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Boundaries Redefined - Chapter VI
I smiled at his blurted reply, certain of my little brother’s answer before he opened his mouth. It had to be this way. Boromir had to make this choice voluntarily, then tell me of it himself, hear himself say out loud what he longed for in his hidden soul. And he did so, flawlessly, and my heart surged at the sound of his broken, quavering voice, his fervent yielding. I loved him for it.
In all truth, Boromir had made this choice the first time I called him ‘little brother.’ He had blinked at me in surprise, blushed, and glanced at Aragorn, who was watching him and smiling around his pipe. The mighty Captain of Gondor had then cast me another shy look and grinned like a young lad. With just a few exceptions, I had called him ‘little brother’ ever since. Aye, he had accepted me in this role, although he had not fully understood it until now.
I rubbed his smooth backside a few more times, readying him, watching him tremble, yet lie still, waiting with admirable poise. Like Aragorn, my little brother’s bottom was wonderfully rounded and muscular. He had jerked in astonishment at my strong opening spanks. I had meant to astonish him, to get his attention and force him quickly into a yielding state of mind. But now, as I began spanking Boromir in earnest, I lessened the intensity of my blows so that he could endure more. This was going to take some time, and I intended that he last long enough for me to make all of my points clear.
Of course, his behavior now made perfect sense. His actions since his initial look of shock when he saw Aragorn and me at the mud hole flashed through my mind. Aye, it all fell into place now. The fact that neither Aragorn nor I suspected the inner torment my little brother was suffering spoke less to our lack of insight and more to our complete inability to imagine that Boromir would conjure such a nightmare for himself. That he could even think us capable of withdrawing our affections due to some perceived dishonor made my blood run cold. And it broke my heart as surely as his had been breaking while lost in that fallacy.
I watched his bottom growing pink beneath my rapidly spanking hand, listened to his weeping, and I resisted the ferocious desire to spank him harder, faster, to somehow drive that blackness from him with all haste. The untamed part of me, that ‘savage elven warrior’ as Aragorn called it, longed to beat that horror out of my sad little brother, a frantic urgency within me desperate to rip away all traces of it, free him from anything so ugly.
But I could not. I could not. For this was my tender, human little brother. He was not his false beliefs; he was not his misconceptions. He was my Boromir, lost inside a realm of hurtful invention from which he had been unable to escape. He needed a big brother’s rescue, not a big brother’s vengeful wrath. He needed a loving deliverance.
My panic to reclaim him was understandable. The sudden image I had of him when learning of the anguish his mind had created was one of him burning alive in a fire that licked and seared at his wounded soul. I longed to tear Boromir free of it and douse that fire for all time. And again, I could not. For the embers would continue. They had lain dormant within him for too long to be extinguished with one quenching dose of affection.
So be it. But I was alerted to it now. I would make sure Aragorn was aware of it as well, and, just as my little brother was shuddering over my knee, I shuddered inwardly imagining my Ranger’s reaction when I told him of the monstrosity that had been feeding on his fledgling’s vulnerable mind. Aragorn would be near uncontrollable, but he would have to know, and at once.
Boromir had disguised his real torment far too effectively. We had not been heedless of his upset, but we had been unmindful of how deeply into despair Boromir was capable of sinking, and with such little provocation. I intended to make certain he understood that such self-punishing thoughts would not be tolerated. But Aragorn and I would needs be more watchful of him now, and the sooner my Ranger knew of this, the better.
I would take him aside before we set out tonight, someplace alone where he could release his emotions without distressing the others. I anticipated the same profusion of guilt exploding within Aragorn as I had felt exploding within myself, and we would need to comfort each other through that. For this was not neglect on our part. This was an inability to conceive of such an insidious and wrongful delusion.
As did I, Aragorn would feel excruciating sorrow over what Boromir had put himself through. He would not wish to believe his beloved fledgling capable of judging himself so harshly. But Aragorn would realize that this was not the only situation in which his fledgling judged himself so severely. It was a repeated practice. Boromir likely chastised himself this way in all such circumstances where he felt he had failed in his duty.
It had shocked Boromir to learn neither Aragorn nor I, nor anyone else, would think less of him for what he had done. Clearly such a notion had not occurred to him. He had assumed the obligation of his own punishment, and would have continued to punish himself, no doubt believing he alone was responsible for seeing to it. He must have woven thread after thread of misinterpretation into his tapestry of ruin – we had spanked the hobbits for their part in the mud, but not him. Not because he did not deserve to be spanked, but because Aragorn could not be bothered . . . because Aragorn no longer cared about him.
Again that savage elven warrior roared, and again I pulled back from my more violent urges. My outrage was not with my dear little brother. I was furious with those who had driven him to this place, at a life that must have been bitterly lonely at times with none to console him when he battered himself, none to help him through his solitary wretchedness and correct his mistaken beliefs. Little wonder he had so quickly assumed his own guilt, deciding that we had condemned him for his actions. Clearly Boromir had learned to expect little else.
He began to fuss, wriggling a bit over my thighs, and I spoke to him, let him hear my comforting voice: “Shhh, there, there now, little one. Settle down. We have a long way to go yet.” Such words might not seem comforting, but they were. This was indeed comfort for my little brother, a start in healing so many years of pain.
Following the method I used with Aragorn, I had been spanking Boromir silently, letting him feel what was happening to him, the building sting, the physical shock softening him, leading him into a place of compliance. A few small comments to calm him would be enough. Right now he needed to listen to the sound of my spanks without the distraction of words, concentrate on a vision of himself over my knee, his bottom bared and becoming hot beneath my hand.
Aragorn always forced me to that place, as I did him. And Ai! I knew how that felt, how the vision of that image curled in my stomach and sent fiery tingles through my limbs. I wanted Boromir to feel that. I wanted him to focus on nothing deeper than what had physically happened to him, how he had ended up here, in this position. He needed to think of how much stronger I was, of how he truly could not stop me from taking him over my knee and giving him a spanking. He really was the ‘little’ brother now. Someone was bigger, older, and more powerful. Someone was watching out for him, someone fully capable of picking him up, maneuvering him around and paddling him.
Of course, Boromir could have stopped me with a simple verbal protest, but he would have viewed such a concept with horror. He would not have stomached even the faintest hint of so abhorrent a notion. No, this was his truth now, this sweet lack of power. I could not imagine what he must be feeling, the completely naked and raw vulnerability of being unable to stop me . . . but . . . then again, I could.
Glorfindel was mightier than I was. My Ada probably was too, and Lord Elrond, although I would never dare to actually test that truth by fighting them. I do not know what had given me the gall to challenge Lord Glorfindel. The great Elf-lord had disciplined me before, but not in a long while. I had grown older, more arrogant and full of smug audacity. So I had fought him with all my strength, and my ‘strength’ had mattered not a whit.
Glorfindel was the Balrog slayer, an elf of gargantuan power. Considering who he was, I had been a vain and silly youth to oppose him. He graciously allowed me a measure of dignity, permitting my resistance for as long as it suited him. Then he swept me up under my arms, tossed me once into the air, caught me and held me above his head as though I were no more than a toddler. Laughing up at me indulgently, he had said, “Ah, little Greenleaf, as you ever were, I vow you are the most captivating elfling to have ever graced my knee.”
Then he dropped my exhausted body over his shoulder, hauled me to the nearest bench in Rivendell’s vast gardens, flung me over his lap, pulled down my breeches and spanked me until my throat was raw from wailing and my bottom was ablaze. I had been unable to sit for two straight days afterwards. I had also been unable to stop him. Glorfindel had humored me as long as he chose to, and when he had endured enough of my antics his increased strength was swift and profound and unimaginable. It had been a shattering feeling, that humiliation, that firm shove back into the vulnerable state of a child.
