his tunic, Legolas hurriedly 
assisted him.  He took the man by his wrists and pulled him past the fire, past the foot of 
his bed, toward the open window.  He helped Boromir skin free of his boots, then his 
trousers.  He licked once, twice eagerly at the man's nakedness, making him exhale 
sharply and curse. 

"Oil, now, Boromir!"  Legolas knelt naked on the cushioned bench that spanned the 
double window set deep into the thick wall.

Legolas stared out at the night through the open half of the window, feeling the breeze on 
his bare skin, not enough to cool the desire racing through him.  He trembled with 
anticipation, gazing distractedly down upon the city.  He could hear Boromir searching 
hurriedly in the room behind him.  Legolas turned as he approached, took him by the 
back of the neck and kissed him roughly; licked over his teeth, reached down to stroke 
between his thighs, to fondle him there among the dark gold curls.  He savored the man's 
low moan, tugged at him imperiously, and turned away again, his demand unspoken.

Boromir leaned over him, bit at the back of his neck, hips rubbing against him, 
promising.  Legolas shut his eyes, breathed in the night; the smell of siege engines 
burning and the lingering fine powder of fresh rubble. 

"Just like this," Legolas urged.  "Just like this, now."  He spread his legs, pushed back 
against Boromir, impatient and uncompromising.

Boromir lavished him quickly and Legolas arched into the touch, bracing his forearms on 
either side of the open window.  Boromir caressed the insides of Legolas's thighs, urging 
his knees further apart.  Legolas felt him shifting their bodies, finding balance for the two 
of them, and when Boromir took Legolas's narrow hips in his hands Legolas let his head 
fall forward, his hair cascading about his face. 

"Boromir, please..."  Legolas's eyes closed and he winced as Boromir answered. The 
night breeze tugged at Legolas's hair and whisked strands of it out through the window, 
glistening in the starlight.  Minas Tirith stretched out darkly below him.

Legolas glanced down the length of his own torso, half-hypnotized by the fire-edged 
silhouettes of Boromir's thighs and his own nakedness, the rhythmic movements of their 
bodies together as Boromir rocked steadily into him.  Legolas grunted sharply in 
pleasure, and clenched his teeth.  He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the 
increasing rhythm, the pressure of Boromir's hands, and the slickening heat of the warrior 
behind him.

Boromir's shield arm snaked tightly about Legolas's slender waist, the other braced 
against the lean flex of his thigh.  The muscled heat of the man pressed against his back, 
the strength of Boromir's arm encircling, the gliding curve of his pelvis fulfilling 
promises made.  From far below Legolas heard the sound of a woman weeping.  He heard 
a night-thrush singing, and the heavy, even sound of Boromir's living breath against the 
back of his neck; the quick brush of skin against skin; his own wordless sounds of 
rapture, rapidly escalating toward desperation.  He made a pleading noise.

Callused fingers reached and grasped him, sure and deft, and Legolas jolted, sharp, 
guttural cries drifting out into the dark.  Boromir groaned as his spine flexed in base 
response, and he shuddered a long, deep rumble against the nape of Legolas's neck.

They crouched there together silently for a little time, settling their breath, until Boromir 
folded them both into the cushioned seat and they sat looking out together, the archer's 
hands interlaced with the swordsman's as Boromir's arms wrapped about him from 
behind.

"We've made a bit of a mess," Legolas observed wryly, eyeing a dampened pillow.

Boromir chuckled behind him.  "We?  I believe that is you."

The bowman ran his hands along Boromir's forearms, amusement in his voice.  "For a 
moment I feared I might tumble from the window."  

Boromir twined a lock of pale hair about his fingers. "Imagine the gossip!"  

Legolas smiled and shifted himself about, so that he might look through the open window 
more easily. He could hear the clamor of smiths working.  If Frodo and Sam should 
succeed, the ringing of forges within the walls of the city and without would continue for 
years before Minas Tirith regained her full beauty.  But regain it Legolas had no doubt 
she would… assuming Aragorn survived the coming siege of the Shadow… with 
Boromir, and Gandalf... Gimli, Merry, and Pippin.  Legolas felt an uneasiness come upon 
him, a sort of dread which he could not place, aside from any common concern before a 
battle, and then he realized that Boromir was trembling.  He frowned, rearranged himself 
in the man's arms to look at him.  "Boromir?"

