Disclaimer: I didn’t create any of the characters and I still don’t own any of them, either. They are owned by the estate of JRR Tolkien, I assume. And I am still making absolutely not a penny for writing this.

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"He was a masterful man, and one to take what he desired." Gandalf on Boromir, the "Minas Tirith" chapter of The Lord of the Rings.

The lair of the enemy was not what Boromir had expected. It presented a rather homey scene. A fire burned down in a hearth, illuminating an abandoned bathtub off to one side and a naked man and woman cuddled sleeping on a large bed.

Except the woman wasn’t naked—not mostly, anyway—and neither was she asleep. At Boromir’s entrance she rolled off the bed and snatched a sword from a table at the side.

It was not a woman’s sword. It was long and gleamed with deadly sharpness, and furthermore, she held it like she knew what she was doing. She gripped it two-handed and silent, tip pointing straight at Boromir, waiting.

Boromir stood and admired her for a moment. She was lovely, with golden hair that cascaded down past her hips. Wide blue eyes stared at him in outrage. Her white dress was askew and plastered against her skin, revealing a slim form and smallish but pleasingly-shaped breasts, outlined through the thin wet fabric.

Boromir and the woman stared at each other for the space of a few breaths. The sleeping man didn’t wake.

Finally Boromir broke off his bemused appraisal of her charms. "Are you a servant of the enemy as well?"

"I don’t care how you got in here," she said in a growl. "But leave, now."

"I will not leave until I discover what lies behind this plot!" Boromir said, and gestured with his sword at the man on the bed. "Is this ‘Faramir?’ If it is, your sword will not save him."

As if hearing his name, the naked man rolled over in bed and opened groggy eyes. He blinked as some sort of recognition came to him, then he sat up slowly, grey eyes focused on Boromir with growing wonder.

"Boromir," he whispered. Then, louder, almost joyfully. "My brother!"

But before Boromir could answer this affront, the woman nudged the bed with one outraged hip. "It cannot be Boromir," she said. "Awake! Boromir is dead."

"I am not dead--"

"Oh. It is but a dream, then. I have those," the man interrupted with a grimace. Then he brightened. "Still it is a fine dream when my brother comes to visit me!"

"I am not your bro--"

"Aaarrgh!" This time it was the woman who interrupted. "It cannot be a dream, my dear husband, because I am awake and I can see him as well!"

Boromir’s head started to ache. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they know he’d come to destroy them? "--and I am not a dream!" he shouted over their debate. "You will wish it was so, I deem, before I kill you. Twas an evil storm that brought me here, but if I can stop the spread of one new evil because of it, then I have done my duty!" Satisfied at finally getting to say his piece, Boromir raised his sword.

But still he did not move to strike. He hesitated to kill a beautiful, half-naked woman, even one with a steely glint in her eye who waved a deadly-looking sword at him. And he hated to kill a naked, unarmed man, especially one who stared at him with such a delighted wonder in his eyes. Boromir looked closer. They were his father’s eyes. His eyes…

As if sensing Boromir’s hesitation, the man stood, one hand outstretched, and began to walk towards him. "The storm!" he said. "You were lost in the storm? You went to Imladris, but you never returned! Perhaps…but no, that would be impossible…"

The woman looked as if she were about to swing her sword at her husband. "Faramir! Have I not told you to wake? This man is an imposter!"

"But Eowyn, my love! This is my brother. He looks just as he did, riding out of Osgiliath…"

Boromir nearly forgot his sword for a moment, so transfixed was he by their bizarre argument, and by what they were saying. How did this man know about Imladris, and that Boromir had worn these clothes when he left the river city? And their names—some memory about the name Faramir still lurked inside his head, waiting to be discovered--and the name Eowyn sounded like something he’d heard in the north…

Were they lulling him into complacence with some form of Black Speech? Boromir shook his aching head to clear it. "I have no brother! So you can stop this pretense--"

"My lord Faramir?"

Boromir swung around at the sound of a familiar voice behind him. He didn’t know whether to be shocked or overjoyed by what met his eyes. It was a man holding a sword and looking on in bewilderment. But a familiar man. "Beregond! But you are dead! I buried you--"

That was yet another sentence Boromir never got to finish, because something large and heavy slammed into the back of his head, committing him to the arms of darkness.

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Boromir lay on his back, looking at the night sky. The stars wouldn’t stay still. They danced. The velvet blackness of night faded out to be replaced by warm light, and still the stars danced.