And my little brother was feeling that now, just as I wanted him to. I would not leave him alone in complete silence, for he was frightened, overwhelmed by the massive assault on his body and his mind. Aragorn was accustomed to my manner of spanking, but my little brother would need the comfort of my voice more than did Aragorn.
So I murmured the occasional soft reassurance, focusing on Boromir’s sounds, his shudders, his low moans, listening for when he moved to another level of distress. Then I would begin speaking on the larger matters, and I had much to say.
He was squirming again, his small explosions of breath coming with each swat, and he still wept softly, as he had been since we started, his low whimpers turning to low cries. Before long I could begin talking to him of more important matters. He could probably hear me now, but I wanted a bit more surrender from him before I gave him something to distract his mind. He was tensing, his legs straining out straight, but he had yet to kick. I wanted that first helpless kick.
I could have urged my little brother along by spanking him with more force, but this was still new to him. If Aragorn was right, and Boromir had not been disciplined this way for fifteen or twenty years, each spanking he received now was going to be momentous. He was less conditioned than the little ones, especially Pippin, who seemed to constantly be in some stage of bottom-healing.
I smiled, thinking of the youngest halfling’s tiny, adorable backside wriggling over my knee. Boromir was more of a lapful, but his backside was also adorable. He fit beautifully across my thighs, quite like Aragorn did, a pleasant weight. I snuggled him closer, pulling him against my stomach, loving the feel of his warm, solid body pressed to mine.
He released a low purr amongst his weeping, his face still buried in the crook of his elbow, and he curled his long arm down to grasp my leg and hold on for comfort. Another hot surge exploded in my chest at the trusting move, the feel of his hand gripping me, and I fought the urge to lift my little brother and cuddle him to me again, feel this young, powerful warrior filling my arms. But spanking him, enjoying his silky bottom beneath my hand – ahh, it was so exhilarating I could not stop for even the interlude of an embrace.
The thought dismayed me, for I never enjoy causing another pain, regardless of the its benefits. But I quickly recalled a conversation Halbarad and I once had on this subject:
I had been with the Grey Company for many years, and although our relationship had shifted long ago, with Aragorn now firmly in control, my Ranger still needed my disciplinary hand. Halbarad had relinquished that authoritative role to me at once when I had reentered Aragorn’s life, stepping aside with such swift and graceful silence that for some time I had not even known that Halbarad had been acting as Aragorn’s disciplinarian.
But keeping such a thing from me wore on Aragorn until it finally came tumbling out one time when he was over my knee. Halbarad assumed that Aragorn had told me about his role as disciplinarian in his life, so he was as exasperated as I had been to learn of Aragorn’s ‘oversight.’ We instantly agreed that the lieutenant should impress the virtues of honesty upon his wild pup’s backside, and that there was no time like the present.
Afterwards, Halbarad and I, and a repentant Aragorn, decided that there were times when the lieutenant needed to step in and handle his captain’s discipline as he had in the past. From that day forth Halbarad and I shared the honors. And such duty was positively essential.
Every now and then Aragorn’s wild heart raced beyond the boundaries of good sense and he would engage in some foolhardy and often dangerous exploit, sometimes even risking his life. Usually when he behaved in this manner he included his old partner in catastrophe, Devon.
After one such disastrous escapade, Garrick, with positively frightening calm, forswore the bother of hauling Devon away from camp for the usual private disciplinary session, and instead the huge corporal had firmly escorted his struggling ‘little cub’ to the perimeter of the camp, turned Devon over his knee, yanked down his breeches and delivered a thorough bare-bottomed spanking within sight and sound of the company. The Rangers gallantly feigned disinterest, but Dev was a wailer and it was near impossible to ignore what the corporal was doing to him. I had vowed then and there to never run afoul of Garrick.
I had also been tempted to follow his example that day. Aragorn had cast me a wary look, but I spared him that indignity. I instead volunteered for the watch and took Aragorn with me, where I administered a hiding that had him bellowing louder than Devon.
Halbarad came upon us later, offering to assume his shift early that I might take my exhausted and well-spanked delinquent back to camp. He cast a look of pure affection upon Aragorn who lay sleeping in my arms, soundly spanked and utterly spent. Halbarad’s devotion to his captain was measureless, and I blessed his vigilant care of my Ranger-child in the years when I had been absent from his life.
My conscience began to ache while I watched the lieutenant fondly gazing at his ‘pup,’ though, for I felt that I had perhaps relished this spanking a little too much. Halbarad turned a contemplative look my way, then he crouched beside us, his grey eyes full of compassion.
“Do not trouble your mind so,” he murmured, as ever, seeing much more than what was openly apparent. “I have also felt what seemed like unbefitting satisfaction when spanking him.”
“How did you know I was --?”
“Ah,” he said with a grin. “You have been with us for too long to hide your thoughts from me, my young one. And fret not. The contentment you feel is normal. You are not pleased to be causing him pain. Rather, you are relishing the release of your distress. Our fears for Aragorn will cripple us should we allow them free rein, so there is no shame in enjoying their passing. Our lad here would be the first to understand that.”
Gifting me with another comforting look, Halbarad went on, saying, “So, do not think yourself evil or mean-spirited. It is reasonable to feel gratified while spanking him, especially when he has caused you great alarm. At the risk of insulting your elevated heritage, little princeling, such a reaction is only human.”
Boromir was very much like Aragorn in many respects, both of them closing off their suffering, and both of them displaying an appalling carelessness with their mortality that made me double my protective inclinations. I could do little to constrain my fears when it came to the fragile human state of my two treasured warriors, but I could perhaps prevent disaster by making needless danger an unattractive thing to court.
Of course, this presented a problem, for my little brother was right – he was not a tractable hobbit, readily accepting of a higher authority. He clearly thought himself answerable to no one, save Aragorn and possibly Gandalf. I had therefore felt a foreboding about his attitude and where it could lead him for some time now. His swift willingness to accept excessive hardship, his rigid devotion to duty and now this need to assume blame and brutally punish himself while hiding his anguish behind a wall of either cold detachment or over-exuberance bespoke his lonely inner torment.
I would tolerate no more of it. Neither would Aragorn. In fact, I would no doubt need to restrain him from restating my lesson on his fledgling’s bottom when I told him what I had learned.
At present, that fledgling’s bottom had taken on quite the reddish glow. I knew it stung mightily. Boromir’s stamina matched Aragorn’s, though, which did not surprise me. He was writhing now, as though seeking to somehow lessen the force of the next blow. I had been granting him that freedom, and I would remove it at the most effective moment, but for now his wriggling would comfort him. His low weeping had grown louder, some genuine sobs bursting through, the last of his resistance near crumbling. Oh, he was resisting, of course. Regardless of how openly he had accepted this, it was natural for his body to respond with small gestures of defiance. Stubborn, stubborn humans!
But when I nudged him with some firm spanks beneath the sensitive curve of his sweet bottom, he arched and cried out, and at last he kicked, spontaneously, erratically, plainly without his own permission or awareness.
Of course he could say nothing, so he simply continued to arch and cry out with each searing spank, his legs jerking between kicks, his breathless sobs coming faster. He was so close now, so close. I moved from his tender area back to his glowing bottom, spanking with straightforward sincerity.
“AHHH! AHHHHHHHH!” Another involuntary outburst. Understandable. At this point, no spot on his poor behind was going to sting less than any other spot did.
“I know, little one, I know. I am here. We have some things to discuss, and I think you are nigh ready to begin.”
Boromir sobbed. He grasped and twisted my legging. He had yet to cover his backside with that hand, but I made a small bet with myself that I would be restraining his wrist at his back ‘ere I was finished with him.