Boromir's green eyes shone with unshed tears, his face turned away in distress. "Legolas, 
my father is dead." 

Legolas wrapped his arms about his friend, letting his head rest on Boromir's shoulder.  
He had no other balm for this wound.

Boromir swallowed, his voice thinned, and terribly young.  "Set himself on fire, I am 
told, and tried to take Faramir with him."  He had begun to shake in earnest, and Legolas 
held him more tightly. 

"My father ruled our people well through difficult times.  Then he died like a madman.  
That wasn't right Legolas!  He deserved better!"  Boromir's voice caught.  The tears 
rolled, unheeded, inevitable.  "In the last years he had changed, became eccentric in some 
ways, prone to dark moods, harsher with my brother.  But we were a family once, 
Legolas.  Even after our mother died we three were close, when Faramir was little.  Then 
Father stopped seeing Faramir for what he was, and only for what he was not, and there 
was nothing I could say that made any difference.  It is only now that I understand what 
was happening to him."

Legolas pressed his face into the side of Boromir's neck.  "I wish I had known," Boromir 
mourned.  "I wish I could have helped him.  I loved my father.  Though I could not 
comprehend him, I loved him."  He sobbed openly once, one hand over his face, then 
took a deep breath and determinedly collected himself.  He looked out over his damaged 
city, his face resolute.  He rubbed the tear tracks from his cheeks with the heel of his 
hand.  "I am selfish, I suppose."

Legolas stroked the side of Boromir's face, ran his thumb over the hot, wet apple of his 
cheek.  "How can that be?"

"I am not the only orphan in Minas Tirith tonight.  I should not pity myself.  Faramir 
lives, thanks to Aragorn.  Pip has found Merry, and he lies healing now as well.  I should 
be grateful for those I love who yet live, Legolas.  Others in this war have lost more than 
I."

The truth struck Legolas like a blow from behind.  *Mortal.*  Mortal every one of them, 
his friends, except for Gandalf.  His body stiffened, clenching so suddenly that he could 
not hide it.

"Legolas?"

The elf stammered, panic clawing at him.  "Nothing.  It is nothing, merely a chill from 
the window."  *Boromir will likely be the first loss.* He nearly screamed, but bit at his 
lip savagely.

"Legolas," the man insisted softly.  He pulled away to peer into the elf's face.

"I do not think I can bear to be left behind, Boromir!"  His voice was abject, and he hated 
himself for it.

Boromir frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled Legolas to him and held him 
close. He stroked the elf's hair, tangled his fingers gently. "I am sorry.  I have no power to 
change what has happened between us."

"No, I would not change it!  I..."  Anticipated loneliness threatened to overwhelm him 
again, and he burrowed into the man.  "I have fought in skirmishes many times, Boromir, 
long before you were born.  I have accepted losses in war, but suddenly, even in peace a 
bleak horizon of grief lies ahead of me.  How will I stand against that?"

"I can not imagine a life so long as yours," Boromir admitted,  "but you have already 
heard the call of the sea, there at Pelargir.  Your time in Middle Earth is not so long, I 
believe, before you will sail away to the Undying Lands.  Certainly your family and 
many Elf friends will be there?  Your father the King, and Lady Galadriel, and even Lord 
Elrond and his sons will go there some day."  He stroked the elf's bare shoulders, cool 
and lean-muscled in the ruddy gleam of the fire.

Legolas's voice was muffled against Boromir's neck.  "It is not the same.  Though I 
treasure them, I do not love them in the way that I love you.  Not in the way that I love 
Gimli, or Aragorn. All these months we have lived for the sake of one another, Boromir - 
fought, fled, hungered.  Bound one another's wounds, watched over each other in the 
night.  There is no one else I love like that!"

