Lord Of The Rings Fan Fiction ❯ Darkenss, Lies, and Betrayal ❯ Choices ( Chapter 2 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Summary: In which Legolas is given a choice.

Since I generally stay away from plot as much as possible, please bear with me as I get my feet wet.

Also, a word of warning, I can see no way for this story not to get dark, dark and darker before the end. I am only hoping that I do not paint myself, Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas into an impossible corner.

Please note that I currently do not have a beta for this story and will most likely go back and make final corrections once I have all the pieces of the puzzle posted.

Because this is an un-betaed work in progress I will be glad to listen to any suggestions or comments on style/grammer and even story direction. The final say so though will be mine.

The title of this chapter is dedicated to a wonderfully fantastic angst writer: Irena. Powerful and dark are her worlds. Thank you all for the encouragement. I hope you like this installment.

And still no sex, yet. Sometimes sex just doesn't work in with the plot. But I expect it will be up in the next chapter or two.

Warnings: This tale will deal with Non-Con, Rape, Betrayal and OOC.

Cheyenne

Non Anime: Lord Of The Rings Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 09.30.2014 | Updated On: 09.30.2014 | Pages: 11 | Words: 4.4K | Visits: 1.1K | Status: Work In Progress

Chapter 2 - Choices

Boromir carried his precious burden towards the small clearing where the Fellowship had made camp just last morn. Standing outside the garish gleam of sputtering firelight, he could see the skirmish was all but over.

Adjusting his hold on the limp elf, his fingers strumming absent-mindedly through the long silken tresses, he surveyed the carnage. The carefully built campfire had been scattered. A stray ember had caught one of the blankets that had been too near afire. Their camp was overflowing with Orcs. The small clearing seemed to be seething with the foul dreck of Sauron's black hearted beasts.

From his vantage just outside the circle of leaping light, he could not see the dwarf, nor did he hear the dwarven battle cry. Where were Frodo and Sam? He could not see either of them. The ringbearer was to be given to Sauron. He scanned the camp, a frown upon his face.

Merry and Pippin stood back to back, at the far side of the camp; their small swords drawn and dripping blood. From the blood anointing their blades, he could tell that their capture would not be without grim price. Still, he could tell from the wearied look of exhaustion and fear upon their small faces that they would fail, soon enough.

Aragorn's face was grim, eyes hollow reflecting the light of battle. Orange light cast his face into a mask of death and defiance. He spun and wove in a bloodthirsty dance, one hand wielding Andúril with deadly accuracy, the other using a hastily snatched tree limb as a torch. More than one of Sauron's minions ran screaming wildly into the wood clawing at face or clothing, as they were touched by the flames. It was difficult not to admire the Númenórean in all his deathly skill and cunning. He moved with the grace of a large hunting cat, eyes set and mouth curled in a silent snarl.

He heard a loud cry and his gaze was drawn forcibly back to the little ones. One of Merry's arms hung loosely from his shoulder and the front of his waistcoat was damp with blood. His face was screwed up with pain and pale beneath the dirt and grime smeared across his face. Pippin's harsh gasps for breath easily carried to the edge of light where Boromir lurked. Pippin's green eyes were wide with terror and the muddy trails from tears streaked his cheeks.

Boromir's heart clenched. He had willed no harm come to the halflings. He counted them as children and would not see them hurt. Uncertain, he took a hesitant step towards the conflict.

"Merry! Look! It's Boromir!" Pippin's high voice called excitedly, as if all it would take was for Boromir to lift sword against the fell creatures surrounding them to change the tide of battle.

Boromir blanched, clutching Legolas' still form tightly. He could not go to their aid. Though it cost him dearly; he would not. He had not intended to help either side. That had not been part of the bargain. He was merely to distract the fellowship, separate out Legolas and leave telltale marks of their trail. Sauron was to do the rest. In return, Sauron had promised him the Prince of Mirkwood as consort, Gondor to rule and the upstart King removed from any possible position of threat.

Still, that single tiny step was enough to sway the fight. As Pippin cried out, his attention drawn hopefully towards the man he thought of as friend and protector, the circle of misshapen creatures used his inattention to drive a wedge between the two hobbits. With crude cries of elation, the orcs surged forward overrunning the halflings.

Boromir found his heart beating painfully in his throat, making it difficult to swallow as first Merry and then Pippin were knocked to the ground.

"Boromir!" Aragorn's voice rang out, desperation colored his proud tones as the sheer number of creatures began taking their toll. Boromir glanced guiltily across the sullied glade.

Aragorn's gaze flickered over Boromir and touched lightly upon the burden in the Gondorian's arms and returned, disbelief mirrored upon his face. Ice grim eyes locked with Boromir's paler blue, as the Son of Gondor stood riveted outside the thickest of the strife.

Bodies were piled haphazardly around the Dunédan. Orcs in various stages of death, mouths frozen open in dark grimaces added to the nightmarish quality of the scene. Boromir could see realization dawn across Aragorn's face, see it take hold in the coldness of the man's eyes.