“How well behaved you are over my knee, little brother,” I said, making certain that image stayed in his mind for our talk. I waited, wondering how he would respond. When he simply whimpered and wept, I said, “I paid you a compliment, little one.”
He sucked a few shuddery breaths then said, “Th-Thank y-you.”
Ah! I smiled. How bright he was! It had taken me a long while to condition Aragorn during a spanking, teaching him to respond to certain commands as a means of showing me that he felt safe, to confirm his obedient state and to keep his mind on the moment. It would take Boromir some time to learn this role as well, but, as I suspected, he would be just as biddable. Spanking Aragorn for all these years had prepared me for my little brother. Bless their similarities!
These men were proud warriors. Being reduced to such a docile state was shattering for them, regardless of how much they secretly needed and craved it. The shock of being forced to take a spanking, the shock of encountering someone physically superior to them, someone they could not overcome, even when using every bit of their strength, threw them into an inner frenzy. And when they accepted that they could not escape in any physical way, they tried to escape within their own minds. I found it endearing. Clever young warriors.
I would not, however, permit it. They would stay present, aware, interacting with me and feeling everything I insisted they feel, and so I had taught Aragorn our ritualized speech to keep him focused. Of course, after learning what I wanted, my Ranger-child had sometimes chosen to rebel against it, usually with a cheekiness that tested my composure, his impudence showing me where he was and how far we had yet to go until he reached the degree of submission I required of him.
But for now, with my little brother, a touch of routine was enough to tell me that he, too, was well disposed to the comfort of procedure. This would surely not be the last time Boromir would be over my knee. There would be time for learning. For now, listening to me would be enough. There was so much to talk to him about, and with his bottom now nicely warm and his attention ensured, he would stay with me.
I’d been crying when he started. I was still crying, but now . . . this was a different crying. It wasn’t because of feelings. Before, when we were talking, before Legolas started . . . spanking me, that was ‘feeling’ crying, huge feelings hitting so suddenly they brought tears. Crying from relief, from shock, from the release of anguish.
I had been wrong? I had been wrong! Wrong about everything. Aragorn and Legolas weren’t disgusted with me? They still cared about me? They hadn’t judged me lacking? They weren’t done with me? I was still a little brother . . . still a little fledgling? Could something that blessed be true?
I hadn’t yet taken it in. I still wasn’t sure I could believe it. How was it possible that Aragorn and Legolas still . . . how could they . . . Denethor would have . . . he would have looked at me in that . . . way . . . for days. “I am disappointed in you, my son” . . . “This kind of behavior is beneath you, Boromir.” But, what had Legolas said?
“Boromir, heed me! You are as dear to me as you ever were, and to Aragorn. You have not lost our affections. Indeed, if you had, we would not care that you had endangered yourself in icy waters.”
How could that be? And yet . . . I did understand it . . . Faramir . . . aye, if he had done what I had . . . I did understand . . . .
“And how I can love you both is beyond my reasoning . . . .”
‘Love you both . . . .’ Both. So, all his words, his ‘little brother’ comfort words . . . all of them were genuine. Real. Real words. For me. Real, genuine words of comfort – for me.
And so, I had wept. I could do no less. And that feeling was still with me, so some of this weeping was still ‘feeling’ crying, but this was also more than just that, more desperate, because . . . because Legolas was spanking and spanking, and because his spanking . . . hurt! Ohhhh, how it hurt!
This was ‘spanking’ crying, sobbing such as I barely remembered, but clearly had never forgotten. ‘Spanking’ crying, tears pouring out, fast, endlessly, as they had with Aragorn – the same, but different. I couldn’t hold back my frenzy. Because it hurt! Hurt, hurt, hurt! Something had shifted. Instead of feeling ‘feelings,’ I was now feeling every spank, and every spank hurt and so the sobbing started. Sobbing and kicking and jerking and trying to wriggle away from that relentless stinging hand. Useless effort. I knew that. And I felt that I looked ridiculous. But I didn’t care! Oh, if I could just get away, squirm away! Make it stop!
But I could stop none of it. I couldn’t stop Legolas from spanking me. I would never win a fight with him. He was stronger. I would never be able to escape him. He was faster. I could not best Legolas physically, and that was why it felt different than when Aragorn had spanked me. Legolas was a force I had not felt since becoming a grown-up. Legolas was, in every respect, my big brother.
He had taken me back to that place I barely remembered but clearly had never forgotten, back to when I was ten years old, twelve, perhaps, stretched over Damrod’s knee, forced to take a spanking. Not like when I was twenty and too respectful of my father’s lieutenant to challenge him, but forced, overcome by someone bigger, older, and more powerful than me.
Legolas had picked me up, tossed me about, handled me deftly, even played with me and now he . . . he was spanking me, over and over, all he desired and for as long as he wanted, and as hard as he wanted to . . . and, and I couldn’t stop him. I had no say. That notion alone was shattering.
But the actual spanking, the feel of it . . . his strong hand cracking down again and again – how could this hurt so much? It couldn’t hurt this much! How did Frodo bear it? I sat right beside him, watched Legolas spank him. And I had spanked him afterwards! Oh, how did the little one withstand it? How did Pippin? Poor wee hobbit bottoms!
Well, no . . . no, clearly Legolas must have spanked the halflings more delicately. Of course. But, well, that was not fair! Not, not, not! I was bigger than a halfling, but that didn’t mean my bottom was less tender. I’d have pointed that out, but it seemed an inopportune moment.
But this was beyond . . . I couldn’t withstand . . . I kept stupidly writhing, trying to make it stop, to get away – but I couldn’t. No relief. No end. No escape. And it was awful. Awful!
It wasn’t possible, what he was doing. What this felt like was not possible! This was elvish craftiness. I was a warrior of Gondor! A grown-up warrior of Gondor did not cry over a span . . . a spanking couldn’t make me tremble like this! Burn and ache like this! It couldn’t melt me like this. Aye, Aragorn’s spanking had done so, true. But this! It felt . . . Legolas was doing something. This was some elvish chicanery! He was doing . . . something . . . !
Actually, Legolas was doing what he said he would – “I intend to show you exactly what happens to naughty little brothers when they have earned the displeasure of their big brothers.”
I was tempted to roar that he need not bother showing me anything! I knew! Had I not done this to my own little brother countless times? I was the big brother! I knew what happened! I was Faramir’s big brother . . . and, and, and little brothers were spanked by . . . I knew! So just stop! Stop, stop, stop it!
But . . . I didn’t know this part, this place, this ‘little brother’ place. And Legolas was showing me, being my big brother . . . and his words, his genuine words flowed over me again: “ . . . I call you ‘little brother’ because you are that to me, because I care for you that much. I know you have never had to answer to a big brother, but those days are over, little one . . . As your big brother, this is indeed my role, and it is my right. And you are never to question my right again. Do you understand, little brother?”
Aye! Indeed I did. I really, really did. Although it seemed too good to be true. But now . . . now it seemed exceedingly real. He was, most certainly, blistering my ‘pretty bottom.’
‘Pretty bottom.’ Ohhhhh, what he’d said! The things he’d said! Those endearments showered over me again, those kind, loving words. Real words. My ‘feeling’ crying roared forth again, mixing with my ‘spanking’ crying, mixed crying . . . awash with it . . . and Legolas murmured, off and on in that soothing, rich, mesmerizing tone . . . words spoken in both the Westron and in his musical elvish tongue, caressing me within, and all the while his hand rose and fell, rose and fell, spanking me over and over and over and my bottom pulsed with hot soreness and time stood frozen.
Perhaps he was nearly finished . . . perhaps now he would stop to discuss his ‘things.’ Oh, please let him stop to discuss his ‘things!’ I would listen. I had listened when he told me how well behaved I was. And I had pleased him with my ‘thank you.’ I’d heard his smile – that small sniff he always gave before he smiled – I’d heard that. I’d known what he wanted, and I’d pleased him.
