Title: Something To Come Home To
Author: AJ Marks/Onyx Shinigami
Contact: a_j_marks@yahoo.ca
http://www.livejournal.com/users/onyx_shinigami/
Pairing: Boromir and Rumil
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Boromir's trials and troubles with the Fellowship reach a crux.  He 
needs more than rest from Lothlorien's Golden Wood.
Disclaimer: The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work 
are the property of J R R Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate and Tolkien Enterprises. 
No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Authors Note:  Written for PaddyG, Tace, and Myself.  To prove that Boromir is 
not the complete bastard some fics make him out to be.

Every Man has his reasons.



Chapter 1


*** *** ***

. . . something to come home to.

*** *** ***

Boromir had a hard time concentrating. Ever since he had left the comfort and 
serenity of the Last Homely House, his dreams had become increasingly dark. At 
first, he dismissed his dreams. A grown warrior does not fear shadows. Then the
sense of foreboding arrived. It gnawed at his spirit, darkened his sleep 
further, troubled his heart. He grew uneasy. And angry. 

The hobbits were friendly enough at first. They distracted him from his anger. 
Lessened it. The ever inquisitive Samwise would lead him through near endless 
conversation with nearly endless questions. The effervescent duo of Merry and 
Pippin brought him to laugh joyously at their playful banter. How he wished he 
had a companion as dear to him as those two were to each other. He even gave the
two a few quick lessons in self defence, although they more often than not 
simply ended up romping and wrestling with each other. He felt buoyed by their 
irrepressible spirit. Nothing seemed to bother them. Except for the occasional 
missed meal.

And then something had shifted. The Ringbearer had grown wary of him. Boromir 
was puzzled. When the Ringbearer withdrew his company, so did his Sam. And where
they went, Merry and Pippin followed. Boromir was left alone.

He was unsure. That more than anything caused his temper to flare more often 
than not. The hobbits began to walk closer to their Strider, leaving him 
completely alone in the midst of the Nine. He grew sullen, but tried to contain
his emotions. He could feel a darkness in his heart. A shadow of ice and 
sadness. It was unmanly. And his anger grew. 

The Dwarf warmed to him enough to talk, but not enough to listen. The historical
banter of the Dwarf's clan pride held his attention, kept the feeling of unease
from his heart. The Dwarf was a serious companion for whom each word held a 
fierceness of pride. Boromir could respect that. Gimli was companionship enough 
to keep his spirits quiet, which was why he grew jealous whenever the Dwarf left
him to talk to the Elf. Boromir knew he was being foolish, yet the Dwarf was now
one of the few who looked on him with neither suspicion nor caution.

He began to dream of silence. He was standing in the midst of ruins, blood and 
death all around. His hands and feet caked with the blackness of wasted life. 
Nothing moved but he. And there was nothing he was aware of more than the 
silence. This dream left him shivering in the morning air. His eyes darting and
wild until he awoke fully. Sometimes he would cough, simply to prove to himself
that he could still hear. The Elf began to watch him. And he watched in return.
It was always the Elf who turned away. 

The eyes of the Ringbearer grew wide and fearful whenever they chanced to meet 
his. 

*** *** ***

He was almost relieved when the battle within the heart of Moria began. This he
knew. The hot spurt of blood. The scent of death. The wraithlike cries of the 
dying. The cold eyes of the dead. Orcs damn them. And he had enjoyed their 
slaughter. 

Then came the Balrog. 

With the Wise One gone, the remaining Nine turned to the Ranger. Boromir nearly
sneered at the decision, yet recognized its wisdom. He was a Steward of Gondor,
but the other Man was of Numenorian blood. His age brought wisdom and his skills
were as superb as they were useful. Boromir felt the shadow darken as he fell in
line behind the others. Sometimes, he would stop walking. Waiting. To see if any
of them would notice he was no longer following. Waiting.

None ever turned 'round. 

He would silently catch up. He doubted any but the Elf ever heard him fade away.

*** *** ***

Lothlorien was fair, he had to admit. It emitted its own ethereal light. The 
trees, called Mallorn the Elf said, seemed to glow no matter what the time of 
day or night. But the shadow in his heart was cold. Not even the peace of 
Lothlorien could grant him warmth. And the Lady had not given him ease. 

The darkness is upon you young one. Its call you have heard. You are aware, yet
still you heed its song. There is nothing there for you. It will give you 
emptiness. Shadows and cold lie within its golden band. You must resist. The 
Ring is hollow. It will give you Nothing to go home to.

He felt her words strike is heart with the force of her might. Yet he knew she 
was gentle. She was like water. So soft, yet what on Middle-Earth can withstand
the pull of the tides? Not even the First-Born. Boromir shook beneath her gaze, 
trembling with the slightest sense of her power. He was horrified to feel tears
fall before her. He felt shamed. Unmanned.

He did not love her the way the Dwarf did. His respect for her was different 
than that of the Elf and the other Man. He distanced himself from her, hoping 
for protection against her knowing eyes and her all seeing heart. 

That night he dreamt of his little brother, his beloved Faramir, lying dead on 
a funeral pyre. Their father was holding the torch that would send his body and
soul to the Halls of their Ancestors. He was never sure if the scream, his 
scream, had been a part of his dream only. There had been no sleep left in him 
that night. He took to the Golden Wood to ease the pounding of fear in his 
blood. He clawed at the tears that fell upon his cheeks. Cursed them. And wished
his brother had come with him. 

It became a nightly ritual. To keep the dreams at bay. He slept his wretched 
half-sleep, then stalked about the Golden Wood, knowing he was watched. If not 
by unseen Elves, then by the Lady and her power. Boromir wished he knew his 
brother was safe. Wanted desperately for Faramir to appear safe beside him so 
that he could watch over his only sibling. He knew if he possessed the Ring, he
would be able to prevent his brother's death. Boromir would face Sauron himself
to prevent the slightest harm from approaching his brother. And these thoughts 
accompanied him on his nightly walks. 

