Prince of Horses, Lord of Stone: 41. On the Road to Dol Guldur - [pwp]

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41. On the Road to Dol Guldur - [pwp]

Boromir awoke dull-headed, his mouth dry and woolly; he stumbled from the bed and, after listening at the bathing room door and hearing nothing, went in to relieve himself. The damp towels spoke of the place having already been used so he knew he could take his time. He swilled his mouth with cold water and chewed on one of the softened twigs the elves favoured to clean their teeth; then he splashed his face with cold water to wake himself properly, before washing quickly with the remains of the heated water. He towelled himself dry and hesitantly went to listen at Celeborn’s door – silence. He went to his own room and dressed rapidly. A tap at the door and the chamberlain entered with hot tea… and a tisane of much needed willow-bark!

“I thought it might be of use,” he said, and set down the tray before turning to leave.

“Where is Lord Celeborn?” asked Boromir, admiring again the elf’s uncanny attention to detail.

“He breakfasts in the Hall. He said to let you wake on your own then bid you join them.”

“I shall come straight away.”

“They eat slowly, there is no hurry - the horses are still being gathered and saddled and the wains packed. Make sure you drink the willow – you’ll feel better for it.”

And with that he was gone.

Downstairs, the bustle was palpable; there was no disorganised scurry, simply the purposeful stride of many elves completing their allocated tasks. However, at the side-table where Lord Celeborn and Haldir sat, the atmosphere was far from calm. Both directed and supervised the labours of the day, answered queries and gave orders, yet neither looked the other in the eye to break the palpable tension between them. Celeborn caught sight of Boromir and waved him to serve himself with food from a nearby table and then join them. A servitor brought more hot tea to the table, placing the tray and fresh cups within reach of his lords before silently slipping away. Boromir helped himself and offered to refresh the elven-lords’ cups. Celeborn accepted; Haldir waved his offer away with barely disguised irritation. Boromir withdrew to a corner of the table. He drank the fragrant tea gratefully, but only toyed with the bread and fruit he didn’t particularly want.

Celeborn frowned over a list offered by a warden come from the stables with an inventory of animals.

“Mmmm… Have Finarfin saddle as many horses as we can find. I would empty Lórien to the destruction of that sorcerous hill… there may be few enough of us as it is…”

“Exactly!” Burst out Haldir. “I should come as well!”

‘Ahh, that is the way of it,’ thought Boromir. Haldir was clearly furious and barely containing his anger, the stiffness in his posture from more than simply his injured back.

Celeborn waved the messenger away, back with his reply to the stable-master, before returning his attention to another list.

“We have spoken of this.” He did not look at Haldir.

“You spoke, my Lord – I was forced to listen!” hissed Haldir.

No one much beyond the table heard, but those nearest still made sure their attention was elsewhere. Boromir gazed steadfastly at his plate and toyed with a crust. Celeborn looked up, glanced around to see many bent backs and turned heads before turning to face Haldir directly.

“You are my Marchwarden. Since the Lady rides with us, your place is to remain and command Lórien in our stead. If our plans go awry, there must be somebody here I can trust to lead out people…”

“If things go awry I should be at your side!” snapped Haldir.

“If things go awry I do not want you at my side!” barked Lord Celeborn, then instantly regretted the remark, seeing the pain and shock flash across Haldir’s face.

“Pull that curtain!” he ordered Boromir, “No, you stay here…” he added when Boromir rose hastily and positioned himself on the outside of the screening drape.

“Come. Sit down, Boromir; pour us some more tea.”

Boromir resumed his seat and with admirable composure schooled his face to studied neutrality. He all too well knew the turmoil that flooded the two elven-lords’ thoughts; he needed no far-speak to see and hear that!

Celeborn leant across the table and seized his warden’s forearm.

“I do not want you hurt more…” He stilled Haldir’s protests by gripping his arm more firmly. “Listen to me. You cannot ride that distance without taking more injury; the wound is too recent.”

“I can take poppy!”

Celeborn shook his head and slid his hand to clasp the warden’s fingers in his own.

“You hate that… Meleth, I would not have you hurt for all of Arda, either by my words, or actions.” He raised his other hand to silence a further retort forming on Haldir’s lips. “But on this I will be obeyed – you will stay here. You will take my place as Lord of Lórien until I return – and do not doubt me, I will return to you. I will!”