Perhaps I could please him again, and then perhaps he would stop. I was ‘nigh ready’ to begin, he had said. ‘Nigh’ ready? I was very ready. Not ‘nigh’ ready. Very ready. I could not be more ready.
And again, that all too real image threatened to enter my mind – Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, ‘young brat of Gondor’ and ‘little brother’ to Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, stretched across the lap of his elven big brother. Boromir, proud son of Gondor, leader of men, older brother . . . a bare-bottomed, crying, little boy warrior getting paddled by an elf. So helpless. No. No, no, no, do not picture this. Do not! And, of course, I did.
It flashed through my mind. I saw myself, kicking and writhing, my hand clutching his leg, my face buried in my bent arm, my breeches now knotted around my ankles and . . . I saw Legolas, his calm, fair features, his bright eyes, watching me, composed, carefully gauging my reactions, his arm swatting down in a graceful arc, again and again, his palm connecting with my very red backside, his gaze trained downward . . . ohhhhhhh . . . a low groan rumbled through me.
New crying now, moans of shame grinding amongst my repeated sobs. I kept trying not to squirm. So futile. But my backside had long since stopped taking commands from my will. My bottom moved on its own now . . . my body trembled and contorted on its own. I had no control left.
Had it been this awful with Aragorn? I couldn’t remember. All I knew was now. All I could feel was my throbbing bottom, the soaked sleeve of my shirt, the wetness of my face, my weary, straining muscles, and Legolas, his arm over my back, holding me firmly against him, my stomach pressed against his solid thighs, his eternal strength, his tireless spanking.
Humiliation kept slamming into me. Oh, that Legolas, a prince, a warrior, a fellow grown-up should see me like this! Sobbing and kicking and squalling like a little halfling over his lap! Oh, that he was doing this to me! The indignity! This beautiful warrior elf, seeing me this way! Every nerve in my body seared and cringed. I wanted to crawl away, hide, make it stop!
I had to make him stop. I couldn’t allow more of this. I let go of his leg and threw my hand back, palm up, over my searing backside. “NO MORRRE!” I roared, and I bucked up, thrashing with all my might, what I had left of it. Ah, me. How absurd.
Legolas sighed. He ‘tsk-tsked,’ then he strengthened his hold, pushing me back down and tugging me against his stomach. I was locked so firmly I could barely shudder, and it plainly wasn’t taxing Legolas in the least. I gasped. Such instant power, so ready. As when I’d been ‘fighting’ him earlier, he’d only been letting me move for as long as it pleased him, and Legolas now held me so tightly I couldn’t move. He stopped spanking long enough to remove my hand and restrain it at the small of my back, then he resumed the spanking again as I winced and cried out and burst into tears once more.
“My, my,” he said, his voice soft and full of gentle censure. “We are becoming so forward. That was very naugh --” He paused, then said, “Tell me, sweetling brat, your little display just now, that was very . . . what?”
I knew exactly what he wanted me to say, and I would plunge into the bottomless depths of Moria before I’d utter that word. But he lowered his hand to beneath the curve of my bottom again and began to spank there.
“AAAHHHH! N-NAUGHTY!” I bellowed, longing to explode off his lap. “It w-was n-naughty!”
“It was what?”
“LEG’LAAAS! AAHHHH! Naugh-t-ty! AHHHHHH! Naughty, naughty, n-n-naughty! V-VERY naughty! It-It was very, v-v-very naughty, s-sir!”
“Ah, good. Aye, little one,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It was indeed naughty. Very, very naughty.”
He moved back up to my sore cheeks, beginning again, and I fell into fresh, frantic weeping. I don’t know what had possessed me. But I regretted it. And now, now I would probably never be released from his lap. Legolas would continue to spank me until I fell asleep, or the Quest ended, or the Fourth Age commenced. Should he someday deem to let me up, I’d never sit again. Never mount a horse. Never sleep on my back. Never walk without that distinctive sway. My big brother was never, never, never going to stop spanking me . . . .
“Bor’mir! P-PLEEEASE! Are you never, never, N-NEVER going to s-stop spanking me? Please, p-please s-stop!”
“You are overdoing it a bit, Faramir. And you do not tell me when to stop.”
“B-But you are never, never, NEVER going to s-stop sp-spanking m-me!”
“Oh, I fancy I will. Eventually.”
“N-No you w-won’t!”
“Are you so sure, baby brother? Perhaps you can stay my hand.”
“B-But, but y-you just said --”
“I said that you do not tell me when to stop, and you don’t. Saucy little brothers do not tell their big brothers when their spanking stops.”
“AHHH! Then – then h-how --?”
“Faramir, why am I spanking you?”
“B-Because you f-found out that my friends and I w-were trying that tr-trick you for-forbade, try-trying to s-stand on our saddles at full g-gallop --”
“N-No? Then w-why, in the name of the Black--OWWW! OW, OW, OWW! Ahhhhhhhh!”
“No. I am indeed unhappy with what you did. You shall be walking for a fortnight as I promised you. You are not even to approach the stables. I warned you to never attempt such a foolhardy trick, and you deliberately disobeyed me, little boy.”
“And that is w-why you are sp-spanking me!”
“Is it? Aye. It does seem so on the surface. That is the reason you are over my knee. But look deeper. Use that special vision you have been gifted with. Why am I really spanking you, my sweet baby brother?”
“Be . . . because . . . because you l-love me.”
“Aye. You are here because I love you. Because I care about you. You know that I shall never look away when you have been disobedient, nor shall I ignore your recklessness. Any time you needlessly endanger yourself I shall haul you over my knee and spank you until your little bottom glows. I love you, Faramir. That is why you are here, so I will continue to spank your behind until your defiance is purged and I hear from you what I need to hear. Then you and I will talk of this, and when we have said all that needs saying, then, little one, your spanking will stop. So, you see, you do have the power to sway my hand, although I shall know it if you are not sincere, and you shall find the consequences of that very unpleasant indeed. Now, what have you to say?”
I felt my every muscle soften. I collapsed over my big brother’s lap. “L-Leg’las . . . ohh, L-Leg’las, I-I am s-sorry.”
There was a slight hesitation before his next spank. “Sorry for what, little brother?”
Oh. For what. Uh . . . . “I-I am sorry I disobeyed Aragorn’s orders about the mud . . . no . . . no, w-wait . . . no, that-that’s wrong . . . not mad at me for th-that.”
“Am I mad at you for anything?”
He was slowing . . . ahhh, his spanks were slowing. A quick sob of relief burst from me. My bottom smoldered and throbbed and I was not sure how much more I could bear. But Legolas was blessedly slowing . . . and . . . I could think a little better, just a bit more clearly.
Boromir . . . he did not often use my name anymore. I did not like it. “Aye?”
“Answer me. Am I mad at you?”
No. He had told me he was not. “We were indeed upset with your dangerous behavior in the lake, but we were upset with what you did, Boromir, not with you.”
“No. N-No, Leg’las . . . upset with w-what I d-did . . . not with me.”
“Aye, little one. Very good! Is Aragorn mad at you?”
I felt a warmth blossom within me at his praise, and I yearned for more. “N-No, sir, not mad at m-me.”
“But you ended up covered with mud, you and the all the halflings. So how is it that Aragorn and I are not mad at you?”
“Be-Because there w-were exten-diate . . . ex-extenen-endate . . . ex --”
I nodded, cringing a bit at the smile in his voice. But his spanks seemed even lighter now, and ohhhh, just that bit of relief was wonderful! The reasoning part of my mind knew what he was doing with these questions, but the rest of me did not care. I willingly went down whatever path Legolas chose for me. Aye, big brother, guide me, lead me . . . .
