My shoulders suddenly slam against the wall and a voracious mouth ravages my
own. I clasp the firm shoulders that hold me captive, my fingers kneading the
taut muscles. The rough feel of a man's beard grazes my cheeks and chin, a
singular sensation I have not experienced in an age. A glimpse, a vision of his
beloved face flutters across my mind. Hair as dark as night framing a handsome
face, smoky grey eyes that could pierce through my soul. Urgent hands push my
robes off my shoulders and tear at the fastenings of my shirt. I pull away
slightly and force my eyes to focus on this face, barely an inch from mine.
Warm, sharp breaths hit my flushed skin, disheveled hair strokes my temple,
feather-light, and grey eyes blaze with a lustful fire I did not expect to see
directed at me again.

    /Lust, not love/, a voice inside me cries.

    Not /his/ eyes, no, for that cannot be, yet, something in them calls me; I
am fiercely drawn to it, like a moth to the flame.

    "Are you going to stare at me all night?" his impatiently spoken words break
through my thoughts. "Don't tell me you have changed your mind."

    Indignation wells up in me at the angry tone in his voice. I draw myself
from the semi-slouching position I fell into while he leaned over me and
straighten to my full height.

    "No, I have not."

    My hands tangle in his hair.

    /Auburn, not black./

    I ignore this pesky voice of reason. I want this, I need this, I need to
feel whole again, even if it is for just a moment.

    "I want this," I speak more to convince myself than him. "I want this." I
pull him to me, and this time I am ravaging his lips, achingly, desperately. I
moan into this warm mouth, imagining that it is the same one that captivated me
so long ago. I seek for that lost taste, that ephemeral essence I yearn for but
that continues to elude me. I reach for his belt and begin to unfasten it with
swift, jerky moves. My hands know exactly how it's done, they have divested
another of their clothing at such a hurried pace on numerous occasions; wars do
not often allow the luxury of time. The familiarity of these urgent acts evokes
memories long buried, memories I have tried to avoid, for the pain they inflict
is too great.
 

    /I growl in frustration at my inability to undo the fastenings of his
breastplate.

    "Curse this shoddy mannish armor. The practicality of your elven ancestors
appears to have escaped you in this instance."

    "If you do not consider the efforts of a mere man worthy then perhaps I
should spare you the displeasure of my company," he jokes.

    I laugh. "No, you shall not. Your company I shall have, for I hold it in
higher regard than any other."

    I pull him toward me and our lips meet in a hard, searching kiss./
 

    My sweet reverie is shattered as I feel the last shred of my clothes fall
away and this man's hands roam over my newly exposed flesh, claiming me. He
pulls me toward the bed, throwing me on it. I move loosely, without objection,
allowing him to do what he will with me. All I want to be lost in my memories,
to allow sensation to wash away all the pain that infests my spirit.

    My erection is grabbed and squeezed. I clutch the sheets and close my eyes.
The waves of pleasure flood over me, through me, lifting me from the miserable
existence I have been banished to since his death. Sweat moistens my skin,
making me stick to the sheets. I feel his lips tease the sensitive curve of my
neck, his hot breath warming my skin, banishing the cold. I can see my beloved's
face floating in front of me, a lock of dark hair grazing his cheek, his eyes
burning into mine. I moan freely. I am close, so close, closer than I have been
in so long. My mouth opens in a wordless cry, ready to shout out his precious
name.

    "Look at me."

    The ephemeral moment of peace flees my grasp, chased away by the commanding
voice. The name dies on my lips, and with it the fragile image of my beloved's
face. I open my eyes.

    He is leaning over me, hand still on my member. His face hovers above mine,
looking at me pensively, eyes probing searchingly.

    "Who is the man that you think of as I touch you? Who is it that you spend
yourself for?"

    For a moment I am speechless. I lower my eyes as my cheeks aflame with
shame. How has he guessed? Oh, but your desperation is obvious, you fool.

    "How do you presume to know my mind, Boromir son of Denethor?" I say,
lifting my eyes. I strive to sound stern, but I can hear the weakness in my
voice.

    "It is certain your thoughts are on another," he continues. "You seek me
out, bring me to your chambers, and practically fling yourself on me, but all
the while your eyes are distant. This passion you feel is not for me. Who, then,
do you remember?"

    I force my gaping mouth to move. "It is not your affair to know who inhabits
my thoughts," I say indignantly.

    "Was it a man?" he persists, not heeding my words. "Is that why you sought
me instead of one of the elves of your realm?"

