The Healing Wood

Crouched at the base of a great Mallorn tree, Boromir, Steward of Gondor, held his face in his hands. Lilting Elven voices floated upon the air, adding to his sorrow. He did not understand the words, but their meaning was clear. This was a song of loss and despair. Lothlorien did not seem the ethereal and peaceful land that he heard legend tell. To him, the very air he breathed was heavy with doubt and grief.

The Lady of the Wood had spoken to him when the Fellowship first arrived. Her silken voice still echoed in his mind.

"Boromir,son of Denethor. The foresight of your father weighs heavy upon you, for he has seen the fall of the White City."

Boromir could not hold her serene gaze. He closed his eyes trying to shut out her words. He could not bear this. Not after Moria, not after Gandalf... He turned his face away from her luminous presence, but she spoke again into his mind.

"The blood of Numenor still flows through you. The fate of Gondor is shadowed, but even now there is still hope."

His grief was at the surface now. Tears came unbidden to his eyes. Hope was not to be found here. He was going to fail. Fail his people and his father. He let the tears fall down his cheeks to puddle upon the ground. Even the dry earth does reject me, he thought, dispelling the pool of salted grief with the toe of his boot.

"Rest Boromir... these woods are well protected."

The quiet voice of Aragorn broke the spell. Aragorn, Isildur's heir, Gondor's heir. Boromir doubted that this future king had ever even seen his kingdom, much less shared his love for it.

"I will find no rest here," Boromir bit back, his sorrow and doubt cracking his voice.

Silently Aragorn sat down next to him, open concern upon his face

After a time, the Ranger's quiet voice sifted through the heavy fog of grief that veiled Boromir's thoughts. //Yes... he had seen the White City... long ago.//

The Steward softened his demeanor as Aragorn reached and laid his hand upon the Gondorian's arm.

"Give your sadness to the wood, my brother. Let it heal your heart and replenish your soul." Aragorn fingered the jewel at his throat and Boromir glimpsed the pain and weariness that was etched on the ranger's face.

"Seek its warmth Boromir," he continued, "for the nights are bitter enough, even within these golden borders."

Aragorn squeezed Boromir's arm before he rose to his feet. He turned as if to speak, and paused, but then quietly returned to the Fellowship resting under the nearby pavilion.

Boromir watched the ranger take his leave. Perhaps there was more to this future king than he had given credit. He wiped the back of his hand across his damp cheeks. Soot streaked black across his knuckles. The evil shadow of the Balrog of Moria still clung to his skin. He needed to rid himself of the horror of the mines.

Legolas had told him of a river that ran nearby. Perhaps its cool waters would soothe the ache.

Quietly Boromir left the Fellowship to their rest. The little ones had no doubt cried themselves to sleep, and he could hear the resonating hum of Gimli's slumber even at hundred paces. The Elf and the Ranger would keep them safe.

The giant mallorn trees of the Golden Wood canopied the forest completely. In the darkness their luminous bark glowed like felled starlight. It certainly made passage through the trees much easier, Boromir thought absently.

He reached the banks of the river Nimrodel in fair time. It was a beautiful site. Its gently flowing waters gleaming like quicksilver in the moonlight. Elven magic no doubt, he scoffed as he loosed the laces of his tunic. Bending low, he tested the water with his hand, waving it through the crystal liquid like a giant fish. The mithril surface glittered, drawing his attention deep within its depth. Closing his eyes, he scooped a handful of the soothing water to his face trying to wash away the physical remainders of the past few days.

"Amin estela presta lle?" ( Am I disturbing you?)

Boromir swung around, his dagger in his hand. He quickly wiped away the water that still clung to his face, and crouched ready to defend himself.

The elf backed away, not out of fear, but out of surprise at the man's reaction.

"Amin hiraetha edan," (I am sorry , Man) the elf explained, his hand raised in a gesture of peace, his bow still resting unthreatening at his side. "Amin fauka." (I am thirsty.)

Slowly the elf bent to the water's edge, all the while watching the man's movements. He cupped his slender fingers and brought the water to his mouth.

Boromir stared openly at the beautiful fair one before him. He watched as the silvery liquid passed over the elf's lips. Lips that were too perfect, too soft, too sweet. Boromir closed his eyes trying to push the invading images away.

Rising to his full height again, the elf stretched his elegant neck slightly, his clear blue eyes glittering in the moonlight. He turned towards the man, who had since lowered his dagger to a less threatening position.

