As Naimë had predicted Boromir did not set eyes on her again for some time.  For on the day following the feast he was called to Council with Elrond, as were many fair folk and strange.  And while he was gratified at last to learn the meaning of the riddle that had brought him to Rivendell, he found his purpose subsumed in that of the quest and it disturbed the Captain of Gondor to be just one more player challenged by their common Enemy to a game none could foresee an end to.  More troubling, the presence of The Ring wore on him.

The next days were spent largely in the company of his eight new companions as they prepared for the journey South – studying maps, gathering provisions, they even began taking their meals together.  He, himself, took charge of their weaponry and spent a final afternoon in the presence of old Megilin as the swordsmith put a new edge on his blade, the Dwarf's axe and the swords of the Halflings.  And though it pleased him to be occupied and engaged in an endeavor of import, Boromir missed the idle hours he had spent with Naimë waiting for such a time to come.

As Boromir climbed back to Elrond's House that last afternoon it all appeared so different to him.  Now, even the magic of the Elves could no longer delay the winter and signs of its coming were everywhere.  Still, Boromir found the land beautiful to his eye and his thoughts wandered again to the Elven Maid who had made such a vision possible.

In recent days he had thought of Naimë often, wishing for someone with whom he might discuss the many new things he had encountered, or someone with whom he might be silent for a time.  At first, feeling thwarted at the Council of Elrond his ever-ready anger had turned on her:  she had kept him isolated and sequestered – he had not seen the representatives of other races arriving, he had not been prepared for their presence in Rivendell.  Then it came to him that if it had been some kind of trap, it was one he would willingly walk into again.

On the evening before their departure he dined with the other members of the Fellowship and then took his leave intending to spend a last night in comfort and alone.  As was his habit on the eve of a mission the Soldier of Gondor expected to lie wakeful in his bed rehearsing variables and eventualities in an effort to be prepared for any outcome.

But on this night Boromir made an exception.

For in his quarters when he arrived was Naimë, awaiting him.  She stood at the railing by the little balcony table so transformed from her everyday appearance that the sight halted Boromir at his door.

The moon- and starlight shone blue and silver on her hair as it cascaded down her back unbound by pins or ornament.  Instead of her usual formless tunic she wore a long slender dress of deepest midnight blue, and when she turned Boromir could see the low neck was adorned with seven shimmering stars.  As his gaze flowed down her form it seemed to him that the stars, too, fell and merged into a pattern of white leaves adorning her skirts.

He stepped noiselessly forward and came to meet her, raising a hand lightly to one open sleeve. 

"The symbols of my city."

Naimë nodded, her eyes like star sapphires mirroring the night sky.  "I wear them to honor you, Boromir son of Denethor, on our last night together."

The Elf Maid gestured to the table and there Boromir saw she had placed a tall ewer and two goblets.

"This is Míruvórë, our Wine of Farewell," she explained, handing him a cup.  The sparkling draught looked as light and clear as water to Boromir's eyes but a fragrance soft as summer emanated from it.  Naimë teasingly echoed his warning from days before:  "Be warned, it is deceptively simple in appearance!"

Then she raised her cup into the moonlight falling between them.

"I come to say 'Namárië', Man of the South.  Farewell; always in memory will I treasure the short time we have had together."

Boromir bowed his head, but found no words as they drank together.  The míruvórë sparkled over his tongue like the finest mead, like starlight itself distilled.  He drained the cup and replaced it on the table.

Then boldly he stepped forward.  "Naimë, I fear that when this quest is over and I see the White City again I will have the ruling of it.  But know our gates, our doors … my door, will always be open to you."

Softly she turned away to face the night.  "Alas, Boromir, I will never make the Southward journey.  My path lies elsewhere.  Soon, I, too, will leave Imladris."


Boromir's heart leapt inexplicably.  Leaving?

She turned back, then, and gazed deeply into his gray-green eyes, seeing he did not understand.

"Yes, we are all leaving."  Gently, Naimë traced the side of Boromir's face with a long finger.  "The time of the Elves is over.  Soon we will take the Great East Road through the lands of the Periannath to the Gray Havens.  And so to our ships and on to Valinor, our true home.  We can do little more here and power is waning.  But I, for one, will be sorry to leave.  I fear my heart will be heavy on that last journey for Middle Earth is dear to me and fair, though there is much of it I have not seen.