    I close my eyes briefly as Isildur's face flickers in my mind.

    "He was," as I speak my voice sounds simultaneously hollow and wearied by
grief. "He lived many years ago, before his life was cut short. More I will not
say."

    We remain silent for a long moment. His stare lies heavily upon me,
searching for the answers I will not provide. I meet it steadily. Finally, he
lowers his eyes and releases me, but he does not lift himself from me. Sighing,
I begin to move from under him. A hand on my shoulder stops me. I glance up
questioningly. There is an odd look in his eyes

    Without warning, his mouth sweeps down to claim mine in a firm yet yielding
kiss. I tense, startled at the bold gesture, but I make no attempt to push him
away.

    "Continue dreaming," he says in a whisper short pause between kisses.

    "What?" I gasp.

    "Your dream, your fantasy, continue it."

    He asks me to fall into the sweet oblivion again, with him as my guide. Why?
He wants me, he wants my body. Why else? His hands roam over me, like a hunter
appreciating his prize catch. But he searches also. He searches with his eyes,
with his hands, with his tongue; he searches all of me. What is it you look for?
What do you truly want from me?

    He lands fully on my body, hot and demanding. He raises his head a fraction
and our eyes meet. A cold slap chills my back. I know those eyes, I know that
gleam. A ghost of a smile shadows my lips. Now I know. It is cruelly ironic that
this desire should bring Isildur back to me, but it matters not. I am lost.

    I kiss back fiercely and raise my body to meet his. He is warm, so warm; I
am smoldering in this heat. Or am I simply remembering past deeds?

    /Fire and ash. Everywhere red. Red of blood, red of raising flames, red of
the sparkling light in his eyes that had not been there the day before.

    Please, meleth-nin, just tip your hand over the crevice, let it go, let this
wall between us fall./

    A rough nip on my neck. I gasp. He seizes my legs, places them around his
waist, reaches between them and finds my entrance. I moan and tighten my legs'
hold. He prepares me swiftly.

    /"Quiet, you insufferable elf. You will rouse the whole camp with your
cries."

    I laugh at the jesting remark. "You seem to suffer me well enough. Besides,"
I gasp as the gently intruding finger reaches that special spot, "soon I shall
have you crying out louder than I."/

         He clutches my hips and enters me in one quick move. I cry out at the
sudden sensation and raise my hips to meet him. Each thrust is aimed straight to
that spot deep in my body, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. I cling to him
fiercely, desperately, my hand in his hair. We kiss roughly. I close my eyes as
he grabs my erection, but he asks me to open them. I do so. His eyes glitter in
the low light like stars on an early eve; but their brightness is clouded by a
shadow that encroaches upon us, reaching out with its long fingers. I know what
it is that he wants me to see, and I do, before the world is enveloped in a
flash of white and I am spent.

    He follows close afterwards. I barely hear his cry of release; the
foreknowledge that has come upon me presses on my mind. He lies beside me and
tilts my head toward him.

    "What did you see?" he asks breathlessly but insistently.

    I turn my head away, but he holds my jaw and pulls it back. This time I see
the despair in his eyes.

    "Tell me."

    You ask me to speak, but do you really know what you ask of me? Do you know
how much you resemble him in my eyes?

    "You desired it during the council," I say softly. "It called at you,
whispered in your ear, made you believe that using it would save Gondor from its
enemies. It haunts you still. I know not truly what to tell you. No words of
reason that I speak will stay in your mind for long; it shall drive them out, as
it did with him." I see the light of understanding in his eyes as I look away.
"I fear it will claim your life."

    The silence that follows my statement is one of the most oppressive I have
been through in my long life. I already regret speaking, regret bringing him
here and initiating all of this. It has brought no relief, only further misery.

    "Why do you send me with the Company, then?" he asks after a long while. His
voice is tight with fear and anger. "Would you send me to my death?"

    "I said not that I knew, but that I feared."

    "Are they not the same? You are said to have great foresight. Have you ever
erred in it?"

    "Foresight does not tell all."

    I look up into his maddened gaze.

    "Yet it tells enough," he says with a finality that chills me.

    It is he who turns away now, who avoids my gaze.

    "You did not answer my question," he says, voice low. "Why do you send me
with the Fellowship if you know I will fail?"

