Cheerlessly Boromir trudged along the muddy excuse for a road. To blazes with these Horselords, he thought. Couldn’t they build a decent stone-paved road? The road had been fine earlier, hard-packed dirt bordered by a low-growing ground cover, but a hard rain just after noon turned the dirt to mud and the verge to a spongy bog. He shifted the strap that held his shield slung over one shoulder, and adjusted the hang of the metal-bound horn at his hip. His bedroll and pack completed his burden, and once more he regretted running his horse cross-country instead of following a wide bend in the road. His horse, accustomed to the paved roads and groomed fields of Gondor, had gone down, his hoof caught in the burrow of some small animal.
Boromir had been bruised in the fall, but the horse’s foreleg had snapped, and he had been forced to end the beast’s suffering. It had been a good horse, he recalled, but just a horse. He’d left the saddle and tack to rot with the carcass, able to carry only his weapons and pack.
He gazed across the plains, trying to see if he was within sight of Edoras, but even from his full height he could see little more than the next line of grass-covered hills. Glancing at the westering sun, he kept to the road, unwilling to risk becoming lost on the trackless plains. Before darkness fell, he found a protected spot to spend the night, carefully clearing the vegetation away from the small fire he kindled. A well-thrown stone had caught a hapless coney, which he butchered with his belt knife and roasted on the point of his sword. Sitting cross-legged on the bare ground, he waited for the meat to cook.
Whatever possessed him to set out alone for Rivendell? He had only the barest notion of where he was headed — westward through the Gap of Rohan, north along the feet of the Misty Mountains to the River Bruinen, then up-river to Rivendell. Hundreds of leagues, and now he didn’t even have a horse to carry himself and his gear. He should have insisted on an escort to the Council Lord Elrond had called, but his father would have none of it.
“A large party will draw too much attention,” the Steward had explained, uncharacteristically impatient with his older son. “And we need all our soldiers here while you’re gone, to defend Gondor.” He threw a disdainful glance at Faramir, who would be responsible for the safety of the White City while Boromir was away.
Knowing better than to argue with his father, he had left home ill prepared for such a long and arduous journey. The coney was half-roasted, when the sound of hoofbeats interrupted Boromir’s thoughts. Quickly dropping the half-cooked meat from the point of his sword, the Gondorian rose to meet the newcomer, sword ready at his side.
“What ho, stranger,” the Rider called from half a furlong’s distance. “By whose leave do you cross the Riddermark?”
Boromir recognized the voice though he could not discern the man’s features beneath the horsetail-plumed helmet. It had been several years since he had seen Théodred, Théoden’s son and heir to the throne of Rohan. He drove the point of his sword into the earth and raised his empty hands. “Who do you name stranger, Théodred?” he replied. “It is I, Boromir of Gondor, whom you have called friend and brother.”
Vaulting to the ground, Théodred rushed to embrace Boromir. “Was that your poor horse I came across three leagues to the east?” the Prince asked. “I thought I had taught you to treat your mounts better.”
“Even you would dispatch a horse with a shattered leg,” Boromir replied. “It was a kindness.”
“Yes, I saw his injury,” Théodred agreed. He stood back, both his hands on Boromir’s shoulders. “But what are you doing here? Is Gondor in need of more of our horses?”
Boromir shook his head. He had been cautioned not to speak of his mission to others lest the enemy learn of their plans. “I am on an errand for my father,” he explained cryptically, and said no more about it.
The prince of Rohan squatted down beside the fire and poked at the half-cooked meat. “Unless you’d rather stay here and make your own way across the Riddermark,” Théodred suggested, “come back with me to my éored. We will find you a mount, and you can be on your way.” He stood again as Boromir started to kick dirt over the fire. He whistled through his teeth and the chestnut stallion trotted to his side. “Brego can carry us both for a short way,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. Once in the saddle, he reached an hand to Boromir, kicking his foot free of the stirrup. With one foot in the stirrup, and the Rider’s strong grip, the Gondorian easily swung a leg over the horse’s rump and settled behind the saddle. Not the most comfortable seat, he thought as he freed the stirrup for Théodred’s use, but better than walking.
The éored was bivouacked the other side of the last range of hills, neat circles of small, two-man tents grouped around blazing cook-fires. Spitted on sturdy lances, sides of venison were turned over each fire, while pots bubbled away in the coals. The horses, hobbled for security, were pastured in the glen beyond the tents, in easy reach of water as well as the spring grass. The men who were not cooking were busy too, cleaning saddles and tack, sharpening lance-points and swords, repairing bowstrings and arrows. They looked up from their tasks as the double-ridden horse passed by, and greeted their leader.