The warm light focused itself into the worried face of a grey-eyed man. It was the man from before, but now he wore clothing. "Eowyn, my love. You didn’t have to hit him so hard."

Boromir stared in amazement at this close-up view of the man. Those were his father’s eyes, as if Boromir were gazing at a younger version of Denethor himself. "You did not kill me?" he asked, and tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

The woman answered. "No. Merely hit you with the flat of my blade. Beregond bound you. We just want to know who you are." With only a small frown, she bent over Boromir so that he was looking at her pale, lovely face upside-down, and bundled a cold cloth about the back of his aching head. Then with her fingers, she dabbed cool water on his temples.

Boromir found he believed her, and his feelings toward these people warmed. He was tied up, but he was being cared for. They hadn’t killed him yet and didn’t seem likely to. Beregond was alive! And in his position, Boromir could hardly make threats anyway. "It has been long since I felt the gentle touch of a beautiful woman," he mumbled in some sort of apology.

"Not so gentle, I think," she smirked.

"Gentle enough," her husband said with a fond glance. "Eowyn, why don’t we--"

Hearing the name again triggered some memory in Boromir’s brain. Her blow must have knocked it loose. "Eowyn! Now I remember," he interrupted. "Eowyn, the lady of Rohan! The Steward my Father had suggested once that—well, never mind. Are you she? And you--" he turned to Faramir. "You look like my father."

"That is because I am his son, as you are."

Boromir shook his head, and regretted it at the spasm of pain it brought. "No. I am my father’s only son. My mother died in childbirth, along with a babe who was a boy, but for my father’s grief was never named."

"Hmmm," the man said, apparently unconvinced. "I know how I came to be here. Why, then, don’t you tell me how you came back from the dead?"

"I know not—I mean, I do not remember dying." Boromir thought back to all he’d seen this day-- the storm, the farms in Ithilien, of all places, and this house, built inside the old keep at Emyn Arnen, and these people—things here were dreadfully wrong, but dreadfully right at the same time. He could hardly form words to express it. "I feel as though I’ve walked into a dream, or another world… one like mine, but not. The Gondor I left was falling under the shadow of the Nameless Enemy. This place is different. Why do you not tell me about it?"

Faramir, the man who claimed to be his brother, was only too happy to do so. He was obviously a great talker. He asked Boromir if he remembered the fellowship of the ring. When Boromir said he did not, Faramir started with his brother’s leaving of Osgiliath and of his joining the quest in Rivendell, naming Boromir as a member of the fellowship but only skimming over his part in that tale. Then, he told of sieges at Helm’s Deep and Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. As the night grew into day, Faramir released Boromir from his bonds and ordered breakfast, never halting in his tale. He told of a rescue by the riders of Rohan, describing in great detail what he knew of his wife’s part in that battle.

Impressed, Boromir eyed her, sitting quietly next to her husband with a slightly disturbed look on her face. His first feelings of desire upon seeing her had grown to encompass some strange connection. Not only was she beautiful, but a great warrior as well! That had been part of the reason Boromir had never married—he’d always had a city to defend, and no patience for the world of women. But a woman who was valiant in combat! One who could understand her husband’s need for sword practice and for riding out to battle! And Father had actually tried to make Boromir interested in her, to marry this Eowyn of Rohan for political advantages. Boromir wished he’d agreed to it before.

Faramir continued with his extravagant tale through breakfast, and Boromir listened with fascination and without comment. The way the man spoke, the words he chose—this man was a lover of books and lore and history. So much like Denethor! If this truly was Boromir’s brother in another world, he was undoubtedly Father’s favorite.

Boromir heard of the destruction of Isildur’s Bane by the perians from the east, and of the return of a king to Gondor. Of Faramir’s pursuit and wedding of the White Lady of Rohan. The lady had already excused herself to some other duties during this part of the tale, and so Boromir was unable to watch her and gauge her reaction to it.

As Faramir spoke on and shared good wine, telling of talks and skirmishes with Harad and the Easterlings, his eyes began to droop and his sentences grew shorter and his voice mumbled. By the time full afternoon was upon them, he had talked himself out. He keeled over mid-sentence, face flat against the hard wood of the alcove table, and emitted a snore.

Boromir watched him for a moment. This man was too trusting. But Boromir no longer had the heart to kill him. The man thought his own elder brother had returned from the dead, and as a devotee of elf-lore, had posited several theories how the Elves could have brought this about.