It was upon one of his sojourns in and around the whispering mallorn, perhaps 
three or four nights into their stay, that he chanced upon the same Elf he had 
noticed when the remainder of the Nine encountered Lothlorien's Guardians. This
Elf had born a look of warmth on him that his cold faced brothers, he learned 
later, did not. This was the Elf who had gently touched his elbow and guided his
blind feet through unfamiliar wood. The one who smelled of loganberries. Rumil. 
Boromir wished he knew what the name meant. Surely something strong and fair, 
like the Elf himself. 

Perhaps the Elf was simply patrolling this area of the Wood at this time of 
night. Yet Boromir could not help wondering at the coincidence. After all, it 
was not as if he could hear the Elf approaching. He managed pleasant 
conversation, although far too brief for his liking. The Elf had a soft smile 
that sometimes wafted across his lips. As if he were shy. Or knew something 
Boromir did not. The Elf had the confidence of self that he had found himself 
lacking more and more as he journeyed with the Ringbearer. And Boromir found 
himself wishing he had that same self-assurance once again. 

After meeting with Rumil in the Wood on three consecutive nights, on the way 
back to the area he shared with the Fellowship, Boromir noticed something had 
changed. So subtle. When he was with the Elf. His heart. It no longer felt so 
cold. 

*** *** ***

They had been in Lothlorien just over a week now. The rest had done them all 
good. Even Boromir had to agree he felt better. He no longer felt weighted down
with harsh anger and the icy grip of shadowy dreams. His dreams, though not 
pleasant, had eased in their pain. He no longer dreamt of the funeral pyre and 
his brother. Faramir would be waiting for him to come home. The dream of 
silence, however, still haunted him. He wished Gandalf had been there. The Wise 
One would have known what his dream meant, was a warning of. He did not trust 
his courage to face the gaze of the Lady. The Ringbearer still sobbed in Sam's 
arms some nights, his experience with Galadriel's Mirrormere having shaken 
something deep in his heart.

Then Rumil appeared, silent as moonlight before him. Without a word Boromir 
altered his path to join with the golden haired Guardian. Turning, Rumil took 
their path through a twisting trail of wood that eventually lead them to a small
lake. The bank surrounding the pond was angled slightly, indicating that this 
pond had aged along with the Wood. Sitting quietly, Rumil motioned for Boromir 
to join him. With an appreciative glance around him, a deep breath of cleansing
night air, Boromir sat close to the Elf. 

The wisping light of the crescent moon rolled lazily over the silken surface of
the water. 

"While the pond is neither deep enough nor wide enough for sport, it does 
produce a soothing sense upon one's spirit." Rumil spoke quietly, reverent of 
the world around him. 

Boromir wondered if the words were meant for him as well. "And what could 
possibly trouble your fair spirit, friend?"

"Many things. Many things. . . Mostly though?" Rumil raised an eyebrow at him, 
asking if the Man really wanted to know the burdens of an immortal soul. When 
Boromir's gaze did not falter, Rumil continued. "Mostly. . . what troubles me is
the thought of harm coming to those I love. My brother was wounded today on the
borders of Lorien. Orc arrows are poisoned. He will be ill several days. I dread
the thought that one day, the arrow of an Orc might not miss its target." 
Boromir watched sadness fall on Rumil's gentle face. He sought to keep his 
friend in conversation, to prevent the sadness from dwelling on the Elven heart.
But his curiosity towards his enemy's habits was strong. And he sensed the Elf 
knew much that might be of aid in the dark times to come.

"I have heard that orcs poison their arrows. We fought some in Moria, as you 
well know. But it was less a battle to test the skill of archers than the 
strength of arms and steel. What will the effects upon your brother be? They are
not lasting I hope?" 

"Nay, friend. The effects of the poison will pass swiftly, for we are Elves. The
effects upon one such as yourself might be longer lasting indeed, and possibly 
more detrimental to your health in the long term. But the poison affects both 
Elf and Man in basically the same manner. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are 
strong healers in their own right, even if the reputation of the Lord of 
Imladris exceeds theirs. Few are the humans who journey to Lothlorien's Golden 
Wood. But those that do are sometimes set upon by Orcs. And The Lord and Lady 
have treated several who were very near passing from this land. The effects of 
the Orc poison depend upon three things: the severity of the wound, where it is
received, and how deeply it bites the flesh.

"A scratch will bring naught but nausea, though it is swift and sudden in its 
effect. I have seen my kindred quite simply fall from the trees in which they 
were standing. The effect is so swift they have not time to kneel or sit. 

"A deeper wound adds to the strength of the nausea a delirium. Your eyes will 
see as if through water. Your skin becomes hot and numb. You cannot focus to 
better see your target. If the poison is swift enough, or the wound close to the
heart, all senses become deadened. And we fall into darkness. That darkness 
claims many, for once you fall to the sleep of the poison, the Orcs are upon 
you. If you are lucky, they will kill you." 

"And if I was born under unfortunate stars?" After a moment, Boromir almost 
wished he had not asked that question. There was such quiet sadness in Rumil.

"I have heard stories and seen things I would repeat to no one, Man or Elf, out
of mercy."

"You speak as if you have received a poisoned wound yourself." Boromir felt 
something in his heart shift towards his friend. Something more than sympathy. 
Rumil did not answer him, so he continued on his own. "But surely your healers 
can ease Haldir's pain?" 

"Not Haldir. Orophin. My twin." Boromir was quietly surprised at this. He had 
always assumed the three brothers had been born separately. Then there was the 
fact that to Boromir's eyes, Orophin appeared to resemble Haldir more than 
Rumil. Rumil seemed to sense his surprise. "Yes. Though Orophin bears a strong 
likeness to Haldir, it is I who am his twin. Orophin and Haldir bear the face of
our Father. I have the features given to me by our Mother." Rumil smiled a 
wistful little smile before turning his face to the crescent moon. Boromir's 
breath halted momentarily at the unconscious beauty being shown him. "They used
to joke about it with one another. That he, so pale, should love one so golden.
They used to tease one another that the Sun and the Moon had finally met. And 
they had fallen in love, never to be parted in life." Rumil seemed to hurt then.
Boromir placed a hand on Rumil's knee, offering what little comfort he had to 
give. Rumil gave a sad smile. "They have gone over the sea. They left Middle-
Earth when Haldir was but an elfling, we not much older. But they are together 
and at peace. The darkness of these times cannot touch them. I wish I could say
the same for my brothers. For my kin."

