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The halfling rested on the fat, curved branch of an oak tree, reading a book, munching on an apple. One of his bare feet – unduly large and covered in a thick coat of hair – dangled from the branch. His ears were pointed, like the Elves, and Boromir wondered for a moment if perhaps halflings did enchantments. Faramir had mentioned nothing of enchantments, but since the Grey Pilgrim valued these creatures so, it was quite possible.

Boromir watched from his hiding place, on guard.

This halfling was wondrous fair to look upon. His skin was nearly translucent, pale as the moon. His limbs, aside from his cumbersome feet, were slender and graceful. His eyes were enormous and gentle, and of a stunning jeweled blue, a color rarely seen in the people of Gondor.

Behind the thorny bramble, Boromir crouched, watching the halfling and waiting, breath withheld in wonder. He had journeyed leagues upon leagues on this, to his mind, useless scouting mission to Eriador, as bid by his father. Just before he crossed the Brandywine River on a rickety and unguarded footbridge, he had left his horse in the care of a simple farmer with the promise of bringing back gold coins. He had entered the Shire by foot. He knew not what to expect, but he came upon patches of woods and miles of rolling green hills, some of which had windows and charming painted doors and smoke that curled out of grassy roofs. For several days Boromir kept hidden from the inhabitants of this little country, for he did not wish to attract notice. A Man trekking through this country of little people would surely cause a stir. And Boromir did not wish to be remembered.

The longer Boromir watched the halfling, the more he became certain that this was the one he must ensnare, that he must not let him get away. He clenched the length of rope in his hands.

He thought back to his last exchange with his younger brother Faramir the night before he set off from Minas Tirith.

Faramir flung his helmet to the stone floor of his chamber. "Father will not allow me to journey with you to the Northern Kingdom."

Boromir clasped his brother's shoulder. "Your place is in Ithilien, training with your men. Father cannot send us both on such a distant journey."

"Father knows I desire to see other lands." Faramir clenched his jaw, his normally gentle eyes filled with fury. "So why does he not send me on this journey instead? I could be of far better use to him."

The last was said with uncharacteristic bitterness. Faramir had recently overheard their father say, "Faramir's uses are few."

Boromir felt a deep pity for Faramir. He had little interest in this scouting mission. He would far rather lead his men into Ithilien, to victory in battle against the growing Enemy. Gladly would Faramir meet new people with an open, and rather, to Boromir's mind, a naive heart. Unlike Boromir, he was unlikely to look upon them with wariness. But Father held a grudge, and Faramir had displeased him by being a wizard's pupil during the Grey Pilgrim's last visit to the City.

"I wish you could go in my stead," Boromir said with more gentleness.

Faramir managed a wry smile. "Perhaps you'll encounter an Elf." He picked up his helmet from the floor and brushed it off, chagrined by his loss of temper. "Or a Halfling. I should dearly like to meet a Halfling. Mithrandir speaks fondly of them."

Boromir snorted. "Enchantments and children's legends."

"Nay," Faramir said. "Halflings are not legend. They're a peaceful and quiet little people who build their homes in holes in the green hills of a little country in the north called the Shire. Even full-grown, they are only the size of children."

"Of what use are they then? They sound helpless."

"Despite their stature, children they are not," Faramir said. "They have not had to live under the Shadow as we have. Their lives remain simple, full of song and food. I envy them this peace."

Boromir grunted. "I'd grow mad with boredom without the hilt of a sword in my hand." He chuckled and clapped Faramir on the shoulder. "This I promise you, little brother. If I see a Halfling, I shall remember in great detail what he looks like and tell you all I observe."

But as Boromir traveled farther north and drew closer to the little country in Eriador where the Halflings lived, he felt that he could do better for Faramir. He could find one of these creatures and take him back to Minas Tirith. At first he would have to capture him by force, but in time, the halfling would come to learn that his life would be better, more lavish and comfortable, in Minas Tirith than here in this rustic country. And cleaner, too. If Faramir was right and these creatures built their homes in worm-filled dirt like rabbits, then Minas Tirith should be a pleasing change.

This creature reading in the tree seemed perfect. It looked young and healthy, but not too young. Boromir's conscience would plague him if he knew he was snatching a youth away from its parents. But it also looked too young to have mated and produced young. So Boromir would likely not be taking a father from its young either.

The halfling yawned, and dropped its apple core into the brush. Boromir tensed, ready to act, lest the halfling decide to climb down from the tree and disappear into the woods.

Boromir inched closer, holding his breath, cringing at every crackle of dried leaf, until he squatted behind the brush nearest to the halfling's tree. If he reached upward he could nearly stroke the hairy foot.

The halfling tensed and looked up from its (his) book.

Boromir sprang from his hiding place and grabbed the hairy foot around the ankle, yanking him from the tree. The book flew from the halfling's hands and landed on the ground with a thump. The halfling gasped but had no time to cry out before Boromir grabbed his shoulder in mid fall. The halfling stared at him, wide-mouthed, before he suddenly fought with surprising vigor. He almost managed to break free, but Boromir snatched his arm and whipped him around, kneeling and drawing him into a crushing embrace – one arm around his neck and the other around his upper chest. The halfling's heart fluttered under Boromir's arm.

Boromir marveled that the halfling did not cry out. He started to struggle again, bucking against Boromir's grip.

"Hush…," Boromir whispered into the halfling's oddly pointed ear. "Just stay quiet and you won't get hurt." The halfling obeyed immediately, sagging into his arms.

Then he spoke, his voice soft, cultured. "You'll not hurt any others?"

Boromir shifted his grip, releasing the halfling just long enough to snatch his small wrists and bind them with his length of rope.

He had him. He had done it.

The halfling looked over his shoulder, meeting Boromir's gaze with enormous, determined eyes. "What do you want?"

Boromir pushed him forward. "Walk." His heart thudded in strange rhythm. Those blue eyes, the color of the sky over Mount Mindolluin on a clear day, burned in his mind. And now this halfling was his, his alone, his to do with as he pleased.

Boromir had taken prisoners of war before, but those prisoners always had attacked him first. They had been threats to him, his men, and his city. His conscience had never stirred when he took these prisoners to his father to be judged. But this halfling was no threat to him or to Minas Tirith. Boromir had marched into his country and stolen him, like one might a bird with bright feathers from Harad.

Boromir pushed the halfling along at a rapid pace, and he struggled for breath. But at last the halfling spoke again in that quiet, polished voice, "There is no need to bind me. I am as curious about Men as you are about me. I'd willingly join your camp, to learn more of you. Please let me go!"

Boromir grabbed the halfling's shoulder, pinching it, forcing him to halt. "Do you have any weapons on you?"

The halfling's eyes, so large already, widened further. "Weapons?"

Boromir paused, unable to believe that this creature seemed confused by his question. "Swords, knives, whips."

The halfling looked repelled by the very idea. "I carry nothing of that sort."

Boromir dropped to one knee and ran his hands up and down the halfling's body while the halfling clenched his jaw, checking his fury at the indignity of it all. Boromir tugged the halfling's shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches and patted him down under his clothing.

This halfling was full-grown, judging from the tenor of his voice, and he carried no weapons at all, not even a hunting knife. Boromir had captured him far from aid, far from any village, and he had been utterly vulnerable, unable to fight off a larger attacker, easily conquered. Faramir had spoken the truth when he said that these halflings knew only simple peace. Boromir imagined how easy it would be for a Gondorian army to march into this little land, to conquer it. As easy as snatching a toy from a babe.

"What are you called?" Boromir asked, pulling his hands away from the halfling -- reluctantly. The halfling's skin had been a silky contrast from his awkward feet. Boromir longed to run his callused fingers against the halfling's soft belly again, but he refrained. There would be time enough for that later.

