Not Forgotten 2/2

[claudia603]

Title: Not Forgotten
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!




They passed out of the woods and soon treaded up and down gentle rolling hills smattered with yellow and purple wildflowers. They were still in the Shire, as they had not yet reached the Brandywine River. The sun rose high in the sky and beat down on them, and soon both Boromir and Frodo were drenched with sweat.

“Tell me of your land,” Frodo said suddenly. He hunched his shoulders, and Boromir knew he must truly be in pain, in need of distraction, if he was so willing to speak to his captor.

So Boromir spoke with great pride about Minas Tirith, and while he did so, he nearly came back to himself, the noble Captain of Gondor, the true Steward’s son who would never harm one smaller and weaker for sport. He imagined he spoke to a dear friend, one who came willingly with him to his city for the first time. He described with loving detail the leveled stone city, the Courtyard of the White Tree, the tall Tower of Ecthelion, which glimmered like a spike of silver, the white banners that fluttered from battlements in the clear ringing of silver trumpets. He spoke of battles and the growing Shadow in the East.

“Few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us.”

“How terrifying!” Frodo said. “What little we know of all this here in the Shire.”

“Indeed,” Boromir said. “The Nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows. Soon no land will be safe.”

Frodo paled, and Boromir marveled again at just how soft and sheltered these halflings were, that the mere mention of Shadow or war could frighten him so. And the dark itch returned and turned his gentle smile into a sneer. He added unnecessary gruesome details to his battle stories just to watch Frodo’s jaw clench with horror.

“How abominable,” Frodo said at last, but Boromir startled when he saw that the halfling’s eyes shone with admiration. “Your people are so valorous, living so close to…” he swallowed, “and fighting for so many years, a bulwark for the rest of us. Most inhabitants of the Shire have no idea.” He took a shuddering breath and went on. “I cannot imagine living under that shadow, never knowing, always worrying about surviving. We are so very fortunate in the Shire.”

He paused, laughing a little, somewhat bitterly. “At times I’ve thought a dragon invasion would do my countrymen some good, but now…knowing that there is a place, tucked safely away where it is so safe as to be dull…well, that can only comfort me.”

“Your little land will not always be safe,” Boromir said gruffly. “Gondor cannot hold back the Shadow forever.”

“Be that as it may,” Frodo said, meeting Boromir’s gaze with spirit in his eyes. “I shall appreciate its innocence while it lasts.” He fell into silence, and when he next spoke, he said, “Please, sir. Will you not at least tell me your name?”

Boromir smiled indulgently. “Boromir,” he said. “Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

“Boromir,” Frodo said, as if trying it on his tongue. “Boromir. It is a noble name as befits a steward’s son.”

“And what would a little halfling from the rustic Shire know about that?” Boromir said, his voice rough, and felt a jolt of deep satisfaction when the quiet, barely kindled trust fled Frodo’s eyes and he looked forward again, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow.


They camped when Boromir felt hungry. He found himself more and more moved by the halfling’s stoic nature. Only when they stopped, and Frodo sat on a log, hunching forward and wheezing for breath, did Boromir realize that Frodo was in far more pain than he admitted, exhausted and hot.

“Are you thirsty?” Boromir asked.

Frodo nodded and swallowed. There it was again – that flicker of almost-trust in those enormous eyes. His cheek had bruised and his nose was still swollen from where Boromir had struck him that morning.

The trust in Frodo’s eyes was unfathomable to Boromir. If anyone treated him as he did this halfling, he would despise him forever. He would never have been able to muster kind words toward his captor as Frodo had, about the valor of Gondor. He wondered if all halflings were so.

Perhaps there lies their enchantment.

Boromir released the bonds from Frodo’s wrists. “Show me your feet.”

Frodo looked up in surprise. “My feet?”

Boromir sat beside him on the log and took one of Frodo’s feet in hand. He brushed the dirt that clung to the dark russet curls on its top. “You halflings never wear shoes?”

“We have no need of them.”

Boromir knocked on the bottom of Frodo’s foot. “It doesn’t pain your foot to tread on a sharp root or twig?”

“No more so than it does you in your boots.” Frodo’s lips twitched. Boromir imagined that a true smile from him would be breathtaking.

“What about the cold? Do you not feel cold at night?”

“The hair keeps us warm.”