“So, we are not mad at you because you ended up in the mud, but are you mad at yourself because of it, sweetling?”
I groaned into my arm. “Aye.”
“You are?” A hard swat followed his question and I reared up and cried out.
“NO! N-No! I-I mean, I WAS! I w-was!”
“Ah.” He resumed his lighter spanks. “But you are no longer?”
“Noooo! No, s-sir.”
“And why are you no longer angry with yourself?”
Of course. He would want to know that I understood. And I was more than happy to assure him that I did. “Be-cause you were r-right. I-I would not have j-judged you harshly if it had b-been you in the m-mud.”
“No, little brother. I am certain you would not have. In fact, I vow you would have laughed.”
I would have laughed indeed. I felt a tiny chuckle slip through my shuddered weeping.
“So you judged yourself severely and you found yourself lacking,” he went on, calmly, smoothly, his hand swatting down in even slower cadence. “You felt you had failed in your duty. Are you ever permitted to fail in your duty, Boromir?”
Somehow my name wrenched me back to the bad feelings I’d had about myself. I felt a sudden danger looming here, a vague foreboding, but another extra hard swat reminded me that Legolas was waiting for an answer.
“NO! N-No! I-I do not like to fail in my duty.”
“That was not what I asked. Are you ever permitted to fail in your duty, sweetling?”
I snarled under my breath . . . so tired, and he was pushing again, pushing more, his voice sedate and steady and relentless . . . permitted? Was I ever permitted to fail? I snapped out an answer just to satisfy him. “No!”
“But you did fail. So you decided to punish yourself.”
“You stood in freezing waters to punish yourself.”
“You have been eating very little – aye, of course I noticed. You bit your tongue until you bled. You went without sleep. You carried two hobbits for several hours when you were beyond weary, all to punish yourself.”
I . . . I . . . I had done all that, to punish myself? I plunged down into a quiet place, a secretive place that I dared not look upon. My weeping grew to rapid sobbing again, my heart racing. I could fathom little of what lay waiting there, but I did sense that, strangely, Legolas somehow understood it. Because what he was saying was true. It was all true.
“P-Punish myself . . . aye, L-Leg’las. I-I did . . . I g-guess I did. No . . . I k-know I d-did.”
“Aye. Indeed you did. And are little brothers allowed to punish themselves, precious one? Is Faramir allowed to punish himself?”
“So is my little brother allowed to punish himself?”
“Noooo.” I felt a sob rising in my throat.
“No. Because it is not your place to decide such things, sweetling. You judge yourself and assume an unfair burden of guilt, and then you try to purge that guilt with punishment. But big brothers never punish, do they little one?”
Ohhhhhh. No. No, big brothers never punished! I had never punished Faramir. Never. I could barely croak out my response. “N-Noooooooo!”
“No. They know punishment is never deserved. Big brothers discipline lovingly. They do not judge harshly. Their love is unconditional, is it not, little brother?”
He stopped spanking me. His palm lay still at last on my pulsing bottom, and I wept onto the soaked sleeve of my shirt. “Aye, L-Leg’las.”
“Very good. So, little one. Tell me again what you are sorry for.”
Oh, I knew he was sorry. I was always sorry, too, when I was over Aragorn’s knee. Once, when Aragorn had asked me this annoying question, I made the mistake of blurting out through my tears exactly what I was thinking:
“Tell me what to be sorry for and I shall oblige you!”
Aragorn had chuckled, then paddled the sass right out of me, helping me make the distinction between sincerity and cheekiness.
I expected no such effrontery from my quivering little brother. He wanted to be cooperative. But when Boromir said he was sorry, I had felt that he did not exactly know what he was sorry for. Given the misunderstanding we had just worked through, I intended to make certain he understood exactly why he was over my knee, and what behavior would never again be tolerated. So I talked him through it, and now he could find the heart of the matter. I gave him a moment to collect his wits and move just a little deeper within himself.
He gasped, his breath catching in his throat. “Shhhhh.” I rubbed my hand lightly over his fiery backside, drawing forth a whimper. “Shhh, take your time. Find what you are truly sorry for.”
“I-I . . . trying . . . .”
“I know, little brother. Breathe for me. Take your time.”
He was struggling so nobly. I had put him through much, and he had born it all, and I was proud of him, holding on as courageously as he had when he was clearly exhausted. I started swatting him again, lightly, crisp spanks on his flaming cheeks.
Boromir moaned and choked a sob, but I had been here myself, and I knew that this would help him, the rhythm of my hand, paddling down, his chaotic thoughts forming up as if answering a call, that physical anchor helping him focus. I would aid him as much as I could, but Boromir needed to find this answer without further coaching.
And he could find it. He was swaying between two states of mind, clinging to the last shreds of adulthood and slipping further and further into little boy oblivion. When this happened to my Ranger-child it was best to catch him while he still had some powers of adult reasoning left. I knew where Aragorn’s breaking point was. With my little brother, I was not as sure.
But he was every bit as quick as Aragorn. And there was no more resistance. He had moved from stubbornness to understanding. Not full understanding about why he did such things to himself; that would take some time. It was enough for now that he saw what he had done, and he had seen it. From this point we could move on.
I watched him, so limp now, fully surrendered. I released his hand. He slowly moved it to my leg again, curling it down, gliding it over me in a languid caress, as if petting me. I shuddered from the tenderness of it.
“Boromir,” I called softly.
He turned his head to the side, resting it on his arm, and I smoothed away the wet strands of hair clinging to his face. Though red and swollen, his eyes were open, glassy, and staring off, vacant, yet clear, as Aragorn sometimes looked at this stage.
“I-I am s-sorry . . . Leg’las, I am s-sorry for p-punishing myself.”
I smiled. “Aye, my clever little brother. Good. Very, very good.”
He rubbed his face back over his sleeve, releasing small bursting breaths. “N-Not because of th-mud,” he muttered, his voice low and weary. “Th-That wasn’t b-bad . . . not naugh . . . naught . . . bad. Just ha-happened . . . . and, and, and little brothers . . . little b-brothers don’t punish thems-selves. B-Big brothers do th-that . . .no, not p-punish. D-Discipline . . . loving disc’pline . . . no judging . . . un-uncondit’nal . . . l-love.”
Again I smiled softly. He was rambling now, his thoughts spilling around him, and I let him go, let him set free all he needed to, although I doubted Boromir even knew he was speaking. I just kept providing his gentle spanks, his anchor, smoothing my hand over his blazing bottom between each light swat.
“Go on, sweetling,” I murmured. “I am here. I am listening. And I am very proud of you, little one. You are doing so well.” Ahhh, such nonsense talk, comforting rhetoric almost too sweet to bear, but sounding like poetry to a freshly-spanked and shaking little boy.
Soon he began to quiet, and he quickly realized that I was no longer spanking him, but that I was now rubbing his bottom ever so gently. Boromir flinched slightly at the awareness. Before that sudden loss started to upset him, I began speaking in a soft voice:
“Shhh, no fussing now.” I followed this with a light spank. As sore as he was, even a little swat made him whimper. “I can, and I will, start spanking you again if I need to, little brother, so behave yourself and listen to me. I have a few things to say, and it is time for you to hear me, and to talk to me. But you will stay right where you are, over my lap, your attention focused where it needs to be.”
It was something less than the whole truth, but Boromir did not need to know that I was also keeping him over my knee because of the pleasure it brought me. As I felt when spanking Aragorn, I enjoyed a measure of comfort in having Boromir here, safe, under my control, his sweet red bottom right beneath my hand. And, as with Aragorn, that feeling was too costly to entertain for long. I could no more lock up my little brother in a cage of safety than I could lock up my Ranger-child. But he was here now. Mine, for now. And I allowed myself the brief pleasure of that.
