12. Lord of Stone
Light glimmered strongly through the surrounding curtains when he woke. At first he did not recall where he was, only knowing the familiar feeling of Boromir’s warm hip pressed tight under his thigh; he rubbed himself against it, as he was often wont to do, and felt himself swell deliciously with a lazy, morning erection. He moaned softly with satisfaction, sliding his hand up under the man’s nightshirt, over his muscled chest, finding a raised nipple before slipping his palm lingeringly down to skid over the plane of Boromir’s stomach and slide through the treasure-trail of coarse curls to his – flaccid, disinterested cock… ‘surely, he’s not that deeply asleep?’
In that instant, Théodred remembered, and blushed with shame, his erection wilting of a sudden; he felt like someone had thrown icy water over him. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes and he clung to Boromir, a whirlwind of emotions flowing through his mind - shame, dread, anger, fear, desperation. He wept in silence for several minutes, his body shaking, his lips pressed tight so as not to betray himself, until he felt a stir in the air behind him and deliberately heavy footsteps reminded him that there were attendants here. Théo quickly cuffed his face dry and made a performance of stretching as if just woken, then turned and sat up in bed.
“We have brought some warm water – if the Prince would like to bathe? We’ll wash the lord of stone…”
“No!” Theo was more abrupt than he meant to be. He made an effort to smile before continuing, “I will wash Lord Boromir from now on… And why do you call him that?”
The two healers glanced at one another, then one spoke, “His country – it translates as Stone-land, does it not?”
Theo nodded. He felt much better this morning; he stood and stretched upwards mightily, before he realised the short night-shirt revealed much more of himself than was reasonable. Not that he was prudish about nakedness, but such a display seemed rather indecorous in front of these near androgynous elves - ‘Why, they might even be female, with their long loose hair beneath the hooded, flowing robes – it was difficult to tell!’ He stood hands on hips, which settled his shirt to decency, and lifted his chin.
“And I’d like some proper clothes brought to me – when I have washed.”
He stared at them until they bowed their heads and withdrew, leaving behind them two buckets of warm, steaming water, a basket of wash-cloths, and soaps. A large, shallow metal pan was pushed into the far corner with a wooden rail at the side draped with flat-woven towels – ‘these elves certainly believed in taking their comforts with them’ – something that at this moment he was grateful for. His leg had only a light bandage over it now; he unwound it carefully and found the wounds scabbed and healing, though the surrounding skin was still pink and shiny. There probably wouldn’t even be much of a scar in a year or so. He stripped off the shirt and the dressing from his arm; the wound looked sound, and another few days and the stitches probably could come out. He bent and wrung out a cloth in the bucket before sniffing the soft soap – sandalwood and white flowers, a little sweet for his taste. Familiar, but he couldn’t remember from where…
He stepped into the metal pan and lathered his body vigorously, eventually giving in to the temptation of sliding a soap-slicked palm over his newly tumescent swelling. With a few slippery strokes he was significantly eager under his fist; he glanced at Boromir, but the still, overly-perfect lord was not a sight he wanted to be reminded of… He thought instead of a supposed hunting trip, allegedly to inspect the pastureland surrounding Minas Tirith, but really an excuse for healthy young men to indulge their appetites in the woods – he’d never looked at the ripe juices dribbled from a crushed peach in the same way again! At the thought he came with a smothered cry, furiously bucking his hips into his fist, and wondered ruefully if these curtains muted sound as well as wind!
As he washed himself clean with the rich white soap, he finally recalled the origin of the vaguely familiar scent – this is what Haldir smelled like. He was only glad he had already relieved himself before he brought to mind the elf’s muscular chest, and those strong arms around him. It would have seemed a betrayal when Boromir lay… Boromir. He slopped water over himself from the bucket, rinsing his body and legs. He reached for towels and dried himself briskly; behind knees, up thighs and between, over belly and chest to underarms. The textured flat-weave of the towels was unfamiliar, but pleasant. ‘Soft, he was getting soft… longing after fripperies’, he scolded himself, but secretly he admired the elves who managed to fight like fiends with supreme bravery and skill, yet still equip themselves with the niceties of life. He shrugged on the woollen robe rather than his nightshirt again after washing; it made him feel too much of the invalid to put it back on.