"The sadness of friends, the harm done to those we love, often causes us great 
pain." Boromir said, thinking of the horrid dream, Faramir's stiff body. . . He
wrenched his thoughts back to the moment. "But often those we love will endure 
great pain themselves if only to prevent harm from reaching us. I would die for
my brother. Unquestionably. And be proud of that fact in the Halls of my 
Ancestors." Boromir was puzzled by the shimmer of emotion that crossed the fair
face beside him. 

"Ai. I too would die to protect my brothers." Rumil paused a moment before 
turning to face Boromir, a fierce light burning from within. "Yet what keeps me
from being reckless is the thought of the suffering they would have if I died in
such a manner. My brothers would rather have me in their broken arms then lying
cold and stiff at their feet." 

Boromir felt the truth in these impassioned words. They moved him. He knew he 
desired to see his brother again. To keep him safe, prevent the harm from coming
to pass. The Ring would allow him t-

"That is not the way my friend." Rumil's words were jarring. Boromir could only
gaze into the fiery green depths of his almond-shaped eyes. "Did you not take 
heed to the words of the Lady? The Ring is not your way." Boromir stiffened at 
the perceived admonishment. He was a warrior grown, not some child to be spoken
to in such a manner. Scolded as if he knew nothing of the world around him. 
Rumil spoke again, quietly. "The greatest of all evils, is Pride." 

Boromir did not understand what the Elf meant. If Boromir could have seen 
himself in that moment, he would know why the hobbits shied away from him. His 
hazel eyes blazed with indignation at having been spoken to thusly. By the Gods
if any other than Rumil had said those words to him. Moments of dark anger 
passed between them. Rumil sat quietly. Boromir sat seething in his own 
hurt. . . his own hurt. . . his. . . pride?

A rush of breath whorled from his lips as Rumil's meaning crystallized before 
him.

An arm crossed in front of him to grasp his shoulder, to pull his stiff body 
towards a source of warmth. Boromir found himself wilting into the embrace of 
his friend. Only a true friend would have spoken to him like that. Had the 
courage to make him see for himself his own errors. Boromir rested his head on 
the strong shoulder, hearing and feeling the heartbeat of the Elf who held him 
as if he would break. 

"Resist its siren call my friend. When you hear it, think of all the things you
have to go home to. Family. Friends. They will lend you their strength. I will 
lend you my strength. If you will have it." Rumil pressed a kiss to the top of 
Boromir's head. Breathed deep the scent of Man. So different from an Elf. Felt 
the quaking in the limbs that had become dear to him. Rumil offered all he had.
Boromir shifted in his embrace. The Man gazed, silent questions in his eyes. The
Elf returned the gaze with soft assurance. And a smile. He leaned down into the 
kiss Boromir took from him. The man's facial hair tickled his lips and chin in 
the most arousing way.

Warmth flooded Boromir as Rumil's lips pressed to his own. The shadow fled to 
the farthest reaches of his heart. The ice melted like frost in the heat of the
morning sun. The sensation was of experiencing dawn. Boromir inhaled deeply, the
gentle scent of the Elf wafting over him, filling him. Sensation everywhere. 
Body and spirit singing and searing with rapture. Boromir felt Rumil draw his 
body closer to that addictive heat. It was then he realized he was still lying 
in the Elf's arms; head nestled softly into the strong shoulder still.

Boromir drew away most reluctantly from the kiss. Petal soft lips. Sitting up, 
he regarded Rumil as if the neri were a spectre about to disappear, something he
definitely did not want. He seemed terribly relieved and rather surprised when 
Rumil did not burst into mist or fade into shadow at his renewing their touch.

Rumil wondered at the fancy in the Man's head. He did not have the Lady's gift,
but when it came to those he was close to, their hearts and minds were as open 
as the sky to him. He had felt Boromir's attention focus on him the first time 
they had met. And he had to admit, the solemn face of the man had affected him.
Rumil wanted nothing more than to help the Man face his destiny. His offer of 
companionship, then friendship, had been accepted as if the Man was starved for
affection. It saddened him, truthfully. How painful it must be to be so alone 
when amongst so many. Thanks to the love of his brothers, Rumil was never alone.
Boromir broke his reverie. 

A tentative hand whorled sword-callused finger along the slant of the Elf's jaw,
far more gentle than any would think him capable of. Boromir smiled when Rumil's
eyes flickered at the touch. "What do you desire Rumil?"

Rumil blinked. It was now his turn to be cautious. His face still felt the ghost
of their first kiss. He would have more. Rumil placed his hand over Boromir's 
and held it cupped to his cheek. He nuzzled it gently, placed a kiss on each 
fingertip, licked a teasing touch at the centre of the palm before replying. "I
would lie with you, Boromir. Here. The waters are soothing. The moonlight is 
clear. The night is warm. I would have you, if you will let me?" The words were
soft at first, ending in a questioning whisper.

Boromir thought for a moment. He had lain only twice with men. Both times he had
been control. He traced his fingers along the delicate lines of Rumil's smooth
honey-toned skin. And realised he truly did wish this. Wanted to be close to 
another. Wanted to be touched by something warm and full of life. He felt a 
smile pull at his lips. And for the first time in his life, Boromir willingly 
yielded to another. The emotion that crossed Rumil's face made his decision 
worth any discomfort he believed he would face.

Rumil leaned forward, pressing his slight weight firmly against the Man. Boromir
gave way, let himself be pressed with gentle, firm hands to the gently sloping 
ground. He lay quietly, his hands touching Rumil's hips while the Elf watched 
his face closely. When Rumil saw whatever it was what he was looking for, he 
leaned down, the slow roll of his body pressing against Boromir's, the wave of 
heat washing over them both.

