Blood And Gold

Boromir:

I am haunted; I will find no peace here. Haunted, by the words of the Lady of the wood; of Galadriel…that Gondor will fall, if we do have hope, which is there, but I cannot see the way to it. Haunted by her, and by another of her people, luminous in the darkness, the weight of him in my arms, his body rising and falling against mine. Ever since that night in Moria’s darkness, I cannot forget him, and I cannot put him from my mind; the tightness of his flesh enclosing me, the scent of him against me, the feel of his hair under my lips. Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood. I cannot find him, thought I catch glimpses of him, here, among the trees.

Finally, I come upon him among the trees, sitting with his back against the wood, the gossamer curtian of his hair loose around his face, chewing his bottom lip in concentration, as his hands danced over his bow, adjusting it, somewhat. I leaned back and watched him, for a moment; the slow, easiness of his movements, the way he was so calm…so collected. As cool as mountain water. As far away as starlight, or the sky above the mountains. For a second, I closed my eyes, remembering how he looked on that night in Moria, when I had him in my arms, with, or against, his will, his hair ragged and damp with his sweat around his face, a darker shade because of it…his face flushed with blood that was maybe anger, maybe passion…maybe some subtle mix of the two. He was a vision…a dream…something to be always remembered. Something that HAD to be experienced again, with or without his will. I had not slept properly since that night in Moria’s darkness. I was a man blinded by visions. Visions of blood, and of gold.

He looked up, as I walked towards him, and tension was in him. He had been, as elves go, at his ease before I app approached him, but now, I could see muscles moving in his bare throat, and in his cheek. I had a desire to press my lips against the bare skin at his throat, to feel the lifeblood pulsing in him. I wanted to feel his mouth working under mine. I wanted to feel his body buck and struggle against mine. I could see that he would fight me. That he still felt the humiliation of what Aragorn and I had done to him, down in the dark. I could not care. I could not have cared less. I had taken my pleasure from Legolas Greenleaf once. I would do it again…whether I had his consent, or not.

‘Legolas.’ He was suddenly on his feet, his bow discarded and forgotten at booted feet.

‘Boromir.’ He said, his blue eyes wide and wary. I closed in on him quickly, pressing him against the tree. He fought, trying to get from the space between my body and the hard wood. He shook his head, that pale, pale hair dancing around his face, which was still pale… ‘No, Boromir! No! Not again…Please…no more.’ I could not help it. I kissed him. I kissed his perfect mouth hard, enjoying the feeling of him fighting against me, the way his body bucked against the tree. ‘Please…’ He begged, his blue eyes wide, and imploring…He shook his head, again and again. ‘I don’t want this…’ But I would not be denied this. I could not, for sanity’s sake.

‘On your knees, Legolas,’ I said, and watched his blue eyes widen…perhaps in horror…perhaps in the hope that I would not make him.

I would make him.

He shook his head again.

‘Please, Boromir. Not again. I cannot. I will not. Please….Do not make me…’

‘On your knees.’ He shook his head again, and, before I knew what I was doing, there was knife in my hand. I had to have this; for sanity’s sake. The blue eyes grew wider, if that was possible, as I just…parted the material of his shirt, and pressed the very tip of the knife blade against the flat softness of his stomach.

‘On…your…knees…Legolas.’

And he dropped, suddenly, bonelessly, to his knees…so quickly that I couldn’t help but scrape the delicate skin of his abdomen, and so, there was a trickle of blood running down Legolas’ stomach, as I lost myself in the wetness of his mouth, as my desire bloomed against his tongue, and I lost myself in that vision of blood and gold.