Not Forgotten 1/2

[claudia603]

Title: Not Forgotten 1/2
Author: Claudia (claudia603@gmail.com)
Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Boromir (sort of)
Summary: Young Boromir captures a legend for his brother.
Warnings: Pure self-indulgent kink, angsty, wrong, very AU. Imagine something like a darker Shire Slave, only with slash and wrongness. Some non-con situations (not rape), some violence, and major AU character death. You know if you want to read it, you know if you don’t. Boromir is about 23 here, Faramir 18, Frodo 33. Takes place very soon after Bilbo leaves the Shire. There are a few direct quotes taken from FOTR. (And no, I don’t actually consider Boromir’s book character anything capable of this...it's simply a "what-if" scenario!!)

A/N: Thank you very much to sophinisba for the invaluable and tough encouragement and beta!



The halfling rested on the fat, curved branch of an oak tree, reading a book, munching on an apple. One of his bare feet – unduly large and covered in a thick coat of hair – dangled from the branch. His ears were pointed, like the Elves, and Boromir wondered for a moment if perhaps halflings did enchantments. Faramir had mentioned nothing of enchantments, but since the Grey Pilgrim valued these creatures so, it was quite possible.

Boromir watched from his hiding place, on guard.

This halfling was wondrous fair to look upon. His skin was nearly translucent, pale as the moon. His limbs, aside from his cumbersome feet, were slender and graceful. His eyes were enormous and gentle, and of a stunning jeweled blue, a color rarely seen in the people of Gondor.

Behind the thorny bramble, Boromir crouched, watching the halfling and waiting, breath withheld in wonder. He had journeyed leagues upon leagues on this, to his mind, useless scouting mission to Eriador, as bid by his father. Just before he crossed the Brandywine River on a rickety and unguarded footbridge, he had left his horse in the care of a simple farmer with the promise of bringing back gold coins. He had entered the Shire by foot. He knew not what to expect, but he came upon patches of woods and miles of rolling green hills, some of which had windows and charming painted doors and smoke that curled out of grassy roofs. For several days Boromir kept hidden from the inhabitants of this little country, for he did not wish to attract notice. A Man trekking through this country of little people would surely cause a stir. And Boromir did not wish to be remembered.

The longer Boromir watched the halfling, the more he became certain that this was the one he must ensnare, that he must not let him get away. He clenched the length of rope in his hands.

He thought back to his last exchange with his younger brother Faramir the night before he set off from Minas Tirith.


Faramir flung his helmet to the stone floor of his chamber. “Father will not allow me to journey with you to the Northern Kingdom.”

Boromir clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Your place is in Ithilien, training with your men. Father cannot send us both on such a distant journey.”

“Father knows I desire to see other lands.” Faramir clenched his jaw, his normally gentle eyes filled with fury. “So why does he not send me on this journey instead? I could be of far better use to him.”

The last was said with uncharacteristic bitterness. Faramir had recently overheard their father say, “Faramir’s uses are few.”

Boromir felt a deep pity for Faramir. He had little interest in this scouting mission. He would far rather lead his men into Ithilien, to victory in battle against the growing Enemy. Gladly would Faramir meet new people with an open, and rather, to Boromir’s mind, a naive heart. Unlike Boromir, he was unlikely to look upon them with wariness. But Father held a grudge, and Faramir had displeased him by being a wizard’s pupil during the Grey Pilgrim’s last visit to the City.

“I wish you could go in my stead,” Boromir said with more gentleness.

Faramir managed a wry smile. “Perhaps you’ll encounter an Elf.” He picked up his helmet from the floor and brushed it off, chagrined by his loss of temper. “Or a Halfling. I should dearly like to meet a Halfling. Mithrandir speaks fondly of them.”

Boromir snorted. “Enchantments and children’s legends.”

“Nay,” Faramir said. “Halflings are not legend. They’re a peaceful and quiet little people who build their homes in holes in the green hills of a little country in the north called the Shire. Even full-grown, they are only the size of children.”

“Of what use are they then? They sound helpless.”

“Despite their stature, children they are not,” Faramir said. “They have not had to live under the Shadow as we have. Their lives remain simple, full of song and food. I envy them this peace.”