A moment of intensity passed between them as they stared into each others’ feas, a moment of fierce love and reassurance that teased agonizingly at the edges of Boromir’s mind, less than an image, more than a feeling.

Haldir raised his lord’s hand that clasped his and kissed it in fealty.

“As my lord wishes.”

“To have you safe… Nay, I don’t know what I would have done had I lost you…”

“And what if I lost you? Who will be there to keep you from charging rashly forward, eh?”

“He will.”

Both elves looked at the man, who had slipped back into his seat and tried to become invisible. Boromir looked up quickly and stared into their blue eyes; looking from one to other he saw: challenge in one's, doubt in the other's, amusement at the man’s discomfort, and exasperation at his love’s seemingly perverse flippancy. The man swallowed hard, then quickly knelt before them and laid a hand to his breast, bowing his head.

“If by my life I can protect him – I will.”

Haldir raised an eyebrow. There was the slightest of pauses.

“Well, that might be enough, I suppose.”

Boromir raised his eyes and found they were both smiling at him, amused but not unkindly so. He scrambled back into his seat.

Lord Celeborn released his warden’s hand and reached to clap Boromir on the shoulder.

“Well said, but I doubt it will come to that…”

“Nevertheless…” said Haldir, “if you make an oath, adan, be assured, the Elves do not take failure to fulfil them lightly…”

Boromir lifted his chin. “I do not take oaths lightly either.”

Celeborn laughed out loud. “The pair of you – stiff-necked and prideful, both!”

He reached out to them to take a hand in each of his:

“I am the Lord of Lórien. It is not a position I plan to leave as yet. Time may alter the Golden Wood now that the power of Nenya passes, but your faithfulness, of both of you, my other selves – I doubt that not at all!”

And both elf and man felt a comforting warmth seep through them, up from their hands to their hearts, that was more than simply a warm hand’s clasp of friendship.

Haldir acquiesced with a single dip of the head; he was most unhappy to let his lord leave him behind, but he knew his place was still to serve the Elves of Lórien. Should disaster strike, he would have to put aside grief for duty, but after that, if he survived, he’d dispatch himself to Mandos by his own hand rather than they should remain apart! The gentle pressure and shake by the hand that clasped his let Haldir know his lord had heard that thought also, but did not approve it.

Someone scratched at the fabric of the curtain for permission to enter.

“Come – We still have much to do, and I wish to be gone before noon” said Celeborn.

With the clearing of the tension in the air about their lord, the atmosphere in the Hall lifted. The campaign they organised no longer felt like a desperate end-game, but became a final push to victory… or death.

The elves crossed the Anduin, ferried by every boat they could muster, over the course of the afternoon. They made good progress before they stopped for the night to rest the animals and let the wounded among them have some respite. The column of marching elves was flanked by horses with elves mounted in pairs, one to ride, the other at his back to defend him and the infantry from any attack. At their head rode Lord Celeborn and his guards, in the middle rode Lady Galadriel surrounded by her ladies, garbed as archers and ready to defend her. Behind her marched the elves who had sustained small injuries and were perhaps not quite as quick, and behind them the wains of their supplies followed by more riders, both doubled and single as a rearguard.

Aerandir rode with Lord Celeborn’s guard, along with Gwindor who refused to be denied a place, even if he still needed heavy doses of herbs to dull the pain, though he had reluctantly agreed to sit in one of the wagons if the effort of riding became too much. Before they’d left the City of Trees he’d vowed he would disobey all orders and follow them anyway if he was refused the concession of riding out with the elvish army. Haldir had ground his teeth with anger at this, but Celeborn had warned him with a thought and look and he’d held his tongue. Gwindor’s mithril mask prevented any expression being seen, but by his fiercely controlled breathing, Boromir guessed what effort riding now cost him. Aerandir rode at his side, knee to knee, his face nearly as set as Gwindor’s mask in an effort to conceal his anxiety.

Lórindol and Lindir rode doubled, part of the guards on the flank. Boromir saw them canter lightly up and down the line occasionally. Clearly they were revelling in the notion of attacking their bitter enemies, even to the point of performing riding tricks as they galloped by, dismounting to place a foot to the ground before springing back into the saddle again. Normally, elves did not need to ride saddled, but when riding to battle they needed to be both secure, and to carry their own bedrolls and water with them – the wains were needed to haul provisions for the infantry. The use of bridle, saddle and stirrups made climbing onto a horse, even one galloping, no more than climbing a stair and a number of the younger elves amused themselves and their audience with more and more daring tricks… until Celeborn sent a quiet word that if they had that amount of energy to spare, perhaps they would care to volunteer to brush and wash all the horses when they camped that night.