Boromir revelled in the wave of warmth, needing to feel it for everything he was
worth. When Rumil's lips met his again, Boromir felt his flesh begin to smoulder
with the heat of desire. Rumil's golden hair drifted down to frame their kiss. 
Boromir felt it lightly tickle his cheeks, brush against his neck. He moved his
hands from Rumil's hips, trailing his fingertips over the warm, firm flesh of 
the neri's back. He was rewarded with a sigh from his friend. He almost moved to
pull Rumil back to his lips when the Elf ended the play of their lips and pulled
away.

Rumil looked down warmly at the Man lying on Lothlorien's green bed. His auburn
hair spread thickly on the grass. His hazel eyes glistening in the moonlight. 
Rumil smiled. When the Man was not acting so sullen, he was quite handsome. His
beauty was different than an Elf, true. But there was something about the eyes.
While Boromir's face was often as cold and distant as that of Haldir, his eyes 
betrayed his every emotion. His eyes were beauty. His face was strength and 
determination. His body, Rumil knew, was pride. Rumil sighed deeply. And touched
his fingers to the lacing at Boromir's neck.

Boromir was enthralled. The crescent moon hung behind Rumil's head, its cool 
light contrasting with the gold tones of the Elf's thick hair. Boromir caught 
one of Rumil's twin braids between thumb and forefinger, rubbing it gently. It 
was as soft as it looked, richer than the finest of silk in Gondor. He released
the slender braid to run his fingers lightly through the straight hair. It bore
the heat of Rumil's body, especially the nape of the neck. When he rubbed his 
rough fingers against the soft flesh there, he felt the Elf shudder. And he 
smiled.

Rumil picked at the lacing near Boromir's throat. When no shadow of resistance 
appeared in the Man's face, he tugged with more assurance and vigour. He unlaced
the shirt entirely, which opened halfway down the broad chest. His eyes ran like
warm syrup over Boromir's exposed skin. The thicker cloth of the tunic had no 
lacings. It was simply worn for added defence against the chill. Rumil pulled at
the fabric of the shirt. The night was quite warm after all. Boromir took the 
hint and sat up. Rumil traced his fingers down the length of the Man's torso, 
dipping his fingers into the rumpled cloth held in by the dark leather of his 
breeches. A quick tug and a rush of moist heat. Rumil ran his hands under the 
cloth, over the warm skin that lay underneath. Felt the quiver of desire on the
Man's firm stomach. With all quickness and grace given to the First-Born, Rumil
freed Boromir from the delicate shell of his shirt and tunic. Half-naked, the 
Man bore the inquisitive gaze of the Elf with good humour.



Chapter 2
"You have never lain with a Man before, have you?" Boromir's voice was laced 
with gentle laughter. Rumil gave a short laugh.

"It is that apparent?"

"Not unless you look upon all your lovers with such wonder."

Rumil smiled. Pressed a quick kiss to the Man's slightly-salt lips. "I have not
had as many lovers in my time as you might think. I am of a very," here he ran 
his hands lightly down Boromir's chest, "Selective taste." He pressed Boromir to
the ground again.

The soft grass of the bank tickled against Boromir's skin. "Then I am indeed 
fortunate to be with you this night, Friend."

"Ah. I believe we are both blessed to find each other." Rumil slid down 
Boromir's legs, watching the Man's face carefully. When he reached Boromir's 
knees, he removed his weight completely, shifting to begin the tedious process 
of unlacing the knee-height thick leather Men of Gondor called boots. Boromir 
watched him with an amused air. "You should smile more often. It softens your 
face, adds light to your eyes." He had loosened the boot enough to pull them off
one hand at the knee, the other grasping the boot at the ankle.

"It is not in me to be a soft man. I am to follow in my Father's path, to be the
Steward of Gondor. I must be firm. Father believes me too emotional as things 
stand."

"Does he truly? Then Men truly are different than us. We value our emotions, 
even if we sometimes conceal them from others. You must allow yourself to feel,
Boromir." Here, Rumil placed a hand on the warm inner thigh in front of him. "I
would show you." The hand moved up slightly. "I would make you feel." He 
positioned himself on hands and knees over the prone form. The shudder that ran
over Boromir's frame gave Rumil some indication of the man's desire for him. It
was the hazel eyes that revealed all.

Boromir did not know what was affecting him more, the Elf's sensuous and 
seductive form, or the soft, thick words he spoke. It was as if everything he 
needed to hear, everything he ever wanted to have, all lay offered to him in the
form of the incredible Elf poised above him. Boromir knew he should have felt 
trapped like this, someone over him, ready to pin him, possess him. Instead, he
felt calmer than he had in a very long time. There was no fear in this. Some 
unknown emotion moved in his heart. He did not trust his voice.

"Yes." The word was whispered, but any Elven ears would have heard it, heard the
desire wrapped within. Rumil smiled. Boromir thought the Elf would pounce upon 
him. He was surprised, then, when Rumil bowed his head and wafted the ghost of 
a kiss across his lips. His eyes revealed his puzzlement.

"You are far too precious a gift to tear open, young one." Here, a hot, moist, 
pale pink tongue darted out to swipe across Boromir's lower lip. "And far too 
delicious to enjoy without savouring each," hot lips pressed to his neck, "And 
every," the velvety tongue licked at the lobe of his ear, "Taste." The last word
emerged from Rumil's lips as a whispered hiss of desire.

Boromir felt the razor edge of desire press hotly to his soul. Still. . . "I am
no young one, Elf. Do not seek to judge me in terms of your own race." There was
no heat to the words, but Boromir felt they needed to be said. The wry grin that
pressed at the edge of Rumil's lips showed no offence was taken.