Shock, denial, rage, hopelessness, hollow acceptance, and finally, disgust, chased across the would-be King's face. Grim acknowledgement shadowed the noble, careworn face. Knowledge of the inevitability of death gleamed in the eyes of the Ranger and a fey, cold berserker light seemed to fill him.

A faint hint of sorrow wreathed Boromir as he watched. In another lifetime, in another world, this man and he might have been friends.

Aragorn was a man of honor and bravery. In spite of Boromir's anger and jealousy, he could acknowledge that. Watching Aragorn battle for his friends' safety stirred shame deep within Boromir. If it had not been for the love of an elf, he could have sworn fealty to this man.

Truly, Legolas was as guilty of Boromir's betrayal as Boromir was himself. If Legolas had but given him the smallest hope, none of this would have been necessary.

"I will kill you." The quietly spoken words reached Boromir and he tilted his chin in amused denial. Boromir knelt, spreading open one of the cast aside bedrolls awkwardly. With exaggerated care, he placed his precious burden down. He smirked up at Aragorn, who could not approach for the press of orcish foes circling like wolves tearing at their prey.

With careful deliberation, Boromir smoothed the hair from Legolas' face. He looked across to Aragorn, where the Dunédan fought frantically, dying orcs clawing at his leggings as he inched his way across the clearing towards Boromir. Boromir turned away to look down at Legolas, he tore a bit of material from the bottom of Legolas' cloak and bound it about both wrists, before taking a length of rope that he had concealed beneath his tunic to bind the slim wrists tightly.

Standing slowly, Boromir wiped his hands upon his trousers. "You may try." He returned Aragorn's challenge, hand cupping the hilt of his sword, arrogance lacing his very stance as he looked upon his rival.

Before Boromir could step forward and engage the man, a shadow separated from the unrelenting dark between the trees. It prowled forth with a predatory grace, yellow cat eyes gleaming evilly. Primal power radiated from the dark creature with each uncompromising step it took closer to the Dunédan. As the creature passed Boromir, its strange eyes moved over him dismissively, its lip curled derisively as its deadly gaze stroked over Legolas' bound figure.

The orcs and goblins circling Aragorn and shouting in the Black Tongue of Mordor parted before the twisted creature. Waves of darkness, death and ill will seemed to radiate from the hideous being. The very evil that cloaked the creature left Boromir in no doubt that this, then, was the leader of this particular band of Sauron's minions.

It lifted its head to give voice to a bellow that rang like the Doom of Man through the wood. Clad in black metal armour and dull chain links, its lank hair was twisted into a top knot, a white hand print smeared like a badge of honour across a broken face, fangs glistened yellowly from the thin slit of its mouth. It hefted a sword the length and breadth of which could easily cleave a grown man.

Aragorn took a couple paces back. No fear could be found in his face or bearing, though his gaze did not travel from this new threat. He scrubbed at the sweat raining down his face with the back of his hand. A black smear of ash dragged across his eyes so that it seemed his eyes were a gleaming blue fire from some savage mask.

Moving swifter than Boromir could credit for a creature of its size, the fell form of Sauron's hate lunged, its sword whistling through the early morning air. Dawn was creeping upon them even as they fought. If the battle was not over soon, then the dark beasts of Mordor would need to withdraw and attack again. Still, Boromir could not find it within himself to give any more aid to the darkness than he had already.

Metal clashed and screamed. Aragorn staggered back from the rain of blows, barely matching sword stroke for sword stroke, the torch lay tumbled and guttering in dirt and grasses torn and muddied with black orc blood. The air warmed slowly leeching from it the cool deadness of night. Another blow resounded and Aragorn fell back.

It seemed the Dunédan was pulling upon the last dregs of his strength. Beseeching Elbereth with a loud angry cry, Aragorn charged the huge beast. A fey light touched the wild eyes, and he fought with the resolve and recklessness as a man who has seen his Doom and has nothing left to fear.

With a flurry of strokes, thrusts and parries, Aragorn drove his attacker back a step at a time. He ducked underneath his opponent's longer reach and whirled, his sword raised for a killing blow.

The creature moved with preternatural speed, as if expecting Aragorn's moves and blocked the strike, delivering a back slash that drew blood. No cry of pain fell from the Dunédan's lips, though it was evident that he was sorely tried and blood leaked rapidly from between fingers pressed hard against his side. Staggering back, Aragorn stumbled over the prone body of an orc that was not as dead as it first seemed. Its clawed hand grasped the Dunédan's ankle yanking him off his feet.

A cry of triumph rent the night air and while Aragorn struggled with the wounded orc, the great beast that was Captain to this band of twisted night demons stomped upon Aragorn's wrist. The sound of snapping bones made Boromir flinch even as Aragorn finally cried aloud. His body arched upwards against the pain as if in the throes of passion, his face gone pallid beneath the blood and grime of battle. A massive hand tangled into the dirtied mass of Aragorn's hair, pulling him to his knees roughly.