Boromir noted the way the halfling bit his moist lower lip and tried to steady his shuddering breaths. But instead of answering the question, he asked one in return, in a firm voice, meeting Boromir's gaze in full. "Why have you taken me?"

Boromir's heart flopped under his honest gaze. How disarming those eyes were – had Boromir ever seen such beauty? Warmth stirred in his groin.

Boromir had lain with men before, mostly young men new to the Guard or young Rangers of Ithilien, green to the ways of War and pleasing a Captain. He did not prefer men to ladies, but he found lying with them less bothersome. He wished not to contend with the problem of fathering unwanted babes, a trouble that plagued many a hapless soldier of Gondor. But this halfling was as beautiful as a maid, small and soft, and yet compact and male -- Boromir had felt his muscles as he had bucked against him.

"Answer the question!" Boromir shook the halfling's shoulder, and a dark satisfaction curdled in his belly when the halfling flinched. He swallowed, repelled by the sinister delight he took in menacing this small creature. He was no tormentor. He had never tortured or bullied any creature, whether man, woman, child, or beast.

That is not completely true, is it?

A dark memory intruded of a tiny frog he had found when he was a lad of nine. The frog hopped with sluggish confusion, clearly not in its element. Boromir had no idea how it could have made it to the Citadel's courtyard without a pond in sight. Boromir caught it with ease and it trembled in his hands. Even as a lad, Boromir had had large, coarse hands, perfect for swordplay and other battle lessons. The frog's little black eyes had bulged in helpless alarm. Its skin was silky-soft, and Boromir's hand trembled with a brief but cruel longing to squeeze it until it leaked between his fingers in a green messy goo.

He did not actually want to hurt the creature, but somehow to toughen it, to frighten it from its soft life. Something in its vulnerability brought forth in young Boromir an Orc-like urge to torment, to frighten. So he decided to badger it for a while, and then he would let it hop along on its merry way, no harm done. So he tossed it up in the air and caught it in his palms. Over and over, higher and higher--until he missed and it smacked the stone edge of the fountain.

For a long time he stared at the frog's tiny lifeless body. Shame heated his cheeks, and he buried it beside the withered White Tree. He never spoke of the frog to anyone.

The halfling swallowed. His lips were lush and rosy. "Frodo," he whispered. "Frodo Baggins."

Boromir curbed his urge to strike Frodo's soft, pale skin, to watch him crumple with pain and fear. Something in the halfling brought out that deeply buried desire to torment, to shake the little creature from his sheltered life. Frodo had lived in this green land, far from shadow, without need to carry weapons. He thought nothing of wandering far from home and reading a book in a tree. He anticipated no danger, no harm. What hardship had he ever endured? Just looking into his expressive eyes, Boromir could see how soft his life had been, filled only with kindness and love and plenty of food.

Boromir clenched his fists, breathing hard. His cock stiffened. Always he had bid his men to be gentle to those weaker. He had led by example, helping elders, children, and maids as needed. He was a true man of Gondor, noble and pure.

This vicious craving to mar the halfling's perfect skin, to change the disapproval in his eyes to fear, was a heady rush, much like his first battle had been for him. He imagined the sickening crack his fist would make against the halfling's pale jaw, the wounded fear in his eyes. His arousal, which seemed ever on the edge of his awareness, twitched into discomfort, coming into the foreground of his consciousness. He wiped sweat from his brow.

Perhaps he understood for the first time why Father felt such deep scorn toward the gentle Faramir.

He did not strike Frodo, but he was rougher than he needed to be as he grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him forward, marching him at a pace that was too fast for one with small legs.

Boromir wanted Frodo to beg. In the hours since their march through the woods had begun, Frodo had spoken only when necessary, always with that same quiet, refined voice. Although he was clearly distressed, he did not plead. His dignity was in shreds, but yet he had neither raised his voice nor yelled for aid.

So he's a noble little thing for not wanting to put other halflings in danger Boromir thought, and rage burned his heart, because it was he, Boromir, who was of noble birth, worthy of a Kingship that could never be, brave and true. But by capturing this innocent creature, he had vanquished his nobility and embraced a base side of himself.

So Boromir decided that if the halfling was going to be so noble, then Boromir would not stop for food or rest until he begged for it. He picked up his pace, smiling grimly. His cock hardened whenever Frodo stumbled on a loose rock or grunted and gritted his teeth against pain. That veneer of stubborn determination would surely crack soon.

Boromir had snatched Frodo because his brother wanted to see a halfling (but was that truly the only reason?), but it had gone beyond that now. Gentle-hearted Faramir would condemn Boromir's behavior. Even Father would disapprove. Father slid into dangerous moods at times, but under his rule, even enemies taken in war were treated with mercy – or slain outright. Father did not hold with torture.

A little bit of shame curled in Boromir's stomach, but still he pushed Frodo forward and continued to delight in Frodo's grunts of exhaustion and pain.

Boromir felt reckless, alive, and wrong. There was nobody around to see him or to judge his behavior. For the time, he was free to indulge this dark itch. After all, no man could be noble and good all the time. No irreparable harm would come to Frodo, and there would be time enough to make it up to him. He would make it up to him.

He would do so … later. He licked his lips. For now this dark itch sent forth crackling energy through him, and when it passed, he vowed to treat the halfling with the gentleness that lay in his heart, his true nature. By the time Frodo arrived in Minas Tirith, he would have forgotten any unpleasantness from the beginning of his capture.

This was likely Frodo's first true hardship. With a grim smile, Boromir caressed the whip on his belt, which aroused him further. He imagined the crack the whip would make over Frodo's shoulders. But no. He'd not do that. It was enough to watch Frodo bravely clench his jaw and stumble, biting his tongue against crying out.

The shadows lengthened, and still Frodo said not a word. Boromir's belly rumbled with hunger and a light-headed irritability swept over him. Why did Frodo not plead? How was it that this soft creature could keep walking without complaint when Boromir, a seasoned warrior, felt weary and hungry?

Dusk seeped across the woods, and cicadas buzzed, and still Frodo trudged on as if half asleep, wheezing with exhaustion. Boromir yearned to give Frodo a swift kick to the back of his legs, to force him to his knees. But that would be cheating. And Frodo would still likely not beg.

Without warning Frodo swayed, his eyes rolled upward, and he sank to the ground in a swoon.

Boromir stared down at him, and his erection grew so hard that he pressed on it through the fabric of his breeches with the heel of his hand. Frodo lay in the dirt, vulnerable, so exhausted that his mouth hung open, heedless of the dirt that touched his lips. His pale brow was damp with sweat and smeared with grime.

Boromir lifted him with ease and slung him over his shoulder. He weighed hardly anything at all, and Boromir marveled that he was full-grown. Boromir halted at the first clearing. He laid Frodo down in the dirt while he started a fire and prepared a watery stew of roots and dried meat.

When the food was ready, Boromir slapped Frodo's cheeks to rouse him. Frodo groaned and blinked, startled, and then stared at Boromir in weary disappointment. Boromir read his expressive eyes perfectly – for Frodo the nightmare had not ended upon awakening as he had hoped.

"Will you eat something?" Boromir asked.

Frodo swallowed, pausing a long while before answering. "Yes…please." His voice sounded weak and hoarse, humble.

Boromir helped Frodo to sit on a nearby tree stump and unbound his wrists, and while doing so, he felt a surprising and fierce protectiveness and possessiveness toward this small, helpless creature. He had done the irrevocable act of stealing him from his home, his land. Now Frodo belonged to him fully. He had the responsibility of making sure he was given food, drink, and proper rest.