Boromir fingered Frodo’s toes, prodding on the top of his foot, massaging, while Frodo watched with wary puzzlement. Boromir finally chuckled and released the foot. What a curious, hairy appendage, so different from the rest of his graceful body.

“Does your back pain you?”

Frodo’s eyes clouded with wariness, but he nodded. “It does.”

“I’ve no balm for it, but it will not kill you.”

Frodo swallowed. “I know.”

Boromir started a fire and prepared a meal. He let Frodo eat with no questioning, but after he finished, Frodo asked for a sip of water.

“Stand up,” Boromir demanded.

Frodo climbed to shaking feet, glancing at Boromir with weary guardedness.

“Remove your weskit.”

“Pardon me?” Frodo asked.

“Take off your weskit.”

Frodo unbuttoned his weskit, keeping cautious eyes on Boromir. He dropped it to his side.

“Now your shirt.”

“Why?” Frodo asked in alarm. “There is a chill to the air tonight.”

“Go on.” Then Boromir slipped two fingers under the ridiculous straps that Frodo wore over his shoulders and attached to his breeches. He released his fingers suddenly, causing the straps to snap. Frodo flinched.

“What are these ridiculous things?” Boromir asked.

“Braces,” Frodo said. “They’re to hold my breeches up.”

“Why do you not wear breeches that fit?”

“We do the best we can. It is clear from your clothing that Gondor is a land of rich fabrics and tailored clothes. This is not the case in the Shire.”

“You may have a sip of water,” Boromir said. He put the pouch to Frodo’s lips for only a brief moment. It irked him that Frodo did not beg for more when he snatched it away although he clearly wanted to.

“Do you wish for more?” Boromir asked.

“Please,” Frodo whispered, but his voice was too hopeful. He still believed Boromir to be good, that he would eventually give Frodo the water. That was enough to make Boromir dump the rest out of the pouch.

Frodo looked crushed. “What would you have me do? I do not understand.”

“Take off the rest of your clothes.”

“It is cold,” Frodo said, clutching his arms together. “And I am thirsty. Please.”

“Take them off,” Boromir said, caressing his whip. He would not lash Frodo again, but Frodo did not know that, and his eyes sparked with panic. He fumbled at the buttons to his now grimy shirt. He slipped the ridiculous braces over his shoulders, and his breeches slid down around his ankles.

Soon he had not a stitch of clothing on. Boromir looked at him from top to bottom. In the moonlight, he looked ethereal, fair, Elvish. His cock was larger than Boromir would have expected from one so small.

Boromir pointed to a muddy patch of ground behind the log. “You will sleep there tonight.”

Frodo looked at the mud in revulsion but said nothing.

Boromir tied Frodo’s hands behind his back and attached a longer piece of rope to it. That he tied to a nearby tree. He doubted Frodo would try to escape again, but it did not pay to take chances.

Frodo stood in the mud, shivering, staring at Boromir as if he expected mercy.

“Go on,” Boromir said. “Lie down.”

Frodo knelt in the mud, still shivering. “Please, Boromir. Let me lie closer to the fire.”

Boromir took out his whip and lashed it against the log with raw violence.

That was all that was needed. Frodo flinched and settled in the muck in a pathetic ball. This time Boromir did not sleep embracing him, but he watched Frodo for as long as he could stay awake. He watched the mud ooze over Frodo’s cock and seep into his bottom. He watched him shiver and his lip tremble. His skin was unmarred by hardship, save the angry red whip welts. He quaked, his eyes squeezed closed, his throat hitching from swallowing over and over.

Boromir did not dream that night, but he woke to a gray, drizzly morning. His heart flopped when he saw Frodo lying still in the mud, filthy, his lips nearly blue.

“Frodo?” Boromir asked, his heart thudding. What if he was dead? What then? It was time to cease this torment. He had had his days of fun.

Frodo’s eyes opened, red-rimmed and miserable.

Boromir helped the shaking halfling to his feet, out of the mud. He unbound his hands and wrapped his own fur-lined cloak around him. He guided Frodo to sit on the log again while he poked at the embers and coaxed the fire back to life.

Frodo’s bleary eyes sought his. “I would beg of you, sir. I am very thirsty. It pains me to swallow. Just a few sips.” He was shaking, even wrapped inside the cloak.

Boromir lifted the pouch to Frodo’s lips, letting him drink. Frodo’s throat hitched violently as he gulped, but he was still shaking, so half of it spilled down his front. Finally he pulled away. “Will we walk all day today?”