The army marched until after sunset. A few stray bands of orcs were seen on the plain, but they had no stomach for attacking a column of well-armed and determined elves. The orcs slunk away of their own accord, or were chased away by the outriders’ arrows. Fires were lit when they camped, water boiled for hot drinks and travelling rations issued. Lórindol and Lindir sought out and found Boromir tucked up against some sheltering rocks and greeted him jovially as they slumped down beside his camp-fire.

“How goes it?” grinned Lórindol.

“How’s the food?” said Lindir, helping himself to a piece of the flat camp-bread that was Boromir’s plate.

“Well, and good,” said Boromir, whacking Lindir’s fingers away from his supper.

“Leave the adan alone, glutton. Go get your own… and bring mine back while you’re at it!” called Lórindol as Lindir stood and strolled away to where the cooks had set their hearths.

He returned shortly balancing steaming, savoury meat and cooked wild greens on large flat-bread ‘plates’.

“Eat well.” Lindir announced cheerfully, “They say it will be dried rations from tomorrow – we enter the woods of Dol Guldor before noon, and nothing there is wholesome to eat.”

“Make sure you fill your water-flask as well, my adan,” said Lórindol. “The streams there will be tainted, if not by foulness them by sorcery.”

The elves attacked their food with gusto, leaving aside words in favour of enjoying the cured pork, sauced and cooked on griddles over the open fires, along with the hot sallet of wild greens gathered by keen eyed cooks along their way. After making a performance of licking his fingers clean of the last of the grease, Lórindol leaned nearer his lover, approaching for a kiss and sliding his hands to the other's waist. The kiss never landed; instead he dived inside the front of Lindir’s tunic and produced a fat, winter apple.

“Mmm… I thought you had added to your girth very rapidly!” crowed Lórindol, bowling Lindor onto his back in search of more apples. He pulled another five out triumphantly in the course of tickling Lindir unmercifully.

“I bought them for all of us!” choked Lindir.

Lórindol threw Boromir another hidden apple.

“Really – I did!” groaned Lindir, wheezing with laughter because now Lórindol had straddled his hips while searching vigorously inside his clothes.

“Ow – that’s not an apple!” Lindir yelped.

Lórindol just grinned, “I know.”

Lindir pushed him off and struggled to straighten his disarrayed clothing.

“You’re nothing but a vexsome dwarf…” Lindir growled, his smile negating the meaning… until he looked around. “Hey? Where did the apples go?”

Boromir had bulging cheeks; he raised empty hands innocently. Both elves glanced at each other… then pounced on the man. One elf would have been more than a match – two was no contest; they swiftly had him in complete disarray, unlaced, breathing hard from the friendly tussle… a row of four apples set neatly to one side. Boromir was flattened, laid on his back under the warm bodies of the two of them.

“I’d say we were still an apple short, meleth,” murmured Lórindol.

“We’d better search him more thoroughly then…” muttered Lindir throatily. His own, ‘accidentally mistaken’ for an apple, prominent inside his leggings, now lying hot and hard against Boromir’s thigh.

“What… about the others?” Boromir gasped as Lórindol’s hand snaked down his loosened waistband, gliding over his belly to brush the damp curls below. Boromir groaned softly, a shiver of expectation ran through him as his loins stirred in response to the elves’ touch.

“We have excellent hearing… but can see and hear nothing if we choose to,” whispered Lindir nibbling at Boromir’s ear. “…Would you have us search further, my adan?”

Boromir gulped at the feel of the soft inquisitive tongue exploring his ear-lobe. He could smell the warmth of the elvish must, and knew they must be able to smell the passion on his skin as well. He felt Lindir shift off his body – all the better to pull at the laces to Boromir’s small-clothes. Boromir closed his eyes, and the searching fingers halted at their task, awaiting permission. He drew a deep breath and nodded decisively. The tongue became deep kisses over his neck and jaw. One set of hands explored his ribs, sliding up over his nipples, as other nimble fingers swiftly unlaced him.

“My… I do believe I’ve discovered prettier fruit than an apple…” breathed Lindir.