Frodo rubbed his red and swollen wrists. Boromir ladled the watery stew into a wooden travel bowl. Frodo reached trembling hands toward it. "Please."

There it was – that pleading in Frodo's eyes that Boromir had longed for all day.

Boromir licked his lips and held the bowl just out of reach. "First you must answer some questions."

Frodo nodded and swallowed, clearly disappointed. He let his hands fall limply in his lap.

"How old are you?" Boromir asked.

"Thirty…thirty-three."

Boromir tilted the bowl full of Frodo's stew, purposefully spilling some of it, wetting the soil around his feet.

Frodo's eyes widened. "No…" he began, looking toward the spilled stew with hungry desperation.

Boromir picked up pieces of roots and meat from the dirt and without cleaning them plopped them back into the stew.

"How old are you?"

"I told you…" Frodo whispered, watching the bowl of stew nervously.

"You look no older than my little brother, who is eighteen."

"I am thirty-three," Frodo's eyes were still wary, but Boromir detected in them a barely perceptible smidgen of hope, as if Frodo believed that Boromir would become suddenly kind. Boromir's heart stuttered under that bewildering blue gaze. It was not too late, even after this day's cruel march. He needed only to say the word, and Frodo could scamper back into the woods to freedom, and Boromir would never see him again.

"Do you live alone?" Boromir asked.

"Yes."

"You are not married?"

"No."

Boromir smiled and jiggled the bowl so that more stew spilled out. "Have you taken pleasure with maids?"

Frodo's chin jerked, and his eyes widened. He straightened his shoulders and said with as much dignity as he could muster, "This is not a topic to be discussed with strangers."

Boromir, who could think of little else now but the pressure of his cock against his breeches, spit in the stew. Frodo flinched, but he tried to mask his disgust. He could not stop the reddening of his cheeks. How gentle and sheltered this halfling was!

"I am no stranger," Boromir said, leaning forward so that he was right in Frodo's face. "I determine whether you will eat this night. Now, answer my question. Have you taken pleasure with maids?"

Frodo swallowed hard. His jaw trembled a moment but then he seemed to resign himself to Boromir's question. He looked down at his hands. "I have."

"Did you thrust your cock inside their wet cunts until they screamed?"

Frodo stared at him in indignant horror, the red blotches on his cheeks deepening, stark against his pale skin. "That is…crude."

Boromir spit in the stew again. "Do you? Do your halfling maids scream?"

"No," Frodo said, swallowing in disgust. "It is not like that."

"Then perhaps your cock is lacking in some way?"

Frodo flushed again, but this time in anger. "There is nothing wrong with my…with it."

"That remains to be seen," Boromir said, chuckling. Frodo's embarrassment, the indignant way he jerked his chin, his barely checked fury, his determination to be brave – it amused and charmed Boromir.

Frodo looked down, clenching his hands in miserable discomfort.

"Do you let them suck you?"

"It is not like that," Frodo said, looking up, his eyes flashing anger. "I do not know how it is among Men, but hobbits treat each other with respect. We are discreet about our pleasures. We don't…scream to wake the neighbors or indulge in vulgar acts."

"And what is wrong with having a maid suck you?"

Frodo continued to look down at his hands, his jaw clenched.

Boromir laughed a little. "Why are you uncomfortable? You're thirty-three, as you state. You are no innocent lad, green behind the ears." He chuckled. "I myself have bedded many maids…and men as well."

Frodo kept his gaze on his hands. "Please, sir…I am very hungry. I will be far better at answering your questions if I have something in my stomach."

"Have you ever bedded a lad?" Boromir asked.

Frodo flinched in clear disgust. "No."

"Are you repelled by doing so?"

Frodo did not answer for a long time. Then he glanced at Boromir nearly furtively before looking down at his hands again.

"No," he whispered.

"You are telling me a falsehood," Boromir said, slipping his hand inside his leggings and encircling his cock with his hand, pulling it out so that Frodo could see.

"It is not…" Frodo swallowed, glancing quickly away from Boromir's crotch. "It is only that it is not something that has ever occurred to me." The uncomfortable flush on his cheeks was enough to send Boromir to the very edge of quivering pleasure.

"Do you have a special maid in your heart?" Boromir asked, pretending it was perfectly natural to pleasure himself in front of another. Perhaps this would seem yet another "vulgar act" to this sheltered creature.

"No."

"That is astounding, a comely fellow like yourself."

Frodo forced himself to meet Boromir's gaze then, and Boromir took advantage of the attention, stroking himself with new vigor.

"Where are you taking me?" Frodo demanded.

"To my home – in Gondor. I imagine you know not where that is."

"You are wrong," Frodo said, still keeping his eyes averted from Boromir's crotch. "I know where it is. I have studied maps. Do you live in Minas Tirith, the White City?"

Boromir came then, shuddering, breathing hard. Frodo kept his eyes down, saying nothing until Boromir finished and wiped his hand on his breeches.

Frodo spoke again. "I've always wanted to travel outside the Shire," and now he met Boromir's gaze again. "But why have you taken me against my will? If you had approached me as a friend, gladly would I have welcomed you into my home and likely I would have traveled with you."

Boromir chuckled. "Because not everything happens in just the way you would have it, although I have the idea that you are very much used to having things go your way."

Frodo flushed again, this time with anger. "Perhaps not everything will work the way you wish."

Boromir was taken aback by the sudden hard gleam in the halfling's eyes, and he tossed the rest of the stew into the fire. "You do not eat tonight."

Frodo jumped to his feet with a strangled cry.

Boromir clenched the rope in his hands. "And I must bind you in sleep."

"No, please," Frodo said, breathing hard. "I am very hungry. I've not eaten since midmorning."

"You ate that apple while you were reading in the tree. That was past noon. That is a falsehood, and the next time you tell one, it will be punished."

Frodo stared at Boromir as if he had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. "You would call an apple a meal?" He looked suddenly curious. "What is your name? You've not introduced yourself."

Boromir laughed, and pulled out the rope. "You don't need to know my name. You only need to know that I own you now. You're mine. When you are ready to remember that, then you shall eat."

Frodo clenched his jaw in silent fury as Boromir bound his wrists again, this time in front of him. Boromir then tied a loose end from the rope around his own wrist. He lay on the ground in front of the fire, keeping Frodo in front of him. Boromir squeezed Frodo so tightly that he heard the halfling wheeze for breath. His cock had hardened again, and he allowed it to poke against Frodo's lower buttocks. Frodo let out a small gasp and squirmed a little, trying to create more distance between them, but his struggles only stimulated Boromir's arousal further. Imagining how uncomfortable and frightened this gentle halfling must be by these vulgar acts, utterly helpless in his hands, sent Boromir nearly over the edge. Despite a day of rough walking, Frodo smelled almost pleasant. Even under the sweat, Boromir caught the faint aroma of lemon and pipe-weed. The memory of those expressive, spirited, furious blue eyes burned in his mind.

Boromir slid his free hand in his breeches and took his cock in hand, grunting as he imagined the halfling as an enemy captured near the border to the East, a prisoner of war. Boromir stroked with slow relish, grinding into Frodo's backside. Frodo was deceptively dangerous, a threat to Gondor. It was well that Boromir had bound his hands. Halflings may not wield swords, he told himself, but they were deadly archers. Boromir had caught this halfling just as he was poised to shoot, and he had overpowered him. Now Frodo was at his mercy, tied up, disarmed, utterly helpless. Boromir's hand slid up and down his cock, which abraded against the velvet of Frodo's breeches, faster, faster--

He throws Frodo in the dirt and rips down his breeches. He gazes into those wide blue eyes and plunges deep into tight heat, taking him by force with brutality, holding his wrists over his head. Then he shoved Frodo away.