Boromir grunted. “I’d grow mad with boredom without the hilt of a sword in my hand.” He chuckled and clapped Faramir on the shoulder. “This I promise you, little brother. If I see a Halfling, I shall remember in great detail what he looks like and tell you all I observe.”



But as Boromir traveled farther north and drew closer to the little country in Eriador where the Halflings lived, he felt that he could do better for Faramir. He could find one of these creatures and take him back to Minas Tirith. At first he would have to capture him by force, but in time, the halfling would come to learn that his life would be better, more lavish and comfortable, in Minas Tirith than here in this rustic country. And cleaner, too. If Faramir was right and these creatures built their homes in worm-filled dirt like rabbits, then Minas Tirith should be a pleasing change.

This creature reading in the tree seemed perfect. It looked young and healthy, but not too young. Boromir’s conscience would plague him if he knew he was snatching a youth away from its parents. But it also looked too young to have mated and produced young. So Boromir would likely not be taking a father from its young either.

The halfling yawned, and dropped its apple core into the brush. Boromir tensed, ready to act, lest the halfling decide to climb down from the tree and disappear into the woods.

Boromir inched closer, holding his breath, cringing at every crackle of dried leaf, until he squatted behind the brush nearest to the halfling’s tree. If he reached upward he could nearly stroke the hairy foot.

The halfling tensed and looked up from its (his) book.

Boromir sprang from his hiding place and grabbed the hairy foot around the ankle, yanking him from the tree. The book flew from the halfling’s hands and landed on the ground with a thump. The halfling gasped but had no time to cry out before Boromir grabbed his shoulder in mid fall. The halfling stared at him, wide-mouthed, before he suddenly fought with surprising vigor. He almost managed to break free, but Boromir snatched his arm and whipped him around, kneeling and drawing him into a crushing embrace – one arm around his neck and the other around his upper chest. The halfling’s heart fluttered under Boromir’s arm.

Boromir marveled that the halfling did not cry out. He started to struggle again, bucking against Boromir’s grip.

“Hush…,” Boromir whispered into the halfling’s oddly pointed ear. “Just stay quiet and you won’t get hurt.” The halfling obeyed immediately, sagging into his arms.

Then he spoke, his voice soft, cultured. “You’ll not hurt any others?”

Boromir shifted his grip, releasing the halfling just long enough to snatch his small wrists and bind them with his length of rope.

He had him. He had done it.

The halfling looked over his shoulder, meeting Boromir’s gaze with enormous, determined eyes. “What do you want?”

Boromir pushed him forward. “Walk.” His heart thudded in strange rhythm. Those blue eyes, the color of the sky over Mount Mindolluin on a clear day, burned in his mind. And now this halfling was his, his alone, his to do with as he pleased.

Boromir had taken prisoners of war before, but those prisoners always had attacked him first. They had been threats to him, his men, and his city. His conscience had never stirred when he took these prisoners to his father to be judged. But this halfling was no threat to him or to Minas Tirith. Boromir had marched into his country and stolen him, like one might a bird with bright feathers from Harad.

Boromir pushed the halfling along at a rapid pace, and he struggled for breath. But at last the halfling spoke again in that quiet, polished voice, “There is no need to bind me. I am as curious about Men as you are about me. I’d willingly join your camp, to learn more of you. Please let me go!”

Boromir grabbed the halfling’s shoulder, pinching it, forcing him to halt. “Do you have any weapons on you?”

The halfling’s eyes, so large already, widened further. “Weapons?”

Boromir paused, unable to believe that this creature seemed confused by his question. “Swords, knives, whips.”

The halfling looked repelled by the very idea. “I carry nothing of that sort.”

Boromir dropped to one knee and ran his hands up and down the halfling’s body while the halfling clenched his jaw, checking his fury at the indignity of it all. Boromir tugged the halfling’s shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches and patted him down under his clothing.

This halfling was full-grown, judging from the tenor of his voice, and he carried no weapons at all, not even a hunting knife. Boromir had captured him far from aid, far from any village, and he had been utterly vulnerable, unable to fight off a larger attacker, easily conquered. Faramir had spoken the truth when he said that these halflings knew only simple peace. Boromir imagined how easy it would be for a Gondorian army to march into this little land, to conquer it. As easy as snatching a toy from a babe.