The cool night air made Boromir's exposed flesh quiver, until he felt warm breath over his loins. Lindir blew gently, and Boromir hissed with expectation his erection jumping to full attention. Lórindol shifted, turning his head to look down.

“Shall I taste this strange new fruit, then?” Breathed Lindir, looking into Lórindol’s eyes.

“I believe you should… for the sake of exploration”

Boromir’s hips jerked as the elf’s tongue gave a tiny lick to the swollen, shiny tip.

“Ah… and what have we here? I believe there’s a pair of fat cherries too! Something for each of us then…”

Lindir’s hand cradled his sac and Boromir moaned, mouth open, eyes closed. Lórindol moved, reversing his position, as Lindir quickly and efficiently pulled off Boromir’s boots, leggings and small clothes. Lórindol kissed the man’s belly, making him writhe under their duel assault. The man felt a saddle-bag dragged forward and pushed under his buttocks to raise them. Lórindol’s body lay against his arm and chest. Boromir reached out to explore, and felt Lórindol quiver as he found the prominent bulge in the elf’s leggings. He kneaded and stroked, rewarded by Lórindol’s gasps and the elf fumbling to undo his own laces to allow the man more access. Boromir cried out loud, then hastily bit his lip to contain his ecstatic groans. His back arched, his eager hips thrust upwards – both elves tasted the sweet ‘fruit’ of his loins; their heads brushing together as they moved in rhythm. Lórindol had the man’s ‘cherries’ captured inside a soft, liquid mouth, running his tongue over and round the swollen glands, while Lindir sucked with increasing force, moving his head back and forth to control Boromir’s efforts to thrust hard into his mouth.

It did not take long before Boromir was undone by the two cunning tongues. Lindir stretched forward to clamp a hand over then man’s mouth to muffle his cries of release. The man lay on his back gasping, while the elves, fuelled by his reactions, found the sensitive parts of each others bodies to excite. He could hear flesh slip on flesh, causing soft moans and gasps, before he drifted into a post-coital daze. He woke to feel more warm lingering touches on his body.

“Too soon…” he mumbled.

“Are you sure…?” whispered Lindir at his back. Then he did something to jolt the man to awareness. “Are you so sure…?”

Boromir nodded, sighed, squirmed against the oiled finger penetrating him, probing to find, and finding that sweet bundle of tissue inside him – Bormir shook his head… ‘No… Yes… Oh yes!’ He opened his mouth and Lórindol filled it with a deep kiss of twining tongues. Boromir could feel that the two elves were naked now, although above them all was the roughness of a covering blanket.

“Join us, sweet one,” Lindir purred, nipping the back of the man’s shoulder with sharp teeth.

Boromir groaned, arching away as the elf pushed another finger inside him, loosening the tight band of muscle. Lórindol’s arousal was there to push against the man’s belly; his eager fingers found Boromir’s sac and massaged the no longer unwilling cock to attention again. The other hand snaked over Boromir’s body to stroke Lindir’s flank, making him shiver in anticipation. They writhed together in building pleasure, before Lórindol shifted.

“Lean him back.” Lórindol said and shifted position to lay on his back over the saddle bag, raising his knees high and wide.

Boormir felt the shift and was ready as Lindir withdrew his fingers and whispered in his ear:

“Take him, sweet one, he waits for you”

Boromir slid forward over the elf, eager, hard, his cock nudging against the elf’s hot swollen sac. He fumbled to place himself against the elf’s tightness and felt oily slickness. He grinned wolfishly ‘so, the elf was ready for him…’ and thrust in hard, to be rewarded with a harsh gasp. Lórindol’s hot ring of muscle automatically tightened around him at the sudden intrusion. The elf grabbed Boromir behind the neck, pulling him down to kiss his lips and ease the thrusting. Then Boromir felt the warmth of Lindir's body over his back, and the elf’s lengthy hardness pressing against his own slicked opening. He moaned into Lórindol’s mouth as Lindir slowly penetrated him with a long, very controlled stroke. Boromir shook his head free to breathe and pulled back from Lórindol. When the man pushed back inside, more slowly this time, Lindir matched his body’s stroke; the ecstasy almost made him come then and there.

“Sshh… sshh… gently…” muttered Lórindol, “…there should be more than this.”