No. Boromir licked his lips, breathing hard now. Never that. Frodo would be willing when Boromir took him. Then it would be delicious, all that tight heat and soft skin, far better than any of the maids or young men he had tasted in Minas Tirith.

He grunted in Frodo's pointed ear, knowing full well that Frodo knew what he was doing, could feel his hardness, and in far too short a time, bursts of brilliant blue exploded before his eyelids, he was left breathless, and his hand filled with sticky warmth. He slid his hand under Frodo's shirt and rubbed it on Frodo's bare stomach. Frodo shuddered violently.

Now that Boromir's cock was cool and limp, his stomach began to sink. He should stop this torture. For that was what he was doing. He was tormenting this creature, taking him far from his home, against his will, making it unpleasant and hateful for him, abusing him.

But he is not human. There is naught wrong with taking him somewhere better than this primitive land. I shall treat him well. After a time. And Faramir will understand, too, and he will treat Frodo far better than I have. His life will be better overall…a few days of fun will not harm him.

Boromir fell into an uneasy sleep. In his dream, he caught a little frog with bulging, helpless eyes, much like the buried frog of his childhood. This frog was enchanted and it could speak, and its voice was lovely, and Boromir grew to love it. All the same, Boromir tossed it again and again high into the air, ignoring its cries for mercy, unable to stop for the headiness that swept through him. And when it smacked against the rim of the courtyard fountain, Boromir wept until the sky darkened and a mighty rumbling came from the East.

Boromir woke to golden morning sunlight, and the halfling lay still in his arms. Boromir rolled him over, and Frodo startled awake. His eyes matched the astonishing blue of the morning sky, and Boromir's breath caught in his throat. He would never grow used to those eyes.

He knew then that he could never release him.

He untied Frodo's wrists and helped him to sit on the tree stump again. Frodo rubbed his wrists, wincing in pain but saying nothing. The welts from the rope were stark and swollen against his pale skin. He cast Boromir a wary glance.

I did this. I hurt him.

Boromir closed his eyes. He swallowed and sat beside Frodo. He took one small wrist in his hands, running his fingers over the welts. Frodo's shoulders tensed.

Boromir spoke in a gentle tone. "I've no balm for it, but a leaf wet with morning dew will give you some relief." He snatched a few such leaves from the ground and wrapped them around Frodo's wrists.

"How does that feel?" Boromir asked, again, careful to keep his voice low and calm.

Frodo nodded, and his eyes softened. "It does give relief. Thank you."

Boromir vowed to begin treating this creature with kindness today. He would not bind his wrists for today's march, nor would he cause him pain of other sorts. If he kept his word, he was certain that the trusting halfling would likely soon open his heart to him and Boromir need not pluck by force what he craved now with such fervor that it pained his stomach and groin.

Then Frodo asked, "Will you not let me go?"

"Nay," Boromir said straight from his heart. "I cannot."

Frodo's face creased with determination and it happened fast.

He bolted. Boromir was taken fully by surprise. Frodo darted through the woods, surprisingly fast on his small legs. Boromir lost no time in racing after him, heart pounding. He could not lose him. His longer legs quickly closed in the distance. He drew his whip from his belt and lashed Frodo's back, causing him to fall forward with a cry of pain. Boromir yanked him to his feet by the arm and shook him hard. Frodo fought him, his eyes blazing with desperate fury. He snarled, kicked, and hit with all his strength. He fought with such valor against a much larger foe, a seasoned warrior who could easily break his neck or stab him swiftly in the throat. Boromir grabbed him in a tight embrace, holding him tighter and tighter until his struggles ceased and he sagged in Boromir's arms as if he'd lost all his strength at once.

Boromir reneged on his earlier vow and roughly bound Frodo's hands behind him. Now that Frodo was back in his hands, a rolling fury pressed on his temples, that this halfling, this soft creature, had dared try to bolt from him, as if he thought he could outrun him.

Later. Later I will be kind, just as I vowed, but for now, he will pay dearly for this.

Boromir admitted to himself a grudging admiration for Frodo's fight and now resignation – but yet something in his face displayed a stubbornness that sent waves and waves of lustful rage through Boromir. Frodo would try this again the next chance he got. And again.

Unless he was properly punished.

Boromir pushed him forward until they reached their camp again.

Then Boromir shoved him to his knees. "You've earned ten lashes."

"You will lash me?" Frodo asked, his voice high with panic. Not so resolute anymore, Boromir thought with grim satisfaction.

Boromir kneeled in front of Frodo and unbuttoned Frodo's weskit and the first few buttons of his linen shirt and then yanked them over his narrow shoulders so his bare back was exposed.

"Please," Frodo said, his voice hitching. "I am sorry. I'll not run from you again. Only please…do not do this."

"It's only ten lashes. You'll survive it."

Boromir licked his lips, anticipating marring that perfect pale skin. He felt the desire in his mind and at once in his cock. He resisted the urge to grab it with his free hand.

He lashed Frodo's back, curbing his strength somewhat, and his cock hardened at the delightful smack the whip made on Frodo's unblemished flesh. Boromir expected Frodo to cry out, but he did not. He shuddered and Boromir could see that he bit his lip. Boromir lashed him again. And again. Frodo shook uncontrollably now, and still he did not cry out. After the fourth lash, angry red welts streaked across his skin.

Boromir knew he should stop. Sweat trickled down Frodo's face, and tears had welled in his eyes. Beads of blood formed just below his bottom lip where his teeth had bit hard.

Still he did not cry out.

After the ten lashes, Boromir put away his whip and knelt before Frodo again. Frodo breathed hard and fast, shuddering in suppressed pain, still biting his lip. Boromir pulled Frodo's shirt back over his shoulders and buttoned it and the vest again. He helped Frodo to his feet. Frodo swayed and his eyes rolled upward and Boromir was certain that he would swoon again, and so he led him to sit down on the log.

"There now," Boromir said. "That wasn't too bad. I do not imagine that you shall try to escape again. Will you?"

"No," Frodo whispered, his voice barely audible, and he looked at Boromir, and his blue eyes were glazed with pain and wounded betrayal, but also bitterness. Boromir's guilt stirred deep down. He had taken an irrevocable step. Even if he went back to his vow of kindness, Frodo was unlikely to forget this day for the remainder of his life.

Frodo blinked, and the bitterness disappeared, replaced by pleading. "I am hungry. Do you not have…something small--?"

Boromir struck him hard across the face, cutting off his question. Frodo said nothing. Blood trickled from his nose, and he could not wipe it because his wrists were still bound.

Boromir did not know why he struck him, only that he had itched to do it just once, just to see the startled pain in his eyes, just to watch his nose bleed.

Frodo's dirt-smeared face looked weary and dispirited, and Boromir's conscience stirred to think he had struck one so much smaller for no good reason.

Frodo had to eat something or he would never be able to walk all day. Boromir picked a root out of the stew that had sat in the kettle all night. He pushed it into Frodo's mouth. Despite his pain and weariness, Frodo chewed with sudden voraciousness. His eyes fixed on Boromir with wary but gentle hope.

The trusting fool.

Boromir fed him a few more leftover pieces from the cold stew. Then he pushed his leather water pouch to Frodo's lips. Water dribbled down his chin. Boromir held the pouch to Frodo's lips, and Frodo's throat hitched eagerly as he drank and drank and drank. He looked at Boromir with gratitude, and Boromir turned away, sickened. How could this halfling not hate him after all he had done to him thus far?

Boromir cleaned the campsite, packed, and pulled Frodo to his feet. Blood from his swelling nose had tricked down his face and into his shirt. Boromir took a handkerchief from his belongings and wiped Frodo's nose.