“Aye, L-Leg’las,” he croaked.
I patted his glossy backside. “Good.” I paused, watching him, and he lay obediently, waiting. Ah. Perfect.
“You are right, little brother,” I began, my tone full of warm approval. “Every harsh penance you dealt yourself stemmed from your cruel judgement of your perceived failure. So you were naughty to have punished yourself and you needed to apologize for it.
“But there is an even deeper, more silent truth lurking behind the punishment you felt you needed. There is a deeper pain.”
Boromir went instantly rigid. He seemed to be holding his breath, trembling with the effort, and although I had thought to help him find this truth within himself, I suddenly wondered if he had anything left in him to make this last, most crucial push. I would give him the chance, but be ready to swoop in and help him if his strength gave way.
“You learned to lock that pain away long ago, little brother. You were clever to do so, clever and wise, for it hurt very badly, and it could not be suffered long, could it?”
His voice was just above a whisper, but Ai! His courage in trying! And yet, he was frightened.
“Shhh, I am here.” I patted his bottom. “That darkness within has no power over me, little one, and I will allow it no power over you. My voice is the one you will hear now.” I gave him a light reminder swat. “Do you understand?”
“Ahh! Aye, L-Leg’las.”
“Good. For it was not an evil thing you learned so long ago. As I said, you were wise. When the hurt came, the little warrior inside you locked it in the dungeon, sealing it behind thick walls and impenetrable doors. Then you posted a guard, and you would not allow that hurt out.”
His shaking increased. He seemed to be gathering his strength for something, so I waited.
“Le-Leg’las, I-I think I unners-sta . . . p-please, I want to say --”
“Go on, little brother. But get your breath first. Take your time.”
He obeyed, shuddering, trying to steady his ragged breathing, then finally calming enough to speak. “I wanted to m-make him proud of me. His f-firstborn! I w-was his first-firstborn. How he would b-brag! Whether earned or not. And-And I craved it, more of it, and I did not like to dis-disappoint him. When I did, he looked so – so --” He finished the thought on a low groan of anguish. “I-I was his golden s-son, and I loved it and h-hated it.”
“Hated it? Why?”
“Be-cause of F-Faramir!” he shot back. “So unfair! And he made me a party to hurt-hurting my-my d-dear little b-brother by t-treating me like his ‘only’ son, his ‘best’ son! I hated it! I hated what he did to Faramir, using me t-to hurt him! And I hated – I hated --” A sudden sob wrenched forth, followed by a hushed and grating sound. “I hated him!”
“Aye. And you loved him, too. For all his flaws, he was yet your father.”
Another series of bursting sobs. “Aye! L-Loved him, too. And feared his anger. I always felt so . . . so mad at him! Not fair! My – my poor little brother!”
“Ahh, indeed,” I murmured. “My poor little brother.”
“But I c-could not bear to let him down, nor my people, nor my m-men, nor anyone. I could not. He would glare and speak such words, such words of dismay when I f-failed him, w-words of sh-shame. ‘I am disappointed in you, my son.’ And he would send me from h-him for days until he-he decided to feel better.”
I closed my eyes, willing away my fury, willing away my threatened tears of grief. No solace for my little brother when he ached. No way to atone. No one to help him absolve his guilt, then soothe him and let him know that all was well again, that he was still loved. The cruelty of it! Of course Boromir would learn to punish himself, to somehow release the burden of that brutal self-reproach.
My Ada was not such a father as this Denethor. Nor was Lord Elrond. Gwin’s parents were cold and distant, caring nothing for him, not even caring enough about what he did to disapprove of his actions. I had thought that to be the worst abuse imaginable. But hearing my little brother’s pain spilling forth made me realize that there were many ways to torture a young one, some worse than others, all of them inexcusable.
My outrage would not serve him now, but it churned in my stomach and sent my blood racing. I opened my eyes and turned my gaze to him. His face still rested on his arm, and I stroked his hair, wishing I could spare him this, wishing such sorrow had never come to him.
“Awful,” he mumbled on. “It felt so aw-awful. S-So I tried hard not t-to anger him, be-because that hurt you talked of, that hurt came, so I tried not to --”
“You tried to be his golden son.”
“Aye. T-Tried to. And Faram-mir! Ahh, poor Faramir! I-I-I --”
Suddenly it became too much for him. He was too exhausted, and all this was too enormous. He fell into a frantic, fragile weeping, clearly unable to hold it back.
I quickly and gently scooped him up, turned him and gathered him into my arms, spreading my legs as I always did for Aragorn so that his scorched bottom dipped between them. Still, some of his backside connected with my thighs, and he arched up and cried out amongst his tears, again, like Aragorn always did.
“Hold on to me, little one,” I said against his tousled hair. “Aye, hold on. As hard as you like. Fear not. I can bear your strongest embrace with ease.”
Boromir clung to me, burying his face in my hair and against my neck. His weeping was tortured, heart-rending, the raw and miserable sounds coming from his throat, tearing at me. I doubted the most stoic warrior in Middle Earth could have remained impassive when hearing my little brother’s grief-stricken sounds.
I rocked him, pressing him to me, sometimes running a palm over his hair, sometimes leaving a few small kisses on his head, sometimes murmuring more tender endearments. I was not at all certain he could be consoled, and that was the only reason I intended to go on, to finish what I had started. I would not leave Boromir in such an unresolved state, however, I would ask no more of him but to listen. There was more to this than I would touch on at present, but he had truly had enough for now.
When he finally began to grow quiet, his exhausted muscles reduced to small quivers and jerks, his throat rasping with every tattered breath, I leaned him back to look at him.
Clearly resigned to his weakened, limp state, he allowed it, loosening his grasp on my shoulders. His expression was haunted, stricken, his cheeks pale and wet, his eyes glassy but aware and his gaze straying off somewhere over my shoulder.
I cradled him, easing him further back on my arm, and again he offered no resistance, trusting my strength to support him. He winced, his bottom now pressing more solidly against my lap, but I would not yet move to the ground and lay him atop me, taking the pressure off his backside. I wanted him conscious for what I had to say. If I made him too comfortable, sleep might overwhelm him. His stinging bottom would keep him focused.
I was overcome by his state. I could only kiss him gently and brush my fingers over his face, clearing away the damp strands of hair and wiping his tears. I could almost see him closing off that pain in his inner dungeon and assigning guard duty. I actually thanked the Valar that he had found a means to survive Denethor and the tragedy he had wrought upon his sons. Now, however, Boromir needed to release his compulsion to suffer his torments in silence and to assume blame with little cause, to judge himself harshly and to punish himself in the present for the agonies of the past.
Willing him to hold on just a bit longer, I said, “Ai! My poor little brother. I know you are weary, but I need you to listen to me now. You shall look at me and answer me when I expect you to, that I may know you are hearing my words, for what I have to say is important. Do you understand?”
Boromir’s serious grey eyes focused upon me. He narrowed them slightly then blinked, as though remembering where he was and who was holding him and that I was waiting for his answer.
“Aye, Leg’las. I understand,” he muttered.
I studied him, smiling softly. “How bright you are, little brother, and how courageous, to talk of such difficult things while braving your spanking. Shhh, do not look so startled. You said much, all of it very hard to say out loud.” I leaned down and kissed his forehead, then drew back, saying, “Shall I tell you now what I think of it all?”
He nodded, seemingly entranced, and looking so youthful I felt the start of another small grin. I held back, though, for what I had to say was serious.
“I think you learned long ago that, in order to survive the torment visited upon you, you needed to close it away, lest it swarm over you and devour you. So you did, and there it lived, inside you, like a seething fell beast waiting to be seen when you were naughty and purged when you were disciplined and forgiven.
