FIC: Possessed (LotR, slash)
My first finished 'fic of the New Year. FPS this time around.
Improv!fic for contrelamontre --
(Look at the pretty, pretty jewellery... [Original story posting here...])
Title: Possessed
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotR
Rating: PG
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: While I wander through Middle-earth on a regular basis, the world and all characters therein are Tolkien's, not mine. Trust me, I'd be shouting from the rooftops if things were any different.
Summary: Another sleepless night plagues Boromir.
Notes: Follows movie canon. Written for contrelamontre Addicted title challenge. The word "addiction" and all derivatives/synonyms are forbidden. Time limit: 45 minutes. I made it in just under the wire.
2007 Men of Middle Earth Awards
Possessed
By Galadriel
Boromir growled and rolled onto his back. It was always pitch black in the Mines, but the darkness was no aide to sleep. It pressed down on the warrior, a heavy, live thing.
He itched all over. It was as if ants had wiggled through the seams of his clothes, a colony crawling the length and breadth of his body, their trails of fire accompanying the fitful, dark dreams.
The itching sensation crept up his chest under the layers of metal and leather and cloth, and he scrubbed at the garments with gloved fingers, hoping against hope that the friction would drive away the sensation.
The air was freezing. How could it be so cold in the bowels of a mountain? He had expected fire and ash to linger in the air, remnants of Dwarven smithies left to burn unattended. Boromir pulled his cloak close, the fur trim brushing and tickling his chin. He tried to let his mind wander freely, tried to ignore the prickling of a thousand marching insects.
Night and day he thought of it now, suspended on such a delicate chain, calling to him from around its current Master's neck. More and more often he caught himself in a waking dream, his dream-self reaching out, gloves carelessly tossed aside, his suddenly bare fingers stroking the curves of the metal, the hollow of the throat underneath, the coolness warming to his own skin, beckoning him closer. It would be so very easy to close his palm around it, to tug on the chain just a little too hard until a hidden weak link gave way, pressing into the tender flesh at the back of the neck, parting, uncoupling from its neighbour and dropping unnoticed to the ground. The rest of the links would linger momentarily, slithering over exposed flesh as the prize came away in his hand.
It had belonged to another before, so why could it not pass along now, fall into the hands of the Steward's son and bring with it its previous bearer?
He would claim them both, own them, and as he clutched the pretty jewel in his palm he would lean forward, pressing lips and teeth to the hollow at the throat, replacing the missing chain with a new mark to bear. His beard would scratch at the tanned skin, and he would clasp the warming metal to his chest as he sucked on the flesh beneath his mouth, leaving a purpling trail of bruised flesh from hollow to collarbone.
He gasped aloud in the darkness, the blood pounding in his ears.
He was too, too warm. He could feel the flush rising in his face, sweat prickling on his brow, and he tugged at his gloves, uncovering fingers that shook as he unknotted his cloak and let it fall to either side of his prone body. He opened bloodshot eyes, staring into the dark above. A last, guttering torch flickered at the edge of his vision.
Boromir waited for sleep to come.
The flickering persisted, insistent and irritating. Giving in to impulse, he turned his head towards the light. The Evenstar sparkled in the dimness, no more than a foot away, moving slowly in time with the sleeping Ranger's every inhalation and exhalation.
The phantom insects stilled, the flush fading from his cheeks as beads of sweat cooled and dried. His hands settled at his sides, their trembling interrupted. For one singular moment, Boromir breathed easier.
It would be so very easy to tug just a little too hard on that chain.
Splayed across the rock floor, Boromir's fingers began to shake.
END
(January 2, 2003)
Improv!fic for contrelamontre --
(Look at the pretty, pretty jewellery... [Original story posting here...])
Title: Possessed
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotR
Rating: PG
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: While I wander through Middle-earth on a regular basis, the world and all characters therein are Tolkien's, not mine. Trust me, I'd be shouting from the rooftops if things were any different.
Summary: Another sleepless night plagues Boromir.
Notes: Follows movie canon. Written for contrelamontre Addicted title challenge. The word "addiction" and all derivatives/synonyms are forbidden. Time limit: 45 minutes. I made it in just under the wire.
2007 Men of Middle Earth Awards
Possessed
By Galadriel
Boromir growled and rolled onto his back. It was always pitch black in the Mines, but the darkness was no aide to sleep. It pressed down on the warrior, a heavy, live thing.
He itched all over. It was as if ants had wiggled through the seams of his clothes, a colony crawling the length and breadth of his body, their trails of fire accompanying the fitful, dark dreams.
The itching sensation crept up his chest under the layers of metal and leather and cloth, and he scrubbed at the garments with gloved fingers, hoping against hope that the friction would drive away the sensation.
The air was freezing. How could it be so cold in the bowels of a mountain? He had expected fire and ash to linger in the air, remnants of Dwarven smithies left to burn unattended. Boromir pulled his cloak close, the fur trim brushing and tickling his chin. He tried to let his mind wander freely, tried to ignore the prickling of a thousand marching insects.
Night and day he thought of it now, suspended on such a delicate chain, calling to him from around its current Master's neck. More and more often he caught himself in a waking dream, his dream-self reaching out, gloves carelessly tossed aside, his suddenly bare fingers stroking the curves of the metal, the hollow of the throat underneath, the coolness warming to his own skin, beckoning him closer. It would be so very easy to close his palm around it, to tug on the chain just a little too hard until a hidden weak link gave way, pressing into the tender flesh at the back of the neck, parting, uncoupling from its neighbour and dropping unnoticed to the ground. The rest of the links would linger momentarily, slithering over exposed flesh as the prize came away in his hand.
It had belonged to another before, so why could it not pass along now, fall into the hands of the Steward's son and bring with it its previous bearer?
He would claim them both, own them, and as he clutched the pretty jewel in his palm he would lean forward, pressing lips and teeth to the hollow at the throat, replacing the missing chain with a new mark to bear. His beard would scratch at the tanned skin, and he would clasp the warming metal to his chest as he sucked on the flesh beneath his mouth, leaving a purpling trail of bruised flesh from hollow to collarbone.
He gasped aloud in the darkness, the blood pounding in his ears.
He was too, too warm. He could feel the flush rising in his face, sweat prickling on his brow, and he tugged at his gloves, uncovering fingers that shook as he unknotted his cloak and let it fall to either side of his prone body. He opened bloodshot eyes, staring into the dark above. A last, guttering torch flickered at the edge of his vision.
Boromir waited for sleep to come.
The flickering persisted, insistent and irritating. Giving in to impulse, he turned his head towards the light. The Evenstar sparkled in the dimness, no more than a foot away, moving slowly in time with the sleeping Ranger's every inhalation and exhalation.
The phantom insects stilled, the flush fading from his cheeks as beads of sweat cooled and dried. His hands settled at his sides, their trembling interrupted. For one singular moment, Boromir breathed easier.
It would be so very easy to tug just a little too hard on that chain.
Splayed across the rock floor, Boromir's fingers began to shake.
END
(January 2, 2003)