"Thank you," Frodo whispered, again with that fool's trust. He held his shoulders stiffly, as if his back pained him.

Boromir wished that he had balm for the welt wounds. They would likely pain him even worse as the day went on. The guilt curdled in Boromir's stomach. Five lashes perhaps, but not ten. Ten had been too much for one so small and soft.

He could stop the dark itch at any time and show this halfling that he was a kind and good man, true and brave.

As the morning progressed, they trekked through a light wooded area. Boromir walked just behind Frodo, the tread of his boots making a heavy clump-clump in the dirt, whereas Frodo's bare feet made no sound at all. Boromir planned to study those feet later. Their oversized ugliness fascinated him. Frodo could walk upon anything without pain and without sound.

Therein lies the halflings' enchantment perhaps.

They passed out of the woods and soon treaded up and down gentle rolling hills smattered with yellow and purple wildflowers. They were still in the Shire, as they had not yet reached the Brandywine River. The sun rose high in the sky and beat down on them, and soon both Boromir and Frodo were drenched with sweat.

"Tell me of your land," Frodo said suddenly. He hunched his shoulders, and Boromir knew he must truly be in pain, in need of distraction, if he was so willing to speak to his captor.

So Boromir spoke with great pride about Minas Tirith, and while he did so, he nearly came back to himself, the noble Captain of Gondor, the true Steward's son who would never harm one smaller and weaker for sport. He imagined he spoke to a dear friend, one who came willingly with him to his city for the first time. He described with loving detail the leveled stone city, the Courtyard of the White Tree, the tall Tower of Ecthelion, which glimmered like a spike of silver, the white banners that fluttered from battlements in the clear ringing of silver trumpets. He spoke of battles and the growing Shadow in the East.

"Few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us."

"How terrifying!" Frodo said. "What little we know of all this here in the Shire."

"Indeed," Boromir said. "The Nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows. Soon no land will be safe."

Frodo paled, and Boromir marveled again at just how soft and sheltered these halflings were, that the mere mention of Shadow or war could frighten him so. And the dark itch returned and turned his gentle smile into a sneer. He added unnecessary gruesome details to his battle stories just to watch Frodo's jaw clench with horror.

"How abominable," Frodo said at last, but Boromir startled when he saw that the halfling's eyes shone with admiration. "Your people are so valorous, living so close to…" he swallowed, "and fighting for so many years, a bulwark for the rest of us. Most inhabitants of the Shire have no idea." He took a shuddering breath and went on. "I cannot imagine living under that shadow, never knowing, always worrying about surviving. We are so very fortunate in the Shire."

He paused, laughing a little, somewhat bitterly. "At times I've thought a dragon invasion would do my countrymen some good, but now…knowing that there is a place, tucked safely away where it is so safe as to be dull…well, that can only comfort me."

"Your little land will not always be safe," Boromir said gruffly. "Gondor cannot hold back the Shadow forever."

"Be that as it may," Frodo said, meeting Boromir's gaze with spirit in his eyes. "I shall appreciate its innocence while it lasts." He fell into silence, and when he next spoke, he said, "Please, sir. Will you not at least tell me your name?"

Boromir smiled indulgently. "Boromir," he said. "Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

"Boromir," Frodo said, as if trying it on his tongue. "Boromir. It is a noble name as befits a steward's son."

"And what would a little halfling from the rustic Shire know about that?" Boromir said, his voice rough, and felt a jolt of deep satisfaction when the quiet, barely kindled trust fled Frodo's eyes and he looked forward again, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow.

They camped when Boromir felt hungry. He found himself more and more moved by the halfling's stoic nature. Only when they stopped, and Frodo sat on a log, hunching forward and wheezing for breath, did Boromir realize that Frodo was in far more pain than he admitted, exhausted and hot.

"Are you thirsty?" Boromir asked.

Frodo nodded and swallowed. There it was again – that flicker of almost-trust in those enormous eyes. His cheek had bruised and his nose was still swollen from where Boromir had struck him that morning.

The trust in Frodo's eyes was unfathomable to Boromir. If anyone treated him as he did this halfling, he would despise him forever. He would never have been able to muster kind words toward his captor as Frodo had, about the valor of Gondor. He wondered if all halflings were so.

Perhaps there lies their enchantment.

Boromir released the bonds from Frodo's wrists. "Show me your feet."

Frodo looked up in surprise. "My feet?"

Boromir sat beside him on the log and took one of Frodo's feet in hand. He brushed the dirt that clung to the dark russet curls on its top. "You halflings never wear shoes?"

"We have no need of them."

Boromir knocked on the bottom of Frodo's foot. "It doesn't pain your foot to tread on a sharp root or twig?"

"No more so than it does you in your boots." Frodo's lips twitched. Boromir imagined that a true smile from him would be breathtaking.

"What about the cold? Do you not feel cold at night?"

"The hair keeps us warm."

Boromir fingered Frodo's toes, prodding on the top of his foot, massaging, while Frodo watched with wary puzzlement. Boromir finally chuckled and released the foot. What a curious, hairy appendage, so different from the rest of his graceful body.

"Does your back pain you?"

Frodo's eyes clouded with wariness, but he nodded. "It does."

"I've no balm for it, but it will not kill you."

Frodo swallowed. "I know."

Boromir started a fire and prepared a meal. He let Frodo eat with no questioning, but after he finished, Frodo asked for a sip of water.

"Stand up," Boromir demanded.

Frodo climbed to shaking feet, glancing at Boromir with weary guardedness.

"Remove your weskit."

"Pardon me?" Frodo asked.

"Take off your weskit."

Frodo unbuttoned his weskit, keeping cautious eyes on Boromir. He dropped it to his side.

"Now your shirt."

"Why?" Frodo asked in alarm. "There is a chill to the air tonight."

"Go on." Then Boromir slipped two fingers under the ridiculous straps that Frodo wore over his shoulders and attached to his breeches. He released his fingers suddenly, causing the straps to snap. Frodo flinched.

"What are these ridiculous things?" Boromir asked.

"Braces," Frodo said. "They're to hold my breeches up."

"Why do you not wear breeches that fit?"

"We do the best we can. It is clear from your clothing that Gondor is a land of rich fabrics and tailored clothes. This is not the case in the Shire."

"You may have a sip of water," Boromir said. He put the pouch to Frodo's lips for only a brief moment. It irked him that Frodo did not beg for more when he snatched it away although he clearly wanted to.

"Do you wish for more?" Boromir asked.

"Please," Frodo whispered, but his voice was too hopeful. He still believed Boromir to be good, that he would eventually give Frodo the water. That was enough to make Boromir dump the rest out of the pouch.

Frodo looked crushed. "What would you have me do? I do not understand."

"Take off the rest of your clothes."

"It is cold," Frodo said, clutching his arms together. "And I am thirsty. Please."

"Take them off," Boromir said, caressing his whip. He would not lash Frodo again, but Frodo did not know that, and his eyes sparked with panic. He fumbled at the buttons to his now grimy shirt. He slipped the ridiculous braces over his shoulders, and his breeches slid down around his ankles.

Soon he had not a stitch of clothing on. Boromir looked at him from top to bottom. In the moonlight, he looked ethereal, fair, Elvish. His cock was larger than Boromir would have expected from one so small.

Boromir pointed to a muddy patch of ground behind the log. "You will sleep there tonight."

Frodo looked at the mud in revulsion but said nothing.

Boromir tied Frodo's hands behind his back and attached a longer piece of rope to it. That he tied to a nearby tree. He doubted Frodo would try to escape again, but it did not pay to take chances.