"I should have liked to see your city, Boromir, Steward's Son of Gondor."  So saying Naimë turned again to the night and gazed out over the valley as if her Elven eyes could see that far.  "I hear that in the Tower of Guard you have built your homes from the shoulders of mighty Mount Mindolluin itself, even as we have fashioned ours from the trees and rivers here in Imladris, and that the morning son reflected on the White Tower of Ecthelion surpasses in beauty even an Elf's ability to tell of it."

Moved by her words Boromir stepped behind her and impulsively framed her tapering waist.  "That is so."

Turning suddenly in the circle of his hands Naimë gazed up into his proud face and spoke low:  "I should have liked to see it, to have seen it through your eyes;" her soft hand passed across his brow; "wondered the streets and halls of Minas Tirith;" the other came to match its mate and frame his strong face; "at your side."

Then as she lifted her face to his Boromir saw her lips part and in them read invitation.  He bent and met her rising, covered her mouth with his own. 

Her lips were like the finest silk, though her kiss was firm with purpose before it melded against his.  Boromir drank her in as he had the wine, quickly accepting the gift being given.  In the back of his mind the soldier couldn't help but consider that he was kissing an Elf – someone not of his race – but the Man's lips, his hands, his body felt only her passion, her lithe form yielding to his and, when she opened her mouth to him, something indescribably rich and warm mingling with the míruvórë.

With that first taste their desire quickly escalated.  Boromir's hands roamed Naimé's back and shoulders, her arms as they reached for him, her long neck, the fall of her waist – he refused to leave any part of her unknown.  And when their passion made them breathless they simply held each other, her head tucked in under his chin, the soft gold of his beard mingling with her darkness.

Raising his head Boromir gazed down at the beauty before him.  With one rough, square hand he brushed aside her hair now disarrayed from his caresses.  Here was no unschooled maid or restless woman.  Here for the first time Boromir found himself holding a lover truly capable of being his partner, whose experience at love far outdistanced his own indeed by lifetimes.

"Lady …"  he searched for words though an Elven hand stole up to hush him.

"No," Naimé murmured.  "I am no lady tonight, and you no lord.  We are but two creatures seeking joy in one another" she breathed; "great joy."

So saying she rose to join her kiss with his again even as Boromir surrounded her completely in his strong arms.  Now there was nothing between them but curséd cloth and soon that, too, was gone.

Relinquishing her exploration of the Man's broad, long back Naimë's clever hands rapidly undid the clasps of his heavy leather vest, pausing for long moments to caress his full chest, rounded shoulders, powerful arms as she pushed it off him to the floor.  In rapid succession his embroidered crimson tunic and woven undershirt with its chain mail cuffs soon followed.  Then she had him naked to the waist and open to her touch and gaze.

Boromir was unlike any man she had ever been with.  Not of Elven kind he felt more solid to her hands, his muscles massed and ready beneath his skin, flesh hotter and thicker and covered with a course hair that showed gold and auburn.  His smell was sharp in her nostrils, rich as leather and irresistible to her; she brushed her cheek, her face against and along his beard again and again, kissed and licked his corded neck, threaded her fingers over his chest to tangle in the hair of his stomach rippling under her touch.

Then she grew more bold.  Smiling enticingly, she circled his waist to hold him to her while pale fingers danced along the hem of his pants between them.  Then she dropped that hand to swim over the tell-tale swell urging toward her through the worn leather.  Even here he was more substantial, more corporeal than any Elven male.  At the thought of being one with him Naimë clasped Boromir through the cloth and almost moaned at his sounds of pleasure.  She glanced up to see find his head thrown back, hair falling over his shoulder, and green eyes watching her.  Encouraged, she pressed her hand fully along his length, greater than her hand, and caressed him.  Soon he was rocking himself into her flexing fingers, his own hands blindly stroking her back, her hair, pressing her body to him.

But in a moment more Boromir released her and gently pushed Naimë away.   He shook his head, leontine, and began to move away from her.

"O not yet, Little Bird; not yet."

