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Triskell
Author of 90 Stories |
For Rhysenn's "The Last Alliance of Elves and Men" challenge: February 2003
AN: the physical descriptions are, where available from the books, otherwise they're a curious mixture of movie-verse and my own ideas; I assume Boromir arrives a few days before the Council of Elrond, not on the day of the meeting as in the book; I also assume that Legolas already knows Aragorn and Glorfindel.
This story isn't betaed, all faults are mine. I put the Elvish translations together with the help of the Sindarin dictionary and the Fellowship of the Word-Smiths (); I hope I haven't messed up too badly, if you see any errors (I bet you will ;D) and/or have any suggestions, please do contact me!
The title brings to mind 'green sleeves', in other words, Legolas' tunic; I also think that the ambience of the song, its tune and lyrics compliment the atmosphere and theme of the story.
© Triskell, January/February, 2003
The sun was setting in Rivendell, casting crimson shadows across the valley. The picture was ethereal, yet dark and brooding, as if the colours were dulled by some impending evil. Leaning against one of the many intricately chiselled balustrades of the elven abode, Boromir, son of Denethor, frowned at the natural spectacle before him. He had arrived only a few hours before, on a mission of great importance, but the Lord of Rivendell had not seemed it fit to see him. It was disconcerting; he would rather have been on his way back already, to where he was needed, than indulge in the comforts of a hot bath and good food. He was a warrior and as such should not take pleasure in things as these.
He thought of his brother, far away in Gondor, battling their foes. He still vividly remembered the attack on the last bridge in Osgiliath they had been holding, the skirmish, cries of fear and death; plunging into the cold water, swimming, gasping for breath, reaching the shore, looking about him. Only three others had made it and for one single, agonizing moment he had not known if his brother was among them. When Faramir turned to fix his grave eyes on him, he was relieved beyond measure, for all that he knew that he should not rejoice, having lost so many men. Yet this was easier by far to tell his father than to own to having lost his kin, the preferred younger son. His own life was worth less in the eyes of the Steward of Gondor, so he had taken the journey to Rivendell upon himself to appease the stern man.
"Well met, Boromir, son of Denethor."
He turned around quickly at the sound of the clear voice, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword; he never failed to carry his weapon, for he no longer felt safe in any place without it. It seemed strange what war and battles would do to a man; even now, peace was a thing of a glamorous past he could not remember having ever lived in.
"Well met, indeed, stranger, if you come to tell me that your Lord will finally receive me. I have tarried too long already, I need to be on my way as soon as I can."
"Indeed, Lord Elrond has sent me. He would bid you be patient and, in a few days' time, take part in a meeting that has been called. There, all your questions shall be answered."
"A meeting? I have come here in haste to seek counsel and yet you would have me wait? So much depends on my errand here, so much more than you may understand!"
The elf smiled, inclining his head. He seemed to glow in the dim light, almost a ghostly silhouette, brilliant and tall, banishing the lengthening shadows.
"Be comforted, son of Denethor, you might find the wait far shorter than you fear."
"I will not be coddled, elf. Who are you that you think you may talk to me thus?"
"I am called Glorfindel and I stand before you as a Lord among my people. I would not offend you, son of Denethor, yet I can offer you no other news but this and ask for your patience."
Boromir was not to be mollified by the persuasive elven voice, all he would do in deference to the other's social standing was not to spare another glance for the tall elf; instead he shrugged non-committally and turned away, glaring at the setting sun for want of a better outlet for the anger he felt. The lives of his people depended on this mission, on him, and for a moment he wondered if Faramir would not have fared better than him.
"You have chosen a dreary look-out; the sunset seems to darken the vale from here, cloaking it in dull shadows. Let me show you another view of Rivendell, one that will please your eyes better and soothe your agitation."
Before the man had the chance to throw back a biting comment, Glorfindel had gripped his wrist tightly, twisting him around so he was facing the elf, staring into ice-blue eyes, twinkling with laughter. Their bodies were locked tightly together and Boromir fought the urge to flinch at the closeness. Strands of dusty gold tickled against his cheek as a breeze washed over them, bringing the scent of flowers and leaves with it.
"Do you not find this view more pleasant than the darkness, son of Denethor?" There was a challenge in the clear voice, the tone richer and deeper than it had been before.
"Would you seduce me, elf?" he bit back sharply, unmoving, meeting the assessing gaze, unsure of how to interpret the turn the conversation had taken.
"If you will let me, man."
The answer somewhat surprised him, he had meant to shock the other, rather than invite him.
"Mayhap in my arms you will find your wait less drawn-out."
"I doubt your attentions can make me forget the offence done to me."
Glorfindel smiled, his eyes sparkling; he knew he had won. Leaning closer, he touched his lips to the man's, tenderly caressing his mouth, taking his time. Boromir stood still, unmoving, unresponsive. He had expected aggressiveness, raw need and desire, not gentleness. He had foresworn the company of women for fear of warmth and kindness, of being touched and led to care too much for any one being; the relations of warriors were rough, painful at times, yet satisfying in their nature. He did not ask for more.
The elf sensed his reluctance, though he did not break the kiss. He was keenly aware of the man's confusion, the dim fear sharpening into an almost tangible sensation with each faster beat of his heart. Insecure, unsure of his own worth, the son of Denethor was not used to being loved. Glorfindel had watched him from afar ever since he had arrived and though he did not possess the gift of foresight, he trusted his instinct which told him that Boromir was a man who could easily be swayed and would stray into darkness if the old wounds that pained him were not dressed. He needed to be healed, and though it was not much, sometimes a warm, willing body was a balm for the soul.
The elf pulled away for a moment, grasping Boromir's hand firmly in his own, "Come with me, son of Gondor; I would continue this in a less open space."