“What are you called?” Boromir asked, pulling his hands away from the halfling -- reluctantly. The halfling’s skin had been a silky contrast from his awkward feet. Boromir longed to run his callused fingers against the halfling’s soft belly again, but he refrained. There would be time enough for that later.

Boromir noted the way the halfling bit his moist lower lip and tried to steady his shuddering breaths. But instead of answering the question, he asked one in return, in a firm voice, meeting Boromir’s gaze in full. “Why have you taken me?”

Boromir’s heart flopped under his honest gaze. How disarming those eyes were – had Boromir ever seen such beauty? Warmth stirred in his groin.

Boromir had lain with men before, mostly young men new to the Guard or young Rangers of Ithilien, green to the ways of War and pleasing a Captain. He did not prefer men to ladies, but he found lying with them less bothersome. He wished not to contend with the problem of fathering unwanted babes, a trouble that plagued many a hapless soldier of Gondor. But this halfling was as beautiful as a maid, small and soft, and yet compact and male -- Boromir had felt his muscles as he had bucked against him.

“Answer the question!” Boromir shook the halfling’s shoulder, and a dark satisfaction curdled in his belly when the halfling flinched. He swallowed, repelled by the sinister delight he took in menacing this small creature. He was no tormentor. He had never tortured or bullied any creature, whether man, woman, child, or beast.

That is not completely true, is it?

A dark memory intruded of a tiny frog he had found when he was a lad of nine. The frog hopped with sluggish confusion, clearly not in its element. Boromir had no idea how it could have made it to the Citadel’s courtyard without a pond in sight. Boromir caught it with ease and it trembled in his hands. Even as a lad, Boromir had had large, coarse hands, perfect for swordplay and other battle lessons. The frog’s little black eyes had bulged in helpless alarm. Its skin was silky-soft, and Boromir’s hand trembled with a brief but cruel longing to squeeze it until it leaked between his fingers in a green messy goo.

He did not actually want to hurt the creature, but somehow to toughen it, to frighten it from its soft life. Something in its vulnerability brought forth in young Boromir an Orc-like urge to torment, to frighten. So he decided to badger it for a while, and then he would let it hop along on its merry way, no harm done. So he tossed it up in the air and caught it in his palms. Over and over, higher and higher--until he missed and it smacked the stone edge of the fountain.

For a long time he stared at the frog’s tiny lifeless body. Shame heated his cheeks, and he buried it beside the withered White Tree. He never spoke of the frog to anyone.



The halfling swallowed. His lips were lush and rosy. “Frodo,” he whispered. “Frodo Baggins.”

Boromir curbed his urge to strike Frodo’s soft, pale skin, to watch him crumple with pain and fear. Something in the halfling brought out that deeply buried desire to torment, to shake the little creature from his sheltered life. Frodo had lived in this green land, far from shadow, without need to carry weapons. He thought nothing of wandering far from home and reading a book in a tree. He anticipated no danger, no harm. What hardship had he ever endured? Just looking into his expressive eyes, Boromir could see how soft his life had been, filled only with kindness and love and plenty of food.

Boromir clenched his fists, breathing hard. His cock stiffened. Always he had bid his men to be gentle to those weaker. He had led by example, helping elders, children, and maids as needed. He was a true man of Gondor, noble and pure.

This vicious craving to mar the halfling’s perfect skin, to change the disapproval in his eyes to fear, was a heady rush, much like his first battle had been for him. He imagined the sickening crack his fist would make against the halfling’s pale jaw, the wounded fear in his eyes. His arousal, which seemed ever on the edge of his awareness, twitched into discomfort, coming into the foreground of his consciousness. He wiped sweat from his brow.

Perhaps he understood for the first time why Father felt such deep scorn toward the gentle Faramir.

He did not strike Frodo, but he was rougher than he needed to be as he grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him forward, marching him at a pace that was too fast for one with small legs.