Boromir nodded. “Once we get over the Brandywine, my horse is stabled with a farmer. We shall ride the rest of the way. Have you ridden a horse before?”

“No,” Frodo said, but his eyes brightened. “Only a pony, such as we have here in the Shire. May I get dressed?” His voice was quiet, humble.

“Will you try to bolt?”

“I have given you my word that I will not.”

Boromir’s cock warmed and twitched uncomfortably at the idea of Frodo putting his clothes on over such filth.

Frodo threw Boromir’s cloak from his shoulders, leaving it crumpled on the log. He hurriedly slipped his wrinkled clothing back on, still trembling. He wiped his muddy face the best he could with the sleeve of his shirt. He was utterly filthy, smeared with mud and grime.

Once Boromir cleaned up camp and they set off again, Frodo walked without complaint. Boromir had not bound his wrists this time.

The clouds and drizzle ended and a warm sun soon dissipated the chill. At times Frodo stumbled and it almost seemed he would fall to his knees or swoon, but he did not. He squared his narrow shoulders and walked on his silent feet, staring forward with grim determination. The grime on his face gave his eyes a stunning brilliance, and every time Boromir glanced at them, his breath caught in his throat. For in those eyes he saw not just beauty but bravery and nobility of character. He walked with resignation but only after he had fought to the best of his ability against a much stronger foe.

And always he spoke with gentility.

He and Faramir are quite alike, Boromir thought, and his stomach clenched with guilt.

In the early afternoon, they reached the Brandywine River, across which the world outside the Shire spread forth as far as the eye could see. A precarious footbridge swung over the rushing water.

They halted just before the bridge. Boromir said, “The bridge cannot bear us both. Go on, Frodo, and cross first. I shall follow you when you have crossed.”

Frodo glanced first at the bridge and then back at Boromir. His eyes widened with terror. “No.”

“Are you frightened?” Boromir asked. His cock stirred back to life.

“Yes.” Frodo’s eyes deepened with fear, and his voice came out in a rush. “Please. Let us go north to Buckland. I’ll not say anything. I’ll act as if I go willingly with you. But please…do not make me walk across this bridge. I am afraid.”

Boromir chuckled. “It held my weight, so it will certainly hold yours.”

Frodo paled and breathed so rapidly that Boromir feared he might swoon. “I cannot swim.”

“Even if you could, it would do you no good. The current is far too strong for any mortal to fight. Now go on.”

Frodo turned desperate eyes to Boromir. “Please.”

Boromir was eager to get to his horse and one night’s lodging, and he lost his patience. His voice came out in an ugly growl. “Go now…or you shall regret it.”

Frodo met Boromir’s stern gaze, as if searching for the smallest flicker of mercy. The halfling’s heart lay wide open, for anyone to read, cherish, or crush. Boromir knew now that if he had approached Frodo with gentleness from the beginning, as a friend, he would now have Frodo’s heart to cherish.

But that chance had long since passed, and Boromir sneered, removing the whip from his belt and stroking it.

Frodo swallowed hard, and he straightened his shoulders. He took a faltering step onto the bridge, clinging to the wooden rail.

“Go on,” Boromir said in a more gentle voice. Frodo glanced over his shoulder at him again with no hatred or bitterness in his eyes. Then he faced forward. His shoulders tensed, and he took absurdly tiny steps. At last he made it to the other side, staggering to his knees. Boromir strode across the bridge with confidence.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Boromir laughed.

Frodo swallowed before saying with as much dignity as he could muster, “You’re not truly like this.”

“Like what?”

“Cruel. This is new for you.”

“How do you claim to know what is in my heart?” Boromir asked. Again, much like Faramir, able to read the hearts of men and beasts.

“You come from a noble line. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Hush or I shall whip you again.”



They reached the farmer’s cottage after nightfall.

On the doorstep, Boromir grabbed Frodo’s upper arm with bruising strength. “Do not forget that you are with me willingly.”

Frodo nodded but said nothing, and Boromir knocked on the door.

The farmer, Hal Nobbins, was delighted to see Boromir again, and he shuttled Frodo and Boromir inside his cottage. He startled when he looked upon Frodo.

“Come in, come in. I hope you’ll stay for the night.” To Boromir he said, “Your horse is stabled and I’ve fed him for the night. I did not expect you so soon.”

Hal’s cottage was sparse but homey, and a fire roared in the hearth. The wood floors were rather dusty, but the aroma of simmering soup caused Boromir’s stomach to growl.