Silently, the two of them followed a winding staircase down into the vale, where the gardens of Rivendell lay in the dusk, no longer forbidding and threatening, but enticing with the offer of shelter and privacy. Glorfindel wound his way along the lesser frequented paths, the man close behind him, their bodies brushing against each other tantalizingly and teasingly now and then.
They stopped at last in a thicket where interwoven branches formed the canopy of a natural, secluded shelter. The elf did not let go of Boromir's hand as he sank to the mossy ground, his fair hair glowing even in the darkness that surrounded them, spread across the foliage he rested upon.
"Will you not touch me, son of Gondor?"
"Coyness does not suit you."
"Why, Boromir!" Light elven laughter rang out.
The shadows had masked them, yet there were still sparkles of light that caught in the ice-blue eyes, as slender hands tangled in the man's dark hair, pulling him into a slow, yet demanding kiss. Almost of the same height, their bodies fit together as they lay upon the ground, writhing against each other, their lips touching softly as they shrugged out of their clothes; drawn-out touches enflamed them, scattered kisses lingering on their exposed skin, the sounds of the night mixed with strangled whispers in the elvish tongue, broken by hoarse gasps as Boromir sheathed himself in Glorfindel's body, haltingly rocking them to completion.
It seemed almost a strange dream to find solace in the gentleness of an act he only remembered with detachment, a way of easing his body's want. Perhaps it was another weakness of his, one of the many his father saw in him, one of those that made him so unworthy of love, made Faramir so much more special. Strong hands stroked through his hair as he lay against the elf's heaving chest, not daring to return the tender touches, afraid he had already given too much of himself, allowed too much of his restraint to dissolve in Glorfindel's easy seduction. His eyes closed wearily and his breathing quieted, until he at last succumbed to his need for rest.
Pale rays of moonlight filtered through the thicket, illuminating the sharp features of the man's face which, even in sleep, did not retain a lingering sense of the innocence he should by rights have possessed. An innocence inherent in all mortal beings, born of the ignorance of the pain eternity would heap upon a soul. A sad smile played around the corners of the elf's mouth while he gently stroked the tense, muscled back; there was no true repose for the son of Denethor and it pained Glorfindel to see it. He sighed softly, praying that his gentle passion had sparked some hope in his companion, if only for a few precious moments.
Losto, abonnen, sedho. Sleep, man, be still.
He sincerely wished for it to be so easy.
The elf was aware of Boromir's waking, of the sudden panic in his expression, the frantic way he gathered his clothes, and the longing look he cast at his companion, the light, almost reverent touch of a calloused hand to the golden hair that still fanned across the dark forest floor, though moss and leaves now clung to it.
Glorfindel did not stop the man from running, though he wished it had been otherwise; he had offered only one night of pleasure, yet he had hoped it would be more than a physical joining, feeling so acutely how much Boromir needed to be loved. Perhaps he had shown him the wrong way that he was desired – yet how could he have taken time when he had so few days at his disposal? The shadows of the future were lengthening, shrouding Rivendell and clouding the easy laughter that had always held sway over the place.
He sighed as he dressed himself, quickly and gracefully and left the shelter of the gardens to pass by the stables on his way back to the main building. Soft whinnies reached his ear, along with a well-known, steady voice that soothed the agitated beast. He smiled.
"Mae govannen, mellon nîn!" Well met, my friend.
A delighted shout greeted him in return, and two handsome faces lit up, as the elves clasped each other's shoulder in greeting. They had not met for a long time, but their memories of each other were tender. Their friendship was strong and they knew each other well, conversing easily in intimate, hushed voices until the sound of footsteps drew near and they turned towards the newcomer.
"Well met, Boromir, son of Denethor! Meet my friend Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood!" Glorfindel did not betray any of the anxiety he felt as he saw the man's brow furrow, nor did he wish to acknowledge the shift in Legolas' stance – from playful companion to alert warrior in a matter of seconds – haughtiness creeping on his face as he nodded his head politely. Boromir barely returned the greeting before striding off, obviously displeased with having met them. Glorfindel wondered if he was merely jealous, or if it had been pain that flashed in the man's expressive grey eyes. He looked after him for a moment, sighing.
"A conquest of thine, my friend?"
"Aye, a conquest for a night, Legolas; though I wish I could have soothed some of his pain and self-depreciation instead of merely sharing physical gratification. For I fear he will come to ill upon his road if he continues to chastise himself as he does. He will not allow himself the pleasures of love and trust; it saddens me deeply."
"Thou always seekst to heal those who would not be healed, my friend."
"I would try at least. He is a good man, strong of principle; yet there is no faith in his heart, no belief in his own ability to give joy. I fear his past has scarred him."
"His path may bring redemption; he may find his healing as he travels on through life."
"I hope that thou art right, my friend."
Legolas smiled, laying his hand upon Glorfindel's arm and drawing him towards the house; he felt his friend's troubles keenly and wished to console him as best he could.
Legolas had never loved a mortal. It was as simple as that – and as complicated. He could understand the need to let oneself fall, to be close to someone, to share thoughts, feelings, touches – to simply be and immerse oneself in the moment. Lust was an intimate companion for him and yet he had never been with any mortal being, any lover he could loose to the flow of time.
Glorfindel was his opposite; he loved wholeheartedly, a Lord of elves, yet unafraid to give himself entirely to whoever caught his fancy. He knew that, at least once in his life, his young friend would find his heart torn over a creature that died before him. It was inevitable – their kind was leaving Middle-Earth, and those who stayed would come closer to the races that were left; and well he understood that love knows no boundaries, no gender and no time.
