Battle Scars
The lamps flicker softly in the breeze that makes the gauze of the bed curtains shimmer, the leaves in trees above them rustle and sigh. Just another pair of glow lights in Lothlorien, this city of fireflies. Boromir shifts a bit on his side of the mattress, smiles, feels the elf move with him, wrapping his arms tighter as Legolas curls into him. The elf rubs his cheek against him, fidgeting as the man's chest hair tickles his nose.
Boromir doesn't know who's talan this is, who's house Legolas has appropriated for the night, he's just very grateful for this island of isolation, this tiny space for the two of them to share for this time given to them.
He's not asleep, doesn't want to be, doesn't want to waste a moment of this blissful privacy. He opens his eyes, feeling the delicious languor that comes after their lovemaking. He always wants this to last forever, this moment of perfection. It never does, and he pushes that thought away, concentrates on the here and now, the sweat drying on his chest, the softness of the sheets, Legolas' breath, slowing now.
Long fingers trace the line of his collarbone, and Boromir shivers deliciously, runs a hand up the elf's arm to stroke his jaw, so strong and yet so smooth. Legolas stops his exploration to feel a scar near Boromir's shoulder. He caresses the raised skin, curious.
"Where did you get this?" he asks, in that blunt way Boromir has come to love. Boromir grins in the dark and pushes loose strands of the elf's hair behind his shoulders.
"Tavern fight," he says simply, and feels the elf grin against his skin.
"Tell me," Legolas demands, dancing his fingertips along the cords of Boromir's neck.
So Boromir does, how he and Faramir, away from the watchful eyes of their father, slipped down to a "low" tavern and Boromir, full of youthful arrogance, despite Faramir's best efforts, managed to start a decent little brawl, before the tavern keeper, recognizing his guests, hustles them both out of there and back up to the citadel. He chuckles at the memory.
"Your turn," he says, his hands slipping down to the elf's forearm. The scar is small, but the edges are ragged, suggesting a tear, not a clean cut. Legolas shrugs, finds that the memory is not as painful here as it would be anywhere else.
"Sword practice. I was too slow."
"You?" Boromir asks, raising a brow. Legolas tilts his head to look up at his face, rubs the back of his hand along the stubble that fascinates him so much. The elf's cheek is still pink from the rasp of it.
"I've never been good with swords," he admits, amazed at how easily the words come. "My father was determined I should be. When I let my guard down, he broke my arm." It's said without rancour, just a recitation of a fact.
Boromir bolts upright, Legolas tumbling to the mattress. He props himself up on an elbow and looks candidly at the man, seeing not pity in in that blue gaze but anger and terrible recognition. Legolas hates that look, he knows that part of Boromir is back in Gondor. He wants Boromir to understand, to know that he is not alone, he is not the only one with seams on his heart.
"It was his duty, Boromir," he says, clearly and concisely, stressing the word. "I would not be a warrior if I could not defend myself. It was my duty to learn."
Boromir reaches out and strokes the arm, feeling the scar, imagining the force it would take to break bone with the flat of the blade. He begins to shake, indignation filling him at the deliberate cruelty. Legolas sits up and gathers him into his arms, as he always does when Boromir's thoughts go flitting back to his family.
"Duty, Boromir," he repeats softly.
"That doesn't make it right," Boromir all but spits, the earlier peace of the evening is gone now, he wants to find Thranduil and choke him.
The elf knows it is not only his father the man is furious with. They share so much more than Boromir will admit, more than he wants to know. It has to come out before it cankers both of them. Legolas runs his hand down his lover's back, stopping when he finds the raised skin of another scar, a large one, awkward and ugly.
Boromir freezes and Legolas tenderly runs gentle fingers over the scar, leaning his forehead into the man's cheek. "This one wasn't right either, was it?" he says, his voice full of love and understanding. "This was a blow you caught protecting another."
Boromir turns away, rolls to his side, he doesn't want to talk about this, he doesn't want to admit to the truth of the marks on his body. He's kept that memory locked away so deeply he doesn't realize how much it determines so much of what he is.
"You still don't use a sword," Boromir says, almost accusingly, as he gestures to the pile of weapons on the floor. The ivory handles of the elf's knives glow dully in the faint light. He wants to turn this back on the elf, he wants to keep his secrets.
"Because I choose not to," Legolas tells him. "I can if I must. But it is not who I am."
Legolas is ruthless in his honesty and needs Boromir to face the truth. He hears the man cry out in the night, he knows the anger that even his love can only force away for a little while, the fear that comes creeping in every time Boromir stops struggling against it. More than anyone in their company he understands it and it's as much for himself as his lover that he pushes so hard.
"Look at me," he says, softly, but demanding as well. He sits up on the bed and pulls the man around to face him. Boromir resists, turns his head away, angry that he's been betrayed by his own skin. Legolas takes his face in both his hands and gazes into those icy eyes. It's like looking into the depths of a glacier, hidden crevices of truth illuminated by sunlit control.