They were mostly young men, in their twenties and early thirties, Boromir surmised. He and Théodred were of an age, both near to forty, but neither of them wed except to their calling as warriors. Nearly all the Rohirrim were fair of hair and skin, though there were a few with darker hair, as Théodred himself. Boromir knew Théoden King had found his bride in Minas Tirith, and her darker coloring had found its way to their only child. Brego stopped at the largest tent pitched in the campground, and stood quietly while his riders dismounted.
“I’ll see to Brego, my lord” a young man said, taking the reins over the horse’s head to lead him away. He was nearly man-tall, but still smooth-cheeked and thin. He was too young, Boromir thought, to be a warrior.
“I see you’re taking them younger these days,” Boromir remarked to Théodred. “I thought you had to be grown and bearded to join an éored.”
Unbuckling his armor, Théodred laughed. “Hengel’s parents were killed in an orc attack last year, so he tags along. His older brother is one of my best archers.” He paused, accepting a horn cup of ale from another of his men. He drank deeply from it, and passed it to Boromir. “He makes a good squire, besides.”
Boromir drained the horn, pleasantly surprised that the Riders carried ale with them on patrol. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t taste ale again until I reached…” he paused before he divulged his mission. “…my destination.”
“I will not ask you more, my friend,” Théodred assured him. He pulled aside the tent flap. “Here,” he said. “Let us get off our feet. I would think yours have had quite enough use today.”
The interior of the tent was dark, but Théodred sparked flint and steel to light a lantern that hung from the ridge pole. A canvas covered the ground, and a thin pallet was made in one corner. The tent was barely tall enough for either of them to stand upright, but there was enough clear space in the center for them to sit cross-legged. Boromir shed his pack and weapons, and laid his horn carefully atop his belongings.
“I knew it was you,” Théodred said. He dipped a cloth in a bucket of clear water and scrubbed the grime of the trail from his face and neck. He rinsed the dirt from the towel, and offered it to Boromir. “I saw your mark on the saddle you left with that poor horse.”
“Which is why you rode alone to find me?” It was good to wash after his unexpected trek on foot, and he pulled off his boots to cool his feet with the damp cloth.
“I knew there would be no danger.” The Prince of Rohan smiled. “It has been a long time, my friend, since I last visited the White City.” “Aye, it has,” Boromir agreed. “I thought you would have taken a wife by now, and had a brat or two running about the Golden Hall of Edoras.”
Théodred’s laugh filled the tent. “There is plenty of time for that,” he said. “I have not heard of a wedding for you, either,” he countered. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my cousin.”
“Young Éomer’s sister?”
“Aye.” He paused when Hengel returned, his hands full with two more horns of ale.
“My lords,” he muttered. “Meat will be ready in an hour, Cook says.” He ducked out of the tent without another word.
“The White Lady of Rohan, she’s called,” Théodred continued when they were again alone. “She’s as good with a blade as a warrior,” he warned. “It’ll take quite a man to thaw her, I imagine.”
“Perhaps when I return, I will court her,” Boromir suggested. The ale was cool and tasted fresh, and he complimented his host.
“We picked up the ale in the last village we passed through. The settlements keep us provisioned so we can ride light.”
Boromir thought of the wagons that followed Gondorian soldiers into battle, filled with provisions and gear. But they were fighting on the borders of Mordor, where none lived but the minions of the enemy. “You are fortunate,” he commented.
Their conversation covered many topics, martial and social, familial and personal. Hengel brought them plates of food, roast venison and biscuits, plain food but satisfying, and a small cask of ale. The bustle in the camp faded as the men found their way to their beds, and as the moon rose the young squire stuck his head into the tent once more.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked.
“No,” Théodred replied. “Get to your bed, Hengel. In the morning we must find a spare horse for Lord Boromir.”
“Yes, sir,” The youngster looked to the Gondorian, then back to his prince. “Good night, my lords.”
They both bid him good night, and he disappeared into the darkness.
“I’ve been remiss,” Théodred admitted. “I presumed you will stay with me this night.” He stood, shedding his outer clothing and boots.
“I need no invitation,” Boromir answered, getting to his feet. He pulled his bedroll from his gear and unrolled his blankets next to Théodred’s pallet. “To tell the truth, I had hoped to see you on this journey — though I thought it would be in Edoras.”
“This is a bit more rustic than home, I’ll admit. And it’s nothing like your city.”
Boromir loosened his belt, smiling at Théodred’s comments. “I suppose I can bear the privation,” he jested. He stripped until only a long-tailed shirt covered him from knee to shoulder, then faced the prince again. “A fair price to pay for your company.”
Théodred threaded his fingers into Boromir’s hair, and pulled their faces close. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, their foreheads touching, then softly touched his lips to Boromir’s.