"True that. But even in the terms of your race you are a young man, full of life
and vitality. Strength." Rumil grinned. "Besides, I intend to learn not only of
the differences between our respective Peoples, but of our similarities as well.
For instance," Rumil tweaked one of Boromir's nipples and grinned at the Man's 
reaction. "These seem to be as sensitive for you as they are for us." The smile
that Rumil wore could be described as devilish. It was an intoxicating contrast
to the nearly ethereal beauty Boromir had been faced with up to now. And he was
reminded that he was not the only one being kissed with the hot edge of desire.

"I would like to see more of you, Rumil." He rolled the name on his tongue like
the most potent of vintage. He lifted a hand to caress the strong shoulder, 
dipping his fingers into the tunic to brush teasingly over the delicate collar 
bone. Delighted in the sigh that fell from the full lips, dark like wine. "I 
would like to see you, undress yourself." He hesitated briefly over those last 
words. Any man he would have commanded. He would not dare to speak with command
to one of the First-Born. This was too fragile for him, as of yet. As the press
of desire grew sharper, he was feeling more confident. But he knew he must treat
his friend with respect. He still feared Rumil's departure. But the Elf had the
gentlest ways of reassuring him that he too, desired.

Rumil smiled at the almost tentative request. He sat back, resting his weight on
his legs, his knees pressed to the inside of Boromir's thighs. He traced the 
outline of the Man's muscle beneath the surprisingly soft skin of his stomach. 
He then raised slow, graceful fingers to his own body, and began to tease.

Boromir watched. He could no more tear his eyes away from the slow, sensuous, 
graceful movements in front of him than he couldbreathe. When his body finally 
remembered how to perform that function, he gasped deep, the night air filling 
his body with the tingle of passion. The scent of the Elf still reminded Boromir
of loganberries; dark and rich, yet subtle and somehow soft. He had yet to taste
fully the lips of his lover. As the tunic loosened then fell from the slender 
form, Boromir found himself craving the taste of those lips. That skin. He 
desired to drink the essence of the Elf, a part of their passion that would 
become part of him for as long as he lived. He had never desired that taste 
before. He had touched others, but never allowed himself to be touched in 
return. He shivered at the thoughts that ran through his mind. Then, as the 
honeyed tones of Elven flesh were slowly revealed to his starving eyes as Rumil
pulled off the soft under-tunic he wore, Boromir ceased to think much of 
anything.

Rumil was stunning. Perfect to Boromir's eyes. The skin was rich, dark like 
thick cream laced with honey. Skin rippled over tight, hard muscle. The body was
slender, without being skinny. The chest was toned by centuries of archery, 
pectoral muscles rising smoothly to meet delicate neck, strong shoulders. 
Boromir thought it was a crime to cover that body. Rumil's nipples were dark, 
but unlike his lips. Where the full lips were wine coloured, the small nubs of 
flesh on his chest looked like nothing less than brown sugar candies. It was all
Boromir could stand. He raised himself quickly into a slightly surprised 
embrace, and locked his hard lips over one of the dark buds tempting him. He 
heard Rumil's gasp of delight, felt the Elf's head toss back. Boromir wrapped 
his arms around Rumil's hips, placing his hands flat on his lover's back, 
pulling them closer together. He felt Rumil's hair tickle across the back of his
hands. Boromir sucked and licked at Rumil's flesh as if he tasted for the first
time.

Rumil cradled the Man's dark head in his hands, letting himself feel the passion
of a mortal being for the first time in his life. Boromir's hot, insistent lips
on his flesh felt so good. The beard rubbed against his flesh in a way he had 
never experienced before. It was maddeningly intense. No one ever had the force
of desire and passion this man was offering him. Elves did indeed love 
differently from Men, not that it was any less intense, but intense in another 
manner. After all, Elves had decades to tease lovers if they so chose, before 
finally taking, or accepting a partner to their bed. Men had not the time for 
their method of seduction. And time with this one was growing short every day he
delayed his desire. Feeling the heat of Boromir's body pressing tightly to him,
Rumil knew he had waited just long enough. Now that the act of desire was in 
motion, there was nothing he cared to do to stop it. A graze of teeth over his 
hard nipple caused him to cry out, roll his hips forward into the hard flesh 
that burned for him.

Boromir lifted his lips drunkenly from Rumil's flesh when the Elf cried out. 
Moaned as the slender hips rolled tight against his. He felt light headed, 
dizzy. He lifted his gaze, his face, to the beauty he held in his arms. Dazed. 
Disbelieving. Then Rumil moved.

Boromir found himself pressed to the ground, with no notion of the transition 
between sitting and lying. And he didn't care. Rumil lay pressed on top of him.
Wine coloured lips prying at his. The cool grass beneath him creating shivering 
contrast with the delicious heat above him. Boromir became aware of the 
discomfort beginning between his legs. His erection had been hitherto ignored. 
In fact, Boromir had been so enthralled with Rumil that he had not even noticed
his sex becoming hard. A supple movement from his lover made him aware of 
Rumil's growing need.

A determined tongue licked at his lips, darted to lick his teeth, asking him to
open himself. And he did. Rumil delved into his heat quickly, but the kiss 
itself was slow, languid. Rumil tasted of mulled wine, hot and sweetly spicy. 
Boromir moaned as he became used to the sensation of another's tongue in his 
mouth. His hands roamed over the smooth planes of Rumil's back, memorizing the 
feel of the skin, the unique texture that was Elven flesh. He felt the gentle 
movements of Rumil's shoulders as the Elf traced patterns of desire on his 
chest. His flesh tingled at the slightest touch from the slender fingers. He 
felt abandoned when Rumil moved away from him again, trying to hold on to the 
feeling, the moment.



Chapter 3
Rumil smoothed a gentle hand across Boromir's cheek before backing down the 
length of the man's body, his eyes never leaving Boromir's face. A thought 
crossed his mind. He cocked his head to the side, and grinned. He saw Boromir 
start questioningly at the look of sheer ardour that was surely on his face. And
then he dipped his head to the leather thongs the held the breeches close. He 
almost laughed at the startled gasp that Boromir made, but the choked sound of 
passion that followed made the flesh between his legs harden completely, made 
his heart beat faster. Rumil could hear his blood throbbing in his ears.