Boromir pulled from his pocket a purse of gold coins. “For your trouble.”

“I do thank you,” Hal said, setting the purse on the mantel.

Hal led Frodo and Boromir to a basin where they could wash. Frodo especially took care to scrub at the grime on his face and arms. There was nothing he could do about his clothing and Boromir chuckled over his distress, especially when he struggled to roll his sleeves halfway up his arm in an attempt to hide the grime.


For supper the farmer served wine, soup, and bread. Frodo shoveled soup into his mouth. Neither Boromir nor Frodo had eaten much in days. Frodo seemed unaware of Hal’s intent stare upon him, as if he was a rare jewel, and it evoked a disturbing heat in Boromir’s chest.

“Where did you come upon this halfling?” Hal finally asked.

Frodo kept his eyes down, but he flushed.

Boromir squeezed Frodo’s knee, causing him to flinch and drop his spoon.

Boromir smiled, running his hand up Frodo’s thigh. “I purchased him in Bree.”

Frodo blinked and looked down into his soup bowl, breathing hard. Such dignified ire! Boromir’s cock twitched. He wanted to humiliate this gentlehobbit, to filthy him, just like he had by making him sleep in the mud.

Hal looked fascinated. “Purchased?”

Boromir’s hand slid up Frodo’s thigh. “Ah, you know. He’s a whore.”

Frodo’s cheeks reddened. He had likely never even purchased a night with a whore.

“Is he?” Hal leaned over the table, and his eyes hardened. “Isn’t that nice. I ought to take more trips to Bree.” He winked at Frodo.

Boromir’s hand fumbled down the front of Frodo’s breeches, and Frodo gasped. Boromir’s heart flopped with excitement when he found Frodo’s cock somewhat hard. Frodo cringed but said nothing. He was too genteel to make a fuss. This made Boromir’s cock stiffen to agonizing discomfort.

“Is everything all right, halfling?” Hal asked with a sneer.

“Yes,” Frodo said in a squeak. Boromir’s hand encircled Frodo’s cock and it stiffened further. Boromir’s cock felt unbearably hard.

“This halfling was cheap,” Boromir said, stroking Frodo with his coarse hand. “He offered his pleasure to the roughest men in Bree, sometimes two or three at a time. All night long. And for hardly anything. A cheap whore, he was.”

“But he’s so fair,” Hal said. “He hardly looks used at all.”

“Do you know why I bought him?” Boromir asked, continuing to stroke. Frodo’s breaths were rapid and hard now. He had stopped trying to eat, and Boromir could not tell if it was from fury or pleasure. “Because halflings are insatiable. This fellow wants it all the time. He hardly gives me time to breathe.”

“That true?” Hal winked at Frodo. Frodo clenched the edge of the table, breathing hard.

“Answer him,” Boromir commanded, squeezing his cock. Frodo yelped a little, but then he looked at Boromir.

Boromir was taken by surprise by the hard gleam that had replaced the misery in those blue eyes. Then he did the unexpected. He bucked against Boromir’s grip with deliberate care. His voice dropped and became silky-warm, and he glanced over his shoulder at Hal. “It’s true. All of it. Would you like to see?”

Boromir’s face heated with shock until sweat beaded his brow. Pleasure fluttered in his belly. While his hand still encircled Frodo’s cock, Frodo stood and wrapped his arms around Boromir’s thick neck and planted a forceful kiss on Boromir’s lips. The kiss lasted a long time, and it became more gentle, delicious and soft. A velvety tongue probed his mouth, exploring and savoring. Boromir’s heart pounded in his ears, and oh, how he longed for the farmer to disappear so that he could take Frodo right now.

“Insatiable,” Frodo whispered hoarsely. And he bucked against Boromir’s hand, and Boromir felt warm stickiness fill his hand.

“Sit back down,” Boromir whispered, barely able to catch his breath. He pulled his wet, sticky hand from inside of Frodo’s breeches.

Frodo obeyed him, cheeks flushed, with an enigmatic smile, but Boromir caught sight of his trembling lips. He understood then what a terrible effort it had taken for Frodo to do what he had done. He was far braver than Boromir had ever imagined. Brave and strong. Boromir suddenly felt deeply ashamed.

The farmer broke the silence.