"Tell me," he orders. Boromir closes his eyes for moment, and Legolas feels his heart break. He doesn't want to hurt the man, he doesn't want to do this now. He wants to caress Boromir back into comfort, back into the bliss they'd shared before. But he is also tired of being the strong one. He needs Boromir to admit what floats beneath them, what threatens them from the inside. So his will does not weaken. He learned his duty early.
"It was Faramir's beating, wasn't it?" It's not a question. Legolas knows the answers as well as if he'd been there. It's written over Boromir like a dwarf's tattoos, like the scar on his back. He reads it on his lover like a well worn scroll.
Boromir's lid's fly open and he glares at the elf, hating himself for not being able to hide anymore. He gives Legolas what he wants instead. With a snarl, he stares, letting him see the beast he carries inside. Lets him see the rage and fury that he fights so hard to keep from the world. He is startled when he realizes that it's not his anger he sees reflected in the elf's wintery eyes. Legolas' own demons are staring back at him.
"It was." He growls lowly, through teeth that clench even now, all these years later. "He didn't deserve it!" He sees his father, his staff raised high, Faramir crouching down to make himself as small as possible, trying to escape that merciless stroke. Through red-tinged memory he feels again that impossible burst of speed as he dove at his brother, shielding him, hears the whistling of the rod as it falls, tearing skin, cries out in shock as the rod comes down again and again, as Denethor, in his fury, punishes both his sons. "I took it for him, and tried to protect him. My father" he spat the word, "mocked my misplaced pity. Told me to be strong and not waste time on the weak!"
Legolas' eyes never flicker, never show any shock, only his own torment. Boromir realizes that he knows, that he's felt the same things that Boromir has kept locked in his heart all his life. The elf is not disgusted, he is empathetic.
"Faramir always blamed himself," he tells the elf, wrapping words around the pain, offering it up. "His only crime was to look like our mother. He has her eyes, her way of tilting his head." He tries to look away, but Legolas refuses to let go, holds him in this place, this moment. They can only go forward from here.
"Love and hate entwine in me," the elf says, "until I don't know where one begins and the other ends." It's his own piece of truth, fragile as glass. "I took my mother's life, but had no brother for my father to favor. So I was both beloved and forsaken. I don't know which hurt me more."
Something tightens along Boromir's jaw, Legolas can feel him trembling in his hands. But this is not about blame or guilt. This is about the gossamer strands that bind them together tighter than iron bands. He waits, knowing that Boromir must speak next, must say the words to him before they can move on.
"I wanted him to love me," Boromir says, finally, ashamed of the weakness that makes him admit it, exalted at the trust that he can. He wants to say that he's always been indifferent to his father, that he's his own man, but he can't. He takes the splinter from his soul and gives it to the one person he thinks can destroy it, or at least hold it for him for a while.
"I want him to love me," he says again, his voice broken, "but not at the cost of my brother. He will never love me while I love Faramir. If I were a better man, I could bring them together, I could mend what breaks both their hearts. But I can't." His face is a grimace of agony. "I'm helpless between them. I'm not good enough."
"Neither am I," Legolas tells him, gently stroking the side of the man's face. Boromir leans into the caress as if it is the only real thing in the world. And then he realizes what the elf has said.
Fury races through his veins, his eyes change from ice to fire in an instant, and he pushes away from that self-pity, lets go of the past in a smouldering second.
"Never!" he snaps, reaching out. He laces his fingers through Legolas' hair, pulls him close, kisses him with an intensity he's never felt, even though he's done this so many times before. His rage ignites something stronger than passion, stronger than the fragile love unfolding between them. He wants to posses the elf completely, pull the doubt from him, fill him with all he's given to Boromir, all the understanding, all the confidence, all the compassion.
Boromir is relentless, and crushes the elf's mouth to his. He won't stop, until Legolas bites him, sharply, enough to draw blood. He glares at the man, panting from bruised lips, "I'm not good enough."
A growl begins low in Boromir's chest and he pushes the elf back on the bed, still tangled in his hair, but Legolas fights him. He flips him over, straddles him, pins his arms behind his head, paying no attention to the hair that pulls out with Boromir's fists. He looks down at him, face flushed and all the tempests of the sea in those changeable eyes.
"Not good enough, Boromir," he pants again, "why can't you see that?"
"Shut up!" Boromir howls, breaking one arm free and pulling the elf down to his chest. He tries to roll, but Legolas is biting again, muttering against his skin.
"Why do you keep saying that?" Boromir wants to scream, but his mouth is full of white hair and moonlight, it comes out a muffled whisper.
"Because you won't believe me!" Legolas rasps, dragging his teeth down Boromir's neck. "Because I'm as broken as you are! And you won't be honest with me!" He twists away, and Boromir stops struggling. Legolas pulls himself up and stares out, across the bed, through the filmy curtains, into the night. He shakes his head for a moment, breathing deeply.
"Why can't you see what I am?" he asks Boromir softly. "How can you love me if you can't even see me?"
Understanding explodes in Boromir's mind, his soul. He is flame now, burning away all doubt in this crucible the elf has pushed him into. He reaches over and pulls the elf's face close to his.
"I don't care," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't care how ruined I am or shattered you are, don't you see? It doesn't matter. The shards of your soul fit with mine."
