Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

Part Four

Faramir stood in the main cave, the sound of water roaring behind him, looking down. The still small figure that lay before him was clearly related to Luin. He was the same height, athough stockier, with the same hairy feet, pointed ears. The touseled hair was brown, the clothing rougher, but they were clearly kin.

Blood matted this one’s hair. Livid cuts stood out on hands and arms, and shocking bruises ringed the neck. Faramir absently rubbed his own neck, feeling the rasp of hair against his skin.

A man, one who had been trained by the Healers, knelt beside the creature.

“Will he live?”

“I don’t know, Captain. The head injury, that’s more than I know how to deal with.”

“Do what you can.”

Faramir turned to Anborn. “What else did you find?”

Anborn dropped two small packs to the floor, two grey cloaks.

“It wasn’t easy following his trail. If it hadn’t been for the blood, we’d have lost it, I think. We finally found this one, on the ground, near a thicket of bay not far from a pool. There’d been a fight, you can see, and the knife was still there.” Anborn held out a knife similar to the one Luin had carried, this one crusted with dried blood.

“No real sign of anyone else though Barahil claims that there were footprints, smudges in the mud they looked to me, of a third. We gathered up all that was there and brought it back. I figure the first one attacked this one and left him for dead.”

“Why?” Faramir forced himself to speak calmly, kneeling to turn over the small pile of possessions. “What reason could he have to do such a thing?”

Anborn shrugged. “He seems mad.”

Faramir started to say something, then froze as his fingers touched the leaf pin attached to one of the cloaks.

He was standing thigh deep in cold water, mist coiling like serpents over the surface of Anduin, the young moon pale. The only sound was the thin rustle of wind in the reeds. Before him, nearly close enough to touch, a small boat glimmering grey floated by. Boromir lay dead, his face peaceful, noble, his sword and gear familiar save for a fair belt of linked golden leaves.

The leaf that Faramir now held was of the same craft. He trembled as he unpinned it, fumbling, nearly dropping it in shock before his hand tightened painfully around it.

“For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,/And the Halfling forth shall stand!”

“My lord?”

Faramir looked up, seeing Anborn’s concern, lines etched deep on his face.

“The Halfling! These creatures are so small, only half the size of a Man, are they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“The rime that came to me and to Boromir, that led him to leave the City, to seek for Imladris. Perhaps these are the Halflings!”

“Perhaps, but—”

A sudden noise outside heralded the arrival of two men. Faramir rose, seeing by their uniforms that they had come from across the River.

“What is it?”

“Osgiliath, my lord, is under attack. Lord Denethor bids you bring the Rangers to the aid of Osgiliath and return to the City.”

All noise except the unchanging roar of water died in the cave as men halted their small tasks, seeing what Faramir was seeing, the start of a war long dreaded, one which he knew his City was not prepared for. He stood a moment, feeling as if the rock underneath had suddenly moved, telling himself it was his own folly.

He shook himself, turned to give orders. “Prepare to withdraw. We’ll leave at sunset.”

Around him, men began to move, perhaps more slowly than usual, not out of fear, Faramir knew, but feeling the weight of what would come.

“And the creatures, the halflings?” Anborn asked.

“We’ll bring them with us,” Faramir said. “We can carry them. They will not slow us down. I want my father to see them, want to hear what they know, what news they bring.” He turned to the kneeling man. “Do what you can to help him. If we can bring him living to the City, to the Houses of Healing, perhaps they can do what we cannot.”

The man nodded and bent to his work.

Faramir turned to pack his gear, to try to prepare Luin for the hard journey that lay ahead.

The croon of satisfaction could not be heard outside the hollow, a hollow in which the remains of an ugly feast were half-veiled by trailing vines. Neither bird nor beast came close to that place of death, and the moon was hidden behind a growing cloud of darkness.

“Lovely, lovely, lovely fissssh, my preciouss, we loves it.”

“More, my love?”

“Pleasssse.”

A languid gesture, then long fingers tightened, throttling, around the thrashing body, teeth sank into flesh.

“Mmmmmmmmm, jusssst what we wanted, all the hungry daysss and nightsss. All for ussss, now, all for Gollum the Great.”

“And what else does we wantsss, my precious?”

“Wants Bagginss! He esscaped us, tricksy little hobbit, yess, he did. Fooled us with sstupid fat hobbit!”

“Yess, yess, my love, but he’s still useful.”

A hiss, a muttered growl.

“Useful, yes, send the Eye looking for him. He stole it, he deservess punishment. Thiefs desserve punishment.”

The sound of slobbering.

“Then, my love, it will be ssafe, ssafe for us, to move when the Eye cannot sssee, is pulled away. Then we makes our move! Sneaksy, sneaksy, soft as ssshadows we sshall be!”

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