Boromir nodded silently, gliding his hands along Legolas's back.  Boromir was a soldier, 
and as such Legolas knew that he understood, but the Man could not help him.  Mending 
eternity was not within the Captain General's power.

*You are a Prince of Mirkwood!  You are of the First Born and you would burden him - 
Boromir, of all people - with this?*   Legolas took a breath to apologize, to reassure 
Boromir that it was no great matter, and not to fret over it, but the man beat him to the 
breath.

"Legolas, get dressed."

The Elf blinked.  "What?"

Boromir pushed the elf up from their comfortable tangle, at the same time kissing him on 
the nose. "Put on some clothes.  I want to show you something."

Legolas's arms flailed as he searched for his crumpled tunic.


The small garden lay tucked away against the great mountain, near the highest level of 
Ecthelion's tower, star-silvered and untouched by the dregs of battle.  Legolas stood in 
the soft light and breathed slowly and deeply of night jasmine and orange blossoms, 
finding a peculiar sense of hope in the scented quiet, in a place green and tended and 
loved.

"This was my mother's private place," Boromir explained.  He spread the quilt from his 
bed over the moss.  "My father does not - did not - come here, but the gardener keeps it, 
and Faramir tends it when he can.  I fear I have no talent for such things."

"Yet you find comfort here," the elf observed.  He sat cross-legged next to the Man.  

"On sunny days I might lie on the moss and listen to the bees at the orange blossoms and 
the roses.  The hummingbirds like the hollyhocks and the coral bells, and there are 
foxgloves and honeysuckle.  No one bothers me here.  Sometimes Faramir and I come 
here together, and we just lie here and pretend... well..."

As he fell silent Legolas glanced at him sideways, wondering if the brothers lay here 
under a warm sun pretending their mother yet lived; that they might hear Finduilas at the 
latch of the garden door, see her walk through and open her arms to her boys.

Boromir pointed into the night sky, where the stars shone down in patches through the 
persistent smoke.  "See, you can just find the Archer, there in the north.  Those three stars 
are his bow, and those two are his elbow as he draws.  If you look west..."  He scratched 
at his chin.  "Well, there is a bit of smoke in the way, but the Hunter is there, this time of 
year.  Oh, there are his boots!"

Legolas squinted along Boromir's arm and found the two stars; one pale, one bright.

"Legolas, you shall not forget us, after the fellowship have passed on our way.  We will 
always be with you in your heart."

*But my arms will be empty.*  "It is memory I fear most, Boromir." 

Boromir regarded him curiously.  "Are all your memories so terrible?"

*If only they were. Then I could willingly let them go.*  Legolas shook his head, staring 
up at the sky, at the Archer and his friend the Hunter.  "One day Mirkwood will be empty 
of my kind.  Lorien and Imladris as well."  He rose fluidly to his feet, pacing the small 
garden under the smoke and the starlight, wishing vainly that he had never spoken this 
fear to Boromir, but unable now to let it lie.

Boromir rose as well, but did not follow, only watched and listened.

Harsh grief roughened the elf's fair voice.  "Vacant architecture, nothing more.  They will 
become like Moria, nothing but darkness and echoes of lives long gone!  And I, finally 
left behind, will be a walking ruin, hollow, ringing with memories of you, of Aragorn.  
Your faces, your smiles.  The sounds of your voices, the strength of his hand, the warmth 
of you in my arms."

He stalked the garden path, rubbed uselessly at the tears that shamed him.  Boromir 
reached for him then, but he turned angry eyes toward the man and backed away, his face 
desperate and hard-edged.  "When I recall the way Gimli laughs fit to crack the very 
stones... when I remember the gladness of Merry and Pip making up foolish songs... 
when I recall the way you taste when I kiss you, and I know that I will *never* in all the 
long stretch of centuries have any of these things again, how do I face forever, Boromir?" 

The two stood staring helplessly an one another.  *I can't.  I can not do this.  Is this why 
Arwen made the choice she did?*

"You will come and find us, I think," Boromir ventured softly, "if the Undying Lands are 
not enough.  If you are lonely and you can not bear it any longer, I believe you will 
journey to us."