Boromir did not answer; he simply returned the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to Théodred’s welcoming mouth. Their embrace strengthened, each of them crushing the other to his chest, holding so tightly they could each feel the other’s heart beating.
More words were not necessary as they sank to the ground, still kissing and tasting one another, their hands soon roaming over their remaining clothing, seeking bare skin, pushing away the impeding fabric until they lay back on the pallet, limbs entwined, bringing their growing arousals together.
Moaning deep in his throat, Boromir pulled his mouth away from Théodred, gasping for air. The dark-haired prince immediately bent his head to bite gently at the Gondorian’s neck, bringing another wordless expression of pleasure from Boromir. Breathing heavily, he swung one leg over Théodred’s body, straddling the Rider, thrusting his hips to excite them both all the more.
Though they were not frequent lovers, Boromir and Théodred had enjoyed each other’s company over many years, and they each remembered the desires of the other, touching and being touched as though they had spent a lifetime together. There was a hunger in Boromir’s kisses, an urgency in his caresses, and he drove Théodred to higher and higher levels of pleasure. He took the prince’s organ deeply into his throat, fondling the heavy orbs in their soft-skinned sac He sucked strongly, Théodred’s hands tangled in his hair. He sensed the imminent explosion a moment before his mouth was filled with Théodred’s seed, both salty and bitter on his tongue.
Shudders wracked the prince’s body as Boromir released him, but Théodred’s strong arms pulled the Gondorian to lie atop his chest. Boromir plundered his mouth, a deep kiss that demanded even more of the spent prince.
“Yes,” Théodred gasped when Boromir finally drew away to allow them both to breathe. “Take me,” he pleaded. “Now.”
Boromir’s own member was hard and throbbing, the swollen crown leaking copiously. Chest heaving with each breath, he drew back, and knelt between Théodred’s thighs. Absently he stroked his own erection, spreading the slick fluid down the thick shaft, around the sensitive rim, and over the velvety head.
Théodred’s eyes widened as he watched, and his breathing quickened. “Here,” he said, reaching under the pallet, pulling out a clay jar with a cork stopper. “Salve,” he explained and pressed the jar into Boromir’s outstretched hand, then shifted position, first sitting at the head of the bed, then turning around to lie face down, lifting the rounded globes of his rear.
Gently, almost reverently, Boromir stroked the smooth skin over the taut muscles. He traced the deep cleft with one finger, then reached between Théodred’s legs to fondle the soft sac once again. “You are so hot,” Boromir muttered. He rose up onto his knees and brought his erection to rest along Théodred’s cleft while he covered his fingers then his organ with the cool salve.
Théodred lifted his hips rhythmically, rubbing the throbbing sex along his rump.
“Slow down,” Boromir commanded, “lest you undo me too soon.” He traced the cleft more deeply, his slickened fingertips finding Théodred’s entrance. One finger slid easily into the hot channel, bringing a long, low moan from the prince’s mouth. Deep inside, he crooked his finger against the hidden gland, then inserted another as Théodred shouted his pleasure. Ready as he was, Boromir hurried, and as soon as the entrance was prepared he replaced his fingers with his steel-hard organ.
Slowly he eased himself into the welcoming body, the hot, tight channel caressing him as no hand or mouth ever had. “So hot,” he whispered, his voice more of a low moan, “so tight.” Once fully sheathed, he paused, breathing heavily to maintain control. He felt Théodred’s internal muscles adjust to his presence, then just as slowly as he had entered, he pulled back. He found a rhythm of thrust and withdrawal that grew in speed and intensity as the world narrowed to contain only the two of them, his hard, throbbing sex in its hot, tight sheath the center of his universe.
They moved together, each of them reaching new heights of ecstasy. Théodred’s second climax pushed Boromir over the edge, his seed pouring deep inside the prince’s body.
They lay together, Boromir spooned behind Théodred, until their ragged breathing returned to normal, until their pounding hearts quieted, then slept until the dawn’s light and Hegel’s voice roused them. They awoke with only a thin blanket covering them, and the young squire brought a bucket of steaming water into the tent and left quickly.
“Ah, Théodred,” Boromir whispered into the prince’s ear. “I fear your squire has seen our indiscretion.”
“No mind,” he answered, turning in Boromir’s embrace to kiss him good morning. “All my men are shield-bound — there’s no shame in this” He rolled away and got to his feet. “Here,” he said, tossing a towel to Boromir. “We have hot water to wash with, and breakfast awaits.”
The sun was halfway to its zenith when Boromir mounted his borrowed horse and bid the Prince of Rohan good-bye. At the crest of the next hill he turned to see Théodred still standing at the edge of the encampment. He lifted his arm in salute, knowing in his heart they would never meet again.