    I lean on my elbow and look at him. The light of ithil illuminates his
sweaty and still form, showing a body so like that of my beloved, firm and
strong. But his face is clouded by shadows, fear, and doubt. So similar…

    /He glances up at me; the anger is gone from his eyes, replaced by
uncertainty and a glimmer of fear. A question hangs on his tongue, struggling to
make it past  his parted lips.

    "Elrond?"

    I suppress a sigh of relief. I must not yet raise my hopes, this is merely
the first step. I pray he will take the next.

     "Yes, Isildur, meleth. I am here." I walk closer to him, slowly, like with
a scared animal that is about to spring. He doesn't move.

    "Isildur, you must let it go. We have spent seven long years trying to
achieve his end, but it will not be complete until the ring is destroyed.
Please, Isildur, come. Return with me to the mountain and throw it into the
fire."

    I hold his eyes for a long moment; I see the understanding in his eyes, the
recognition and I hope. But he looks down at the closed hand that clutches the
ring.

    "Maybe," he whispers so low that a man would have trouble hearing it.
"Maybe. It is so powerful. Can you feel it? Do you know what we could accomplish
with such power? We could rebuild our cities, regain our former strength and
glory, be even mightier than before." His voice grows more passionate with each
word and the light of the Isildur I know fades. "We could do this with its aid."

    I shake my head sadly. "The ring does not serve good. It is evil, like its
master, and it will only do evil. It is already corrupting you. Please, you must
heed my words."

    But his face is closed and his eyes cold as they regard me, and I know that
I have lost him./

    I grasp his arm near the shoulder. His muscles shift a little under my
fingers but otherwise he shows no sigh of acknowledgement.

    "You are strong and valiant, and possess a kind and noble heart. Your
courage and skills in battle will be invaluable to the quest and the ring bearer
whom you protect."

    "Whom I protect, even from myself." His voice is strained.

     "Foresight does not give certainty, only possibility. Besides, my mind has
been distracted of late. Perhaps I have confused your fate with that of another.
But you are not he, and his fate is not yours. You go on a different path and
you guide the steps you take. If you stay true the strength of your heart need
not fail."

    He says nothing, nor does he look at me for a minute. I squeeze his arm
gently, hoping to bring him back to me. Please, do not go down the path that
Isildur did, don't surrender to his folly. Are my words so weak that they pass
over men's ears without being heard?

    "I came to you for counsel," he says with resignation. "It would be poor of
me to ignore it, though it comforts me little."

    "Nevertheless, take as much comfort as you may. It shall be a hard road."

    I lie back down and close my eyes. The mattress shifts and groans as he
raises and leaves the bed. Perplexed, I glance at his standing form. I see he is
rummaging about for his clothes and I guess his intentions.

    "You do not have to leave," I say hurriedly, "unless you wish to."

    He stills, but remains with his back to me. I pray that he will stay; this
is not a night to be alone,  for either of us. Despite the stirred memories, his
presence eases some of my pain.

    "I do not ask for your pity," he says, voice bitter.

    "I do not take pity on you, Boromir, as I do not ask you to take pity on me.
You are welcome to stay. It would please me greatly if you did. Our griefs
should not be borne alone."

    His shirt falls from his hands back unto the floor. He faces me, but his
eyes are too darkened for me to discern his thoughts. Silent, he returns to the
bed and lies on his side, front still toward me, but he closes his eyes quickly.
I feel the avoidance in the gesture. A nearly unperceivable shiver crosses his
frame; the warmth of our encounter has worn off. I pull the coverlet over us and
settle in close to his body. I lift my hand and gently push a stray lock of hair
behind his ear. Auburn, not black. He tenses at the touch, but does not move
away. I trail my hand down his back, stroking it with soothing circular motions.
His limbs relax and he soon begins to breathe tranquilly and evenly, indicating
his slumber. I continue to hold him close, though my movements cease. I burrow
my face into the soft conjunction between neck and shoulder. His scent is so
akin to my beloved's that I want to weep.

    I wish I could join him in his calm and peaceful sleep, but my mind will not
be still. I am plagued by sorrow and uncertainty. So much grief, so much
suffering, will it never grant us a reprieve? No, not while the ring exists; and
although I have created this company of nine to carry the ring to Mordor, I am
unable to hope. Isildur was slain, victim to its corruption, and now the same
shadow is entering the mind of this one; and his strength shall not last. The
fell poison will seep into his wounds, causing them to fester, and rendering him
helpless to its malicious influence. Is he correct; do I send him to his death?
My heart says yes. A tear escapes my eye as my shattered heart bleeds anew. I
will never feel whole again.