“You’re lucky. Very lucky,” Hal said with an approving nod. “I really ought to go to Bree and get me one of these.” His cheeks were flushed, and Boromir imagined that he was eager to have some privacy to contemplate the delights of a beautiful halfling.



In the middle of the night, Boromir woke to a gruff shout, and clattering from the farmer’s bedroom. It was still dark.

Boromir sprang from the sofa and fumbled for his sword. Frodo – where was Frodo? He had been curled up on the nearby chair in front of the hearth.

“You whore,” he heard the farmer shout. “I’ll hit you harder next time!”

Boromir kicked open the door to Hal’s bedroom just in time to see Hal kick Frodo in the ribs. Frodo cried out and crumpled to the floor. His shirt was torn over his shoulder and blood dripped from his nose. His blue eyes were wild with fear and pain and yet he clenched his jaw in hard determination.

Hot rage thudded behind Boromir’s eyes that anyone besides himself should lay hands on his treasure.

Boromir slammed the farmer against the wall and held his blade to his throat. “What right had you to touch him?”

Hal gasped for breath, his eyes bright with fear, “Your little friend … he tried to beg for my help. I thought it was part of his act, you know … I tried to undress him and he kicked me where it hurts bad, if you catch my meaning.” His eyes hardened, and he flinched against the blade as Boromir held it closer.

Still shaking with rage that anyone should hurt Frodo, Boromir shook the farmer and slammed him hard against the wall. “You had no right to lay a hand on him in any fashion. We’ll be leaving now, and I’ll be taking the gold coins with me.”

Hal’s eyes narrowed and despite the blade at his throat, he managed a sneer. “I should have poisoned your horse and slain your halfling.”

“Get up, Frodo,” Boromir commanded. Frodo staggered to his side, wheezing in pain. To Hal he said, “Consider yourself fortunate that I leave you with your life.”

Frodo held his ribs and tried to button his shirt with one trembling hand. He wiped his face with his sleeve. The farmer had hit him with far more force than Boromir had or would ever do, and it sickened him.

Boromir collected the purse of gold coins and beckoned Frodo to follow him to the stable. Frodo limped after him on silent feet, gasping for breath. Boromir retrieved his horse from the stable and prepared it for riding, all while the farmer shouted vulgarities and threats.

Boromir clasped Frodo’s shoulder. “Are you badly hurt?” He wondered if such a blow could kill one so small.

Frodo swallowed. “My ribs hurt, but it is not too bad.”

“I shall see to your injuries when we stop.”

Frodo then turned a defiant glare on him. “You sullied me right in front of that man. It is because of you that he hurt me.”

Boromir swung Frodo up on the horse and climbed on behind him. He whispered in Frodo’s pointed ear. “You enjoyed it. The seed you left on my hand proves that.”

Frodo breathed hard. “I did not mean to. I detested you with all my heart…I did not know that anger could so arouse me.” And in the strength of Frodo’s voice, Boromir guessed with much relief that Frodo was not mortally wounded.

“What made you try?” Boromir demanded.

“Pardon me?”

“What made you think that man that gave us both filthy glances would want anything to do with you, much less actually help you escape?”

“I had to try.”

His Frodo had the heart of a warrior. He was in pain, his breathing was ragged, but he held his shoulders straight, and showed more of the stoicism that he had throughout their journey. He was not as soft and helpless as Boromir had thought and in that moment, Boromir’s desire to torment him dropped from him, and he felt cold, empty and ashamed.


Boromir rode all night, and it was not long before Frodo slumped into sleep in his arms. Boromir was glad because Frodo was in pain and there was naught Boromir could do about it until they stopped, far from the farmer’s cottage. When the sun was high in the sky, Boromir found a clearing through which a fresh stream trickled.

Frodo opened his eyes. “Where are we?” He winced and clutched his ribs.

“I wanted to wait until we had left that farm far behind before we stopped. But I do want to look at your injuries. I am no healer, but I have helped my men in battle.”

He climbed down from the horse and lifted Frodo from the horse, cradling him in his arms. He laid him gently on the ground and started a fire. After the fire crackled and flickered, Boromir turned to Frodo in concern.

He was struck by the depth of what he saw in Frodo’s eyes. This was no animal-like creature who lived only to eat and frolic in the uncivilized woods of the Shire. Keen intelligence lay deep in those eyes, mysteries and secrets, and most importantly, passion that Boromir longed to unleash. He cleared his throat, suddenly unable to think of anything except the tongue that had probed his mouth with such passion the night before in the farmer’s lodge.