*To die of heartbreak.  If only it were that simple.*  Legolas trembled so that his teeth 
chattered.  He understood now what had terrified him from the first.  He could hardly 
speak it.  "I have heard that Elves and Men do not share the same heaven."

Boromir stepped forward and took his hand, lacing their fingers.  "If you can not find us, 
then we will come and find you."

Legolas felt a flame of hope rise in his breast.  It was ridiculous, but it burned there, just 
the same.  "No matter where I might be wandering?"

Boromir kissed the knuckles of the archer's hand.  "After all that we have endured 
together, how could it be otherwise?"

"You would bargain with Iluvatar?"

"I have no skill at diplomacy, you know this."  Boromir grinned, boyish and mischievous 
even now.  "I will set Pip and Merry at him!  Eternity is a very long time for those two to 
wear at a fellow.  He will let us come and look for you for the sake of his own peace!"

Legolas laughed, feeling the terror crack away from him like spring ice.  "Trust to the 
Hobbits, then.  I will remember it!"  Yet his brow furrowed with doubt.  "Boromir, is 
such a thing possible?  Could you track me, if I am lost?" 

"If you need me Legolas, I *will* find you!"  Boromir drew Legolas to him and kissed 
him tenderly.  "I am here with you now," the man reminded him meaningfully, tugging at 
Legolas's tunic.  "And we mortals are an impatient race."  

*We mortals.  A moment lost with every pulse of blood.*  Legolas wrenched his garment 
over his head.

The man cast aside tunic, trousers.  Legolas yipped as Boromir pulled him down to the 
quilt on top of him, the moss giving generously beneath them.  His eyelids fluttered shut 
at the sensation of smooth, warm skin beneath him, the evidence of their want between 
them.  Boromir thrust upward, teasing, wrapped one long leg around Legolas's hips, the 
calf pressing downward, encouraging.  Desire flushed the elf's skin, brought a low growl 
from behind his teeth.  *Wait.* Heat flooded him, and he reached unthinking for the 
backs of Boromir's shoulders, his body stretching possessively over the Man's.  *Wait.*

"Boromir, stop."

"We promised one another, in Edoras.  Do you remember?"

Legolas clutched for his wits, the heat of Boromir's body seductive.  "Yes."

"That there would be a time."

"Yes."  The very thought of it made him light-headed.

Boromir maneuvered beneath him, and Legolas made room thoughtlessly.  He found 
himself staring at the back of Boromir's neck, the man's backside pressing upward against 
him.  Legolas muttered a startled curse and rubbed himself against the offered flesh, teeth 
bared and fighting the urge to plunge into Boromir's invitation there and then.  Lust 
warred with the horror of memory.

His fists clenched.

"Boromir, not in this way!"  His voice sounded half-strangled.  The wild yearning within 
his own body raged at him.  "Please, at least let me see your face, see your eyes--"

Boromir twisted back to face him and propped himself up on his elbows.  "Look at me 
then, Legolas."  Boromir touched his own shoulder just above his collar bone.  "Do you 
remember this?"

Legolas traced the broad semi-circle of the bite; the fading bruises and healing scabs, the 
memory of bright blood and broken, cold skin fresh beneath his fingers.

"Look at me," Boromir commanded him again.  He guided one of Legolas's hands to his 
chest, a warm sweep of warrior muscle and light silk hair, his heartbeat strong beneath 
the bone.

Legolas traced his fingers lightly down his friend's chest, over his ribs, the slant of his 
waist.  He curved the palms of his hands down Boromir's legs, finally sitting on his own 
heels and taking one of Boromir's ankles in his hands to trace the faded mark there, where 
harsh rope had once bitten into the skin.  "Your wounds are nearly healed," he observed.  
*The bites.  The lash marks, the claw strikes which once covered you in a dark sheen of 
your own blood.*  Legolas realized that he could not recall, the last time he had 
numbered them, what was the sum.

"We have no oil here," he reminded the man.  He winced at the excuse in his own voice.