Boromir wanted Frodo to beg. In the hours since their march through the woods had begun, Frodo had spoken only when necessary, always with that same quiet, refined voice. Although he was clearly distressed, he did not plead. His dignity was in shreds, but yet he had neither raised his voice nor yelled for aid.

So he’s a noble little thing for not wanting to put other halflings in danger Boromir thought, and rage burned his heart, because it was he, Boromir, who was of noble birth, worthy of a Kingship that could never be, brave and true. But by capturing this innocent creature, he had vanquished his nobility and embraced a base side of himself.

So Boromir decided that if the halfling was going to be so noble, then Boromir would not stop for food or rest until he begged for it. He picked up his pace, smiling grimly. His cock hardened whenever Frodo stumbled on a loose rock or grunted and gritted his teeth against pain. That veneer of stubborn determination would surely crack soon.

Boromir had snatched Frodo because his brother wanted to see a halfling (but was that truly the only reason?), but it had gone beyond that now. Gentle-hearted Faramir would condemn Boromir’s behavior. Even Father would disapprove. Father slid into dangerous moods at times, but under his rule, even enemies taken in war were treated with mercy – or slain outright. Father did not hold with torture.

A little bit of shame curled in Boromir’s stomach, but still he pushed Frodo forward and continued to delight in Frodo’s grunts of exhaustion and pain.

Boromir felt reckless, alive, and wrong. There was nobody around to see him or to judge his behavior. For the time, he was free to indulge this dark itch. After all, no man could be noble and good all the time. No irreparable harm would come to Frodo, and there would be time enough to make it up to him. He would make it up to him.

He would do so … later. He licked his lips. For now this dark itch sent forth crackling energy through him, and when it passed, he vowed to treat the halfling with the gentleness that lay in his heart, his true nature. By the time Frodo arrived in Minas Tirith, he would have forgotten any unpleasantness from the beginning of his capture.


This was likely Frodo’s first true hardship. With a grim smile, Boromir caressed the whip on his belt, which aroused him further. He imagined the crack the whip would make over Frodo’s shoulders. But no. He’d not do that. It was enough to watch Frodo bravely clench his jaw and stumble, biting his tongue against crying out.

The shadows lengthened, and still Frodo said not a word. Boromir’s belly rumbled with hunger and a light-headed irritability swept over him. Why did Frodo not plead? How was it that this soft creature could keep walking without complaint when Boromir, a seasoned warrior, felt weary and hungry?

Dusk seeped across the woods, and cicadas buzzed, and still Frodo trudged on as if half asleep, wheezing with exhaustion. Boromir yearned to give Frodo a swift kick to the back of his legs, to force him to his knees. But that would be cheating. And Frodo would still likely not beg.

Without warning Frodo swayed, his eyes rolled upward, and he sank to the ground in a swoon.


Boromir stared down at him, and his erection grew so hard that he pressed on it through the fabric of his breeches with the heel of his hand. Frodo lay in the dirt, vulnerable, so exhausted that his mouth hung open, heedless of the dirt that touched his lips. His pale brow was damp with sweat and smeared with grime.

Boromir lifted him with ease and slung him over his shoulder. He weighed hardly anything at all, and Boromir marveled that he was full-grown. Boromir halted at the first clearing. He laid Frodo down in the dirt while he started a fire and prepared a watery stew of roots and dried meat.

When the food was ready, Boromir slapped Frodo’s cheeks to rouse him. Frodo groaned and blinked, startled, and then stared at Boromir in weary disappointment. Boromir read his expressive eyes perfectly – for Frodo the nightmare had not ended upon awakening as he had hoped.

“Will you eat something?” Boromir asked.

Frodo swallowed, pausing a long while before answering. “Yes…please.” His voice sounded weak and hoarse, humble.

Boromir helped Frodo to sit on a nearby tree stump and unbound his wrists, and while doing so, he felt a surprising and fierce protectiveness and possessiveness toward this small, helpless creature. He had done the irrevocable act of stealing him from his home, his land. Now Frodo belonged to him fully. He had the responsibility of making sure he was given food, drink, and proper rest.

Frodo rubbed his red and swollen wrists. Boromir ladled the watery stew into a wooden travel bowl. Frodo reached trembling hands toward it. “Please.”