Lindir fumbled a hand between their bellies to grasp the slender, engorged head of Lórindol’s erection, making the elf shiver and grunt with pleasure as his partner’s hand slid up and down. Boromir could only nod, slack-jawed, as he filled and was filled by the most exquisite pleasure. He could smell the heavy waves of mounting passion rising from their bodies, thick, sour-sweet. His whole body throbbed, consumed with heat and lust and wanting. As he rocked forward, Lórindol’s hips rose to meet him and Lindir once more grazed the sweet spot inside him. Boromir’s eyes rolled up into his head, his eyelids fluttering; it was more than he could stand, and yet he wanted more… more…

He let Lindir control the rhythm of their love-making, easing back against the delicious pressure from behind, then pushing deep into welcoming heat. Lindir thrust again, finding a pace that left all three heady and gasping. Exquisitely, their passions built in intensity, but besides the delicious here and now, Boromir suddenly had the remembered feel of another’s body flash into his mind, another’s willing, urgent responses. One familiar, hard-muscled body against his became another’s, softer, different… became the musky scent of white flowers and exotic green woods, became the throaty groans of a beloved voice and a scent redolent of warm leather… He shook his head, helpless.

The rapture spiralled to bursting point, faster and fiercer, until… until… with a great groan, Boromir could take no more. He came in great shuddering waves of pleasure that wracked his body. Lórindol gripped Boromir’s hips hard, quavering, thrusting urgently against him to find his own shuddering release. As Lindir arched to push himself inside still further, harder, to come with a muffled cry though bitten lips; his body arching. spasming into Boromir in a series of lessening after-shocks, until he too was utterly spent, boneless and breathless. The two tumbled to one side off Lórindol, who grunted and carefully stretched his cramped legs straight to lie panting, eyes closed.

None of them could move at first. Then Lórindol fumbled the blanket over them and reached to pull the half-conscious Boromir towards him. Lindir shivered as the heat left his body and spooned back against the man, feeling Lórindol’s hand reach over to cup his hip-bone. Boromir sank instantly into a deep sleep.

“Remind me to hunt for apples again sometime,” Lórindol muttered before sinking into exhausted reverie.

Lindir just smiled, before his senses drifted away into dreams.

The three awoke in the pre-dawn light, chilly and stiff. They groped to find their scattered clothes, struggling into them before huddling together again for a little more hastily caught sleep. After the sun rose the rest of the camp began to stir, and none of the three could ignore the smirks and glances of the elves camped nearest to them. Choosing not to hear out of politeness was one thing… but a raging tide of pure lust could hardly be dismissed! Boromir found himself colouring as he hastily gathered his strewn boots and tunic. When he realised the covert glances were distinctly tinged with envy, he blushed even more.

Lindir threw him one of the remaining apples.

“Eat up, Stone-lord. We want you to keep your strength up!” He winked and laughed.

Boromir turned crimson and sat down hard against the rocks, hoping to hide until the heat calmed from his face. A mixture of emotions rushed through him: anger at their presumption, chagrin that he had enjoyed them so much; shame because he felt like a wanton… and the realisation that, although Celebmir was still there inside him, it was Boromir who had thoroughly enjoyed being swivved legless by a pair of elves! Lórindol hobbled back from the cooks’ hearths with three horn beakers of hot tea. He handed them around and slumped down beside Boromir, then winced and dragged a blanket under him to sit on. Boromir stared at his tea.

Lórindol glanced up at Lindir, who shrugged and bit into his apple.

They sipped the tea in silence for a few long moments. Lórindol spoke first:

“Shall I plait your hair, Lord Boromir? It’s grown long these days… almost like an elf’s.”

It was true; his hair did hang long, well past his shoulders, these days. It seemed to have grown very quickly, but then… if felt like ages and ages since… He sighed. Hazy, unsteady memories slowly returning told him he had started out from another place, and before that, there was a white city of stone where he had a father, a brother, and a quest, now brought to completion in spite of him rather than because of him.

“My Lord…”began Lórindol again.

“Nah, don’t ‘lord’ me,” said Boromir, “I am not as I was.”

“No,” said the elf, “for good or ill that is true, but I do not think it for ill.”

He turned. “Lindir, pass my bag, I want my comb and lotion. My friend Boromir needs his hair attended to.”

Lindir passed them over, sniffing the air as he did so. “I smell fresh bread. Looks like I have an errand also.” And he strode off following his nose.