Boromir's lynx eyes glittered, and he snatched the startled Elf by his shoulders and pulled 
him firmly down, breath to breath.  "You understand well how brief is a mortal life.  
More the risk, given what we shall face in the next days.  I would reclaim my own power, 
my own will before then!  Go easy if you must, Legolas, but by the Valar, do it *now!*"

Legolas stared into the man's eyes, hesitated a heartbeat, then another.  *This is not love-
making.  This is exorcism.  I wish....*  He darted forward and bit Boromir gently where 
the semi-circle of bruises healed just above his collar bone.

Boromir embraced the elf, his hands splayed over Legolas's back, running the supple 
length of his spine.  He rolled his shoulders as Legolas bent to lick and suck at a sensitive 
nipple, to kiss his belly, kiss his thighs. Boromir spread his knees and stretched his arms 
wide, rumbling at the pleasure of Legolas's hands.  The man gave a little sigh of delight 
when Legolas kissed him just there, lips lightly brushing the velveteen skin of hard flesh 
rising from dark honey curls.

Boromir squirmed and turned again onto his knees, raising his hips, demanding.  Legolas 
leaned over him and reached around his body to stroke him gently, making him hum and 
purr softly.  The elf collected drops of clear liquid, glistening and thick.  He did the same 
to himself, and then he kissed the small of Boromir's back, and lightly touched him just 
below, on the dark, delicate pucker of skin.  He heard a soft, anxious panting begin as his 
slick touch circled, persuading; an echo of fear, a whisper of defiance.  Boromir hissed 
sharply when Legolas slowly joined with him, and the elf felt the man's body 
instinctively resist.  Boromir snarled at himself and pushed back, shivering, adamant, and 
Legolas reeled at the sensation, gripping at the hard arch of Boromir's thighs.  *Gods... 
oh.  But I want...*  

The long plane of Boromir's back lowered before him, starlit muscle rolling into broad 
shoulders, the vulnerability of his neck.  Boromir groaned, cursed, shoved his hips high 
and back into Legolas, any doubts remaining in the elf's mind now sundered and burned 
to ash, though a last flicker of light there wished the man would show himself some little 
quarter.

The archer closed his eyes, rolled his pelvis, just... yes… 

*"Legolas!"*  Boromir's corded arms stretched before him, supplicant, clutching at the 
moss.

Legolas pulled at Boromir's waist, wanting to touch him everywhere; his backside, the 
tender insides of his thighs, his sweating lower back.  He bent and kissed him between his 
shoulders, inhaling the tang of leather, steel, old sweat and new.  Legolas wrapped one 
arm about the man's waist and leaned against him as he thrust slowly; kissed the base of 
his neck; lay his cheek against the heated skin, hearing Boromir's breath, ragged, heavy, 
laced with moans and the memory of violation. *Made you scream and bleed for their 
amusement.  Bruised you, tore you, fouled you with their touch and their tainted seed.  
Left you to die alone in the dark.*

Grimacing at the memory, Legolas braced his forehead against Boromir's shoulder blade, 
listened to the pain and the rage in the man tearing loose, blood-raw and razor-edged, and 
Legolas recognized the erratic shift of muscle in Boromir's back, the tremors along his 
sides; the torque of his shoulders as Boromir fought the instinct to either turn and kill the 
creature who now penetrated him, or wrestle himself free and escape.  Visions of blood 
and vengeful carnage flickered and roared like bonfires in the elf's mind.  *Defiled with 
mockery and agony what should be pleasure, they did.  Dared insult this beauty, bind this 
fire!  I would skin each one of them shrieking, take my time, make it last!  Make them 
beg me to end it, let them know in whose name I shred their miserable--gods, I'd make it 
slow!  See how well they laugh at that!*

Boromir thrashed beneath him, sobbing and desperate in frightened urgency, and 
Legolas, thrusting madly and surfacing suddenly from dreams of fire and darkness, 
reached for him, slick and strung taught: curled his bowman's fingers, drew back once, 
twice and Boromir screamed his release, his body arcing downward and up, while 
Legolas cried out into the clenching muscle of Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir collapsed onto the quilt and Legolas fell atop him, his face buried in the warm, 
damp blond hair just behind his ear.  "Boromir."