Following his companions to the Hall of Fire after the evening's sumptuous feast, he did not wonder at finding Boromir standing in the shadows, away from the red-golden glow of the big fires, watching and waiting. Mortals would inevitably find the ways of the first-born fascinating; the joy in beauty, song and verse was easily shared, for it transcended all the chasms that shorter life spans or prejudiced upbringing could break open. He smiled politely at the son of Gloín, Gimli it was he believed, who was doing his best not to be seen. Like the son of Denethor he stood apart, unwilling to be mesmerized by the spells clear elven voices wove.
He seated himself beside Elrond, bowing his head to Arwen and the silent man standing behind her chair – the son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir – then focused on the middle of the room. Legolas had stood up, persuaded by his hosts and kin to raise his voice and share a song. He chose the tune well, for the emotion he felt was caught within his eyes, the glow in them outstripping even the golden sparkles in his hair, the shadows flitting swiftly across the dark green of his tunic, fading into brown as his chest rose and fell.
Glorfindel's smile grew sad when he beheld the looks of both dwarf and man, riveted, longing, centred on the solitary figure as they stood alone at the sidelines. Aye, Legolas was beautiful just then, for there was naught that could have shown the warmth his soul and heart possessed better than his singing. His voice was passionate and stirring, but he himself seldom offered his trust and even rarer was his friendship given.
Naur a heleg le aen, mellon nîn. Bain dan ú milui. You are marble and ice, my friend. Beautiful, but not loving.
Elrond called the expected Council on the following day, and Glorfindel sat in the semi-circle, quietly contemplating what he had begun to think of just the night before. He would have joined the Fellowship himself, yet well he knew in his heart there was no place for him, his fate held other things in store.
"And my bow!" Legolas stood tall, his voice strong and determined. That was what Glorfindel had been waiting for, what he had hoped to see and dreaded at the same time – the step into the world that would throw his young friend in the company of mortals, where his heart would find the strength to truly love, and to endure the separation and the loss that followed.
He dearly loved his 'Elfling'; he had shared the first awakening of sweet emotions with him, and always had he known that he was not meant to keep the young heart for his own; the pain had lessened somewhat with the years even as their friendship grew, though it saddened him that there were others who would hold him, comfort him, because he himself was not enough.
Making love to Legolas that spring night many mortal lifetimes ago, upon the soft moss of the very glade he had sought out with Boromir, his Elfling's innocent eyes had told him that their adoring gaze was meant for one destined to die long before his time. And now the fates had deemed it right to set the him on his path, showing the crossroad of elven lives and mortal friendships, so tentatively touched upon when first he met the son of Arathorn.
"Legolas!"
"Glorfindel, my friend."
"A word before you go."
"You would have me keep an eye on Boromir?" Blue eyes looked upon him, dancing, smiling.
"Aye, Legolas, I would. I told you of my worries, I do not wish for him to fall; though I had not thought of the possibility… the Ring is treacherous and dark are the nights upon your way, lonely and silent. He cannot fight the hunger in his heart alone."
"I will do what I must to see he strays not from the path we follow."
"I do not ask for more. I love you, Elfling."
"You are always in my heart, Glorfindel."
Legolas kissed him lightly on the lips. The spare light of the setting sun caught a flash of gold, and a bloody hue fell on the fair face as it smiled at him one last time. Glorfindel did not watch the Fellowship depart early the next morning; his silent musings took him to a glade deep in the heart of Rivendell's old gardens and he wept with knowing that he would never see his young friend look at him this same way again.
The elf was attractive. Boromir would admit to no more; he did not feel his heart beat faster on Legolas' approach, nor did he listen for the soft voice murmuring some more Elvish nonsense to Aragorn or Gandalf. Yet at night he often lay awake, hoping to catch a few notes of the lullabies the elf would sing; whether to soothe the hobbits or the company as a whole he did not know. It was the inflection in the unknown language he found fascinating, out of curiosity; it had nothing to do with the image he had carried with him ever since the Hall of Fire the day before the Council. Never before had a song touched him this much, had a singer captured him so completely.
Setting his chin defiantly, he strode onwards, unwilling to let the longing he felt so very strongly at night shine through in the daytime. It was not the place, nor was it the time to dally with the elf; not that he had hopes of succeeding should he offer such a thing. Unlike Glorfindel, Legolas did not seem particularly interested in men, except for Aragorn, but this was to be expected, since he had known the ranger – he grimaced at the word – for many years already.
It was easier to focus on small distractions, the hobbits being the best of all. While the ring-bearer and his attendant kept close to the wizard, Merry and Pippin had taken a liking to him, though he could not explain why. So when they came up to him, tugging at his tunic to announce their presence, he would give them a smile. Talking to them, listening to their incessant chatter – mostly about food, especially the many kinds of apples and mushrooms you could find in the Shire – warmed him, for they were like children in their openness and joy. It lifted his heart to laugh with them, their innocent trust in him precious and rare.
Legolas watched the man of Gondor, as his promise to Glorfindel was sacred to him and he would not break it. It seemed difficult to get to know Boromir however, for the man would not talk much, and when he did, he was haughty and spoke only of his land and his people, revealing little about himself. He was much like the dwarf at times, gruff and silent, though with the hobbits he was gentle and caring, almost a different man. It was one evening when they sat around the camp fire that the elf heard Boromir talking to the hobbits about his family and he listened attentively as he sharpened his knives, the smell of the dwarf's pipe weed in his nostrils.
"I have a younger brother, his name is Faramir. My mother has long been dead though, I hardly remember her."
"And your father?" Pippin had moved closer to the man, eyes wide and sparkling. He was very serious, sensing as much as the elf how hard the words came to the speaker, for all that he showed no unwillingness to share them.
"My father… my father is Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. He is a noble man, proud and just. I have been told my features are very like his, though I have never seen it."