There it was – that pleading in Frodo’s eyes that Boromir had longed for all day.

Boromir licked his lips and held the bowl just out of reach. “First you must answer some questions.”

Frodo nodded and swallowed, clearly disappointed. He let his hands fall limply in his lap.

“How old are you?” Boromir asked.

“Thirty…thirty-three.”

Boromir tilted the bowl full of Frodo’s stew, purposefully spilling some of it, wetting the soil around his feet.

Frodo’s eyes widened. “No…” he began, looking toward the spilled stew with hungry desperation.

Boromir picked up pieces of roots and meat from the dirt and without cleaning them plopped them back into the stew.

“How old are you?”

“I told you…” Frodo whispered, watching the bowl of stew nervously.

“You look no older than my little brother, who is eighteen.”

“I am thirty-three,” Frodo’s eyes were still wary, but Boromir detected in them a barely perceptible smidgen of hope, as if Frodo believed that Boromir would become suddenly kind. Boromir’s heart stuttered under that bewildering blue gaze. It was not too late, even after this day’s cruel march. He needed only to say the word, and Frodo could scamper back into the woods to freedom, and Boromir would never see him again.

“Do you live alone?” Boromir asked.

“Yes.”

“You are not married?”

“No.”

Boromir smiled and jiggled the bowl so that more stew spilled out. “Have you taken pleasure with maids?”

Frodo’s chin jerked, and his eyes widened. He straightened his shoulders and said with as much dignity as he could muster, “This is not a topic to be discussed with strangers.”

Boromir, who could think of little else now but the pressure of his cock against his breeches, spit in the stew. Frodo flinched, but he tried to mask his disgust. He could not stop the reddening of his cheeks. How gentle and sheltered this halfling was!

“I am no stranger,” Boromir said, leaning forward so that he was right in Frodo’s face. “I determine whether you will eat this night. Now, answer my question. Have you taken pleasure with maids?”

Frodo swallowed hard. His jaw trembled a moment but then he seemed to resign himself to Boromir’s question. He looked down at his hands. “I have.”

“Did you thrust your cock inside their wet cunts until they screamed?”

Frodo stared at him in indignant horror, the red blotches on his cheeks deepening, stark against his pale skin. “That is…crude.”

Boromir spit in the stew again. “Do you? Do your halfling maids scream?”

“No,” Frodo said, swallowing in disgust. “It is not like that.”

“Then perhaps your cock is lacking in some way?”

Frodo flushed again, but this time in anger. “There is nothing wrong with my…with it.”

“That remains to be seen,” Boromir said, chuckling. Frodo’s embarrassment, the indignant way he jerked his chin, his barely checked fury, his determination to be brave – it amused and charmed Boromir.

Frodo looked down, clenching his hands in miserable discomfort.

“Do you let them suck you?”

“It is not like that,” Frodo said, looking up, his eyes flashing anger. “I do not know how it is among Men, but hobbits treat each other with respect. We are discreet about our pleasures. We don’t…scream to wake the neighbors or indulge in vulgar acts.”

“And what is wrong with having a maid suck you?”

Frodo continued to look down at his hands, his jaw clenched.

Boromir laughed a little. “Why are you uncomfortable? You’re thirty-three, as you state. You are no innocent lad, green behind the ears.” He chuckled. “I myself have bedded many maids…and men as well.”

Frodo kept his gaze on his hands. “Please, sir…I am very hungry. I will be far better at answering your questions if I have something in my stomach.”

“Have you ever bedded a lad?” Boromir asked.

Frodo flinched in clear disgust. “No.”

“Are you repelled by doing so?”

Frodo did not answer for a long time. Then he glanced at Boromir nearly furtively before looking down at his hands again.

“No,” he whispered.

“You are telling me a falsehood,” Boromir said, slipping his hand inside his leggings and encircling his cock with his hand, pulling it out so that Frodo could see.

“It is not…” Frodo swallowed, glancing quickly away from Boromir’s crotch. “It is only that it is not something that has ever occurred to me.” The uncomfortable flush on his cheeks was enough to send Boromir to the very edge of quivering pleasure.