Frodo stood in the mud, shivering, staring at Boromir as if he expected mercy.

"Go on," Boromir said. "Lie down."

Frodo knelt in the mud, still shivering. "Please, Boromir. Let me lie closer to the fire."

Boromir took out his whip and lashed it against the log with raw violence.

That was all that was needed. Frodo flinched and settled in the muck in a pathetic ball. This time Boromir did not sleep embracing him, but he watched Frodo for as long as he could stay awake. He watched the mud ooze over Frodo's cock and seep into his bottom. He watched him shiver and his lip tremble. His skin was unmarred by hardship, save the angry red whip welts. He quaked, his eyes squeezed closed, his throat hitching from swallowing over and over.

Boromir did not dream that night, but he woke to a gray, drizzly morning. His heart flopped when he saw Frodo lying still in the mud, filthy, his lips nearly blue.

"Frodo?" Boromir asked, his heart thudding. What if he was dead? What then? It was time to cease this torment. He had had his days of fun.

Frodo's eyes opened, red-rimmed and miserable.

Boromir helped the shaking halfling to his feet, out of the mud. He unbound his hands and wrapped his own fur-lined cloak around him. He guided Frodo to sit on the log again while he poked at the embers and coaxed the fire back to life.

Frodo's bleary eyes sought his. "I would beg of you, sir. I am very thirsty. It pains me to swallow. Just a few sips." He was shaking, even wrapped inside the cloak.

Boromir lifted the pouch to Frodo's lips, letting him drink. Frodo's throat hitched violently as he gulped, but he was still shaking, so half of it spilled down his front. Finally he pulled away. "Will we walk all day today?"

Boromir nodded. "Once we get over the Brandywine, my horse is stabled with a farmer. We shall ride the rest of the way. Have you ridden a horse before?"

"No," Frodo said, but his eyes brightened. "Only a pony, such as we have here in the Shire. May I get dressed?" His voice was quiet, humble.

"Will you try to bolt?"

"I have given you my word that I will not."

Boromir's cock warmed and twitched uncomfortably at the idea of Frodo putting his clothes on over such filth.

Frodo threw Boromir's cloak from his shoulders, leaving it crumpled on the log. He hurriedly slipped his wrinkled clothing back on, still trembling. He wiped his muddy face the best he could with the sleeve of his shirt. He was utterly filthy, smeared with mud and grime.

Once Boromir cleaned up camp and they set off again, Frodo walked without complaint. Boromir had not bound his wrists this time.

The clouds and drizzle ended and a warm sun soon dissipated the chill. At times Frodo stumbled and it almost seemed he would fall to his knees or swoon, but he did not. He squared his narrow shoulders and walked on his silent feet, staring forward with grim determination. The grime on his face gave his eyes a stunning brilliance, and every time Boromir glanced at them, his breath caught in his throat. For in those eyes he saw not just beauty but bravery and nobility of character. He walked with resignation but only after he had fought to the best of his ability against a much stronger foe.

And always he spoke with gentility.

He and Faramir are quite alike, Boromir thought, and his stomach clenched with guilt.

In the early afternoon, they reached the Brandywine River, across which the world outside the Shire spread forth as far as the eye could see. A precarious footbridge swung over the rushing water.

They halted just before the bridge. Boromir said, "The bridge cannot bear us both. Go on, Frodo, and cross first. I shall follow you when you have crossed."

Frodo glanced first at the bridge and then back at Boromir. His eyes widened with terror. "No."

"Are you frightened?" Boromir asked. His cock stirred back to life.

"Yes." Frodo's eyes deepened with fear, and his voice came out in a rush. "Please. Let us go north to Buckland. I'll not say anything. I'll act as if I go willingly with you. But please…do not make me walk across this bridge. I am afraid."

Boromir chuckled. "It held my weight, so it will certainly hold yours."

Frodo paled and breathed so rapidly that Boromir feared he might swoon. "I cannot swim."

"Even if you could, it would do you no good. The current is far too strong for any mortal to fight. Now go on."

Frodo turned desperate eyes to Boromir. "Please."

Boromir was eager to get to his horse and one night's lodging, and he lost his patience. His voice came out in an ugly growl. "Go now…or you shall regret it."

Frodo met Boromir's stern gaze, as if searching for the smallest flicker of mercy. The halfling's heart lay wide open, for anyone to read, cherish, or crush. Boromir knew now that if he had approached Frodo with gentleness from the beginning, as a friend, he would now have Frodo's heart to cherish.

But that chance had long since passed, and Boromir sneered, removing the whip from his belt and stroking it.

Frodo swallowed hard, and he straightened his shoulders. He took a faltering step onto the bridge, clinging to the wooden rail.

"Go on," Boromir said in a more gentle voice. Frodo glanced over his shoulder at him again with no hatred or bitterness in his eyes. Then he faced forward. His shoulders tensed, and he took absurdly tiny steps. At last he made it to the other side, staggering to his knees. Boromir strode across the bridge with confidence.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" Boromir laughed.

Frodo swallowed before saying with as much dignity as he could muster, "You're not truly like this."

"Like what?"

"Cruel. This is new for you."

"How do you claim to know what is in my heart?" Boromir asked. Again, much like Faramir, able to read the hearts of men and beasts.

"You come from a noble line. I can hear it in your voice."

"Hush or I shall whip you again."

They reached the farmer's cottage after nightfall.

On the doorstep, Boromir grabbed Frodo's upper arm with bruising strength. "Do not forget that you are with me willingly."

Frodo nodded but said nothing, and Boromir knocked on the door.

The farmer, Hal Nobbins, was delighted to see Boromir again, and he shuttled Frodo and Boromir inside his cottage. He startled when he looked upon Frodo.

"Come in, come in. I hope you'll stay for the night." To Boromir he said, "Your horse is stabled and I've fed him for the night. I did not expect you so soon."

Hal's cottage was sparse but homey, and a fire roared in the hearth. The wood floors were rather dusty, but the aroma of simmering soup caused Boromir's stomach to growl.

Boromir pulled from his pocket a purse of gold coins. "For your trouble."

"I do thank you," Hal said, setting the purse on the mantel.

Hal led Frodo and Boromir to a basin where they could wash. Frodo especially took care to scrub at the grime on his face and arms. There was nothing he could do about his clothing and Boromir chuckled over his distress, especially when he struggled to roll his sleeves halfway up his arm in an attempt to hide the grime.

For supper the farmer served wine, soup, and bread. Frodo shoveled soup into his mouth. Neither Boromir nor Frodo had eaten much in days. Frodo seemed unaware of Hal's intent stare upon him, as if he was a rare jewel, and it evoked a disturbing heat in Boromir's chest.

"Where did you come upon this halfling?" Hal finally asked.

Frodo kept his eyes down, but he flushed.

Boromir squeezed Frodo's knee, causing him to flinch and drop his spoon.

Boromir smiled, running his hand up Frodo's thigh. "I purchased him in Bree."

Frodo blinked and looked down into his soup bowl, breathing hard. Such dignified ire! Boromir's cock twitched. He wanted to humiliate this gentlehobbit, to filthy him, just like he had by making him sleep in the mud.

Hal looked fascinated. "Purchased?"

Boromir's hand slid up Frodo's thigh. "Ah, you know. He's a whore."

Frodo's cheeks reddened. He had likely never even purchased a night with a whore.

"Is he?" Hal leaned over the table, and his eyes hardened. "Isn't that nice. I ought to take more trips to Bree." He winked at Frodo.

Boromir's hand fumbled down the front of Frodo's breeches, and Frodo gasped. Boromir's heart flopped with excitement when he found Frodo's cock somewhat hard. Frodo cringed but said nothing. He was too genteel to make a fuss. This made Boromir's cock stiffen to agonizing discomfort.