Legolas looked at Boromir when he heard the raw emotion in the last statement, the hobbits not quite catching on it seemed, though Pippin snuggled against the man's side, shivering a little. Obviously glad for the distraction, Boromir wrapped his cloak around the little one's shoulder, moments later finding Merry cuddling against his other side. The smile that came to his face then was radiant and unguarded. It was this that made Legolas feel he understood Glorfindel, the wish to banish the demons from the man's heart and offer him the chance to enjoy such simple happiness.
"You need not keep watch, son of Denethor. I do not need sleep as much as you do."
"I need not, but I will."
"You are as prickly as a dwarf."
"Would you insult me?" Boromir stood, hand grasping the hilt of his sword. Legolas did not flinch, having known it would not be easy to get the man to do more than acknowledge his presence. He had practiced his tactic on Gimli and it had been most satisfying.
"Why would I wish to insult you?"
"I do not like games, elf."
"I do not like being scorned, man."
"I do not scorn you." The harsh tone was slightly unsteady.
"You never look upon me without a frown and you seldom give me proper greeting."
"Proper greeting? Would you have us all learn Elvish to please you? You are insolent, elf."
"No more than you, man; for you do not even show me proper respect in addressing me."
Boromir could find no answer to that, so he abruptly turned his back on Legolas, sat down on a log still gripping his sword, gritted his teeth and hoped the other would leave.
"I will share your watch then."
He could not remember having ever been so furious with any living creature; he was deeply offended by the elf's easy manner, even more so when he felt warmth against his side. He clenched his fist tightly, unwilling to succumb to anger. It was what had lost him his father's love – if he were as calm and steady as Faramir he would surely have been cared for and wanted.
"Pippin said you had taught him a delightful song."
"He seemed to like it, though it is only a little piece sung in Gondor."
"I would like to hear it."
"It is no elven tune." Boromir's anger was gone, leaving him with a strange weariness. This was happening very often of late, him wanting to lash out at his companions, taking offence at their mere presence. Perhaps he should have really gone to bed, but sleep had been eluding him of late and he did not fancy lying awake all night, tossing and turning on the ground.
"You need never make excuses for a song, each of them is beautiful in its own right."
"Even orc songs?"
Legolas' eyes seemed to burn straight into Boromir's very core when he met his gaze, "Aye, even orc songs."
The man closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His brother's face came to his mind, laughing eyes, a wide smile on his face. He hummed the first notes, then took up the lyrics in a low voice, liltingly and warmly.
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
to cast me off discourteously;
and I have loved you so long,
delighting in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleaves was my heart of gold,
and who but my Lady Greensleeves.
I've been ready at your hand,
to grant whatever you would crave;
and I have waged both life and land,
your love and good will for to have.
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleaves was my heart of gold,
and who but my Lady Greensleeves."
The sounds of the forest were all they heard as they sat together when the song had ended. Finally, Legolas spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "A lovely song indeed, son of Denethor, and a fair singer."
"I taught it to my brother when he was very young still, no taller than Pippin and Merry. He kept following me around, pestering me. … I was often too harsh with him."
It cost Boromir greatly to say it, yet the elf did not laugh at him, replying quietly instead, "But he loved you regardless of your foul moods, did he not?"
"I hope so."
Legolas knew no answer to this; they passed the rest of the watch deep in thought, though the silence between them was no longer as uncomfortable as it had been.
The elf kept close to him, constantly appearing at his side when it was time for him to take over the watch; a tacit agreement had been reached, hours passed in each other's company, no words exchanged. Sometimes, Boromir would sing 'Greensleeves', sometimes Legolas would share an elven tune; the melodies spoke of feelings not acknowledged, of the slow burn that crept into the man's blood each time they brushed against each other accidentally.
Caradhas chastised thoughts of physical closeness other than those necessary to keep alive in the snow storms, and concern for the hobbits ensured Boromir's concentration on the task at hand. Pippin whimpered softly against his chest in sleep, achingly familiar, much like his little brother when he could not sleep after a nightmare and dared not seek out their father.
Protectiveness came naturally when an innocent child turned to you for comfort, pleading to be held, crying. Faramir had not known a mother's love, yet he was much like her, catching his father's fancy at an early age, the favourite son, spoiled and offered every treasure a little boy could ask for. But it was his elder brother who comforted him, gave him security and love. Boromir had told himself he was merely doing his duty, fulfilling expectations, though he often berated himself for taking such an interest in Faramir, for caring this much for someone who only saw him as a convenience, a source of warmth perhaps. And yet his brother was the one who pleaded with him to be careful on his journey, the one who offered him the use of his horse, the one who gave him his new fur cloak because he was not satisfied with Boromir's own being warm enough.
"The mines of Moria. Madness!" Legolas' voice was hushed, yet he could hear it well enough as the elf was by his side.
"You believe there is danger?"
"I know not. Perhaps it is simply my own reluctance to walk underground."
"You do not walk alone." He should not have felt so elated at the smile he received, nor at the fleeting touch of a gloved hand on his shoulder.
A tomb. The thought echoed in his head, darkness engulfed him, deeper and more persistent than the gloom in the mines, the sheer blackness that was so tangible around him. He ached for any sort of warmth, holding on tightly to Pippin who had stumbled and stubbed his toe, sobbing so piteously he had decided to carry him for a while. The warm body reassured him as did the hobbit's steady heart beat. He was grounded and the shadows on the rough hewn stone walls were no longer as hideously twisted.