No, Boromir simply sat for a few moments and thought about all he’d heard. This world-- for he now believed it was a different world from his own, however it had come about—was not his. Where was Boromir’s place in it? His beloved father was dead. A king sat on the throne of Gondor, making the position of Steward a superfluous one at best. The battles they now fought were not Boromir’s battles. And somewhere, his own world was falling under the shadow. And maybe, there also existed an Eowyn, unattached and ready for battle…

Boromir made a hasty decision. He stood and silently made his way down to the stables.

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Eowyn watched the stranger ride away on one of their best horses. She idly wondered how he had gotten it, but she didn’t much care. She did care to know where he was going, and what he had done with Faramir.

She found her husband alive, but asleep at the table. After slipping a soft towel beneath his head and the hard wood, she gave his hair a fond pat and left. How long had it been since he’d slept? Two, three days? He needed the rest, and Eowyn was not afraid of this ghost, or visitor from another world, or whatever he was. She went and saddled her own horse, by far the fastest one they kept.

Beregond caught up to her in the stables. "My lady! Boromir—that man—he’s left! One of the watches has seen him. Should we ride after him?"

"No. I will discover his business. You stay here and keep an eye on the keep, and your master. And do not wake him!"

Beregond nodded, but she could tell he didn’t like it. No matter. He would do as he was told.

Eowyn caught up to the man at the woody bottom of the canyon pass. He’d tied his horse and cloak to a tree, rather well-hidden actually, and had climbed the rocks to peer about the countryside, looking for something.

"Will you come down and tell me your business, or do I take back my horse and send the guard after you?"

The man glanced down at her with a strange look in his eyes. "Aye, I will tell you," he said, and began to climb down. He jumped to the dirt with a whoof, and stared at her, hands on hips. Obviously he was not afraid of her, either. "I will tell you that I am undecided. Does that suit you?"

"No."

"Very well," he said. His eyes were bleak, but hot, hungry, searching her. "Then I will tell you that my father once suggested I marry you, both to bind the Rohirrim to our cause and seal our political bond. I now for my part wonder whether saying no was a mistake. But yet I also wonder if my world is falling apart without me, and whether I should try to find it again."

He was trying to unnerve her. And it was working. She searched his face more closely, for the first time. She could see a family resemblance—the fairness of his face, the cultured drawl of his voice, the soft hair curling about his cheek to his shoulder. He reminded her of her husband, of some of his manner, but more haughty, and powerful. "What are you suggesting?" she asked, wary.

"I am suggesting that I do not know whether I am stranded here, in this world, and if so then whether I should try and take what could be mine. This," he waved his hand about, taking in the countryside, the house, her. "How do I know this King is the rightful one? And the place of Steward is mine by right of birth, after all."

Eowyn knew exactly what he was suggesting. She thought for a moment. Her husband had loved Boromir. She did not know whether he would fight. He would fight for her, but would he otherwise deny one whom he believed to be his long-lost, closest kin? "Do you not believe he is your brother?" she asked.

He waved this off, and moved closer to her, burning eyes fixed on hers. Eyes that so looked like Faramir’s…"He seems a good enough man. But I have not known a brother, and do not have any feelings for him one way or the other. For you on the other hand…" his voice trailed off, as he moved to tower over her.

The moment hung between them, strange, and heavy, and sensual. Eowyn could not look away. "You must leave, then," she said, quietly. "I do care for him, and you bring up a past he cannot bury. Leave to seek your destiny elsewhere. You were looking for the storm, were you not? Then find it."

"Aye, I was," he returned, voice almost a whisper. He moved a hand to her shoulder. It was warm, caressing. "But what if I leave to seek my doom? Without knowing whether an Eowyn of Rohan waits for me there, and without ever knowing the gentle touch of a woman again? I could hear what your husband did not tell me."

Eowyn knew his destiny. She could sense it written all over him, the aura of death, and she knew he could sense it as well. He was doomed, and whether his world would fall apart without him, she cared not. But she also knew he wanted her, and might be stopped from seeking that doom because of it. He must leave—hers and her husband’s peace of mind depended on it.

"If I do this, will you leave?" she asked, quietly, searching his face for the truth.

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Boromir could hardly believe what she was offering him. Then she could feel it, too, this strange connection between them, as if in another time, and place…

He was not one to let this chance pass. He knew what he was riding into, and what waited for him. "I will," Boromir said, and let the truth speak itself from his eyes. Before she could change her mind, he wrapped his other arm about her slim waist, and half-dragged her into the copse of trees.