Naimë laughed lightly at the endearment of her name even as Boromir moved back to the little table.  Refilling both cups he took a few calming breaths of the crisp night air.  Then he raised his glass and drank.

Across the floor Naimë's keen Elven eyes took in every detail – the way he leaned cooly against the rail – one booted ankle crossed over the other – belying the heat she had felt in his flesh.  Even under the silver moon he was golden, light and shadow turning his honey hair to flaxen wheat and his beard to soft mystery.  Moonlight bathed his broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and chest; from under shadow stout ribs seemed to embrace his abdomen and a trail of fair hair guided her eyes to the deep indentation of his navel and the softer flesh surrounding it not even a soldier's life could erase. 

"He is truly a prince among Men," she thought.  She longed to cross the floor to him, let her hands, her tongue, take again what now he gave only to her eyes.  She took him in in a moment, knowing his image would live in her forever.

Boromir's eyes, dark with desire, met hers again over the rim.  Lowering it measuredly, he gestured to her with his cup.  "Now, shed your feathers for me, Little Bird."

His voice, thick with passion, rumbled across the air to her like distant thunder and Naimë answered it with a lightening laugh.  Then a tremor ran across her skin.  All of a sudden she felt like a little girl who, thinking she has befriended a lost kitten, discovers she has brought a hungry lion home to play.  She smiled in acceptance of the delicious challenge she had brought herself and slowly, unhurriedly, turned her back on him.

In the dark of the room Naimë almost disappeared to Boromir's sight.  Then one white hand, bright in the dimness, appeared around her waist and fluttered up under the midnight fall of her hair.  Almost holding his breath the sound of secret clasps unclasping came to Boromir's expectant ears.  Then that nimble hand reappeared, fingers weaving into the darkness of her dress and returning, to descend just to the level of her hip.  At last Naimé let her hand fall back to her side and, for what seemed an endless moment to the watching Boromir, nothing happened.  Then, with a flutter and a sigh the great midnight gown melted into a pool at the Elf maid's feet.

Boromir's breath stopped. 

Clothed now in only a thin veil of sparkling cloth the perfection of Naimë's form was startlingly clear to Boromir.  He stood mesmerized by her delicate feet naked and vulnerable against the bare floor, her long slender calves that belled only slightly before rising up to full, tender thighs which, where they met, conspired with her lean but curvaceous rear to hide a treasure Boromir could only guess at.  Then, further, gentle hips yielded to a slender waist before all else was hidden under the midnight fall of her raven hair.  In contrast, her pale skin shone in the darkness and appeared without mark or blemish.  Naimë was unlike any mortal woman he had ever seen:  the Elf was all slender verticality, all lithe length.  Boromir couldn't believe he'd ever mistaken her gender, she was as unlike to a man as she could be.

Toeing off his boots the Steward's Son now quit his post by the balcony rail and entered into the dark of the room.  He approached her from behind almost silently; feeling her start slightly as he gently gathered up her hair and draped it over one sloping shoulder.

Keeping only scant inches between them, feeling her body yield almost imperceptibly to his, Boromir bent and tasted her skin.  Over the taut tendons of Naimë's neck, her shoulders, her spine went his lips, his tongue, while his hands made their presence known undemandingly at her hips.  Her skin was cool and tasted to Boromir like rain in August, promising relief to his own heated flesh.  He continued to caress her with his mouth as he began to finger the gauzy material of her slip.  Slowly, slowly, he gathered it up and, when he felt the hem slip into his palm, let it accompany him as he slid his hands over her belly, over her ribs, her breasts and the length of her arms raised to the sky for him.  In a moment the flimsy thing had joined her gown on the floor.

Only then did he pull her back against him and, as she molded her body to his, bend and take her in his arms.  Boromir carried Naimë over to his bed and gently laid her body upon it, but he did not join her.  He stood back and let his eyes roam freely over her body, pale and numinous in the darkness, shining in contrast to her dark hair and adorned only by her moonstone eyes and lips sparkling with moisture.  Then he swiftly stripped off his trousers and joined her.

Freely now they explored each other with eyes, hands and mouths, flush with the first full contact of skin to skin.  But just as Boromir was raising one ivory thigh with his knee a thought occurred to him.  He lifted his head from Naimë's breast and settled himself over her.