"I am cold." Large eyes, bright and trusting, turned to him and he sighed, wrapping his blanket around Pippin, glad that Merry proceeded to drape himself around his cousin as well. He felt the chill himself, the fur cloak providing just enough warmth to ward off the worst of the trembling he felt creeping into his limbs. He noticed Legolas slipping off into a tunnel to the side and decided to follow him. The elf's presence usually soothed his senses. He only wished he could ask to be held as he fell asleep. It was an assurance and safety only his mother had ever given him and he could barely remember the feeling. It was not a wish he should by rights have had, and yet it lingered on the edges of his thoughts, a treasured memory that pushed aside the darkness inside him.
"I was hoping you would join me."
"Why?"
"I am tired of playing; I would lie with you, if you will."
Legolas' offer was nothing if not blunt. Boromir's eyes widened slightly, though his voice did not waver as he answered, "I would."
It was that easy – physical urges; brief, rough touches; enough to end the ache – and that complicated. Even as their hands closed around each other, even as they traded desperate kisses something was missing. Legolas turned towards the wall, bracing himself, "Go slowly at first, it has been a while."
He felt his breeches against his knees as he steadily pushed himself into the warm body before him, hands grasping the soft, green tunic as he steadied the elf with a firm grip on his waist. Their coupling was efficient, moans and sighs muffled against cloth, secretive. It had always been enough and yet Boromir felt that something was still missing even as his orgasm sped through him.
The days stretched almost unbearably as they walked on through the mines, all but Gimli uneasy in the surroundings, and even the dwarf was unsettled by the aura of evil that hung heavy on the stale air. Each night, Boromir sought Legolas out, pressing the slim body against the damp, cool rocks as he took him. They did not speak about it, the quiet companionship they had shared on the road and in the woods suddenly changed into need and desire, smothered by something unnamed that called to them, enticingly.
"Turn around."
"Not tonight. I would see you as you fill me."
Boromir's hand closed tightly on the elf's hip, trying to push him into the wall as he usually did, but he found his wrists grabbed and their positions reversed, slender fingers digging into his flesh.
"I know well what you wish. Yet I would have you know I am not a rag doll for you to play with. If I would see you, I will. If you say nay, we will return to our companions."
The man did not answer, the set of his jaw stubborn. Legolas cursed once in Elvish, then relented a little, letting go of Boromir but not stepping away, "You would have me as you would have a woman, for you think it weak to let another man have your body this way."
Still there was no answer, but the elf continued, his voice strong and determined, "It is no weakness, neither in a man nor in a woman. It is the power to deny another your body, not a humble succumbing to someone you perceive as stronger."
Legolas' hand grasped the man's jaw firmly, forcing him to meet the cerulean eyes, colour dulled by the darkness, though they were sparkling even in the gloom, "I would have you understand, Boromir, that I choose to lie with you and would have you respect me as I respect you."
"I do." The elf did not ask for more, knowing he could not press further just then. Instead, he leaned in and kissed the man forcefully, demandingly. Strong arms wrapped around him and he smiled, rubbing one hand across the chest that trembled just slightly against him. Pulling away from the firm embrace, he put a finger against Boromir's lips, sinking to his knees. A lesson learned merited a reward after all.
Legolas' had the benefit of many years' experience, and the man felt their full effect as he was pleasured with the utmost finesse. He bit hard into his bracer to stifle his moans, his other hand tangling in the long hair, holding the elf's head still as he trust into his throat, swiftly finding release.
"Fly you fools!" Boromir gasped as the wizard fell into the red flames glowing at the edge of blackness, jumping back slightly when an arrow whizzed past him. Frodo stood at the edge of the stairs, staring, unmoving, crying. It was almost an unconscious thought that made him reach out, lifting the hobbit and cradling the small form against him, moving upwards as fast as he could with his burden.
The daylight, for all its bleakness, was harsh on his eyes; the ring-bearer stumbled away from him as soon as he set him on the ground and Boromir blinked, then looked across the land in front of them, briefly catching Legolas' eyes. He was not surprised to see a strange shimmer in them; it was not the time for tears, yet they would have to be shed soon. He strode towards Sam, leaning down and patting his shoulder, offering what little comfort he had to give to the sobbing hobbit. Merry was sitting with Pippin, he noticed, both of them badly shaken. Especially Pippin. He wished he could be with him, but Sam was alone and he did not wish to leave him just then.
He was more than a little annoyed when Aragorn voiced his own thoughts and he spoke out against his better judgement. No time to grieve. Legolas shook his head softly, coming towards Sam, patting Gimli's shoulder as he passed him.
"Boromir, get Merry and Pippin, please. Come now, Sam, stand up." The elf steadied the hobbit, leaning down to give him a quick hug and taking the trembling, tear-stained hand in his firmly to pull the small form forward.
Boromir could not deny Legolas' request. He strode to the hobbits' side, though he did not speak as he wrapped his arms around Pippin and lifted him to his feet. Merry had scrambled up already, brushing his fingers haphazardly across his dirty cheeks, leaving flesh coloured smears in the grime.
"We have to go Pip. Hold on to me, there." Merry's usually cheerful voice was rough and Boromir's heart constricted. Too innocent, too sheltered to be prepared for this loss. He had no words and so he ruffled the hobbit's hair softy, laying his hands on their shoulders as he guided them along.
There should have been serenity, a measure of peace in the land of Lothlórien. Boromir knew this, he had felt it when the Lady had touched his mind, when her stern, warm words had wrung tears from his eyes. He had lost control easily, because he no longer guarded his heart as closely, he could not keep his feelings from guiding his steps anymore. Gandalf's loss had not been as acute for him personally, he had grudgingly respected the wizard, but there had not been the deep love the others in the fellowship had felt for him.
There was no more he could do for the hobbits, they had finally fallen asleep and he did not want to think about why his gaze had lingered on Frodo the longest. It had earned him an uneasy glance from Sam and a nudge from Gimli, along with a gruff, "They will recover, Boromir, let them rest."