Boromir wanted him, but not only in body. He wanted his love, he wanted a smile, and he wanted to see affection in those blue eyes that were now dark with suspicion. He wanted to stir the passion of love in him. Oh, how he ached to begin anew so that Frodo would give him his heart and adoration.

Boromir imagined what might have happened if he had approached Frodo in a far different way.

He spies the halfling in the tree, reading, munching an apple, his dear hairy foot dangling carelessly from the branch.

Instead of stalking him, Boromir approaches on foot and speaks in a soft voice, careful not to frighten him. “Pardon me, little master.”

Frodo startles, but not in fear. He has clearly not seen any of the Big People before nor does he yet have reason to fear them. He watches Boromir in curiosity.

“Are you lost?” he asks.

Boromir laughs. “Yes…I’ve lost my way.”

“Where are you trying to go? It seems you are way out of your way. There are no Men in the Shire.”

“I am seeking the village of Fornost.”

“Fornost…” Frodo says thoughtfully. “I know of this. I am afraid you are far from course. You need to find the main road that goes toward Bree. From there you should be able to find the road to Fornost quite easily. Where are you from?”

“I come from Gondor, sent on an errand by my father.”

“Ah,” Frodo laughs. “And I imagine you have eaten nothing but dried meat and perhaps roots and berries.”

“You are correct in that,” Boromir laughs.

“Frodo Baggins at your service,” Frodo says. “I would be delighted if you would come to my home and enjoy a real supper.”

Boromir imagines helping Frodo down from the tree. Frodo trusts him already, and he slips his hand in Boromir’s as they walk toward his home.


Boromir lay down beside Frodo, touching his cheek, and his eyes flew open, flickering with hard fear. The trust was not there, would never be there. Over a fortnight of stumbling through the wilderness, and Frodo had barely said a word to him aside from polite answers to questions. Boromir had done nothing cruel to him and in fact strove to do the opposite by being especially kind, gentle, and quick to offer Frodo as much comfort as possible. Now Boromir stroked his arm, soothing, running his fingers up and down his torn sleeve.

“Tell me everything,” Boromir whispered, cupping Frodo’s cheeks in his hands. He did not feel so well. His head ached and his nose dripped from an impending cold brought on by chill winds from the east.

Frodo winced and Boromir realized that he was squeezing Frodo’s cheeks too hard. He pulled his hands away, hastily.

“What…what do you wish to know?” Frodo looked confused.

“Tell me about your youth. If you halflings do not learn battle skills, what do you do? What is your life like?”

Frodo talked. He spoke at first in a halting voice, glancing at Boromir in wary puzzlement on and off, although mostly he looked down. He described the homes of halflings, and Boromir felt ashamed that he had ever thought that these creatures lived in primitive, dirty holes in the ground. He spoke of his parents who perished when he was young. He spoke of his foster home, of cousins who were still dear to him, and most of all, his old cousin Bilbo who had kindled his desire to travel outside the boundaries of the Shire.

Frodo laughed a little, bitterly. “But I never thought it would be like this.”

Boromir ached to lie in the moonlight with Frodo as his willing lover, cuddled in his arms looking up at him in adoration, spilling his heart like a babbling brook.

Instead the moonlight made Frodo look pale, weary, broken. His strength and dignity thus far – well, Boromir had expected halflings to be weak, sniffling creatures, easy and pleasurable to bully – but this one had strength beyond endurance.

Boromir sneezed several times but then begged to hear tell more of the Shire, and Frodo went on in a soft, sad voice, as if he believed he would never see these things again. His voice was like music, but his eyes-- Always his eyes left Boromir breathless. They were filled with light and ethereal magic. Boromir knew that if he wished, he could force himself on him, squeeze his delicate skin until it bruised, kiss his lips until they bled, and still it would never be enough.

They slept, and Boromir did not crush Frodo to him, nor did he tie him up. He simply clutched his hands, cradling them inside his much larger hands.

If only…if only I could sleep with this in my arms every night for as long as I lived…



Just after passing through Tharbad and crossing over the Greyflood, Boromir realized that he was burning with fever and all his muscles ached.

“I cannot continue – I am ill.”

“Shall we rest then – camp for the night?”

Boromir fell to one knee, dizzy, everything aching and hot. He wondered if Frodo would take advantage of his illness and flee.