“Do you have a special maid in your heart?” Boromir asked, pretending it was perfectly natural to pleasure himself in front of another. Perhaps this would seem yet another “vulgar act” to this sheltered creature.

“No.”

“That is astounding, a comely fellow like yourself.”

Frodo forced himself to meet Boromir’s gaze then, and Boromir took advantage of the attention, stroking himself with new vigor.

“Where are you taking me?” Frodo demanded.

“To my home – in Gondor. I imagine you know not where that is.”

“You are wrong,” Frodo said, still keeping his eyes averted from Boromir’s crotch. “I know where it is. I have studied maps. Do you live in Minas Tirith, the White City?”

Boromir came then, shuddering, breathing hard. Frodo kept his eyes down, saying nothing until Boromir finished and wiped his hand on his breeches.

Frodo spoke again. “I’ve always wanted to travel outside the Shire,” and now he met Boromir’s gaze again. “But why have you taken me against my will? If you had approached me as a friend, gladly would I have welcomed you into my home and likely I would have traveled with you.”

Boromir chuckled. “Because not everything happens in just the way you would have it, although I have the idea that you are very much used to having things go your way.”

Frodo flushed again, this time with anger. “Perhaps not everything will work the way you wish.”

Boromir was taken aback by the sudden hard gleam in the halfling’s eyes, and he tossed the rest of the stew into the fire. “You do not eat tonight.”

Frodo jumped to his feet with a strangled cry.

Boromir clenched the rope in his hands. “And I must bind you in sleep.”

“No, please,” Frodo said, breathing hard. “I am very hungry. I’ve not eaten since midmorning.”

“You ate that apple while you were reading in the tree. That was past noon. That is a falsehood, and the next time you tell one, it will be punished.”

Frodo stared at Boromir as if he had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “You would call an apple a meal?” He looked suddenly curious. “What is your name? You’ve not introduced yourself.”

Boromir laughed, and pulled out the rope. “You don’t need to know my name. You only need to know that I own you now. You’re mine. When you are ready to remember that, then you shall eat.”

Frodo clenched his jaw in silent fury as Boromir bound his wrists again, this time in front of him. Boromir then tied a loose end from the rope around his own wrist. He lay on the ground in front of the fire, keeping Frodo in front of him. Boromir squeezed Frodo so tightly that he heard the halfling wheeze for breath. His cock had hardened again, and he allowed it to poke against Frodo’s lower buttocks. Frodo let out a small gasp and squirmed a little, trying to create more distance between them, but his struggles only stimulated Boromir’s arousal further. Imagining how uncomfortable and frightened this gentle halfling must be by these vulgar acts, utterly helpless in his hands, sent Boromir nearly over the edge. Despite a day of rough walking, Frodo smelled almost pleasant. Even under the sweat, Boromir caught the faint aroma of lemon and pipe-weed. The memory of those expressive, spirited, furious blue eyes burned in his mind.

Boromir slid his free hand in his breeches and took his cock in hand, grunting as he imagined the halfling as an enemy captured near the border to the East, a prisoner of war. Boromir stroked with slow relish, grinding into Frodo’s backside. Frodo was deceptively dangerous, a threat to Gondor. It was well that Boromir had bound his hands. Halflings may not wield swords, he told himself, but they were deadly archers. Boromir had caught this halfling just as he was poised to shoot, and he had overpowered him. Now Frodo was at his mercy, tied up, disarmed, utterly helpless. Boromir’s hand slid up and down his cock, which abraded against the velvet of Frodo’s breeches, faster, faster--

He throws Frodo in the dirt and rips down his breeches. He gazes into those wide blue eyes and plunges deep into tight heat, taking him by force with brutality, holding his wrists over his head. Then he shoved Frodo away.

No. Boromir licked his lips, breathing hard now. Never that. Frodo would be willing when Boromir took him. Then it would be delicious, all that tight heat and soft skin, far better than any of the maids or young men he had tasted in Minas Tirith.