He had felt trapped all of a sudden, a darkness rising in his heart, unfamiliar and yet soothing and it had frightened him. There should have been other emotions, not quite as welcome perhaps, not as easily acknowledged, but warmer, stronger and brighter. As he wove his way along the paths beneath the mallorn trees, he knew he would never be alone in Lórien, assessing elven eyes followed his every move, his every careful step across glades filled with sweet smelling elanors and niphredil. The warm, rich greens were soothing, the gold and white glittering amidst it like flashes of elven hair curling seductively in the wind.
He was very much conscious of where he was, of being a stranger; he knew his welcome would have been even less cordial if some of his dreams were known to others; for only the Lady had seen his every weakness yet. Perhaps it was stubbornness, perhaps a way of survival that he stepped forth proudly nevertheless, pulling himself up to his full height, imposing and regal. The thoughts that now weighed on his mind by day and haunted him every night left him weary. There was only one solace for him, one way to escape a siren's call he wished he could heed, though he knew it would be his ruin.
A small smile flitted across his face as he came across the reason he had walked the seemingly endless grounds. Legolas sat on the massive branches of an ancient tree that curled itself against the side of a small lake. He was still, the breeze stirring his hair and clothes as it did the water, though he did not move. Boromir did not intend to mask his presence, walking purposefully forward to join the elf.
"I would prefer to be alone tonight, Boromir."
"Would you not speak about your grief?"
"Nay."
"As you wish." The uncharacteristic warmth and gentleness of the man's tone made Legolas look up and he cocked his head in surprise when he saw the sad smile.
"I would offer you comfort then." Cerulean eyes bored into Boromir's and it was hard not to flinch. Comfort had only ever been something physical between them, warm flesh driving the chills away; not enough, but all they could have in the darkness of Moria.
"You need not…"
"Let me do this for you, meleth nîn." My love. He had asked Aragorn to teach him when they had spoken earlier that evening, and though the words were unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue, he needed to speak them. They hung in the stillness, even the soft splashing of the waves seemed to quiet down, as if waiting for the elf's reaction.
Legolas knew very well what he was being offered. He thought of Glorfindel, of his promise to keep Boromir from succumbing to the darkness; he had given his body, offered the silent comfort his friend had thought would dress the man's wound. And now he found himself on the verge of accepting a gift that was infinitely more precious than any he had ever been presented with. For Boromir to lay his heart bare and reach out for love was a hard, a frightening step. He could not be turned down, there was nothing but to hold him; if only his eyes would not betray that his own love was that of a brotherly friend, tender and strong, yet never enough to repay the man's affection.
Boromir's smile deepened when Legolas extended his hand, pulled him close and kissed him gently. The elf sighed into the careful caresses along his body, none of the usual urgency mattered now, they had time for once. They twined around each other, like the sinewy willow trees shading them as they sank to the ground.
The willows know of his treachery. Meleth eglan. Forsaken love.
The elven words rang in the back of Boromir's head, though it was not the Lady's voice telling him what they meant, it was another voice, dark, deep, ingrained in his soul, foul and filthy as the deeds it dictated to him. He shied away, and it was never enough, he was only free with the elf, anchored; his arms tightened around the slim body.
Dry lips traced his throat while his tunic was unfastened, pushed aside, movements repeated so often between them as to seem natural. Yet they were strange again, new, as if the feelings – spoken of at last – added to the simple actions and made them special. It was this Boromir had run from, this wish to give all of himself away…
"Nay, I would see all of you."
He would not settle for hastily bared flesh now, the press of cloth a hindrance, he was no longer content with a brief touch, he wanted to see Legolas completely undressed, truly feel the pale skin under his hands, explore it with his fingertips, take his time to learn the curves of collarbone and shoulder, waist, thighs. He moaned when the elf pulled him on top, body against body, more intimate than ever before.
He could almost feel his own weight as it pressed Legolas into the yielding ground and when he looked into the bright eyes he knew he had been right in his fear; he could never find the love in them that he sought. Yet it did not matter, for he was strangely free now he had decided to take this step, to fall into an embrace instead of recoiling from it, and he smiled as he whispered, "I would have you take me, Legolas."
The elf regarded him for a moment, then nodded, kissing him again, carefully, reversing their positions with a slow graceful move. Boromir closed his eyes, letting light and warmth flood him, soft skin, sensations. It was different to all he had ever experienced before, even the burn when Legolas entered him more than welcome, completing him. He understood now what his lover had told him in Moria – it was no weakness to offer oneself, though it took a lot of courage.
Muscles subtly shifting under his hands, his own voice strangled, gasps and moans, silken brushes against his chest, white and gold like the flowers of Lórien, cerulean eyes never leaving his, a connection stronger than the mere joining of flesh; tumescent hardness inside him, driving into him, marking him, warmth, heated pulses, glowing light driving all thoughts but pleasure away.
The dark whispers in his mind were weaker in the aftermath, less pronounced as he breathed deeply, his hand clasped in Legolas', the elf's body a welcome, living weight on top of him, calloused fingertips lingering on his chest; closeness like he had never known it, safety he had long missed. The wind whispered meleth eglan in the long willow branches, a bittersweet reminder that their passion would forever be tinged with a longing unfulfilled.
Boromir did not want to leave the sanctuary of the Golden Wood, the shadows in his mind were crowding in on him and it became harder not to listen to them. Pippin's delighted cry broke him from his dark brooding and he concentrated on the overeager young hobbit's questions as he steered the boat along the river. He caught a glimpse of Legolas' golden hair and green tunic, almost hidden by the grey elven cloak, the remembrance of their last kiss bringing a smile to his lips. The elf in turn sought out Boromir's dark hair in front, his heart warm at the thought of what they had shared in Lórien, yet heavy as he had felt the growing shadows in his lover's soul. He tried to ease the tension by addressing his companion in a playful, teasing tone.