"Tell me, Little Bird, is this permitted?  Elves cavorting with Men?"  He smiled teasingly but his green eyes showed concern.

"Hmmmm …" Naimë seemed to consider her lover's question, and then with a broad smile raised her thigh up over his hip to bring them into intimate contact.  "Cavorting.  Is that what you call it?"  She rolled the word about in her mouth teasingly.   "Cavorting…"

Stifling a groan Boromir caught her chin in one hand and caught her eyes in his.  "Naimë … I simply meant – "

But her cascading laugh cut him off until he could do nothing but join her.  Then their laughter rang together like wind in the trees, each giving voice to the other.  But a shadow fell fleetingly across Naimë's face.  She reached up one long hand and caressed his beard, his brow, his hair and frowned slightly.  "It is true two of our fairest maids could be said to have fallen under the spell of Mortal Man, to the sadness of many."

Now it was Boromir's turn to cheer Naimë.  He tenderly kissed her trailing fingers and, when she smiled again, asked smugly  "Maids?  None of your Elvish men have been beguiled by the whiles of mortal women? for I can tell you from experience they are considerable …"

Naimë shared his jest, answering "Well, none that I have heard tell of, but then I doubt our union, sweet though it will be," she raised her head and kissed him lightly; "will find its way into recorded history."

"Oh, it will, Love, it will."  So saying Boromir bent his head and captured Naimë's mouth again, He pressed his lips almost roughly against hers and then, at once, thrust his tongue between her lips and his erect cock between her legs letting her feel the extent of his desire and the full weight of his intention.  Naimë gasped into her lover's mouth excitedly; during their play he seemed to have grown impossibly fuller.  She wrapped her arms around him tightly in anticipation only to have Boromir suddenly break their embrace, saying:

"Still, I am glad to hear all the advantage is on my side."

But just as suddenly Boromir found himself on his back, Naimë sitting astride his hips and pressing his cock beneath her and smiling smugly.  "Not all the advantage!"

Boromir jackknifed instantly and, after a momentary tussle, captured Naimë's hands in his.  Then the soldier forcefully embraced his captive, pulling her hands in his behind her back.  He kissed her with a hungry, open mouth and, as their kiss melted again into mutual pleasure loosened his hold.  After a few moments he pulled back and, pressing his forehead tenderly to hers, captured her gaze instead. 

"No more games."

"No more games."

*****************

They made love until the stars began to fade above them.  Then they lay together, silver and gold, murmuring quietly to one another, often laughing, or simply letting their hearts dance to the rhythm of the other's body for a time. 

When the light of day began to turn the leaves outside his room gray against a rosy sky Boromir rose silently to wash and dress.  He retrieved his clothes and Naimë's from where they had fallen and laid her dress atop the bed, not having the heart to wake her.

When all was readiness and there was nothing more, he stood beside the bed and just watched her as she slept.  One errant lock of hair had fallen across her eyes.  Now it lifted and fell with each breath his Elven lover took and made the Warrior smile.

Naimë was the first he had ever been with that had treated him like a man – not a man of privilege and power to be serviced and flattered, but a man of heart, sinew and spirit – a man to be partnered.  And in their love-making she had given of herself freely, and given him a night the thought of which would keep any soldier warm in battle for a lifetime.

At the same time Naimë had been like every other woman he had ever been with, only more so.  Her skin was so soft and pale yet firm and vibrant to his hand.  Her spirit, so reserved in all else but mirth after the fashion of her kind, was set free by their desire for each other.  And her body, so long, lean and cool had yielded to him generously and had drawn him into a slick grasping core stoked to a ready flame.  Closing his eyes, Boromir remembered how hers had widened as he entered her, and then closed again as she was almost undone by the feeling of him ensheathed in her completely.  It had been her deep, elongated release had finally brought him his.

He opened his eyes again as she stirred.  Although he was no stranger to leaving for battle with a woman in his bed, Boromir knew he could not leave Naimë to wake to an empty room.  Gently, he brushed the wayward lock back into place, and then traced the side of her sculpted face.  Her gray eyes fluttered and opened.

But Boromir found there were no words.  He bent, pressed his lips to hers for a long moment, and was gone.