Boromir lost track of time and distance as he roamed among the sun-dappled trees of the great forest. After their initial meeting with Galadriel and Celeborn, the company went to rest and refresh themselves. Then the singing had started. The sweet melodies blended until one voice could not be any more distinguished than the words they sang. Although Boromir did not understand the words, he knew from Legolas, that the song was a lament for Gandalf. His heart ached with the loss of the old wizard. Once he had scoffed at Faramir's fascination with the white haired visitor who frequented Gondor's libraries, but he had learned as he journeyed with Fellowship that Gandalf was not an eccentric quack, but something far more deadly. Boromir realized he missed the wizard and he wondered how they would ever complete their mission without his guidance.
He rubbed his forehead and frowned as the pain in his head increased. Ever since Galadriel had spoken in his mind, his head throbbed. Tension and fear and fatigue combined was the source, but he was unable to relax, no matter how much Aragorn and Legolas assured him of their safety. The wind shifted and he sniffed, catching a spicy tang that he could not place. He lifted his face skyward and sniffed the air like a hound, but the aroma was gone. Perhaps he imagined it. He imagined much lately.
He dreamed much, as well. Sometimes his dreams frightened him, but more often than not, his dreams left him awake and trembling from desire rather than fear. Boromir stared around and realized he was hopelessly lost. He could no longer hear the lilting voices and he wondered if they had stopped or if he simply wandered out of range. The forest was unfamiliar to him, the tress unlike anything he had ever seen, and he could not distinguish enough difference in them to bring his own wood-lore into play. He decided to sit down and rest, figuring that after a while, his head would stop hurting so much and he could think clearly.
Selecting a mallorn tree, he placed his back to the unbelievably large trunk and settled between two roots that rose above the rich, black soil. He reached for his flask and blew out an explosive breath as he remembered that he'd left it with his pack, sword, and shield. He had not thought he would need it, as he did not intend to go far. He never thought he might become lost. Closing his eyes, Boromir tried to blank his mind and relax. He rubbed again at his forehead.
Unexpectedly, or perhaps half hoped for, the smell that had haunted him for many miles returned. His eyes opened and he stared around. What flower or plant produced such an exotic scent? Could it be that he only tried to remember the smell of his most recent lovers? For many long months he had treasured the memories of his time spent learning the nature of elves. He remembered Gildor and the pine boughs where they'd lain together. He hoarded the memory of Elladan and Elrohir, the impish sons of Lord Elrond. He guarded the images of a night in Imladris that came so clearly to his mind during the long nights and endless marches. They soothed him, gave him comfort, and even, oddly, hope.
He turned his head and he saw a shadow among the shadows and his hand moved instantly to the knife at his belt. Before the blade cleared the sheath, a hand closed over his, squeezing his fingers painfully, grinding the bones of his hand beneath the skin and sinew. The pain in his hand accentuated the pain in his head and he groaned softly as his fingers slowly loosed their grip on his weapon.
The blond elf was dressed to blend with his surroundings, in dark grays and shades of green. At his back were a bow and a quiver of arrows. Knives protruded from sheaths, carved with strange runes and symbols. The hair was braided, two slender plaits on either side of his scalp, dangling beside his long face, and one heavier braid pulling his thick hair away from his forehead. A cloak was pushed back on his shoulders.
The elf frowned at Boromir and released his hand when Boromir stopped fighting him. His hand came towards Boromir's face and the man flinched away, striking his head against the tree with a soft thud. The elf ran his hand lightly over Boromir's sweat-beaded brow. Then he raised his other hand and ran his palms over Boromir's broad shoulders and deep chest, across his hard stomach.
Boromir gritted his teeth and endured the elf's search of his person. He thought the blond one looked familiar, perhaps one of the guardians who'd guided through the golden woods. When the elf rocked back on his haunches, Boromir voiced his thoughts. "You are one of the guardians, are you not?"
The stern visage only frowned again as the elf tilted his head, setting is long braids to swinging beside his cheeks. After a moment of silence, he spoke, and his voice was low and musical.
Boromir smiled. He loved the sound of the elven voices, even though he understood not a word. He knew this one did not speak the language of men and he lamented his own lack of knowledge of the elven tongue. "I wish I could tell you how beautiful I think you are; how much you remind me of elves that I have known before this long, terrible dream began." He licked his dry lips and closed his eyes. Even the little effort spent talking to the elf increased the pressure in his head.
He felt something touch his lips and he opened his eyes. The elf held a flask against his mouth. Boromir opened his mouth and the cool liquid danced over his tongue. He sighed. The drink was odorless and tasteless, but it was not water. His spirits lifted a little and the pain in his head retreated. He twisted his head away after a few swallows. "Thank you."
The elf knelt down on his knees and stared with disconcerting intensity at Boromir. The man found himself lost in eyes that were cold and compassionate at the same time. Boromir blinked, unable to maintain eye contact.
"Can you show me the way back?" He paused and looked at the elf, watched the way he tilted his head to the side, listening to his question. Suddenly, he longed to hear his name on the elf's lips. "Boromir," he said and pointed to his chest.
The elf's hand came up and the long fingers grazed over the buttons of Boromir's tunic. "Boromir," he said, the lilt of his voice oddly accenting the harsher consonants of the human name.
"Progress," Boromir laughed.
The elf suddenly smiled and it was as though sunlight had broken through dark clouds and Boromir's breath caught in his throat. " Rumil." The hand that had touched Boromir's chest retracted and the elf touched his own chest. Then he turned up the flask, drinking deeply and then he lowered it and gave Boromir a contemplative stare.