"Did you take note of the Lady's boat, Gimli, or were you too riveted by her grace and beauty?"
"Hmpf. I noted the boat well enough, Master Elf. It was bird-shaped and white."
"A swan boat, my friend," he paused for a moment, "did you know that swans mate for life? They love but once and will not choose another companion should theirs die before his time."
The dwarf looked up for a moment before he said, gravely, "It is a sad destiny and one I would not wish upon anyone."
Legolas smiled, though the sparkle in his eyes was dimmed a little as he whispered, "Aye. Neither would I."
The whispered words were stronger now, demanding he succumb to them, to their persuasive power. He had absented himself from his companions to find some composure, to fight the shadows that threatened to engulf him. But he had come across the very person who sparked his dark thoughts, the source of all his pain and anxiety. He did not wish to harm Frodo, though he advanced on him as a large cat would advance on his quivering prey. It was an almost unconscious movement, reaching out for the Ring, which was so close, so tempting, whispering to him, calling…
"Why do you recoil? I am no thief!"
"You are not yourself!" Terror, fear in Frodo's eyes as they looked up at him, Boromir stumbled forward, needing to hold the Ring, to own it, to … he fell as the hobbit vanished, dealt him a blow, invisible. The sound of running feet and then … nothing. His head cleared slowly, his breathing ragged as he came to himself; he shouted Frodo's name, not caring who heard him. What had he done? He had failed; he was dishonoured, worthless. His cries were choked, he was pleading. He ran, blindly. He did not know how long he dashed through the forest, intent only on finding the hobbit, when he came across Merry and Pippin, faces flushed, dishevelled, panicked, their short swords drawn.
"Boromir!"
He saw the orcs, drew his own sword. It was his fight; he had failed the ring-bearer, he had lost his honour, but he would not abandon his little friends. Before he threw himself at the first of his enemies, he put his horn to his lips – it sounded loud and clear and pride filled his heart. The son of Denethor would die a warrior's death.
Frodo had disappeared, and so had Boromir; Legolas did not need to feel the presence of orcs to know that death was heavy on the air and he rushed forward, dimly aware Gimli was following him.
"Let us take them down, Master Elf!" the dwarf was panting, though his voice was determined, his presence steady.
"Aye," he answered, his gaze roaming the wood, finally making out the ruins, Aragorn's form, "To the left!"
The orcs were upon them within moments and the battle demanded his entire concentration, worry for Boromir pushed aside as he fought. Gwanno! Die! His knifes slashed down, bow useless just then; Gimli's axe passed in a blur in front of his eyes, severing a head. Gûr! Death, or heart! One word, two meanings; the horn of Gondor sounded clear and strong, though the sound was carried on the wind from afar.
Legolas did not take much longer than Aragorn to arrive at the other man's side, though he knew even before he found the glade that he came too late.
"...my brother ... my captain ... my king."
His eyes stung, Boromir's pained gasps almost a physical blow to him. He did not look away from the two men, did not move. Aragorn kissed his brother in a last, silent farewell. The shadows lengthened, darkness had found them. Each step was an effort, each heart beat echoing with a whisper of "gûr" in his mind. Sam and Frodo had gone, fled from their companions, Merry and Pippin were at the mercy of the orcs. It took a conscious effort to breathe.
"Let us honour our friend before we move on." Gimli leant heavily on his axe, his gaze boring into Aragorn's. The man nodded, but the elf remained silent. They used one of the boats since they would not be needing it, a proper burial would have taken too long; it was hard to touch the dead body, knowing how full of life he had been only hours before, how strong and vibrant. Legolas stood a little apart from his companions, leaning against the cool, ragged bark of a tree, watching the Falls of Rauros suck Boromir down into their wet embrace.
"Mân, ú-gosto dúwath. Hiro i ven na ngalad, gwador nîn." Departed spirit, do not fear the shadows. Find the road to the light, my brother.
"We will go on!" Aragorn's voice was harsh, commanding, full of anger, berating Legolas for thoughtlessness, for thinking of rest when it was necessary to press forward. It stabbed him to the core, the anguish he had kept so well hidden within his heart welling up against his lips, and barely could he stop himself from speaking again. So he turned on his heel and stalked forward, keeping his head up high, acting as the silent look-out. He did not wish to see Gimli stumble along, tired, in need of rest as much as Aragorn was.
He needed calm, had to sit for a moment, alone, in the forest, where he could listen to the trees' whispering, away from Aragorn, who reminded him so much and yet so little of his lover; of dark hair, smiling grey eyes and panted whispers in the woods; feelings that he told himself were little more than figments of the dreams he had. Boromir was dead, a fallen member of the Fellowship, no more, no less; a mortal man, a one-time lover, and his heart was free from pain, it was not etched with lines of sharp-edged steel, no cut had made it bleed.
He worried for the mortals at his side. If he lost Aragorn or Gimli, and if he was forced to live, to breathe without them – nay – it would not happen, yet it bore upon him, for his mind would be forever tainted by the sight of Boromir, his blood, his faded life, still upon the ground. No more of this, he could not face it, and the son of Arathorn, in all his mortal glory and his blind perseverance was ignorant of it; he saw no deeper than the front that Legolas had put up, and he spoke of the hobbits, of their priorities, as if he were unaffected himself. And the elf had lashed out, hard.
Angry words, petulant almost, far from the measured, calm tone he should have adopted when suggesting they settle down for the night. He should not have let his anger flare up against Aragorn. It was an insult to his friend, an insult to his comrades; his heart was heavy as he stumbled a little, concentration wavering for a moment.