Lórindol set out his comb and lotion and hair fastenings. Boromir watched him.

“Come friend, let me do you this service,” said Lórindol.

Boromir’s hair had been arranged in elvish plaits. He couldn’t remember it being done, perhaps when his ‘other’ self had held sway, but he could see they were mussed and loosened and needed attention. He thought for a moment, then slide across to sit in front of Lórindol. The elf teased out the tangled fastenings and quickly loosed the braids, trying as much as he could not to pull the man’s hair. He poured lotion into his hands and smoothed them through the kinked hair, before gently massaging Boromir’s scalp with slow firm pressure. At first the man had held himself stiffly, but under the studied attention he gradually relaxed, and began to enjoy the skilful ministrations. Lórindol began to carefully comb the knots out, working from the bottom to the top. With practised fingers he divided the smoothed hair and began to plait, shifting his position now and again with a soft grunt – which made Boromir grin as he remembered why Lórindol was sore!

“Turn for me,” said the elf.

Boromir shifted, presenting to Lórindol the side of his head that now bore a thick streak of pure silver-white hair falling from above his right eye. The elf touched it reverently, stroking his fingers through the shining fall.

“You have changed, my adan. I did not know you before, so I cannot say for worse or for better, but I do know that if it were for the worse then truly you must have been a paragon of virtue before.”

Boromir laughed, “Nay, not that!”

“Then it must be for better; indeed I know no better, braver, finer man… save perhaps one…”

“You met my Théodred?”

“Ah… Then perhaps I should say ‘two’…”

“Aragorn.”

“Yes,” said the elf, “He will be your king – is that not so?”

Boromir nodded, his head drooping, he sighed heavily.

“And you will be his steward?”

Boromir shook his head.

“No?” said Lórindol in surprise. “But I thought that was your rank, Lord of the Stone-land.”

“I betrayed his trust, I failed my part in the quest – how can I return there in disgrace? No – I have a brother; he will become Steward after my father…”

Boromir thought of Aragorn being introduced to his father… ‘Sweet Eru… whatever did that meeting go like!’ His mind raced through several imagined scenarios, but none of them included him as part of them. Boromir paused in shock at the thought… How could he go back? How could he NOT go back? But if he did - what then? What would he do? What place could there be for him there? He mulled the seemingly intractable positions over in his mind while Lórindol deftly plaited and arranged his hair into warrior’s knots.

“For all that you think you have not achieved, there is much that you have. You should not ignore that as you weigh the possibilities,” Lórindol said quietly. “You have done the Lord and the Lady great service here, and have proved your strength, your courage, your loyalty…”

“But that was the other one… Celebmir did that!”

Lórindol laughed out loud and clapped Boromir on the shoulder, “But you are Celebmir. And you are Boromir. And you are the Horselord’s great love, and Tasarion’s…” he paused for a fraction, “…friend. And ours as well.” He put his arm around Boromir’s shoulder, “We can be more than one thing at a time. You are all of them!”

They sat in silence for a short while; Boromir mulling over his thoughts, Lórindol remaining with a comforting arm of assurance around the man’s shoulder. Around them the camp stirred into busyness – a sight ultimately so familiar to Boromir that he scarce noticed it was elves and not men who yawned, stretched, folded bed-rolls and shucked back into cast off boots and leathers under the pale, dawning sun.

“Here!” shouted Lindir trotting back with a cloth holding hot bread. He divided it between them.

“We‘ll need to eat this as we ride – they’re getting the horses ready,” he announced.

Lórindol pushed on Boromir’s shoulder to help him rise. “Well, I want the blanket today.”

Lindir sniggered, and Lórindol cuffed his arm as he passed.

“Next time - you can go at the bottom!” he said and went to gather his saddlebags.

“Oh – there’s to be a next time?” grinned Lindir, mumbling somewhat because his mouth was full of bread.

Boromir stood, shook back his warrior braids, and lifted his chin. “Might be,” he said and swaggered off… the effect only slightly marred by the swaying touch of ‘saddle’ soreness in his walk.

Lindir watched him go. “Really?” he murmured to himself, “I’ll look forward to that!”

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.

Story Information

Author: Elen Kortirion

Status: General

Completion: Work in Progress

Era: 3rd Age - Ring War

Genre: Action

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 09/02/09

Original Post: 04/03/08

Go to Prince of Horses, Lord of Stone overview

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