“But no absolution came to relieve you of that fell beast, did it, little one? No forgiveness. No spanking to allow you release. It may seem that only Faramir suffered your father's malice, but you bore much of it as well. When you needed the loving attention of a forgiving soul, attention deserved from one who understood the anguish of unattended guilt, you were closed off, denied the solace of absolution. You were made to bear the guilt alone and in silence.”
He clearly was too exhausted to break into more crying, but Boromir’s eyes filled with tears and a few began to tumble down his cheeks. I caught them on my fingertip again, and glanced at him, watching him recognize the move, his eyes lighting up. Then I flicked the drops away, my little brother flinching slightly, then casting me a sweet, loving gaze.
“We shall talk of this without feeling the suffering, face it down squarely, and see it for what it is, little brother, observe, but not let it touch us. Agreed?”
He shuddered and released a heavy breath. “Aye, Leg’las.”
“Ah, very good. So, with perhaps a few exceptions, you have ever dealt with your guilty feelings alone, your need for absolution ignored, and your longing for forgiveness used as a means to torment you. You learned to see your own dishonor and to assume blame before another thrust it upon you. In that way you controlled it, and you decided how to quickly begin punishing yourself, hoping to keep that inner fell beast from clawing at you. Ah, hên celair.” I smiled at his blink of confusion. “Ah, brilliant child. You indeed found a way to survive.
“But you are no longer under the dominion of your father, my beloved little brother. It is time for a new understanding. You were practicing a behavior that has saved you in the past, but in so doing you caused yourself a harm that could have been deadly, and that could not be let go without the serving of consequences.”
I grew solemn and watched him closely, making certain I had his full attention. He seemed transfixed, hanging on my every word. Ah, just as I needed him to be! I continued, speaking slowly, and with all the quietude I could summon.
“From this day forth, when you have erred, little brother, you shall not have to wonder about it. You shall know it, and you shall be made to answer for it at once. You shall not needs punish yourself, falsely assuming that others are punishing you by withdrawing their affections. If it is deserved, you will find yourself over my knee, or over Aragorn’s knee. We are the only ones allowed to discipline you. You, little bratling, are never permitted to do so.
“You are not in your right mind when locked in alone with that ferocious fell beast, and you are in no position to see the truth. It is the worst time for you to close yourself away to where we cannot help you. Aragorn and I, and I vow the others, had no idea of the torment you had created within yourself. And, Boromir, if we had known of it, we would never have allowed you to suffer it.”
His eyes flickered again at my use of his proper name, and I meant to use it, to emphasize the importance of what I was saying. Once more, that savage elven warrior roared, pressuring me to make this vital point as clear as possible, urging me to spank him some more, shake him, make him understand. But, again, sympathy tempered that impulse, the flashes of emotion on my little brother’s face, his innocent bewilderment followed by his staggering sudden perception melting my frenzy.
“Aye, you need to be sorry for punishing yourself, but there is more to it. What you need to be sorry for overall, little one, is your silence, your willingness to assume so much about what others are thinking – your brutality with yourself in judging your actions and then carrying out your own punishment. You need to be sorry, little one, for the suffering you inflicted upon yourself.”
I again held back my own feelings on that matter, how dreadful it felt that he thought Aragorn and me capable of the same mistreatment Denethor had visited upon him. It would only make him suffer more to think of what his low expectations said about us, how it might have hurt us. He would only take on more guilt for such ugly thoughts.
But, even more sadly, I sensed that Boromir’s dark assumptions were not limited to only Aragorn and me. I feared he felt that all stood ready to judge him severely and punish him with cold disapproval. It might take him some time to adjust to this new understanding of acceptance, but Aragorn and I were up to the task of helping him adapt, one spanking at a time.
I leaned in again and kissed him softly, then said, “Enough for now, little one. There is more here, I know. Faramir weighs heavily on your mind, and Aragorn and I shall do what we can to help you with that sorrow. But the most important thing for you at present is to understand that you shall no longer be permitted to harm yourself, or to shut away your misery. You recall how Aragorn acted when he did this. You recognized it at the time because you follow the same maddening practice. Ai! The stubbornness of men!” I flashed him a soft grin to quiet his somber watchfulness and he blinked, his expression calming.
“You have lodged yourself in our hearts, little brother, and we would no more seek to judge or punish you than you would seek to do so to your beloved Faramir. You shall begin to accept that truth if Aragorn and I must spank it into you day after day. You will not be permitted to purposely harm yourself ever again. We shall be watching now, young bratling of Gondor. I advise you to be open with any concerns you are tempted to conceal, lest you wish to find yourself over my knee, or Aragorn’s knee with a frequency that rivals Peregrin Took.”
That made him smile, a small, shy smile followed closely by an endearing blush. “Aye, Leg’las.”
I pulled him into my arms again and stood, then lowered us both to the only scraggly patch of grass in the area, beneath the only scraggly tree. Boromir remained pliable while I maneuvered us around, and within moments I was lying with my head on my quiver and one bare-bottomed, little-boy warrior of Gondor half draped across my body. It was a familiar embrace for us, as he would sometimes sleep in my arms like this, or with Aragorn. At present it had the added benefit of keeping his weight off his very red backside.
Boromir wrapped his arm over my stomach, curled his left leg up over my hip and rested his head on my shoulder, turning his face to gaze up at me in the same devoted way Aragorn always did after his spankings. I returned his gaze, a familiar pleasure curling in my stomach and a familiar warmth coloring my cheeks. I wondered if he had become as vulnerable as Aragorn always did after a particularly severe spanking had broken him down.
My Ranger-child slipped into a perfectly adorable little boy frame of mind when his bottom was blazing. At such times he became true to his nickname. I loved when that happened, loved seeing him that way, soft and compliant, belonging entirely to me. And suddenly I longed to see my little brother in that place, too. I regretted that he was most likely too exhausted to be awake much longer and satisfy my yearning.
I brushed my fingers through his hair, smoothing the unruly locks from his eyes, and said, “Are you all right, my sweet little brother?”
He had said nothing but ‘Aye, Leg’las,’ for some time now and I felt a need to hear more. “How do you feel?”
Resisting the urge to frown at him, I tried again. “Are you warm enough?”
He blinked, and suddenly he reached down and touched his backside. “Ah!” he cried with a fetching little grimace. “My bottom is hot!”
I scoffed. “I dare say.”
“I am warm enough. Are you warm enough?”
Grinning, I said, “Aye.”
Ever gazing at me, he narrowed his sore-looking eyes, as though trying to lessen the sting. Finally, they drifted shut, and I thought that I would hear no more from him, that he would, at last, give in to sleep. But, surprisingly, a few tears trickled from beneath his lashes. He slid his arm up to grasp a handful of my hair, holding it tight in his fist and squeezing it again and again, as though seeking comfort.
“Aye, little one?”
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know how to say . . . .” He released a soft whimper.
I kissed his forehead. “Shhh. I know. You need not say it with words. Your manner is eloquent enough, gwador thithen muin.”
He opened his glistening eyes at the Sindarin, and I smiled, and said, “That means, ‘dear little brother.’”
“Oh,” he murmured, studying me again. “Leg’las?”
I grinned again. “Aye, sweetling?”
“I don’t speak elvish.”
I let go a quick chuckle. “Indeed. I forgot.”
“But I . . . I like it when you call me little brother. Will you promise to always call me that? Is it alright to ask you . . . I mean, do you mind --”
I placed my finger under his chin and tipped his face up, this time kissing his mouth gently. “I do not mind that you asked, and I promise to always call you that, for I love it as well.”
“You do?” He blinked, looking hopeful. “Really? You do, Leg’las?”