He grunted in Frodo’s pointed ear, knowing full well that Frodo knew what he was doing, could feel his hardness, and in far too short a time, bursts of brilliant blue exploded before his eyelids, he was left breathless, and his hand filled with sticky warmth. He slid his hand under Frodo’s shirt and rubbed it on Frodo’s bare stomach. Frodo shuddered violently.

Now that Boromir’s cock was cool and limp, his stomach began to sink. He should stop this torture. For that was what he was doing. He was tormenting this creature, taking him far from his home, against his will, making it unpleasant and hateful for him, abusing him.

But he is not human. There is naught wrong with taking him somewhere better than this primitive land. I shall treat him well. After a time. And Faramir will understand, too, and he will treat Frodo far better than I have. His life will be better overall…a few days of fun will not harm him.


Boromir fell into an uneasy sleep. In his dream, he caught a little frog with bulging, helpless eyes, much like the buried frog of his childhood. This frog was enchanted and it could speak, and its voice was lovely, and Boromir grew to love it. All the same, Boromir tossed it again and again high into the air, ignoring its cries for mercy, unable to stop for the headiness that swept through him. And when it smacked against the rim of the courtyard fountain, Boromir wept until the sky darkened and a mighty rumbling came from the East.





Boromir woke to golden morning sunlight, and the halfling lay still in his arms. Boromir rolled him over, and Frodo startled awake. His eyes matched the astonishing blue of the morning sky, and Boromir’s breath caught in his throat. He would never grow used to those eyes.

He knew then that he could never release him.

He untied Frodo’s wrists and helped him to sit on the tree stump again. Frodo rubbed his wrists, wincing in pain but saying nothing. The welts from the rope were stark and swollen against his pale skin. He cast Boromir a wary glance.

I did this. I hurt him.

Boromir closed his eyes. He swallowed and sat beside Frodo. He took one small wrist in his hands, running his fingers over the welts. Frodo’s shoulders tensed.

Boromir spoke in a gentle tone. “I’ve no balm for it, but a leaf wet with morning dew will give you some relief.” He snatched a few such leaves from the ground and wrapped them around Frodo’s wrists.

“How does that feel?” Boromir asked, again, careful to keep his voice low and calm.

Frodo nodded, and his eyes softened. “It does give relief. Thank you.”

Boromir vowed to begin treating this creature with kindness today. He would not bind his wrists for today’s march, nor would he cause him pain of other sorts. If he kept his word, he was certain that the trusting halfling would likely soon open his heart to him and Boromir need not pluck by force what he craved now with such fervor that it pained his stomach and groin.

Then Frodo asked, “Will you not let me go?”

“Nay,” Boromir said straight from his heart. “I cannot.”

Frodo’s face creased with determination and it happened fast.

He bolted. Boromir was taken fully by surprise. Frodo darted through the woods, surprisingly fast on his small legs. Boromir lost no time in racing after him, heart pounding. He could not lose him. His longer legs quickly closed in the distance. He drew his whip from his belt and lashed Frodo’s back, causing him to fall forward with a cry of pain. Boromir yanked him to his feet by the arm and shook him hard. Frodo fought him, his eyes blazing with desperate fury. He snarled, kicked, and hit with all his strength. He fought with such valor against a much larger foe, a seasoned warrior who could easily break his neck or stab him swiftly in the throat. Boromir grabbed him in a tight embrace, holding him tighter and tighter until his struggles ceased and he sagged in Boromir’s arms as if he’d lost all his strength at once.

Boromir reneged on his earlier vow and roughly bound Frodo’s hands behind him. Now that Frodo was back in his hands, a rolling fury pressed on his temples, that this halfling, this soft creature, had dared try to bolt from him, as if he thought he could outrun him.

Later. Later I will be kind, just as I vowed, but for now, he will pay dearly for this.

Boromir admitted to himself a grudging admiration for Frodo’s fight and now resignation – but yet something in his face displayed a stubbornness that sent waves and waves of lustful rage through Boromir. Frodo would try this again the next chance he got. And again.

Unless he was properly punished.

Boromir pushed him forward until they reached their camp again.

Then Boromir shoved him to his knees. “You’ve earned ten lashes.”

“You will lash me?” Frodo asked, his voice high with panic. Not so resolute anymore, Boromir thought with grim satisfaction.