Boromir burned with fever, and he did not think it was only that he was ill. Frodo was so beautiful, vulnerable yet strong. He had to have him – and willingly. He shivered. It was those eyes that brought on the fever.

“Frodo, I love you.”

“You are ill,” Frodo said, not meeting his eyes. “You should rest.”

“No…not yet,” Boromir said.

He crushed Frodo to him, planting a forceful kiss on his lips, ignoring his feeble pushes against him. Then Frodo went completely limp.

“I am weak,” Boromir said, releasing him. “So weak.”

“What will you do with me?” Frodo asked. His voice sounded so lost, so broken.

“Do not despair. My brother…he is fascinated with halflings. That is why I took you…for him.”

“What will you and your brother do with me?”

“Nothing. I will take you home. But I do not have supplies…we must get supplies…”

“How do I know that you will keep your word?”

“Gondorians are true of word. And this I vow. I will take care of you from now on. There shall be no more…”

He fell into a swoon.



“Frodo…Frodo…” Boromir was thirsty.

“I am here. You are dreadfully ill.” A cool cloth wiped his brow.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I would not do that. I will take care of you.”

“Sweet, sweet Frodo.”

Boromir’s heart cracked inside, just knowing that this beautiful creature that he had tried to break was so gentle and merciful to him after all he had been through.

Home…home…I must take him back to his green hills and gardens… I must take him back…

When next he was aware, his head rested on something soft. He saw that it was in Frodo’s lap and the dear halfling was leaning against a tree, fast asleep.

“Frodo,” he mumbled. His lips were cracked from fever. He felt limp and weak, but no longer feverish, sick. He was drenched with sweat. Frodo looked down at him with a weary smile.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Boromir closed his eyes. “Frodo, I will take you home.”

Frodo looked at him with aching wistfulness.




When the illness took Frodo, he was already weak from mistreatment, unaccustomed travel, long marches, not enough food, and the beating by the farmer. His breathing grew harsher and more labored by the hour, and his blue eyes became fever glazed. Boromir washed Frodo’s face with tenderness, marveling that he had ever struck him and worse -- that shameful whipping that had marred his beautiful skin and caused him agony. Frodo now looked at him in vulnerable desperation, each breath causing him more pain than the one before.

Boromir held him, wrapping him in his cloak to try to still his shaking. He told him tales from Gondor about bravery in battle and ancient Numenorean tales of giant waves. He went on to describe his longings of one day being King of all of Gondor and Eriador but that it was known that one day the king might return. He secretly hoped not in his lifetime. The tales brought peace to Frodo’s sweaty face and it seemed he breathed easier, and so Boromir continued to talk. There was no break in the fever and Boromir cursed the fact that they were so far from any village.

Frodo’s efforts became more feeble and his breathing more shallow. He moaned names Boromir did not know and seemed not at all to recognize where he was.

Icy dread seeped down Boromir’s limbs that he had done this – plucked a young, healthy halfling from a tree and then killed him.

Boromir did all he could to make Frodo comfortable. It was difficult in the wilderness so far from aid. He could only create a bed of his fur-lined cloak. Frodo shook violently. His brow was hot and he struggled for every breath.

He could not, would not die. Boromir’s chest contracted in agony. He felt Frodo’s brow. It burned, and Frodo looked at him through glazed eyes lit by that foolish trust that somehow Boromir, who had tortured and broken him, would ease his pain now.

Boromir took him in his arms and cradled him, wrapping the fur-lined cloak around him.

He settled against a tree, determined not to sleep. He could not bear to do so while Frodo suffered, while his breath came out in gurgling wheezes.

Boromir slipped into a dream about the green hills of the Shire. Frodo was there, laughing in the sun, beckoning Boromir to look at a pair of nesting bluebirds.

When Boromir woke, he knew. The bundle in his arms was still and cold, the raspy breathing silenced. Boromir touched his face – cold. Frodo’s eyes were open, gazing upward at the sky – their color still rivaling the sky in its brilliance. Boromir held him and wept.


Boromir buried Frodo in the ground next to the withered tree. He felt as if he should leave a marker, but he did not. He wanted to bury with Frodo this horrible act. He would forever keep secret from Faramir the gift he had tried to bring to him. He wanted to go away and never come back, and yet he was reluctant to leave the spot.

He would return to Minas Tirith, and when he arrived there, he vowed to plant flowers over the grave of the little frog under the withered White Tree.

END