Claudia wrote something that I misread as "beach Borofrod." This story came from that offhand comment and my moment of dyslexia.

Gift
by Laura Mason

Everything about the shoreline was fascinating to Frodo, raised in a land far from the sea. He loved the ceaseless murmur of the water, the variety of the changing tides, and the way sand yielded to his foot yet was firm, too. He spent days here when the tender, loving care he didn't deserve weighed heavily on him.

A few miles further, where sheer rocks replaced the gentler sand, Frodo loved the violence of the water racing to meet the rock, the way it splashed and scoured at what seemed so solid and immobile, and gradually wore it smooth. This was one of the few places that could soothe and calm him, even after all these years, though he didn't try to climb the rocks. Not after that first time, when his memories of the approach to Mordor and the slickness of wet, mossy stone had conspired against him.

He'd been caught between sharp rocks for two days before they found him, weak yet so very happy despite broken bones and deep, painful bruises. But he couldn't explain to Elrond or Gandalf what a relief it had been to hang there, calling for help, and finally know that he wasn't constantly monitored. He'd always felt observed by the sleepless eyes of the beings who truly belonged here, no matter how far he wandered. The wonder of knowing himself free, the loss of that oppression, overrode his physical pain.

If Gandalf was surprised that Frodo still sought this shore whenever possible, he didn't mention it. And dear Bilbo would simply hand him a pack of food whenever Frodo had the "sea look" in his eyes, and murmur "be careful." Then Frodo could set out, walking swiftly but never fast enough to escape the memories. Every elf on the road knew who he was -- not just a hobbit or a mortal, but The Ringbearer. So it wasn't until he reached the beach, where only the water looked back at him, that Frodo could simply be. There he could feel his pain without distressing others, and reexamine the past without concealing the darkness such thoughts often brought.

Today was one of his bad days, a day when it seemed there had been no healing and would never be any respite from the pain of his losses and failures. So with the first light he'd fled here, where the wind whipping in his face, carrying salt spray to his lips, drowned out the noise of his own thoughts.

Today as his eyes swept the water, those thoughts were dwelling on errors of omission -- times he should have spoken, the many missed opportunities that still haunted his dreams of home. Middle Earth, now far beyond the sundering sea. As he stared, regrets thick around him, the waves seemed to gather and shimmer, then pour away, revealing a figure that purposefully moved out of the water, approaching Frodo.

For a moment he looked utterly alien -- and then Frodo blinked, and saw familiar features, a well-known body, beloved from head to toe. The golden brown hair was wet, the bright grey blue eyes sparkled in the sunshine. And when he saw Frodo staring, mouth hanging open with astonishment, a slow smile spread across the handsome face.

"Boromir? But..."

"Frodo!" He ran to the hobbit, sheer joy in his face making him look younger than Frodo had ever seen him in life. "Frodo, what joy to see you again!" The steward's son dropped to his knees, embracing the hobbit without restraint, his broad shoulders just as comfortingly strong as Frodo remembered.

"Boromir," Frodo repeated stupidly, holding him close even as he wondered how a man dozens of years in the grave could look so hearty and rested. Frodo knew he'd never appeared so much at peace as Boromir did at this moment.

Boromir looked even happier than he'd been those first days in Rivendell, before the weight of the quest was laid on them both. Before he knew the hobbit who'd fascinated him was the bearer of Isildur's Bane, the weapon his father demanded and the torment of his honorable soul.

"I am so pleased to see you again, Frodo, though I would be more pleased if you looked healthy. Why haven't you healed?" Frodo looked into the well-remembered eyes and knew it was really him, heart-whole again.

"How would I heal?" Frodo replied, immediately setting aside any more foolish questions. Hobbits learn when they are very young how to properly accept gifts. "How could I be happy here, or anywhere, until now, with you back?" And then he kissed Boromir, or this illusion of Boromir, and all their questions were forgotten in the joy of once again being together.

Clothing was hastily shed as their mouths pressed together, hands exploring even more hastily than they had that first time, in the woods of Imladris. A large, warm hand stroked across his chest and Frodo cried out, then insinuated his own hand down the leggings just far enough to make Boromir groan and clutch at him.

"Frodo, love," he gasped, as the hobbit's teeth scraped his stomach. "I must have you, I cannot wait any longer."

"Yes," Frodo hissed. "Oh, yes."