"Is everything all right, halfling?" Hal asked with a sneer.

"Yes," Frodo said in a squeak. Boromir's hand encircled Frodo's cock and it stiffened further. Boromir's cock felt unbearably hard.

"This halfling was cheap," Boromir said, stroking Frodo with his coarse hand. "He offered his pleasure to the roughest men in Bree, sometimes two or three at a time. All night long. And for hardly anything. A cheap whore, he was."

"But he's so fair," Hal said. "He hardly looks used at all."

"Do you know why I bought him?" Boromir asked, continuing to stroke. Frodo's breaths were rapid and hard now. He had stopped trying to eat, and Boromir could not tell if it was from fury or pleasure. "Because halflings are insatiable. This fellow wants it all the time. He hardly gives me time to breathe."

"That true?" Hal winked at Frodo. Frodo clenched the edge of the table, breathing hard.

"Answer him," Boromir commanded, squeezing his cock. Frodo yelped a little, but then he looked at Boromir.

Boromir was taken by surprise by the hard gleam that had replaced the misery in those blue eyes. Then he did the unexpected. He bucked against Boromir's grip with deliberate care. His voice dropped and became silky-warm, and he glanced over his shoulder at Hal. "It's true. All of it. Would you like to see?"

Boromir's face heated with shock until sweat beaded his brow. Pleasure fluttered in his belly. While his hand still encircled Frodo's cock, Frodo stood and wrapped his arms around Boromir's thick neck and planted a forceful kiss on Boromir's lips. The kiss lasted a long time, and it became more gentle, delicious and soft. A velvety tongue probed his mouth, exploring and savoring. Boromir's heart pounded in his ears, and oh, how he longed for the farmer to disappear so that he could take Frodo right now.

"Insatiable," Frodo whispered hoarsely. And he bucked against Boromir's hand, and Boromir felt warm stickiness fill his hand.

"Sit back down," Boromir whispered, barely able to catch his breath. He pulled his wet, sticky hand from inside of Frodo's breeches.

Frodo obeyed him, cheeks flushed, with an enigmatic smile, but Boromir caught sight of his trembling lips. He understood then what a terrible effort it had taken for Frodo to do what he had done. He was far braver than Boromir had ever imagined. Brave and strong. Boromir suddenly felt deeply ashamed.

The farmer broke the silence.

"You're lucky. Very lucky," Hal said with an approving nod. "I really ought to go to Bree and get me one of these." His cheeks were flushed, and Boromir imagined that he was eager to have some privacy to contemplate the delights of a beautiful halfling.

In the middle of the night, Boromir woke to a gruff shout, and clattering from the farmer's bedroom. It was still dark.

Boromir sprang from the sofa and fumbled for his sword. Frodo – where was Frodo? He had been curled up on the nearby chair in front of the hearth.

"You whore," he heard the farmer shout. "I'll hit you harder next time!"

Boromir kicked open the door to Hal's bedroom just in time to see Hal kick Frodo in the ribs. Frodo cried out and crumpled to the floor. His shirt was torn over his shoulder and blood dripped from his nose. His blue eyes were wild with fear and pain and yet he clenched his jaw in hard determination.

Hot rage thudded behind Boromir's eyes that anyone besides himself should lay hands on his treasure.

Boromir slammed the farmer against the wall and held his blade to his throat. "What right had you to touch him?"

Hal gasped for breath, his eyes bright with fear, "Your little friend … he tried to beg for my help. I thought it was part of his act, you know … I tried to undress him and he kicked me where it hurts bad, if you catch my meaning." His eyes hardened, and he flinched against the blade as Boromir held it closer.

Still shaking with rage that anyone should hurt Frodo, Boromir shook the farmer and slammed him hard against the wall. "You had no right to lay a hand on him in any fashion. We'll be leaving now, and I'll be taking the gold coins with me."

Hal's eyes narrowed and despite the blade at his throat, he managed a sneer. "I should have poisoned your horse and slain your halfling."

"Get up, Frodo," Boromir commanded. Frodo staggered to his side, wheezing in pain. To Hal he said, "Consider yourself fortunate that I leave you with your life."

Frodo held his ribs and tried to button his shirt with one trembling hand. He wiped his face with his sleeve. The farmer had hit him with far more force than Boromir had or would ever do, and it sickened him.

Boromir collected the purse of gold coins and beckoned Frodo to follow him to the stable. Frodo limped after him on silent feet, gasping for breath. Boromir retrieved his horse from the stable and prepared it for riding, all while the farmer shouted vulgarities and threats.

Boromir clasped Frodo's shoulder. "Are you badly hurt?" He wondered if such a blow could kill one so small.

Frodo swallowed. "My ribs hurt, but it is not too bad."

"I shall see to your injuries when we stop."

Frodo then turned a defiant glare on him. "You sullied me right in front of that man. It is because of you that he hurt me."

Boromir swung Frodo up on the horse and climbed on behind him. He whispered in Frodo's pointed ear. "You enjoyed it. The seed you left on my hand proves that."

Frodo breathed hard. "I did not mean to. I detested you with all my heart…I did not know that anger could so arouse me." And in the strength of Frodo's voice, Boromir guessed with much relief that Frodo was not mortally wounded.

"What made you try?" Boromir demanded.

"Pardon me?"

"What made you think that man that gave us both filthy glances would want anything to do with you, much less actually help you escape?"

"I had to try."

His Frodo had the heart of a warrior. He was in pain, his breathing was ragged, but he held his shoulders straight, and showed more of the stoicism that he had throughout their journey. He was not as soft and helpless as Boromir had thought and in that moment, Boromir's desire to torment him dropped from him, and he felt cold, empty and ashamed.

Boromir rode all night, and it was not long before Frodo slumped into sleep in his arms. Boromir was glad because Frodo was in pain and there was naught Boromir could do about it until they stopped, far from the farmer's cottage. When the sun was high in the sky, Boromir found a clearing through which a fresh stream trickled.

Frodo opened his eyes. "Where are we?" He winced and clutched his ribs.

"I wanted to wait until we had left that farm far behind before we stopped. But I do want to look at your injuries. I am no healer, but I have helped my men in battle."

He climbed down from the horse and lifted Frodo from the horse, cradling him in his arms. He laid him gently on the ground and started a fire. After the fire crackled and flickered, Boromir turned to Frodo in concern.

He was struck by the depth of what he saw in Frodo's eyes. This was no animal-like creature who lived only to eat and frolic in the uncivilized woods of the Shire. Keen intelligence lay deep in those eyes, mysteries and secrets, and most importantly, passion that Boromir longed to unleash. He cleared his throat, suddenly unable to think of anything except the tongue that had probed his mouth with such passion the night before in the farmer's lodge.

Boromir wanted him, but not only in body. He wanted his love, he wanted a smile, and he wanted to see affection in those blue eyes that were now dark with suspicion. He wanted to stir the passion of love in him. Oh, how he ached to begin anew so that Frodo would give him his heart and adoration.

Boromir imagined what might have happened if he had approached Frodo in a far different way.

He spies the halfling in the tree, reading, munching an apple, his dear hairy foot dangling carelessly from the branch.

Instead of stalking him, Boromir approaches on foot and speaks in a soft voice, careful not to frighten him. "Pardon me, little master."

Frodo startles, but not in fear. He has clearly not seen any of the Big People before nor does he yet have reason to fear them. He watches Boromir in curiosity.

"Are you lost?" he asks.

Boromir laughs. "Yes…I've lost my way."

"Where are you trying to go? It seems you are way out of your way. There are no Men in the Shire."