With tongue and teeth Rumil nipped, tugged, pulled, quickly unlacing the now 
very tight breeches. When he was satisfied he had the desired effect, he let a 
leather thong drift between his lips before releasing it to drop, damp with his
moisture, to Boromir's quivering belly. When the Man shuddered at the sensation,
Rumil pulled at the opening with his hands. Boromir emitted a bitten off groan
that made Rumil shudder in return. Carefully, Rumil slid a caressing hand into 
the moist heat, drawing forth Boromir's sex. He gazed unabashed. The length was
thick, the base nestled in a nest of dark, curling hair. Curious fingers touched
the hair, prodding as if to test how thick it was. The gasps and choked cries 
coming from Boromir told Rumil his attentions were not invasive.

Rumil had enough and quickly shucked Boromir from his breeches. The Man lay 
naked and unashamed in the warm night air. He waited quietly as Rumil looked at 
him, drinking in the sight, amazed at the strange similarities and differences 
of their flesh. Boromir's skin was tanned dark where the sun touched it, rich 
creamy-pale where it remained covered. His body was of a larger stature than any
Elf Rumil had ever seen. His chest was broad and deep, his muscles thick and 
swelling over his fine bone structure. Boromir's thighs were as thick as the 
trunk of mallorn. The light dusting of roan colored hair that started at the V 
of his thick neck thickened the further down his chest it went, then faded again
to a fine down that trailed in a small line to his navel. The thick, curling 
brown hair that covered the base of his sex had a few scattered reddish spots 
amongst it. The sex itself was dark, thick, ridged even. Rumil was fascinated. 
His touch followed his gaze.

Boromir was writhing upon the ground, trying to contain himself while Rumil 
became familiar with his Man's body. He smiled at the look of wonder on the 
delicate face. The mood lightened considerably when he giggled at a particularly
delicate touch to his abdomen. Rumil laughed a little himself. Boromir would 
have been embarrassed at his reaction had any other discovered his ticklish 
spot. Had it been anyone else who had touched him. But neither was the case. 
There was nothing self conscious in him when it came to Rumil. He had never felt
so comfortable with another, and he could not remember the last time he had felt
so self assured.

His breath grew shallow as Rumil stood and removed his leggings. The Elf stood 
a moment, letting Boromir gaze as he had been gazed upon. Tall, slender, 
incredibly fine. Not a hair on his smooth skin. His sex stood straight from his
body, smooth and darkly golden. The moonlight behind Rumil reflected off the 
pond, the shimmering ripple reflecting on his warm skin. Boromir suddenly missed
that warmth terribly. He raised himself up on his elbows. Rumil knelt to the 
ground, covered Boromir's flesh with his own.

The night air was filled with their gasp as sex met sex. Boromir felt sweat 
begin to gather on his brow, at his temples. Rumil trembled with the effort 
required to control himself. He desired. They desired. Neither wanted to rush. 
Their kiss was long. Tongues rubbing, rolling with each other. Mingled tastes. 
Breaths deep and rapid in the quiet night. Moans made by one felt by the other.
Hands touching, caressing, exploring, mapping, learning. Skin flushed and 
feverish. Kiss shattered with a gasp. Passion dazed eyes dilated wildly, 
sparkling hazel, blazing green.

"Please. Rumil. Now. I-" Boromir paused, gasping for air. "Now. I need you. I 
want you to." He was half mad with desire. He had never felt the fever in his 
blood with anything that resembled the intensity he was equally enjoying and 
suffering from at this moment.

For his part, Rumil had never experienced a moment of love with the pitch and 
intensity of this moment. And they had not even joined yet. Trying with great 
effort to slow his breath, Rumil nodded his head. Yes. Now. Now would be good or
they would both be driven mad. Wrenching himself from their embrace, Rumil knelt
between Boromir's legs, not attempting to spread them, simply taking a moment to
enjoy the sight before him. With a shaking breath, Rumil reached a hand between
his own legs. He was not sure who groaned louder then, himself or Boromir. He 
laughed a little, and ran his hand over his sex, drawing forth liquid to ease 
their joining. At this moment, Rumil was glad for the extra fluid that he had 
once been mocked for by an Elf who felt the pain of unfulfilled desire for her 
inconsideration. He would need this tonight. He would not add to Boromir's pain.

Boromir's heart beat painfully in his chest as he watched Rumil touch himself. 
It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He had to hold himself back. He 
thought he would lose his mind from desire as he watched the slender fingers run
up, down, caressing, teasing. He imagined those fingers on his own sex. He 
groaned in anticipation. When Rumil released his sex, Boromir sat up and grasped
the hand he very nearly envied. He met Rumil's curious eyes as he sucked the 
first slender finger into his mouth. Boromir's eyes fluttered shut at the first
taste of Elven essence. He knew from his own body the essence of Man was salty 
and faintly bitter. Elves, it seemed, were sweet, and faintly spicy. His eyes 
once again meeting Rumil's, Boromir sucked at every finger, drawing each into 
his mouth tenderly, releasing each cleansed digit with a parting nip.

Rumil let his eyes fall half shut from the velvety pleasure of a talented tongue
worshipping his fingers. A kiss and a lick along the lines of his palm made him 
shudder before pulling himself together. He pushed Boromir to the ground once 
again. "So impatient." He smiled. "Soon. But not before you are made ready. I 
would have no shadow of pain dull this night." He felt, as well as saw, the 
movements of desire and longing play along the Man's body.

"Then. For both our sakes. Delay no longer. I cannot bear. This feeling. I." 
Boromir was almost beyond speech. Breaths came in short gasps. The feeling of 
hot Elf thighs between his own narrowing the focus of desire. His sex throbbed 
hotly, madly, incessantly. Rumil placed his warm hand on Boromir's tense thigh,
pushing gently, questioning. Boromir spread his thighs of his own free will. 
Rumil sighed deeply, as if relieved to be completely certain. Boromir rolled his
hips slightly, partially to relieve their tension, partially to entice Rumil to
hurry his touch. "I have not. The patience. Of Elves."