The creature kicked the orc out of the way, staring exultingly down at the man. It raised its sword for the killing blow.

A choked cry caught the attention of both Boromir and the fell creature. As if one, they turned to look as the forgotten elf scrambled to his feet, his grace awkward with his hands bound. "Do not!" The beast snarled, moving to stand behind Aragorn, sword poised across the throat as if he was about to butcher a swine.

Legolas turned desperate pleading eyes on Boromir. "If you do this thing, I will kill you."

"Hold." Boromir commanded, not sure if the creature would heed anything he said, even given Sauron's instructions. Yet, hold it did, its bloodthirsty gaze turned expectantly on the tableau between man and elf. Boromir studied Legolas' pale face, taking in the high cheekbones, full lips and angry glitter of spring colored eyes.

He had his prize, yet did not. For he could not have from Legolas unwilling, what he so desired. Narrowing his eyes, Boromir prowled closer to the elf. Legolas drew himself up proudly, every bit a King's son as he met Boromir's ravening gaze. Boromir reached up to touch Legolas' cheek with the back of his knuckles, anger snapping through the man when the elf flinched.

"I've heard it said that no man can take an elf unwilling. That to do so will cause them to fade and enter Mandos' Halls. Is that true?"

The elf was so still he could have been carved from the bones of the earth. Boromir let his gaze flicker away towards Aragorn, thoughtfully. Legolas stiffened in growing apprehension.

"You were our friend, our comrade."

The elf's cool accusing voice infuriated Boromir and the man turned to Legolas, growling viciously. "I was never a friend. Never a comrade. I have been mistrusted and alone."

"And with good reason!" Aragorn growled though the blade pressed wickedly against his throat and the motion of his adam's apple caused the blade to bite deeply and blood to flow more freely.

Boromir glared at the prisoner before returning his speculative gaze to the elf. "I will give you a gift, Legolas. A gift for a gift."

"What riddles are these, Son of Gondor?"

With an enraged backhanded slap, Boromir addressed the elf. "You will call me Boromir, or 'my lord', but you will not disrespect me, elf. This is your fault. If you had but given me a sign, a crumb upon which to build, none of this should have come to pass. Yet you stood apart, untouched by the flames that consume mere man, as if nothing could touch you! And you lie! For you yearn after another's betrothed! You are no more pure in motive than I! At least, I stand before you to take that which I desire! I do not creep in the darkness like some poor wounded beast!"

Legolas licked at the blood trickling from his lip, watching Boromir as one does a slavering beast. "You are mad, Boromir."

"If I am mad, 'tis you who have made me so." Spinning on his heel, Boromir motioned for the hulking brute to slit Aragorn's throat.

"BOROMIR! Please... "

Again, Boromir stayed the creature's hand, turning to gaze coldly at Legolas. "I will have you. Make no mistake. There is no room for both of us in your heart. Again I say to you, Legolas. This choice is yours." Boromir strode quickly to the elf's side, pleased when Legolas did not withdraw but merely watched him cautiously.

Boromir stroked his fingertips along the side of Legolas' face, watching the elf willfully hold himself still. Legolas' breaths were short and sharp, his eyes were so darkened by whatever thoughts colored the elf's mind, that the blue was all but eclipsed by a black shadow. "Elves were made for sorrow." Boromir spoke softly to himself before taking hold of Legolas' chin and pulling his face around to gaze upon him directly.

"I would not have you die from my touch."

Legolas stared at him uncomprehending. Boromir continued--his voice a gentle entreaty, "Make no mistake, beloved, I will have you, there is no mercy left in me for this. But I will give you a choice. Give yourself to me willingly, that you will not die by my love."

Pausing Boromir pushed the loosened strands of hair back from Legolas' face. It pained Boromir beneath his turmoil, to see that the elven prince's face had become impossibly more pale. Legolas seemed fragile beneath his hands, like spun glass blown too thin. The elf shook imperceptibly beneath Boromir's touch. His tongue flickering in unknown temptation against his full lips.

Boromir stepped closer, feeling his loins tighten. There was a certain excitement at the end of the hunt, with the hounds in full bay and the prey brought to ground. It moved through him with the power of arousal and made him cruel.

"I will let you decide whether Aragorn should live a slave to whatever torments Sauron may plan for the rest of the Dunédan's life or whether he should meet merciful death now."

"What choice is this?" Legolas spoke in a strangled voice.

Boromir cupped the elf's face between his callused palms, staring into the black sea of despair, "Yours and yours alone to make. And you have only until sunrise. Once the sun touches the top branches of these trees, the soldiers of Sauron must seek the deep places within the forest. And I will be taking you with me. Whether Aragorn lives or dies, is slave or meat, matters little to me."

Legolas jerked his face out of Boromir's hands, staring past the Gondorian to where Aragorn knelt waiting for death's final strike.

To Be Continued...