Going to Boromir, he pulled back the bedding and with some difficulty raised him enough to strip the nightshirt from him. He was heavy, but he moved like a man deeply asleep rather than with the dead weight of the unconscious. Théo slid fresh towels under him, wrung out wash-cloths and, beginning at his face, worked his way down Boromir’s body. Carefully he wiped his way over every limb, taking pains not to soak the bedding beneath the sleeping man or the bandage around his chest and shoulder. He lifted the light dressing: the two wounds were puckered, the flesh beaded with black stitches that crossed the seams of skin neatly in ordered rows. Boromir's flesh was a little warmer there, but not with the angry, fevered heat of infection as it had been; now it was swollen and pink, but Théo could see it was healing well. With an effort, Théo knelt at the side of the bed and pushed Boromir over to lie on his side while he gently cleaned around the exit wound. He wiped his back and buttocks, pushing the soapy cloth between his thighs, before drying him scrupulously. When he stood up and pulled him to lay flat again – Théo was slightly startled to find positive proof of why the Elves had nick-named Boromir ‘lord of stone’ ; it had nothing to do with Gondor!
‘Proves he’s alive!’ thought Théodred with a grin, but what was he going to do with it? Well, he had to wash him… He hesitated slightly; for it seemed a bit like taking an unfair advantage, but then he resolutely wrung out a fresh cloth and soaped it in his hands. At the first touch Theo practically undid himself as a surge of blood took him unawares. He tried hard to ignore his own growing eagerness, waving stiffly in front of him between the folds of the open robe, seemingly with a life of its own. Théo smiled at memories of happier times when an occupation such as this had been a precursor of pleasure for them both. After a hard day’s riding, the luxury of hot water, soft towels and privacy in his quarters in Meduseld had been a delight rarely afforded, and much appreciated, by both of them. And even as his flesh grew hot in memory, the thought came unlooked for… ‘what would he do without...?’ He would carry on of course: become king in his time, sire children as was his duty, rule fairly, defend his land… and ever regret the one who was missing from his life… He pushed such thoughts away to pay attention to the task in hand… Concentrating on Boromir made his arousal even worse, for the ‘lord of stone’ showed no signs of subsiding anytime soon. But Theo persevered, perhaps taking a little longer than was strictly necessary to wash around, above, below and between the mighty Gondorian… thighs. He made a cursory visit with a hasty cloth down to Boromir’s feet and back up to…
‘This would not do!’
Théodred gave himself a quick tap on the end – it stung, but it was nowhere near enough… if anything it had the opposite effect! Theo moaned, his hips writhing involuntarily; the much-stretched skin desperately wanted to be touched, slicked, held… He closed his eyes, paused, and hit the head hard with a vicious flick of his wrist, following for good measure with a desperate twist of the sac. He yelped and stuffed the wash-cloth in his mouth, forgetting all about the soap.
It was probably the soap that finished it – all desire departed. He rinsed his mouth furiously, spat and wiped his tongue, grateful to note Boromir had also deflated. He dried the man quickly and thought with a rueful smile how he would make Boromir squirm with embarrassment in front of his éored by telling them the long, and suitably embellished, tale of ‘Boromir and the Bed-bath’. Because they would be together again, to tell tales around the camp-fire, or across the heath over foaming mugs of good rohirric ale, to lie again in each other's arms… of course they would!
A foot stamped outside the curtain in lieu of a knock. Théo spread a hasty towel over Boromir’s midriff and wrapped his own robe closed.
The healers returned with both fresh clothes for Théodred and a covered basket and tray; for the Lord Boromir’, they told him, and made it quite clear that when Théo had dressed they had their own tasks to fulfil here. The healers cleared away the wash things and while they carried out the washing-pan between them, Theo donned his unfamiliar clothes. On their return he was fully-dressed; his own boots had been included in the pile of clothes. The healers bowed, but held the curtain open for him to leave.
“The Marchwarden is waiting for you below,” One elf said firmly. “Lindir will escort you,” he added in a voice that wasn’t to be gainsaid.
“I will be back.” said Théodred, and allowed himself, somewhat mistrustfully, to be ushered out into the care of the elf waiting outside the curtains.
He had a fair idea of what sort of ‘medicine’ might be under the cover on that tray, and he felt extremely possessive about where some strange elf might be putting it.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.