The big hands finished their work, stripping him bare, and then thick arms lifted and turned him, positioning Frodo for the man's pleasure. One finger, and Frodo gasped and spread his legs further. A calloused hand on his arousal then, making him cry out, as another finger entered him.

"Boromir!"

"I'm here, love. Take me into yourself." The hands kept moving, holding Frodo poised between pleasure and the slight pain he'd always loved, feeling Boromir's strength like a fire inside him. A third finger, and he sobbed at the fullness and stretching, knowing that soon there would be even more, entering him, remolding him into a vessel for Boromir's pleasure -- taking him.

"Are you ready for me, Frodo? Do you want this as I do, halfling?"

"Yes! Please!" he cried, and then screamed as Boromir removed his fingers and that thick, long cock pressed into him, inch by inch, reclaiming what had always been his, even after his death.

"You've let others do this, Frodo. I can feel them here. But you always wanted it to be me, didn't you?"

"Yes! Boromir, Boromir..." his cries changed into guttural moans as the man sank fully within him, then immediately pulled out to begin thrusting. Only his hands, now clasping Frodo's hips hard enough to bruise him, kept the hobbit in place as the man's powerful movements relentlessly buffeted him.

"My brother -- you only let him have you because he reminded you of me. But he was too gentle, afraid of hurting you, when you wanted more of this," Boromir grunted, and Frodo again cried out his pleasure at the near-brutal thrusts. "And the King -- what would Lady Arwen think if she knew how he spent the months he waited for her? But none of those nights of passion took away your pain, did they?"

"Wanted you," Frodo gasped, his body shuddering in pleasure. "Only you!" And then he came, release fountaining as his body convulsed.

"I know," Boromir said, biting down hard on the back of his neck and freezing. "You wanted to tell me you understood at last, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes," Frodo whispered, tears running down his face. "I understood, even that day when you tried to take It from me..."

"I know, Frodo. I've always known." And then the pounding began again, sharp snaps of the man's hips as he supported the limp hobbit beneath him, plundering the willing body. "Could I love... watch you... without seeing your... pain... struggle... infernal thing?" Boromir's words stopped then, and instead he growled, moaned, and shouted his pleasure between kisses to Frodo's back and neck.

Frodo thought it would never stop, the battering he loved and had so missed, unable to recreate such feelings with anyone, man, dwarf, elf or hobbit. He'd taken so many to his bed since losing Boromir, but none who loved him like this. No one else owned him as Boromir had from that first time together.

With a final mighty thrust and a long, low groan, Boromir came, his arms shaking from the strain of holding Frodo so tightly to him. Then he pulled free and lay back, taking Frodo in his arms, and they cuddled together on the sand for a long time before either spoke.

"Are you really here?" Frodo whispered, a finger tracing the soft beard and the strong jaw.

"I don't understand it, but yes. I was given my body, healed of its wounds, for this day. For you, Frodo Baggins. Ringbearer."

Frodo shivered. "Just Frodo. Your Frodo."

"My halfling," Boromir agreed, kissing him again.

They made love again, slowly and gently, Frodo weeping. Later they sat, staring out at the water, Frodo safely held between Boromir's legs, tucked in his arms.

"I will rejoin you, next time," Frodo said. "Not for many years, though. Bilbo is still here, and Sam will be coming. I can feel it."

"You will be happier now. You won't want to rejoin me, not for a long time. You will heal, Frodo."

"I will?"

"Yes, love. You have always obeyed me, when you knew I was in my right mind. You will obey me now, and be whole and happy."

"And take other lovers?" Frodo asked, trying to throw a saucy smile up at the kind face leaning forward.

"Could such an insatiable hobbit go even one year without that?"

Frodo giggled -- something he hadn't done since -- well, possibly since he came of age. "Elves are not like you," he said honestly.

"Nor are the Istari, I suppose," Boromir cheerfully agreed. "You will know that, too, before you rejoin me. And what it is like to have a physical love with your Samwise at last." Frodo rubbed his face against the bare arm cradling him. "Don't distress yourself; what I see does not trouble me."

"I love you, Boromir of Gondor."

"And I you, Frodo of the Shire. My halfling."

When the sun finally sank behind them, Boromir released him with a final kiss, and rose. Frodo's tears hid the moment his man vanished into the waves that continued to caress and batter the shore of the immortal land.

 

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