He pushed her up against a wide tree, and pressed his body to hers, feeling the curves of her body, warming him through the fabric of his clothing. "I will not be ungentle," he said, then made a lie of it by burying his lips at her neck, tasting the softness of her skin and the perfume of her hair, and gripping her thigh with heavy fingers, pulling it about him, encircling himself with the feel of her.

She set her hands on his shoulders but turned her head from his lips, not resisting but not allowing more than she had decided to give. Boromir cared not. How he had wanted her! He savored the skin at her shoulder, and clutched her other leg around him so that she was practically sitting on his hips, pressed tight between him and the tree. He reveled in the taste of her, trailing his lips across her collarbone to sample the unexplored hollow of her neck on the other side.

With his right hand he fought his way under her dress, hiking it up behind her to grip the silky flesh of her thigh and bottom, holding her up and against him, feeling the warmth of her burning him through his fingers. With his other hand he fumbled at the opening of his breeches, already hard for her and aching. He had nursed this ache ever since he’d first seen her, her loveliness, and felt her aura of strength.

His hips thrust against her, searching. His shaft quested inexorably up, finding the soft opening of her womanhood, and feeling the moist heat it generated. She could not pretend now that she had not wanted him as well, in some small way.

He propelled his length up into her, felt her slick walls enclosing him, gripping him. He moaned against her neck at the sheer agony and pleasure of it. She, too, let out a small noise as he entered her, whether from surprise, or passion, he knew not. He cared not, either, only for this one delight he had been granted. He withdrew and plunged inside her again, and again, rocking her against the tree, reveling in the slippery, tight contact.

He drove one palm over the curve of her waist to her breast, small but soft in his hand. His fingers found the neckline of her gown and he slid them inside to feel the heaving of her bosom and the press of her nipple against his palm as he moved against and within her. Her breath blew against his ear, heightening every sensation like lightning spreading throughout his body.

The pain and pleasure zenithed to a point where it almost became unbearable, then with one final thrust, his release overtook him, and he cried out into her hair. The pent-up desire burst out in a rush and he slid out of her, letting his seed spend itself on her thighs and the tree bark behind her. His chest heaved against hers for a few moments while he caught his breath.

Dimly he felt her hands at his shoulders, pushing him away. With a relieved sigh he released her, moving to cover himself. Eowyn rested her feet on the ground once more, and would only lean against the tree, rearranging her dress, and not looking at him. Presently she spoke.

"Whatever doom you go to find, you will meet it bravely," she whispered. "I hope that I have given you some small measure of joy."

"You have, my lady. Eowyn," he said, tasting her name. She was truly a valiant and beautiful woman, and had deserved more than a quick coupling in the woods. But she had a husband she loved, who was not Boromir, and he’d had to take what pleasure he could. He bowed to her, an odd gesture here in the woods and after what had happened between them, but strangely appropriate nonetheless. "I thank you."

She nodded, and without another word, walked out of the woods to her horse. He followed, and as he mounted the horse he’d stolen to follow the storm he’d seen earlier, she turned to him and gave him a small smile. Still she did not speak.

Boromir nodded at her, then kicked his heels into his mount’s sides and rode off along the path.

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Eowyn was not sure how to feel about what she’d done. While her husband still slept, she bathed and changed, and turned the memory over in her mind. She had been faithful to her husband in thought, if not in deed. But as long as her actions had ensured that the man who so unnerved her and disturbed her husband’s peace was gone, then that was all she had to cling to. And it hadn’t been all that terrible, if she was to be truthful with herself. She had offered herself freely.

She was sitting on a rocky outcrop near the house, watching the storm in the distance and trying to decide if that speck was a rider going at full speed into the dark clouds and lightning, when she felt Faramir’s familiar touch on her shoulder.

"I have been looking for you," he said, and sat down behind her, stretching his long legs before him to envelop hers.

Eowyn could not tell if his voice contained a smile or sorrow. She decided to let it be whatever it was, and leaned back into his arms and sighed with contentment. "I am glad you have found me."

There was silence for a few moments, then he spoke. "Boromir is gone."

"Yes."

"Hmm," he murmured into her hair. "I do not suppose he will be back." This time his voice definitely contained grief, but acceptance.

"No. He must seek his own path. Would you have had him desert his own world?"

"Hmm," he said again, noncommittally.

They sat together for a few moments, watching the black clouds shear to red in the distant sunset, then Eowyn turned and kissed her husband on the chin to distract him from his thoughts. "I don’t think I ever welcomed you home properly," she said.

Faramir stood and gave her an evil grin, and they went upstairs to allow her to do so.

THE END.