Rumil's clear laughter had a wild sound to it as he pressed close and kissed his
lover's sweat-dewed chest. He moved his hand from thigh to hip. Thumb stroking 
dark curling hair. Sensitized nerves igniting. Boromir groaned, hips spasming. 
"Then I shall have to increase our pleasure with the impatience of Men? Truly, I
too feel the need to rush headlong into release. But I have learned since my 
youth that the sweet torture of anticipation can add much to the prolonged 
release of love."

"How can you. Speak so? Such beautiful words. I can. Barely breathe." Boromir 
inclined his neck as Rumil leaned up to nip, lick, suck at the soft flesh of his
throat. He felt the smile on his lovers' lips as he moaned helplessly.

"Perhaps because I am the one increasing the anticipation, while you are the one
caught most fully in its snare. Although," Rumil shifted his body, "If you keep
moving so, making such sounds, I will most certainly be undone." Rumil raised 
his head from the strong neck he was feasting on. Looked for a moment into the 
flushed face, the wild eyes. Moved a hand to the tight ring that would open to 
the Man's desire. He felt the slight shudder beneath him as he ran a finger 
around, over, circling, prodding slightly. He lifted his hand back to his sex, 
wet with need. Smearing some of the clear liquid onto two fingers, he returned 
to teasing the ring of desire.

Boromir's head was thrown back, tossing his curling hair, strands sticking to 
his sweat beaded face. He was gasping for air. His lungs burned. His nerves felt
like lightning. His blood flowed like molten steel through his veins. The 
delicate touch at his opening had him near release, even before the Elf had 
entered his body. Gods this was intense. He had been in battles less strenuous.
"Had I know that. Before. I should have been. Less quiet. In my desire. 
Beautiful one." Thought ceased as the first finger slipped into his body. A 
shuddering gasp wracked his body. He gazed in wonder at the beautiful green eyes
that were looking into his very soul. 

Rumil smiled seductively. "Ah, but you have spoken more than you think." He 
rolled his finger around the tight, incredible hot channel of Boromir's body. 
"Your body speaks when your words do not." A second slender finger entered the 
haven. "And your eyes tell me," he began to widen the entrance, "What your lips
fail to mention." Rumil caught Boromir's lips with his own. Gentle caress, 
delving tongue matching the movements of his fingers. Boromir's body radiating 
joy and desire beneath him. He removed his hand. And with the grace of the 
First-Born, Rumil joined with Boromir. His green eyes rolled to the night sky 
with the deliciousness, the intense and tight heat. He groaned through tightly 
pressed lips. His brow dropped to Boromir's chest. He could not yet move.

Boromir's vision went white as he felt the Elf enter him. Claimed for the first
time. His hands released their death grip on the ground, wrapped around the 
golden flesh that was laying claim to him. He pressed his hands desperately to 
the warmth of Rumil's body. He felt his body stretching to accommodate Rumil's 
sex. His body tingling, small shocks lit his flesh. Deep within him, he felt 
something shudder, blossom, grow. He was filled with warmth. He felt as if he 
were glowing with the hidden radiance of the mallorn that surrounded the pond. 
Surrounded them. The world exploded into stars as Rumil moved.

The hot, silken skin that surrounded his sex gripped and stroked with the 
slightest movement. Rumil was stunned by the intense sensation. Neither neri 
nor nessi had half the heat or texture of this Man. He felt as if the slightest
movement would cause him to spend himself. Rumil braced himself on his forearms
as Boromir drew him into a fierce embrace. He felt the tensing quiver of flesh 
beneath him. Hands pressed firmly to his back. Rumil steeled his will. And 
moved.

Oh Gods Sweet Elbereth this was too much. Too hot too sweet too good too intense
too much. Rumil's cry soared into the night sky. He saw stars in his eyes. 
Boromir's echoing cry pulsed warm and moist against his neck. Shaking, trembling
like a leaf in autumn, Rumil took several shuddering breaths before moving 
again. Gods if it wasn't as intense as the first movement. Boromir felt so good
beneath him. The tight heat surrounding his sex, the short curls of hair rubbing
and scratching against his body, the trembling strength contained in those 
limbs. More. Everything. Rumil began a slow rhythm. He had to have more of 
Boromir. Had to have everything the Man was willing to give him.

Boromir gave thought over completely. He let his body experience every sensation
this moment had to offer. The scratch-tickle of the grass. The scent of it 
crushed beneath them. Rumil's loganberry scent and mulled wine taste. The night
air against his skin, the places where Rumil did not touch. Rumil. The taste and
touch and feel of him. The warmth and sweetness and strength of him. His touch.
Touched more than his body. His heart. Everything.

They found their slow, syncopated rhythm. Boromir meeting every push and thrust
of Rumil's flesh into his. Rumil immersed in the sensations he had only a pale 
phantom of memory to compare this to. Nothing compared. For each, it was as if 
they had never touched another before. The sensation was of dawn, of birth, of 
life. They began to move together faster. Breathless cries filling the night 
sky, song of love. Boromir's shout of passion as an Elven hand wrapped around 
the sex embraced between their bodies. Rumil's cry as hot flesh contracted 
almost painfully around him.

Time had no meaning as they gave themselves over to desire, to each other. In 
what seemed like an eternity encapsulated within a heartbeat, they felt their 
bodies tensing with the anticipation of release.

"Gods. R-Rumil. I. Rumil." Boromir needed to taste his lover's name on his lips.
Roll it over his tongue, memorize its feel.

"Boromir. Beautiful one. Pen-melui. Saes. Come for me. Come with me. Si."

Boromir knew not the words of the Elvish tongue, but his body knew what was 
asked of it. He tensed incredibly. His back arched sharply as the molten heat 
centred in his loins exploded. Short bursts jolted through his body. His muscles
screamed with the hot electric force. His cry of release bordered on that of a 
scream. The only word he knew. "Rumil! Rumil!" Over and over. Everything he had.
All for him.