My smile kept renewing itself every time he spoke. Ai! He was every bit as delightful as my Estel when surrendered to this state! How could I help but grin at his every charming word? Another warrior, readily mine, allowing himself to slide back into little boyhood at my command. My chest expanded with warmth, nearly bursting. “Aye. Really. I do indeed love it, little brother. That is why I say it all the time.”
“And . . . .” A faint look of surprise flashed across his face. He moved his fingers to his lips and touched them, dreamily murmuring, “And you . . . you kissed me . . . you still like me, even after I . . . you saw me crying so hard and kicking . . . and you saw my bare, my-my bare . . . and you still like --”
“Nay, sweetling, stop there. I do not ‘like’ you. I love you, little one.” I took his hand and kissed the fingertips that had been touching his lips. “Aye, you broke down over my knee. You trusted me. You accepted me as your big brother, then you gave yourself to my care, inviting me inside your heart. I loved your surrender, your weeping and kicking, and I especially loved your very pretty bottom, coloring under my hand so gorgeously.”
Boromir’s face went redder than his backside and I smiled yet again. “Nay, sweetling, do not blush so, for you cannot help having such a round and delightful backside.” I gave him a gentle squeeze, then said, “And I loved the way you fell into my arms, trusting that I would catch you. Such a gift you gave me, little one! I loved you before I spanked you, and I love you even more now.”
Boromir stared at me, simply stared, his penetrating grey eyes full of shocked fascination. “L-Love me? Leg’las . . . how . . . ?” He hitched a breath, his eyes filling yet again with glassy tears. “How . . . ? How is’t possible?”
“Shhh, sweetling,” I murmured, kissing his brow. “Be at ease. There is no ‘how’ to love. It simply is, little brother.”
He nodded, taking this in slowly, then he said, “I-I don’t know how to be a little brother. I-I mean, I have always been --”
“I know,” I interrupted. I wanted to keep him calm and he was beginning to fuss, anxiously trying to tell me too much. So I assumed those duties for him “I know, sweetling. Always the big brother, the one who took care of others.”
“And I know you were happy with that, and yet, deep inside, you longed for a measure of that care and attention for yourself. Simply ached for it. But you did nothing to invite it, nor did you seek it out, for indeed, it was something you thought you could never have. Is that how it felt?”
He snuggled his head against me again and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Well then, gwador thithen muin, it is time you learned a new way to be, is it not?”
“Uh-huh.” He closed my hair in his fist again, and brought it to his face, rubbing it against his cheek and then breathing it in, something Aragorn always did. I loved it, and I hugged him closer to me.
“You are still who you are, Faramir’s devoted big brother, but you are also a little brother now, my little brother, and you have ever been Aragorn’s fledgling, and we shall hold you fast to that, sweet one. Do you understand?”
I struggled to keep from laughing outright at his slurred response. He really was enchanting. He was also, quite suddenly, asleep.
Several hours passed. Boromir did not move. At times he barely seemed to be breathing he was so soundly exhausted. I simply held him, relishing every minute, drinking in the warmth of his body and the sound of his soft occasional sighs.
I stroked his hair, his face, watched his features in beautiful repose. I kissed his pliable mouth, slightly open and vulnerable and tempting. I reached down and lightly cupped his hot bottom, needing to feel the results of my loving efforts there, a part of him. And if a small twinge of conscience whispered that I was taking advantage of a helpless youth, I admitted that indeed I was, and that I knew the helpless youth would have loved every minute of what I was doing to him were he awake.
At the start of the third hour, Aragorn arrived, bringing our cloaks and a knowing smile. I had been wondering when he would appear. The rain was threatening more so now, and he had no doubt held off as long as he dared before coming out to retrieve his fledgling.
He paused and gazed down at us, his head tilted to the side and one eyebrow quirked upwards. “That is quite a shade of scarlet,” he said, studying Boromir’s posterior. “I was hoping he would be able to withstand a session with me tomorrow. Was that sporting, mellon nin? Using up my fledgling’s endurance and leaving none for me to test?”
I ignored his sass. “I hope you got some sleep. Do not tell me that all this time you have been sitting back there at camp, smoking and thinking about what was happening out here.”
“Very well,” he said, kneeling down to kiss me, then sitting back on his heels. “I shall not tell you that.”
I sniffed. “There is no need.”
Aragorn grinned and dropped his fond gaze to Boromir. He ran his palm over his fledgling’s head and stroked his honeyed locks. “How is he?”
“He is fine, beloved.”
“He fought you.”
“Indeed. He tried to, at least.”
And I did. Aragorn sat quietly and listened and I told him all I could, save the part about Boromir’s dark beliefs, which I still felt it best to save for later. When I had finished, I added, “He did well. You would have been proud of him.”
“I am.” He turned to me, his eyes glistening. “And I am proud of you, beloved.”
My instant blush made him grin.
“I have often felt what my fledgling felt today,” he murmured. He looked down at Boromir’s bottom and ran his palm over the glowing, hot skin. “Legolas, what you so lovingly give, what you do for me, and have now done for our little one, ah, elfling mine, it is such delicious abandon.”
Again I blushed, and again Aragorn leaned towards me, placed his hand behind my neck and pulled me to him for a kiss, a longer, more lingering one this time. Then he stood and gathered up Boromir’s clothes and his sword. We agreed that he should take the exhausted ‘little boy’ back to camp ere the rains came. Since all there were asleep, fighting to get Boromir fully dressed seemed unnecessary. I would simply bring his things when my watch was over.
“Gimli’s shift begins in an hour,” Aragorn said. “If my fledgling awakens enough, I shall talk things over with him until you return. Then he shall sleep nestled between us.”
“Aye, upon his stomach,” I said.
We exchanged a grin, then we carefully began to pull his breeches back up, rousing my groggy little brother with our efforts. Boromir was dead weight until his breeches hit his backside and then he came fully awake with a vengeance and a howl.
“OWWW! Stop thaaaaaaaat!”
Neither Aragorn nor I could stop our grins. Amazingly, Boromir was still too lost in that fog of little boy-ness to care that his bottom was uncovered. He merely gasped and writhed and proved generally uncooperative.
“My shirt is long enough to cover me! No, no, nooooo! I am fine like this! No one will notice if they’re all asleep.”
“You cannot walk back to camp like that, my fledgling.”
“I can! Stop doing that!”
After a minute or so of ridiculous battling I took Boromir by the upper arms and made him look at me.
“Enough fussing, little brother,” I said in a firm voice. “Aragorn is going to take you back to camp ere the rains start. I shall join you shortly. But first we are indeed going to pull your breeches up over your --”
“But, Leg’laaaaaaasssss! Owww!”
Aragorn turned his head, his shoulders shaking. At least he kept from laughing out loud.
“I know it smarts,” I said. “But your sore bottom was well earned, young bratling. Now, either cooperate with us, or you shall receive more of the same.”
He paled and went still. “Aye, Leg’las,” he muttered, completely subdued, and then my little brother pouted so gloriously that, again, Aragorn and I could not restrain our grins.
When we at last managed to make him decent Aragorn fastened his cloak around him and Boromir finally gained his feet well enough to walk. Aragorn bore him up on one side, but when I moved to pull away from them, Boromir clung to me, drawing me back, burying his face in my hair once more. Aragorn’s arm encircled me as well, and I wrapped my arms around them both. We stood quietly for a long moment, then Boromir drew back and kissed my cheek.
“Thank you, big brother,” he murmured, his eyes lowered shyly. Then he turned to Aragorn and kissed his cheek as well. “Thank you both for . . . dunno . . . for . . . this.”
Aragorn and I kissed him back, and then the two ‘big people’ warriors and one well-spanked, little boy warrior of Gondor, parted for a short time.
End of Chapter VI – A Loving Deliverance
Boundaries Redefined to be continued . . .