"Mani naa essa en lle?" (What is your name?)

Casually the elf freed a strand of silvered hair that had stuck to his still moist lips. Boromir stood dumbfounded, unable to speak for never had he seen a being so fair and delicate, yet so decidedly male. He had spent much time with Legolas, so Elves should not strike him with such awe, but this creature stirred thoughts that aroused more than just his interest.

"Amin naa Rumil... muindor o Haldir a Orophin," (I am Rumil, brother to Haldir and Orophin) offered the elf in a silken purr as he pointed to him.
.

Boromir's wits were finally returning, and sensing no threat, he sheathed the knife back into his boot and stood. The elf was speaking to him, but he did not understand. He had pointed to himself and said Rumil, so perhaps that was his name, thought the Gondorian. Not wantto ato appear completely without sense, Boromir pointed to himself and said, "B-o-r-o-m-i-r"

He was not quite sure why he slowed his pronunciation, for the beautiful elf before him was neither hard of hearing nor slow of mind. In fact, now that he was thinking more clearly, this elf looked oddly familiar.

"Mae govannen Boromir a Dunedan,"( Well met, Boromir of the West) replied Rumil, inclining his head with a smile, the slight movement sending a waterfall of luminous hair to cascade seductively over the elf's high cheeks.

Rumil studied the Edan. He was fair, by the standards of Men, and well muscled from what he could see beneath the damp tunic, though he was quite fithy. Perhaps he should like to know this one better.

Placing his bow and quiver gently upon the ground, Rumil produced a piece of cloth from the pouch he wore at his waist. Dipping it in the water he moved towards Boromir, his hands extended in peace.

Not expecting his advance, Boromir backed suddenly, only to find himself pressed hard against a solid mallorn trunk, his eyes flicking nervously for a possible escape route.

Rumil continued toward the man, a strange look of amusement upon his face. For such a warrior he was indeed timid. Gently the elf dabbed at the soot that still streaked the man's cheeks, as Boromir recoiled at the soft touch.

"Lle naa vanima an a edan, Boromir," (You are beautiful for a Man) whispered Rumil as he let his fingers trace along gentle curve of a stubbled jaw. Boromir flinched at the intimacy of the advance, his back pressed hard against the tree.

"Lle ista rangwa amin?," (Do you understand me?) breathed Rumil, pressing his body towards the immobile man.

And of course, Boromir did not understand. He cursed himself for not taking the time to learn at least a few elvish phrases for until now there had always been someone to interpret.

Rumil pressed the length of his body fully against Boromir, all the while searching the man's face for a reaction. It was obvious that he did not speak elvish, but what Rumil had in mind needed no translator.

Boromir closed his eyes. He could not let this elf see what he was doing to him. He could not lose himself. Though he did not speak the language, his body reacted eagerly to the Galadhrim's touch, broaching any need for words as a soft moan escaped his lips.

Rumil took this as an opportunity to explore the boundaries a bit more. He leaned in and gently brushed his lips across Boromir's.

Lips that tasted of salt and soot did not respond, the man did not move, his eyes remained tightly closed. Needing to taste more of this Man, Rumil lightly grazed his lips along his neck and circled Boromir's ear exploring the sooty lobe with his tongue. And still... the man did not move.

Perhaps gentle seduction is not the course to follow, thought the somewhat frustrated elf, as he nibbled more intimately upon the soft flesh of his neck. Grabbing Boromir's face in his hands he roughly plundered the man's lips with his own, a purring rumble raising from his chest as his body pressed hard against the Man's. The seductive rub of his arousal against Boromir's own hardening desire left no doubt that Rumil was making progress, but still Boromir returned nothing, his hands fisted at his side and his mouth pursed and hard. The man was as still as a stone troll.

Boromir did not know how much longer he could resist Rumil's advances. The tightness of his breeches would surely give him away. The mere taste of this sweet elf was battering his defenses and his body all but screamed for him to return the pleasure, but he could not... he could not open himself up to this being for he would see the horrible pain and ugliness that lived inside him.

Suddenly Rumil broke the kiss and released the man from his bodily embrace with a slight shove. He must have been mistaken.

Boromir opened his eyes and the sight before him was nearly his undoing. Rumil's glittering gaze dark with passion his sweetly bowed lips, swollen from the assault, were parted as ragged breaths fought for control.

"Amin neitha, Quel esta edan," (I was wrong, rest well Man) panted the elf as he pushed away and straightened his cloak before turning to retrieve his weapons.