The feel of hot seed spurting over his hand, spreading onto his belly. The 
impossible tightness of Boromir's body clenching down on his sex. His name on 
those flushed and swollen lips. No Elf song had ever sounded so sweet. Rumil, 
overwhelmed by sensation, gave himself over. Surrender. He felt himself flow 
into his lover, become part of him. His heart filled with joy. Silent. He spent
himself. Collapsed lightly onto Boromir. Shaking with the force of his release.
Listening to the pounding of Boromir's heart.

Boromir felt that addictive heat flow into him, fill him, mark him forever. The
trembling weight covered him completely. The golden head rested on his chest, 
over his heart. He wrapped tingling, trembling limbs around the limp form. 
Cradled it to him. The only thing he had to hold on to right now. The warmth. 
The heat. The light.

They lay together, still joined. Hearts and blood returned to their regular 
rhythms. Their sweat began to cool their feverish and flushed bodies. Rumil 
gathered himself languidly. Withdrew from Boromir's body with a shuddering 
whimper. Boromir groaned in protest. Pressing a kiss to swollen lips, Rumil 
slid his slight weight off of the Man. Curled tightly next to him. Lazy kisses.
Languid touches. And finally, blissful, dreamless sleep.

They awoke just before dawn. Rumil sang to Boromir. An Elven custom maybe? A 
song of love and joy. A song of peace. A song meant only for the ears of a 
lover. Boromir held him gently. Kissed his beautiful lips. They washed in the 
cool waters of the pond. Found and gathered their clothing. Shared fleeting 
kisses, supple touches. Walked slowly back to join the rest of the world.

*** *** ***

Rumil stood with his brothers as the Fellowship left Lothlorien's Golden 
Shelter. He was saddened by their departure. Mostly because he felt Boromir's 
sorrow at their parting. But the Man had a renewed light in his heart. Something
that Rumil hoped, above all else, would carry him through the dark times ahead.
The Lady came next to him. Orophin and Haldir politely departed. Orophin with a
slightly pale pallor, lingering from his brief illness. Rumil waited for the 
Lady to speak. She placed a light hand on his shoulder.

"You have done all you can. More than any other could have. The rest is up to 
him."

"I know, my Lady." Rumil looked down the path that had taken his lover away from
him. "I know."

*** *** ***

Departing Lothlorien was harder for Boromir than many things he had done in his
life. He missed the easy conversation and companionship of Rumil. He missed the
soft smiles and wild, spirited laughter and gentle touches. He missed Rumil. He 
allowed himself to feel that sadness. He was entitled.

The remainder of his Fellows returned to their old patterns and habits almost as
soon as they were outside Lothlorien's borders. The boat ride was anything but 
joyous. He remained silent. It was not as if any truly desired his conversation.
He contented himself with the subtle manoeuvrings of the oar to speed the boat 
through the easiest course. Merry and Pippin chattering like birds to one 
another.

At first, his dreams had been of the Golden Wood. Walking there with Rumil. 
Explaining the delights of the place to his brother. Enjoying the sounds and 
scents of night with both brother and lover by his side. The further away he 
drew from Lothlorien, the less at ease he felt. It seemed as if there was a 
shadow growing over his heart once more. A slight chill ever present in the air.

He fought it.

His dream of silence returned. His unease grew. He thought of Rumil. Of his 
brother. All the things he had to go home to. For a while, it helped. He found 
himself quietly humming the tune of Rumil's song to keep himself company. He 
caught the Mirkwood Elf staring at him a few times when he did this. It made him
smile in a sad sort of way. Then...

The funeral pyre.

He awoke one night under the full gaze of the Ringbearer. He snarled something 
before fleeing the camp. He did not return until morning. The Ranger watched him
closely upon his return.

Then, on the banks high above the river, the Ringbearer tempted him for the last
time. To have that Ring was to save his brother. There would be no funeral pyre.
Smoking sulphur burn, acrid in his throat. Cinder grey ashes floating in the 
air, all that would remain of the flesh. Bones polished and laid to rest in the
Hall of Ancestors. Faramir would not meet such a fate while he lived. He would 
return the Ring to the Elves. They had crafted it. They could surely control it.
After he made sure his brother was safe from harm. Then, he heard, thought he 
heard, Rumil's song. The hobbit vanished. And the Orcs broke through the tree-
line.

Boromir came back to himself. He blew the Horn of Gondor to warn the others. 
Give them time to prepare. Readied himself to defend the Fellowship. The first 
of the poisoned arrows pierced his flesh. He did not allow it to stop him. Sword
drawn, the slaughter began. Orcs fell before him. More arrows bit deftly and 
deeply into his body. The nausea hit him. He swung his sword with deadly 
accuracy. Orcs flowed like rancid water over the banks of the river. Again and 
again, arrows stung him. He felt hot. He could barely feel the sword in his 
hand. He blew the Horn once again. He could hear the battle in another place. He
prayed the Elf's arrows flew straight and the Dwarf's arms were steady. They 
needed to protect the little ones.

Orcs fell before him. A sudden pause in the battle forced him to look around for
the next attack. He was numb. He was standing in the midst of ruins. Blood and 
death all around. His hands and feet caked with the blackness of wasted life. 
Orc blood. Nothing moved but he. His vision wavered. And there was nothing he 
was aware of more than the silence. The Silence.

A deeper wound adds to the nausea a delirium. Your eyes will see as if through 
water. Your skin becomes hot and numb. You cannot focus to better see your 
target. If the poison is swift enough, or the wound close to the heart, all 
senses become deadened.

Gods. . .

He felt the darkness upon him.

*** *** ***

The Ranger was shaking him, talking to him. Boromir focused hard. He could make
out the face, had to concentrate hard on the words. Made an apology for his lack
of strength. And as he fell into darkness once again, there was but on thing on
his heart. . . 

Faramir. . . my brother. . .

Rumil . . . my love. . .

Something for me. . .


. . . something to come home to.

~Fin~