Title & Chapter Number: Everholt 8-9/?
Author(s): - Author's Index
Website: Dalo's Archive
Fandom: Middle Earth
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. I'm just a guy who loves guys loving guys, filling in some gaps, with all due respect to Tolkien.
Warnings: Slash (duh), Angst. Homosexual relationships and acts. Nothing kinky, but definitely down and dirty at times (we're talkin' NC-17, folks). You gotta problem wit dat? Here's a tip: DON'T READ IT!!!
Betas: Elfscribe (Luv ya!)
Cast: Boromir/Théodred
Timeline: Third Age
Spoilers: None
Summary: Radagast takes it upon himself to heal Boromir's broken heart by encouraging the Gondorian to take a trip down memory lane.
Notes: This fic is part of the same story arc which began with "The Hand of the King," my first fic, and will continue with "The Heart of the King."
Chapter 8 – Everholt, July, 3005, TA
I sat at the table, sipping my second glass of wine, attempting to make it last. You only had one bottle after all. And I wanted you to enjoy all the wine you liked.
You turned from the hearth and sauntered towards me, a small bounce in your step. You continued around the table, patting my shoulder as you passed. "Just a while longer," you said. I turned and watched your back as you reached into your pack which hung from a nearby tree. You withdrew a map case and returned to the table.
"Let us dispense with business while we wait. Here are the latest details of Rohan's forces," you said as you presented the ornately carved case, which I accepted. "I'm sure you will find all the information complete and accurate. There's no need to review it now. I can tell you that our forces have grown, with new volunteers joining every day. The hearts of the Rohirrim are strong and valiant."
"Of that we have no doubt," I said, picking up your refilled glass. "More wine?" I asked, offering it to you.
"My thanks, Boromir," you replied as you accepted the glass and drank.
I stood and carried your documents to my own pack. "I too have brought updated maps," I said, withdrawing a map case with the seal of Gondor emblazoned on it. "They include the latest reports from our scouts." I returned and held the case out to you. "The forces of Mordor are increasing as well."
We spent the better half of the hour discussing the latest developments. You would occasionally move to the hearth to turn the meat on its spit and apply more sauce. My stomach was beginning to growl in anticipation.
Finally, you removed the meat from the spit and brought it to the table on a large platter. "I think you'll like this," you said as you sat it on the table.
"Unfortunately, we are out of wine," I observed, holding the empty bottle upside down over your glass. A single blood-red drop fell into the crystal.
You said nothing, but moved to your pack once more. You rummaged through the contents and turned to me holding another bottle of Meril's Mysteries like a trophy.
"Never fear, Gondor," you proclaimed.
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. You had played the same game the year before. And yet I *was* surprised. And pleased.
"Perhaps you should tell me how I am to believe your military reports when you seem unable to count to two?" I asked good-naturedly. "Perhaps one thousand warriors are actually two thousand? Or three?"
"No, just two. This I swear," you said as you returned to the table, sitting the bottle before me. "Would you be so kind as to open this one?"
I began to uncork the wine as you moved to your seat opposite me. "Oh," you said, "I almost forgot." You grabbed your shirt by the tails and, in one perfect continuous motion, peeled it off over your head and tossed it onto a stub of a branch on a nearby tree. "If I should stain that tunic with sauce, I would never hear the end of it from our washmaiden. Is something wrong, Gondor?" you asked as you sat down. I had momentarily suspended my task hypnotized by the bare skin of your muscular torso.
I attempted to act nonchalant as I resumed the uncorking. "No," I squeaked. My voice had cracked embarrassingly. I cleared my throat and continued in a ridiculously deep voice, "Nothing is wrong, Rohan. Nothing whatsoever."
You laughed and asked, "Is the wine being troublesome?"
At that moment I succeeded at removing the cork with a `pop'.
"Not at all," I replied, pouring you a fresh glass of the potent liquid. Meanwhile, you took a large fork from the platter and stabbed one of the slabs of meat, lifting it up and onto my plate. Then you moved the other slab to your own plate. You then lifted your glass, offering a toast. I did the same.
"To renewed relationships," you proclaimed. I touched the rim of my glass to yours and then took a sip as you drank half your glass. We both turned our attention to the meal, helping ourselves to the vegetables and other side dishes from bowls you had placed on the table.
"Everything looks and smells delicious," I said. "I'm famished."
"I thought I recognized the hunger in your eyes when you arrived," you said, tearing a rib from the slab of beef on your plate.
I looked up to find you looking directly at me as you ripped the juicy meat from the bone with your teeth.
Without breaking our gaze, I reached down and mirrored your actions. The steaming beef was so tender if practically fell off the bone in my hands, the spicy sauce lifting the taste to levels of gluttonous extravagance. The sensation broke my concentration and our gaze, as I looked down incredulously at the food in my hands.
"By the gods," I exclaimed. "This is remarkable." I looked back up at you. "I've never tasted anything like it in my life."
"So you approve?" you asked, smiling.
"Without reservation," I replied. "This is delicious, Rohan."
"Excellent," you remarked, your smile increasing. "I'm glad you like it."
I grunted in reply, as my mouth was full of a second large bite.
"You're the first to taste it, you know," you added.
"Really?" I asked, though a mouthful of food muffled the word.
"I perfected the recipe six months ago, and have been waiting since then for our reunion."
I swallowed. "Really?" I repeated.
"Yes, really," you replied with small laugh.
I had nearly finished my first rib, and tore off the remaining meat before dropping it onto my plate. I lifted my glass to you, chewing and swallowing before I spoke.
"To Théodred's ribs," I toasted.
You smiled and raised your own glass to mine and said, "Many thanks."
We both drank to the toast. I sipped while you drained your glass. I refilled it without asking.
~*~*~*~
CHAPTER 9 – Lothlórien, January, 3019, TA
"Were you attempting to get me drunk, Gondor?" I asked.
"I needn't have tried very hard. You were drinking quite heavily on your own," Boromir responded. "I was simply refilling your glass as you emptied it."
"So I became horribly and embarrassingly inebriated and . . . . what?"
"And . . . nothing."
"Nothing?" I was finding it difficult to believe that both Boromir and Théodred had refrained from any further leering or innuendo.
"Nothing," confirmed Boromir. "We discussed our families. I told you that Faramir had received a promotion and my father thought of little else save Mordor. You spoke of Éomer at great length. Apparently, the child drove you to madness with his insatiable curiosity."
"And Éowyn?"
"You said only that she was fierce. A very serious child," answered Boromir.
"So if nothing came of my intoxication, how did the evening end?" I was surprised at how badly I wished to know.
"I never said nothing came of your intoxication, did I?" Boromir asked.
"You said `Nothing,'" I countered.
"I meant that *you* did nothing," he countered.
"Well if *I* didn't do anything, what did *you* do?"
"Throughout the meal, I watched your eyelids slowly close until the whites of your eyes became two crescent moons hiding behind the cloudy haze of Meril's mysterious wine . . . ."
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