Warrior's Comfort

by Sasjah Miller


"Long has Boromir, son of Denethor been gone seeking an answer, and the horse we lent him came back riderless.' Eomer to Aragorn"

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, book 3.


Chapter one


"Will there be anything else you need?" the young prince asks as he closes the door behind him, shutting out Grima's greedy gaze.

Boromir looks up in surprise at the young man, standing near the fire. The light of the flames dances over his face, highlighting the strong features. The question has been asked of him many times, by dainty chamber maidens who wouldn't mind a dalliance with the noble son of Denethor and even a few handsome pageboys whose tastes apparently ran alike to his own.

He has always refused their offers politely, knowing he would not be able to accept such nightly frivolities in the manner that they were proposed to him. He loves, and he has loved, but it has always been reserved for his comrades in arms; the band of brothers whose sweat and blood and fear mingled with passion in the night before battle, their offers of quick love reforging invisible ties that might be severed forever in the morrow by an Orc blade or the thundering hooves of a Nazgûl steed.

This offer, however, is different. He is not even sure if it /is/ an offer, but the road has been long and Boromir has been alone for a very long time and knows not when or if he'll ever find Rivendell.

So he chooses to regard Éomer's lightly spoken words as a sincere offer and he reaches for the wine. He pours two goblets, holding one towards Éomer who is still standing near the door opening, proud and beautiful like a Rohirrim horse.

"Yes, in fact there /is/, Éomer," he says, his voice catching with something that suspiciously sounds like rising passion for this handsome youth who is young, but not so young that he does not know the ways of the world.

"I would like to have your company tonight if that is what you /are/ offering me."

Strange emotions flit over Éomer's face; fear, excitement, and although barely noticeable, something akin to shame, but he swallows and accepts the goblet Boromir hands to him.

His voice, when he speaks, is rough and low.

"I think, I ... yes, I think that I was truly offering what you asked of me."

Boromir sees the other man's discomfort and since he will not take what is not gladly given, he hands him a way out, graciously.

"I do feel rather fatigued, though, the journey was long and fatiguing; leading a lame horse for three days is rather tiring business. I think I shall sojourn to my chambers and enjoy the comfort of sleeping in a soft bed while I may."

He drains his goblet, puts it down on the table and starts to rise. But Éomer has finally mastered his emotions and he strides over to Boromir, his untouched goblet in his hand, the other hand clenched at his side.

"I would not have you return to Minas Tirith saying that the fabled hospitality of the Rohirrim was not extended to the Steward's son in every respect," he says, swallowing visibly. "Please, let me take you to my chambers."

Boromir smiles then, a soft secretive smile that brings a sinking feeling to Éomer's stomach. He knows that smile, remembers it now, as images from a distant past float before his eyes. He knows this man. He's known this man before.

"I remember you," he says softly, wonderingly. "You were there, in Minas Tirith, when we brought the horses; you consoled me when I had to say goodbye to Mara."

Boromir's smile does not lessen, but suddenly he looks so much younger, the worries of years sliding off his face.

"I remember you all too well, Éomer, and the tales of your prowess and courage have reached the halls of Minas Tirith. You have grown into a fine man, a warrior to make the Rohirrim proud."

Then he grips Éomer's arm, gently, feeling the strong muscles clench beneath his fingers through the fine cloth. "A fine man indeed." "Will you not show me to your rooms, Éomer? The night is no longer young, and tomorrow I must be on my way again in search of Rivendell."

Éomer feels Boromir's hand lie on his arm, its warmth radiating through the fabric, and something inside him melts. He leads Boromir through the darkened hallways, lighted by flickering candles towards his room, realizing sourly that Grima is hiding in the shadows, taking this all in. But he refuses to let himself be hindered by that thought. There is nothing he should be ashamed of.

They reach Éomer's room, Boromir following Éomer's lead through the dimly lit hallways of Edoras, and go in. Boromir looks around, appraising the fine surroundings, the large bed with the quilted blankets, while Eomer closes the door silently.

They look at each other, silently, their gazes locked. Boromir is well versed in the joys of manly love, but as a guest it would seem ungracious to make the first move, even if he is more than well aware that Éomer has never been taken up on such an offer before.

He smiles at Éomer, who just keeps standing there, at a loss.

Boromir takes pity on the younger man and he moves towards him, stroking his cheek, his chin, feeling the stubble beneath his fingers, smelling the scent of horse and leather.

"There is nothing I will ask of you, that you will not be willing to give, Éomer. If you want to sit and talk, I will gladly do so, but I would have you know that a night spent with you would give me something to remember during the long cold nights on my journey."

Éomer swallows deeply; Boromir's fingers on his cheek are waking a feeling inside him that he knows, but has never felt for a man before. At least that's what he has always told himself, for now he remembers sword practice lessons with his friends ending in mock wrestling fights with arms and legs entangled and not really wanting to let go.

"I will gladly give you what you ask of me, Boromir, son of Gondor. And know that I will not give it out of hospitality, but of my own free will," he whispers as he reaches up and mirrors Boromir's caress. He revels in the feeling of Boromir's face under his fingertips, so akin and yet so different from a woman's countenance.

Boromir leans in further then and places a kiss on Éomer's lips, still cautious, not wanting to scare the clearly inexperienced youth away.

"I promise this night will be pleasurable for the both of us, Éomer," he says, breaking the kiss momentarily as he gently guides Éomer towards the bed. They sit down, the bed sagging slightly under the double weight, and Boromir starts to take off his boots, gazing at Éomer from under his lashes as he does so. The younger man sits beside him, very still for a moment. Then he bends forward and starts to take off his own boots as well. But Éomer hands are shaking and he cannot untie the lacings, and Boromir takes pity on him. He slides off the bed and kneels before Eomer, smilingly.

"Let me help you, Eomer, for it would seem your boots are not willing to part with you," he says as he deftly untangles the laces of Éomer's boots and removes them, putting them beside to his own. He looks up, his hands sliding upwards towards Éomer's knees and he rises up between Éomer's legs, spreading them as he stands between them. He reaches for Éomer's cheek, his thumb stroking the other man's lips. Éomer closes his eyes at the touch and Boromir decides to take things a little further. He pushes him backwards on the bed, landing on top of him, so their faces nearly touch. Éomer gasps at this sudden intimate contact, but the feeling is not an unpleasant one, and he feels himself responding, becoming aroused, if only at the thought of lying here with a man, with the Steward of Gondor's son. He leans up and kisses Boromir, tentatively at first, then bolder as Boromir's lips part in response. It is an alien feeling, and yet it is so achingly familiar, like something he has always missed, but never knew he did until this very moment.


A/N: In the Prologue I had Éomer find out who Boromir was and seek him out. However, for the sake of the smut plot of the rest of the story Éomer never found out Boromir's name and only now recognizes him. I told you the Prologue could stand on its own. *g*

The End (for now)