Boromir's hand caught Rumil's slender wrist, holding him tightly against his body. "Don't go," he graveled, barely able to find his voice.

Rumil pulled away, determined to end the seduction.

"Rumil, please stay," Boromir whispered and swallowed hard, the overwhelming pain surfacing quickly and overtaking him with its intensity.

Rumil stood still, for though he did not understand the ways and language of Men, he did understand tears he saw welling in Boromir's eyes.

Reconsidering, Rumil reached his free hand to turn the man's chin and look into the dark haunted eyes of the warrior, so alone... so sad... so tormented. Slanting hiss hes he covered Boromir's mouth once more with his own, gently probing the edges of his pain, and tasting the grief that flowed like a torrent of rain from his heart.

This time Boromir did not resist, returning the kiss with desperate need, his body thrumming with desire, small whimpers escaping his mouth as he all but devoured the young Galadhrim's lips.

Rumil moaned aloud into the man's mouth, his hand on Boromir's exposed chest. He could taste the desperation in the Edan's heated response and that in turned fueled his own desire. As he felt the Man tremble beneath his fingers he quickly closed the gap between their bodies, grinding his hips against Boromir's with wanton urgency.

Slipping his hands brazenly beneath the damp tunic, Rumil discovered the delights of the fine hair that curled against the Man's chest. With a smirk against Boromir's lips he wrapped a bit about his fingers, reveling in the downy soft feel of it. But that was not enough... he wanted to feel it upon his skin.

He broke their embrace, for the second time.

Boromir stepped back, unsure of his response for he had been lost in Rumil's touch and wished for it to continue.

"Lye nae beika hammad," (We are wearing too many clothes) whispered the elf breathily, as he nimbly divested Boromir of his tunic and released the stays of the Man's breeches with alarming speed and dexterity. Stepping back he started to remove his own cloak, but Boromir closed his hand upon it.

"Let me," he rasped, his mouth coming to taste of the creamy pale skin that peeked out from beneath the gray fabric.

Rumil complied, and his cloak soon puddled at his feet as fingers far more used to buckles and leather fumbled with the tiny frogs that held together the fine under tunic. Rumil quickly released them lest they be ripped from his garment and tossed the clothing upon the ground with the other. Boromir's hands went immediately to the waist of Rumil's leggings, undoing the laces and parting the fabric with ease.

Suddenly the Galadhrim held the man's hand still, forcing him to look into his eyes, searching for the understanding of what such an action would imply.

Boromir returned his gaze and taking a shuddering breath slid the breeches down over the elf's slender hips, removing his own when Rumil bent to remove the soft boots that impeded his undressing.

Pulling their bodies together, Rumil captured the Man's mouth in his once more, the exquisite sensation of bare flesh against flesh causing goosebumps to wash over his heated skin and make him shiver in response.

Boromir slipped his arms round the Elf's slender waist and moaned softly as heat of their arousals rubbed deliciously between them, Rumils honeyed mouth upon his making his knees buckle with desire.

Slipping Boromir's hand in his, Rumil led the man into the cleansing waters of the river. The silvered depths temporarily washing away the layer of soot and grief that weighed him down. Slender fingers traced the scars of battle and dipped below the surface to discover that which made Boromir shiver with need. In silence, the Elf helped to ease the Gondorian's denied pain stroking him as he lay upon his shoulder until his body shuddered with its release, washed clean by the loving embrace of mighty Nimrodel as it caressed his aching spirit.

Bathed in Ithil's cool light along the banks of the river, tangled tightly in the warm embrace of Rumil, Galadhrim of Lorien, Boromir finally allowed the release of his sorrow into the Golden Wood, his cries of surrender soothed by the softest lips he had ever tasted... or ever would taste. In reverent silence the child of Lothlorien accepted the pain of the Son of Gondor and filled his soul with peace.

As the fellowship departed the Golden Wood, Rumil stood upon the embankment, his heart heavy...for somehow he knew that he had tasted death upon the young Edan's lips during the night and that he would soon reach the end of his path. Tears blurred his vision as the small canoes vanished from his sight and the young Galadhrim wiped them away with the back of his hand. So fleeting was the flame of Men... burning bright and strong but a moment in time....

Turning away and seeking the solace of his beloved Wood, Rumil dissolved into he misty greening canopy, the passion of a Man forever locked within his immortal heart.

FIN