Boromir kneeled in front of Frodo and unbuttoned Frodo’s weskit and the first few buttons of his linen shirt and then yanked them over his narrow shoulders so his bare back was exposed.

“Please,” Frodo said, his voice hitching. “I am sorry. I’ll not run from you again. Only please…do not do this.”

“It’s only ten lashes. You’ll survive it.”

Boromir licked his lips, anticipating marring that perfect pale skin. He felt the desire in his mind and at once in his cock. He resisted the urge to grab it with his free hand.

He lashed Frodo’s back, curbing his strength somewhat, and his cock hardened at the delightful smack the whip made on Frodo’s unblemished flesh. Boromir expected Frodo to cry out, but he did not. He shuddered and Boromir could see that he bit his lip. Boromir lashed him again. And again. Frodo shook uncontrollably now, and still he did not cry out. After the fourth lash, angry red welts streaked across his skin.

Boromir knew he should stop. Sweat trickled down Frodo’s face, and tears had welled in his eyes. Beads of blood formed just below his bottom lip where his teeth had bit hard.

Still he did not cry out.

After the ten lashes, Boromir put away his whip and knelt before Frodo again. Frodo breathed hard and fast, shuddering in suppressed pain, still biting his lip. Boromir pulled Frodo’s shirt back over his shoulders and buttoned it and the vest again. He helped Frodo to his feet. Frodo swayed and his eyes rolled upward and Boromir was certain that he would swoon again, and so he led him to sit down on the log.

“There now,” Boromir said. “That wasn’t too bad. I do not imagine that you shall try to escape again. Will you?”

“No,” Frodo whispered, his voice barely audible, and he looked at Boromir, and his blue eyes were glazed with pain and wounded betrayal, but also bitterness. Boromir’s guilt stirred deep down. He had taken an irrevocable step. Even if he went back to his vow of kindness, Frodo was unlikely to forget this day for the remainder of his life.

Frodo blinked, and the bitterness disappeared, replaced by pleading. “I am hungry. Do you not have…something small--?”

Boromir struck him hard across the face, cutting off his question. Frodo said nothing. Blood trickled from his nose, and he could not wipe it because his wrists were still bound.

Boromir did not know why he struck him, only that he had itched to do it just once, just to see the startled pain in his eyes, just to watch his nose bleed.

Frodo’s dirt-smeared face looked weary and dispirited, and Boromir’s conscience stirred to think he had struck one so much smaller for no good reason.

Frodo had to eat something or he would never be able to walk all day. Boromir picked a root out of the stew that had sat in the kettle all night. He pushed it into Frodo’s mouth. Despite his pain and weariness, Frodo chewed with sudden voraciousness. His eyes fixed on Boromir with wary but gentle hope.

The trusting fool.

Boromir fed him a few more leftover pieces from the cold stew. Then he pushed his leather water pouch to Frodo’s lips. Water dribbled down his chin. Boromir held the pouch to Frodo’s lips, and Frodo’s throat hitched eagerly as he drank and drank and drank. He looked at Boromir with gratitude, and Boromir turned away, sickened. How could this halfling not hate him after all he had done to him thus far?

Boromir cleaned the campsite, packed, and pulled Frodo to his feet. Blood from his swelling nose had tricked down his face and into his shirt. Boromir took a handkerchief from his belongings and wiped Frodo’s nose.

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered, again with that fool’s trust. He held his shoulders stiffly, as if his back pained him.

Boromir wished that he had balm for the welt wounds. They would likely pain him even worse as the day went on. The guilt curdled in Boromir’s stomach. Five lashes perhaps, but not ten. Ten had been too much for one so small and soft.

He could stop the dark itch at any time and show this halfling that he was a kind and good man, true and brave.

As the morning progressed, they trekked through a light wooded area. Boromir walked just behind Frodo, the tread of his boots making a heavy clump-clump in the dirt, whereas Frodo’s bare feet made no sound at all. Boromir planned to study those feet later. Their oversized ugliness fascinated him. Frodo could walk upon anything without pain and without sound.

Therein lies the halflings’ enchantment perhaps.

TBC

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