A shiver went down Boromir's spine. He had seen that look before, on the faces of the identical elves with whom he had spent time in a cave. The elf leaned forward, never taking his eyes from Boromir's, until his finely shaped lips touched Boromir's own. Boromir's mouth opened and elf pressed their lips together. Liquid, warm now from the elf's mouth, trickled over Boromir's tongue and down his parched throat and he drank greedily.
Rumil pulled back and, with a look of puzzlement, touched his fingertips to his lips. The sensitive skin was pink where Boromir's beard grazed it. As if seeking to satisfy some perverse curiosity, the elf held Boromir's head still while he rubbed his cheek along the thick facial hair.
"One would think you'd never seen a man before, yet I know you have, for you are acquainted with Aragorn . "
Lifting his head, Rumil listened to Boromir for a moment and then laid his head against Boromir's chest. Again, the man laughed and the deep rumble of his chest seemed to delight Rumil, for the elf, too, laughed, although his laughter was light and musical.
"Soft," spoke Boromir as he hesitantly stroked a single braid. "Elves' hair is so soft. I want to wrap it around my hand, wind it around my fist, like thus," he demonstrated without thinking, until the braid looped several times around his fist.
Rumil placed both hands on either side of Boromir's head and stared deeply into the man's eyes. He said something, a long string of syllables that baffled Boromir, but stirred a deeper memory, a deeper need.
"Gimli was right; these woods are perilous," breathed the Gondorian. "Yours has been the scent that has haunted me these many miles."
Rumil lowered his head so that his lips just touched Boromir's, waiting, questioning. Boromir tugged the braid wrapped around his fist, encouraging the warrior closer. Their lips parted simultaneously and their tongues touched, tentatively at first, and then more aggressively as each read the other's intend. Boromir felt a heavy weight press against the growing bulge in his leggings and he shifted, pushing against the long thigh muscles, feeling the heat radiating from beneath the heavy leather. Hands pushed at his shoulders, pinning him to the tree and Rumil's thigh ground against him, drawing a long, plaintive sigh from the Gondorian.
Boromir raised his leg, bending it at an angle, so that Rumil's hips were forced forward. He could feel the elf's erection pressing against his hip now, and he applied more pressure with his knee against the tight rear muscles. Rumil shifted a little so that he sat cradled between Boromir's hard body and long leg, straddling the thick thigh pressing roughly against him. His powerful hands pressed forcefully against Boromir's shoulders as he rubbed himself harder against the man.
Growling deep in his chest, Boromir dug his fingers into the thick, blond hair and pulled Rumil's head down. He kissed along the narrow jaw, over the high cheekbones, until he reached the pale ear nestled beneath the heavy braids. Hair clung to his face, tickled his nose, but he paid no mind as he ran his tongue over the sensitive ear. He felt Rumil shudder and heard the soft, hissing cry as his mouth engulfed the pointed tip. He sucked hard, rubbing his teeth lightly along the edge. Rumil pushed his back so hard against the tree that Boromir could feel the bark beneath his tunic and shirt. He embraced Rumil, holding him hard and close, as he sucked lovingly on the tender ear. He listened to the elf pant, felt the drumming of his heart and the throbbing of his erection, and still he would not release Rumil from the sweet torture. Rumil dug his knees into the ground, rocked violently against Boromir—trapped between the hard wall of the man's stomach and the strong thigh. A liturgy of elven phrases flowed from Rumil's lips into Boromir's ear and sent little shivers coursing down his spine. Boromir listened carefully, heard the changes of inflection, the hitch of Rumil's breath, the deep-throated moans that became a high-pitched whine. He felt Rumil tremble, imagined he could hear muscles strain as the elf pushed against him. When Rumil was reduced to loud, harsh gasps, he lifted his head and kissed the damp temple.
Rumil's hands clutched at Boromir's tunic and his back arched as he pressed himself against the ridged bones of the man's hip. He opened his eyes and stared wonderingly at Boromir.
"I told you I have known elves," Boromir kissed Rumil's chin, then the arched throat. His fingers pulled at the clasp holding Rumil's cloak in place and the garment slithered to the ground.
Rumil pulled off his weapons and laid them aside. Then he took up Boromir's dagger and laid it beside his own knives. He spoke slowly, softly, peering every once in a while at Boromir, his eyes quizzical. Boromir only smiled encouragingly. When hands plucked at his tunic, Boromir obliged and pulled the garment open, followed quickly by the shirt beneath. The crisp air touched his skin and cooled him somewhat, though by no means did it reduce his ardor. Rumil's lips twisted with excited wonder as he ran his palms over the dark blond curls covering Boromir's chest. His fingers found the flat nipples and pinched them so that they puckered.
Glancing down, Boromir realized that his shoulders bore bruises from Rumil's hands and he shook his head ruefully. He had yet to understand the strength contained in the lithe bodies he so loved. Rumil rubbed his face against Boromir's chest, causing Boromir to chuckle. Then a tongue brushed over his nipple and Boromir's laugh changed to a soft groan. Teeth nipped at the puckered disk, pulling it and stretching the skin, as Rumil's tongue flickered quickly back and forth. Boromir put his hands on Rumil's hips, pulled him closer, before moving his palms over the tight mound of his bottom. He squeezed, digging his fingers deep into firm muscle and listed as Rumil growled.
With a gasp, Rumil pushed himself up and stared around with narrowed eyes. Boromir reached for the weapons lying too far away to be of any use, but Rumil stayed his hand with soft words and a gentle touch on his wrist. He swiftly kissed Boromir and then rose to his feet while brushing his tangled hair from his face.
“What are you doing here?” He cried out angrily.
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