The man shivered beneath him, made a small noise, little more than a whimper, his 
fingers spread, opening and closing slowly.  Legolas slid off of him, resting his hand on 
his shoulder, touching him gently, as though caressing an open wound. 

Eyes squeezed shut, Boromir turned onto his side, curling silently in on himself.

*We court disaster each time we pleasure one another, but this...*  "Boromir, please!"  
Legolas took one of Boromir's hands inside his own, pressed his lips to the man's temple.  
"Forgive me.  I can not imagine what you must have been feeling.  This was madness.  I 
should never have agreed!"

Boromir slowly turned onto his back.  He lay silently for a moment, then looked up at 
Legolas.  His eyes seemed infinitely weary. "You were swearing in Elvish."

Legolas blinked.  "You do not speak Sindarin."

Boromir smiled.  "Any soldier knows a curse when he hears it."

Legolas lay down on his side next to him, still clutching the man's hand.  He recalled 
little of his thoughts only moments earlier, except for the rage.  That, still aching darkly, 
remained clear. "There are times," he admitted slowly, "when I find myself meditating on 
some... unpleasant possibilities, were I ever given the opportunity."  He shook his head 
regretfully.  "Useless thoughts and dangerous, but I can not seem to help it."

Boromir brushed still trembling fingers at the long hair draped in a tangle across the elf's 
star-shadowed face.  "I have caught Aragorn and Gimli drifting into such uncertain 
waters, as well."

"All of us, then?"  Legolas sighed, "We are haunted now, nearing the chasm when we 
answer cruelty with cruelty." 

"And that, my friend, is why else I would push myself toward reclamation," the Man 
replied.  "That we may put this behind us, let it go.  It is why that Uruk rotting in our 
passageway is dead today, instead of me."

Legolas's sapphire eyes narrowed.  "I do not understand."

"He taunted me with memories of what he and the others did to me, Legolas.  Sought to 
weaken me." Boromir's eyes gleamed, molten jade in the dark, and he brushed the scarred 
knuckles of his hand over the Elf's fine cheekbone.  "But what I recalled in that moment 
was the fear in your voice when you believed me found dead in Fangorn, and the love in 
your eyes when you would not let go of me in Edoras.  With *that* strength in my right 
arm, Legolas, I killed him."


Legolas awoke well before dawn.  The fire had lowered to sullen embers, and the open 
window chilled the room.  Legolas was warm enough, comfortably entwined with 
Boromir.  Boromir breathed almost imperceptibly against the back of his head, one arm 
draped over Legolas, their fingers laced at the elf's breast.

Boromir's exhaustion was well-earned, after a day of brutal fighting and half a night of 
ardent loving.  After a quick feed of cold fare, and a proper, if cool, bath long in coming, 
Legolas had settled his friend to rest, watching over him as sleep took Boromir quickly. 

Now Legolas stared into the dim shadows of an uncertain morning.  *So much is a matter 
of will.  The will to love.  The will to fight when the odds are long.  To journey into 
unimagined dangers, and the will to follow.  To reclaim oneself from the dark, to claw 
our way back from the abyss.*  Too soon Boromir would be called to the far green 
country beyond the stars, and one day Aragorn would will himself along that same path.  
If Legolas could no longer bear the years without them, if it were a matter of the strength 
of their desires, his friends would be waiting for him there on the shore, bringing him in 
to safety.  They might fetch him, if he strayed.  *We shall all be parted once, but we have 
endured too much together not to regain one another at the last.  We are bound to one 
another by our spirits now... by the love between us.*  Legolas inched as tightly as he 
might against Boromir, enjoying the long, slow rise and fall of the man's chest, the warm, 
soft breath on the back of his neck.  Boromir's long fingers unconsciously tightened about 
Legolas's as the elf drifted into sleep.  *So be it.* 

--end--