Waiting

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the Lord of the Rings. JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, blah blah blah. Essentially, let me just say that I'm not worth suing.

Boromir felt discomfited wherever he went in Rivendell. His broad build and rugged features made him stand out against a backdrop of slender, graceful creatures, who moved about the great house as if they weighed nothing at all. He felt always as if he were stomping about. When he had first arrived at Rivendell, footsore and road-ragged, there were many interested stares. These had been redoubled by his membership in the Nine, but now that he had been there for nearly a month he was treated as part of the scenery, less noteworthy even than the stone carvings. He was left to his own devices in the gardens and walkways of the Last Homely House. For a man of action, it was an agonizing wait.

He went out into an empty courtyard near his rooms with his sword, to practice and to burn off some of the energy that had consumed him ever since he left Gondor. Even the hardship of his journey had not dulled his anxiety. What he wouldn’t give to have Faramir with him, he thought, swinging his one-handed blade in a tight arc. His younger brother had long since grown out of his more foolish tendencies, and now provided sound advice and excellent company. He was also a talented swordsman in his own right, and Boromir had long found sparring with his brother preferable to swinging at the air.

However, he was alone, and the air was his only opponent. Boromir attacked it viciously. He was considered by many in Gondor to be their nation’s greatest swordsman; Boromir was more proud than humble--he admitted in his heart that this praise was just. But he was not an altogether arrogant man, and he realized the importance of practice. Boromir had entered his fourth decade, when many Men found themselves losing the strength and prowess that had marked them as heroes in their youth. He could not help but wonder sometimes, when he lay in the soft Elvish linens at night and stared up into the darkness, if his prime years were past.

These worries came to him now, and he stumbled slightly.

“Is your opponent defeating you so easily?” a voice called.

Boromir turned. It was the Elf prince, beautiful as a girl, who had volunteered to join them.

“Lost in thought,” Boromir said gruffly.

The Elf drew one of his swords, short and curved in the style of his people. He had obviously come here knowing he might face Boromir, as few carried their weapons in the heart of Rivendell. The blade he carried was half the length of Boromir’s own, but it gleamed wickedly in the dappled sunlight.

“You have a great reputation as a fighter,” the Elf said.

“Men have only one lifetime to learn swordplay,” Boromir replied, saluting with his blade. Legolas returned the gesture and they came together with a clash. It was not an overly warm evening, but Boromir soon felt the prickle of sweat on his lip and at the small of his back. Still, he found himself enjoying their combat. Legolas was strong, though not nearly as strong as Boromir; Boromir was fast, though not nearly as fast as Legolas. The Elf was graceful and moved like a silk cord whipped through the air, making the Man feel heavy and clumsy by comparison. Boromir could not know it, but Legolas was impressed by his opponent’s skill. It was not often that a Man fought with such intelligence and agility.

The combatants parted for a moment, and Boromir was pleased to see Legolas’ breaths coming a bit faster than usual. They paused long enough for Boromir to remove his leather surcoat, and Legolas slipped out of his velvet cloak. When they engaged again, Boromir pursued the attack eagerly, and Legolas was surprised by the vigor of it. The Elf stumbled back and into the stone railing that bounded the courtyard. Boromir held his sword close to Legolas’ slender throat.

“Very impressive,” Legolas said breathlessly.

“Thank you.” Boromir straightened.

Legolas stood and dusted off his jerkin. The two men looked at each other, swords hanging loose in their hands, and Legolas hesitated for an agonizingly long moment before leaning up to press his lips to Boromir’s cheek.

“Lle naa belegohtar, Boromir,” he murmured. He moved to kiss the other cheek, but Boromir leaned back slightly, out of Legolas’ reach.

“I am sorry,” Legolas said, pulling away. He put his sword back in its sheath. “I forget that Men do not do such things.”

Boromir went to pick up his surcoat. He shifted it in his hands, rubbing the worn leather with fingers made rough by years of training and battle, before setting it on the stone rail.

“Men and elves are very different creatures,” Boromir said softly. Legolas nodded.

“All are joined now,” Legolas said. He walked to Boromir and offered his hand. “I will be proud to fight beside you, Man of Gondor.”

Boromir grasped him by the arm and nodded solemnly. Legolas’ eyes seemed almost unbearably wise. The Elf gripped Boromir’s arm just as firmly, and he put his other hand on the Man’s shoulder. Boromir opened his mouth to say something, but found his words blocked by Legolas’ lips. Legolas’ hand moved to the back of Boromir’s neck, urging him closer. His face was smooth and soft like a woman’s would be. Boromir put his hands on the slim waist and pressed their bodies together. Legolas was beautiful and slender but Boromir could feel the hardness of muscles under his hands. What a strange dichotomy, this lovely yet masculine creature.