"I am seeking the village of Fornost."

"Fornost…" Frodo says thoughtfully. "I know of this. I am afraid you are far from course. You need to find the main road that goes toward Bree. From there you should be able to find the road to Fornost quite easily. Where are you from?"

"I come from Gondor, sent on an errand by my father."

"Ah," Frodo laughs. "And I imagine you have eaten nothing but dried meat and perhaps roots and berries."

"You are correct in that," Boromir laughs.

"Frodo Baggins at your service," Frodo says. "I would be delighted if you would come to my home and enjoy a real supper."

Boromir imagines helping Frodo down from the tree. Frodo trusts him already, and he slips his hand in Boromir's as they walk toward his home.

Boromir lay down beside Frodo, touching his cheek, and his eyes flew open, flickering with hard fear. The trust was not there, would never be there. Over a fortnight of stumbling through the wilderness, and Frodo had barely said a word to him aside from polite answers to questions. Boromir had done nothing cruel to him and in fact strove to do the opposite by being especially kind, gentle, and quick to offer Frodo as much comfort as possible. Now Boromir stroked his arm, soothing, running his fingers up and down his torn sleeve.

"Tell me everything," Boromir whispered, cupping Frodo's cheeks in his hands. He did not feel so well. His head ached and his nose dripped from an impending cold brought on by chill winds from the east.

Frodo winced and Boromir realized that he was squeezing Frodo's cheeks too hard. He pulled his hands away, hastily.

"What…what do you wish to know?" Frodo looked confused.

"Tell me about your youth. If you halflings do not learn battle skills, what do you do? What is your life like?"

Frodo talked. He spoke at first in a halting voice, glancing at Boromir in wary puzzlement on and off, although mostly he looked down. He described the homes of halflings, and Boromir felt ashamed that he had ever thought that these creatures lived in primitive, dirty holes in the ground. He spoke of his parents who perished when he was young. He spoke of his foster home, of cousins who were still dear to him, and most of all, his old cousin Bilbo who had kindled his desire to travel outside the boundaries of the Shire.

Frodo laughed a little, bitterly. "But I never thought it would be like this."

Boromir ached to lie in the moonlight with Frodo as his willing lover, cuddled in his arms looking up at him in adoration, spilling his heart like a babbling brook.

Instead the moonlight made Frodo look pale, weary, broken. His strength and dignity thus far – well, Boromir had expected halflings to be weak, sniffling creatures, easy and pleasurable to bully – but this one had strength beyond endurance.

Boromir sneezed several times but then begged to hear tell more of the Shire, and Frodo went on in a soft, sad voice, as if he believed he would never see these things again. His voice was like music, but his eyes-- Always his eyes left Boromir breathless. They were filled with light and ethereal magic. Boromir knew that if he wished, he could force himself on him, squeeze his delicate skin until it bruised, kiss his lips until they bled, and still it would never be enough.

They slept, and Boromir did not crush Frodo to him, nor did he tie him up. He simply clutched his hands, cradling them inside his much larger hands.

If only…if only I could sleep with this in my arms every night for as long as I lived…

Just after passing through Tharbad and crossing over the Greyflood, Boromir realized that he was burning with fever and all his muscles ached.

"I cannot continue – I am ill."

"Shall we rest then – camp for the night?"

Boromir fell to one knee, dizzy, everything aching and hot. He wondered if Frodo would take advantage of his illness and flee.

Boromir burned with fever, and he did not think it was only that he was ill. Frodo was so beautiful, vulnerable yet strong. He had to have him – and willingly. He shivered. It was those eyes that brought on the fever.

"Frodo, I love you."

"You are ill," Frodo said, not meeting his eyes. "You should rest."

"No…not yet," Boromir said.

He crushed Frodo to him, planting a forceful kiss on his lips, ignoring his feeble pushes against him. Then Frodo went completely limp.

"I am weak," Boromir said, releasing him. "So weak."

"What will you do with me?" Frodo asked. His voice sounded so lost, so broken.

"Do not despair. My brother…he is fascinated with halflings. That is why I took you…for him."

"What will you and your brother do with me?"

"Nothing. I will take you home. But I do not have supplies…we must get supplies…"

"How do I know that you will keep your word?"

"Gondorians are true of word. And this I vow. I will take care of you from now on. There shall be no more…"

He fell into a swoon.

"Frodo…Frodo…" Boromir was thirsty.

"I am here. You are dreadfully ill." A cool cloth wiped his brow.

"Please don't leave me."

"I would not do that. I will take care of you."

"Sweet, sweet Frodo."

Boromir's heart cracked inside, just knowing that this beautiful creature that he had tried to break was so gentle and merciful to him after all he had been through.

Home…home…I must take him back to his green hills and gardens… I must take him back…

When next he was aware, his head rested on something soft. He saw that it was in Frodo's lap and the dear halfling was leaning against a tree, fast asleep.

"Frodo," he mumbled. His lips were cracked from fever. He felt limp and weak, but no longer feverish, sick. He was drenched with sweat. Frodo looked down at him with a weary smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Boromir closed his eyes. "Frodo, I will take you home."

Frodo looked at him with aching wistfulness.

When the illness took Frodo, he was already weak from mistreatment, unaccustomed travel, long marches, not enough food, and the beating by the farmer. His breathing grew harsher and more labored by the hour, and his blue eyes became fever glazed. Boromir washed Frodo's face with tenderness, marveling that he had ever struck him and worse -- that shameful whipping that had marred his beautiful skin and caused him agony. Frodo now looked at him in vulnerable desperation, each breath causing him more pain than the one before.

Boromir held him, wrapping him in his cloak to try to still his shaking. He told him tales from Gondor about bravery in battle and ancient Numenorean tales of giant waves. He went on to describe his longings of one day being King of all of Gondor and Eriador but that it was known that one day the king might return. He secretly hoped not in his lifetime. The tales brought peace to Frodo's sweaty face and it seemed he breathed easier, and so Boromir continued to talk. There was no break in the fever and Boromir cursed the fact that they were so far from any village.

Frodo's efforts became more feeble and his breathing more shallow. He moaned names Boromir did not know and seemed not at all to recognize where he was.

Icy dread seeped down Boromir's limbs that he had done this – plucked a young, healthy halfling from a tree and then killed him.

Boromir did all he could to make Frodo comfortable. It was difficult in the wilderness so far from aid. He could only create a bed of his fur-lined cloak. Frodo shook violently. His brow was hot and he struggled for every breath.

He could not, would not die. Boromir's chest contracted in agony. He felt Frodo's brow. It burned, and Frodo looked at him through glazed eyes lit by that foolish trust that somehow Boromir, who had tortured and broken him, would ease his pain now.

Boromir took him in his arms and cradled him, wrapping the fur-lined cloak around him.

He settled against a tree, determined not to sleep. He could not bear to do so while Frodo suffered, while his breath came out in gurgling wheezes.

Boromir slipped into a dream about the green hills of the Shire. Frodo was there, laughing in the sun, beckoning Boromir to look at a pair of nesting bluebirds.

When Boromir woke, he knew. The bundle in his arms was still and cold, the raspy breathing silenced. Boromir touched his face – cold. Frodo's eyes were open, gazing upward at the sky – their color still rivaling the sky in its brilliance. Boromir held him and wept.

Boromir buried Frodo in the ground next to the withered tree. He felt as if he should leave a marker, but he did not. He wanted to bury with Frodo this horrible act. He would forever keep secret from Faramir the gift he had tried to bring to him. He wanted to go away and never come back, and yet he was reluctant to leave the spot.

He would return to Minas Tirith, and when he arrived there, he vowed to plant flowers over the grave of the little frog under the withered White Tree.