Warning: Adult themes
As Narilvrin 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 Young Angmir as the swordsmith put a new edge on his blade, the Dwarf’s axe and the swords of the Halflings. Though it pleased him to be occupied and engaged in an endeavor of import, Boromir missed the idle hours he had spent with Narilvrin 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 familiar Elven Maid who had made such a vision possible.
In recent days, he had thought of Narilvrin 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.
However, on this night Boromir made an exception.
For in his quarters when he arrived was Narilvrin, 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 moonlight and starlight shone blue and silver on her hair as it cascaded down her back bound by pins and shining ornaments. 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.”
Narilvrin nodded, her eyes like bright golden flecked emeralds. “I wear them to honor you, Boromir son of Denethor, on our last night of peace 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. Narilvrin 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 of peace 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. “Narilvrin, I fear that when this quest is over and I see the White City again. 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 try to make the Southward journey. My path leaves Imladris as well.”
Boromir’s heart leapt inexplicably. Leave where?
She turned back, then, and gazed deeply into his gray-green eyes, seeing he did not understand.
“Yes, Boromir, I am going to go with you on this Journey of the Fellowship,” Narilvrin said, tracing a long finger over his face, “For there will be many ordeals for everyone, and I would be there to comfort them, especially of you…the time of the Elves is over. Soon they will take the Great East Road through the lands of the Periannath to the Gray Havens. And so to their ships and on to Valinor, their true home. They can do little more here and power is waning. However, I, for one, will not be leaving yet. 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 would like to see your city, Boromir, Steward’s Son of Gondor.” So saying Narilvrin 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 sun 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 Narilvrin gazed up into his proud face and spoke low: “I would like to see it, to see it through your eyes;” her soft hand passed across his brow; “to wander 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 Narilvrin’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 fire.
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 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,” Narilvrin 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 cursed cloth and soon that, too, was gone.
Relinquishing her exploration of the Man’s broad, long back Narilvrin’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.
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 coarse 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 telltale 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 Narilvrin 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 slipped her hand underneath the hem, pressed 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 Narilvrin away. He shook his head, and began to move away from her.
“O not yet, my lady; not yet.”
Narilvrin grinned lightly 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 Narilvrin’s keen Elven eyes took in every detail – the way he leaned coolly 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 a moment, knowing his image would live in her forever.
Boromir’s eyes, dark with desire, met hers again over the rim. Lowering it measurably, he gestured to her with his cup. “Now, shed your raiment for me, My Lady.”
His voice, thick with passion, rumbled across the air to her like distant thunder and Narilvrin 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, Narilvrin almost disappeared to Boromir’s sight. Then one white hand, bright in the dimness, appeared around her waist and fluttered up under the flame-like 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, Narilvrin 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 Narilvrin’s form was startlingly clear to Boromir. He stood mesmerized by her delicate feet naked and vulnerable against the bare floor that rose to her long slender calves before all else was hidden under the flamed fall of her fiery hair. In contrast, her pale skin shone in the darkness and appeared without mark or blemish. Narilvrin was unlike any mortal woman he had ever seen: the Elf was all slender verticality, all lithe length.
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 Narilvrin’s neck, her shoulders, her spine went his lips, his tongue, while his hands made their presence known demandingly 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 article of clothing 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 Narilvrin over to his bed and gently laid her body upon it, and later joined her, himself as naked as she. He pressed himself against her, causing her moan in a way pleasing to his ears. Boromir bent his head and kissed her fully, his tongue slipping into her mouth. He then brings his head upward and starts to caress her elvish ears, planting hot steamy kisses and nibbled the pointed part. Narilvrin arched against him, feeling his erection dig into her most sensitive spot.
But just as Boromir was raising one ivory thigh with his knee a thought occurred to him. He lifted his head from Narilvrin’s breast and settled himself over her.
“Tell me, Narilvrin, is this permitted? Elves cavorting with Men?” He smiled teasingly but his eyes showed concern.
“Hmmm …” Narilvrin 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 seductively. “Cavorting…”
Stifling a moan Boromir caught her chin in one hand and caught her eyes in his. “Narilvrin … 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 Narilvrin’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 Narilvrin. 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 …”
Narilvrin 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 Narilvrin’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, feeling her heated depths, and letting her feel the extent of his desire and the full weight of his intention. Narilvrin gasped into her lover’s mouth; during their play, he seemed to have grown impossibly fuller. Boromir waited for her to adjust, and as she arched up to feel his weight and warmth press down upon her, he took this a sign and began to dive in and out of her with timely thrust; a union was created in the blood in her virginity and the sweat of the two glistening bodies. Boromir’s warm rapid breath cascaded down Narilvrin’s chest as he kissed and caressed with his lips, his hands settling upon her hips. And so, they made love until the stars began to fade above them. Then they lay together, silver and gold forged together, 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 Narilvrin’s from where they had fallen and laid her dress atop the bed, and did not have 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.
Narilvrin 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 lovemaking 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 Narilvrin 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 some 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 stroked to a fervent 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 Narilvrin 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 emerald-golden flecked eyes fluttered and opened.
But Boromir found there were no words. He bent, pressed his lips to hers for a long moment, and was about to leave, but Narilvrin sat up and stayed him. After getting dressed, they walked down into the main valley towards the Fellowship awaiting them, and they were gone, a silver feathered eagle following them in the high airs of Arda.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.