Legolas had never kissed a man with a beard before, and he found the sensation strangely exciting. He raised his hand to run his thumb over the coarse hair. Boromir rubbed his cheek against Legolas’ palm.

“My quarters are near,” Legolas murmured, his mouth quirking into a smile.

Boromir nodded. He picked up his surcoat and let Legolas lead him by the hand out of the courtyard. They walked through a row of arbors, under which it was nearly night-dark, and emerged into the clear evening light of one of Rivendell’s open corridors. It shone off Legolas’ hair. The light played over the prince’s features as if it loved him, caressing his milky skin and setting his eyes afire. His smile was mischievous as he turned back to Boromir. Had he not known better, Boromir would have thought Legolas much younger than himself. The Elf was at turns grave and impish. He kissed Boromir soundly in the archway in front of his door, then dragged the Man through.

The people of Rivendell favored large, comfortable beds, and Legolas lay down on his with a lazy grin. Boromir unbuckled his sword and set it aside before stretching out beside the Elf, leaning up on one elbow to kiss the soft, willing lips. Legolas hummed and pulled Boromir on top of him, delving his tongue gently into Boromir’s mouth as his quick and nimble fingers unlaced the throat of the other man’s tunic. Boromir was not wearing his armor, for which Legolas was thankful. Men wore such heavy armor, so difficult to remove.

Legolas eased Boromir’s tunic off over his head and ran his fingers through the light dusting of curls on the warrior’s chest. Their mouths scissored together eagerly. Legolas’ hair had fallen across his eye, and Boromir reached to push it out of the way. He trailed his fingers around the pointed edge of the Elf’s ear, caressing the soft shell and sending a chill down Legolas’ spine. Boromir chuckled and bent to follow his fingers with his lips, gently tickling with his beard and mouth. Legolas squirmed.

Boromir’s breeches followed his tunic, and Legolas was momentarily trapped in his jerkin, eliciting laughter from both. When he finally tossed it aside, Boromir had leaned back in the pillows, arms behind his head. Legolas unashamedly admired his body. He cradled the Man’s growing erection and bent to rub his face against the tight, flat belly. Boromir choked back a moan as Legolas nuzzled his manhood. He let his head fall back into the pillows as Legolas flicked out his soft, pink tongue to collect the clear droplet that had gathered at the head of Boromir’s erection. Legolas smirked and took Boromir fully into his mouth.

“Wait,” Boromir panted, grabbing at the back of Legolas’ head.

The Elf looked up. Boromir pushed up from the pillows and rolled Legolas onto his back, his rough hands caressing the Elf’s pale skin. He found that Legolas’ breeches had flat bronze buttons, which he carefully unbuttoned before sliding the leather down the other man’s legs. The Elf’s body hair was soft and golden, just like the beautiful silken waterfall that was now spread across the linen. Boromir hesitated as he slid back up, coming face-to-face with Legolas’ penis. He closed his hand around it and kissed the tip, eliciting a purr. Legolas held out a hand, inviting Boromir to slide back up to face him. They kissed eagerly, lips and tongues twisting. Boromir’s hips moved against Legolas’ in a steady rhythm as hands found flesh. Legolas wrapped one leg around Boromir’s waist to bring their erections into close contact, heated skin pressed to heated skin. The Man groaned deep in his throat and bent to kiss Legolas’ collarbone.

Legolas arched against Boromir, digging his fingers into the strong muscles of the other man’s back. Boromir was drawing deep, ragged breaths between kisses, making a soft moaning sound in his throat that Legolas echoed with short, desperate cries. Their bodies were slick with sweat, flesh sliding against flesh. Boromir’s hips moved faster, grinding his erection against the Elf’s flat stomach. He moved his hand to Legolas’ hard, slick cock, engulfing it in his rough fingers and pulling eagerly at the straining flesh.

Clawing at Boromir, Legolas caught his lower lip in his teeth. His back arched as he reached the edge, and he groaned deeply, spilling come all over Boromir’s fingers. Boromir ground his hips against Legolas a few more times and growled deep in his throat, coating the flat, trembling stomach with pearly liquid.

They lay together in the gathering darkness as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. Their sweat began to cool. Legolas pulled Boromir down to him and pressed a tired kiss to the other man’s neck.

“We’ll call it a draw,” Boromir murmured, nuzzling Legolas’ chin with his beard.