"Legolas! We will make camp. You were right, the way has been too long." Aragorn's call surprised him, though he was grateful for it.
"I will keep watch." His tone booked no denial and he gave his friend a warm smile, briefly grasping his arm. He knew his outburst was forgiven. He breathed in deeply, leaning against a tree, collecting himself before he scouted out the surroundings. Darkness lay upon the sky, grey-rimmed clouds just barely visible now and then between the trees; gloom was palpable and he felt sick as if a knife's point had lodged itself against his throat and pressed upon him harder, almost drawing blood.
Legolas finally sat down upon a log a little away from their makeshift camp, casting a glance behind him to see Aragorn already breathing steadily, as in sleep. The dwarf was awake however and was making his way towards him. He did not acknowledge his approach, nor did he make an attempt to speak. Gimli laid one rugged hand on the elf's shoulder, frowning at the shiver that passed through the lean frame. It was Legolas who spoke first, his broken whisper a stark contrast to his usually clear and ringing voice.
"I lost my temper when I should have been strong; if not for myself, than for the sake of my companions. I am setting a bad example and yet I dare call myself a warrior," he exhaled slowly, as if in a concentrated effort to calm himself enough to continue, "when I faced Aragorn I wished I was talking to Boromir. I wished to replace one face with another, one friend with another. … I am ashamed of myself… my feelings."
Legolas bowed his head, grief welling up inside his breast. Long had he pushed his emotions aside, fortifying his heart as best he could; the silence of their track had suited him well, for he had filled his head with thoughts of forests and glades and for a while he had lost touch with all of the memories he had of the son of Denethor. Yet now that he was no longer moving, strained by lack of rest and worries, his fragile peace of mind eluded him.
"You judge yourself too harshly, Master Elf. It is no shame for a warrior to have feelings. Nor do you need to be ashamed of wishing Boromir were still with us. I had been surprised to see you so composed when we lost him, yet now I see it was but stubbornness and courage that have pulled you through the first onslaught of pain; and you unwilling to accept help."
Cerulean eyes flashed at Gimli, anger in their depths, though whether at the dwarf or at himself was not clear. Legolas did not answer, though his chin was set. He squared his shoulders and sat taller, prouder in his place.
"A plague on elves and their stiff backs! You make an effort to convince me you are well when none is needed. I know you suffer, my friend, and I come to offer you my help."
"I need no help. And I would rather you forgot you ever heard me speak of this." The elf shook his companion's hand off his shoulder, standing up to leave. But Gimli would have none of it, innately stubborn as he was, and roughly grabbed Legolas' wrist; the tall warrior turned on him, a rare unguarded flash of emotion on his features.
"Release me, dwarf!"
"Fool of an elf! I am as stubborn as you are, and strong enough to hold you back besides! Do you believe I would let you walk away from me like this? Nay, you are mistaken. A dwarf's friendship is as solid as a rock, and once you have it, you will not be rid of it, safe by my death."
The uncharacteristic force of the strong hand holding him back, as well as the sincerity and fury in Gimli's voice and stance let any protest Legolas might have had die on his lips. He shook his head and slumped down, leaning heavily against the rough bark of the nearest tree. Tears he refused to shed stung at the back of his eyes.
"Forgive me." He barely knew that he had spoken, though he reached out for his companion's stout form, offering his hand as if in supplication. The harsh look faded from the dwarf's face, to be replaced by calm concern.
"There now, Master Elf, you will not plead with me, 'tis not like you and I would not have it. Let us sit here for a while and think about the friend we lost."
"Boromir." Legolas breathed the name as though it gave him pain and the strong hand returned to lie on his shoulder as Gimli settled at his side.
"Aye, Boromir. Your lover."
"You knew?" He had not believed the dwarf to be this perceptive.
"Aye."
The words came out despite his wanting to hold them in, despite feeling that he should not speak of this, "I loved him, though it was not the love he craved. I gave my promise I would not let him walk his path alone, would not let him stray into darkness. I failed him. He could not withstand, one moment, one unguarded moment and he … he lost his life. His honour was tainted by his wish to take the ring and he died thus… he died."
Gimli's hand tightened on the elf's shoulder, silent comfort and strength. "Nay, Legolas. Nay. Do not think this. Boromir was a man of honour. He admitted to having coveted the ring, he asked for forgiveness, Aragorn said as much. It is honourable and courageous to admit your wrongdoing. He died protecting our little friends; defending the lives of innocents. Is that not an honourable death for a warrior?"
"I…I never told him I loved him. I could not lie to him…he was as close to me as a brother, but…"
"You gave him more than was a brother's due. Surely he knew you cared for him."
The elf shook his head again, softly, as the grip on his shoulder tightened a little more; Gimli patted his arm once.
"Do not let guilt taint your grief, Master Elf. I know you loved him as much as you could; and you were not afraid to show him. I know he treasured you, do not believe otherwise."
Legolas reached out, clasping the dwarf's arm – a warrior's affirmation of friendship. "Otorno*," the elf whispered, choosing the ancient tongue because he knew the dwarf to have some marginal knowledge of it.
Gimli squared his shoulders, nodding, accepting the title, acknowledging his own part in this bond of brotherhood in the gesture.
The forest whispered, almost a darker echo of the sounds of Rauros, though now there was a lingering sadness, a memory of Boromir's passing as the trees told the story of the warrior's death to each other. Legolas listened, his heart a little lighter, a few tears slipping unheeded down his cheeks as he admitted to himself that the stirrings of a love deeper than any he had yet felt had been lost in an untimely death.
Finis.
* Quenya: otorno = sworn brother (similar to the Sindarin "gwador")
