By: Dana
Summary: He dreams, but they are not dark dreams, nor are they unpleasant.
Characters: Basically, almost original characters: Berethor, Idrial, mention of Boromir
Pairings: Berethor/Boromir implied, Berethor/Idrial implied
Rating: G
Warnings: Subtext is our friend
Author's Notes: Written because Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, a video game, ate my brain and made me. I'm not lying about it, either - when I started playing it, I couldn't stop, though it seemed a breeding ground for rather loveable Mary Sues and Gary Stus. Still, I mostly love the game play, and if you want to waste 30+ hours of your life, it's the way to go.
The slash implications happened because, well, who wouldn't love Boromir?
The het implicats happened because, well, they just happen to be true.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others. The author makes no claim to the rights of a rather addictive enjoyable video game, either.

He dreams, but they are not dark dreams, nor are they unpleasant. They leave him with a sense of peace. Still, for Berethor – a Man of Gondor, a Captain of the Citadel Guard, a soldier serving under the banner of the Steward, and his son – these dreams are almost worrisome, filling him with both a longing whose name he can't quite place, and the uncertainty of an almost tangible dread.

These dreams are wrong – they must be wrong – to seek such in the heat of shared flesh, to take such from his Captain – oh, to take such from his Captain, naught but pleasure and the warm familiarity of hands that are known only in his dreams, and he would give, too, he would give all that Boromir would desire –

Oh.

He wakes, a sudden shifting of dream to clear reality, that leaves him lost, wandering in a momentary fog, waking to the shadow of grey elven light. His arm is aching, and his chest is, too, as though he had taken on a chill. That would do him no good. Even his hand feels strange: the palm of his right hand tingles, a faint scratching underneath his skin, as if his hand is wanting for his sword. He sits, rising from his makeshift bed upon an elven flet. It is their third night, here, in Lothlorien. He is restless, even though they have had naught but rest.

Yet the air is quiet, and the almost-dark is thick and still. Quiet, that is, but for the stirring of sleeping breath – Elegost makes almost no sound as he sleeps, yet Hadhod grumbles, Dwarvish falling harshly off his sleeping tongue. Idrial, he remembers, had been awake, still, when he had lain down to sleep. And now –

"Why do you not sleep, Gondorian?" There is idle amusement in Idrial's voice, clear and smooth, and Berethor is reminded of the half-muted song of a clear flowing stream. Yet, still, for having such power, her voice does not carry, and there is no worry of her waking their sleeping companions. He does not look at her, though it seems that he can hear her smile.

And that Idrial sounds so bemused, Berethor grins. "A dream woke me, my lady. A dream that has left me with much to think of." He looks to her, regarding the sharp curve of her features. Her eyes are lit by shadow-light, like stars. "Though, that you do not sleep, I suppose that I could ask the same of you."

A pause, and the shadows are thick, near tangible. Berethor reaches out, stroking the shape of it; the shadow seems to shudder, and breathe, like his Captain had, slow and wanting, when he had him, in his dream. When Berethor had touched him, when he had claimed him, when he had made him gasp and plead and moan. Would Idrial shudder, so, at the touch of his hand? Would she quake, at his kiss?

For all these thoughts, his mind seems clear, now, at least as clear as it has been, since riding out on what seems a fool's quest. Berethor swallows the traitorous lump that has lodged itself in his throat, and strains his ears, waiting intently for Idrial's reply.

"You do not know much in the way of elves," she says.

"No, my lady," he says. "I do not."

"I could tell you of my people, if you desire – "

(Desire. What all does he desire?)

" – perhaps it might aid you, Gondorian. Perhaps it might not."

Berethor rubs his right hand, willing the cold to leave him be, this lasting cold he can feel resonating through his bones. He looks to the sound of her voice, and her eyes are bright, her mouth is and supposes that her face shines clear, lit by some otherworldly light, ageless and wise. "Why do you not call me by name?"

It seems that he can feel the shape of her smile, clear, yes, but somehow sad.

"Sleep now, Gondorian, while we have time," she says, and turns from him. As she speaks, still, her voice rings true: "Our journey is yet long, and we are not yet near to its end."