Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

TITLE: Gollum the Great
BY: Ithiliana
PAIRING: Frodo/Faramir
RATING: Adult
FEEDBACK: Always Appreciated! Some explanation of what that means to me is here if you wish to see it
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate, modified by film production. This story is not written for money and therefore has no no intent to infringe upon copyright.
WARNINGS: AU. Dark. Interspecies. Slash.

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Part One

He stumbles through brush and thorn, one arm wrapped around his chest. Pain beats inside, black wings tearing at him. He is lost in the dark. His feet and legs bleed. He is cold, then hot, throat burning, mouth dry.

Head down, he pushes forward, keeps moving only because of what lies behind.

Death.

“My precious!! Give it back!”

Metal cutting soft flesh of neck. Burning eyes, grasping hands. Blood filling his mouth, filling his eyes.

He gags, falling to his knees, convulsing. Bitter fluid fills his mouth and nose. Blood.

He leans to press face and hands against cool earth, topples over, curling around the pain.

He could lie here forever.

Death.

As his breathing slows and the pounding in his chest dims, he hears a faint sound. Water.

“Just a bit of water, Mr. Frodo. And some light.”

Tears burn his face.

He cannot stop, cannot rest, even though all is dark. Sam would never forgive him. Pushing himself up, he crawls, flinching at the sharpness of stone cutting his legs and hands, blindly reaching out until cool water slides over his hand.

The scent fills his lungs, cools his face. He lies on his belly, braced on his arms, lowering his face to green-scented coolness and drinks.

He drinks as deeply as he can, feeling the blood and filth wash away. Raising his head, he breathes a while, then drinks again.

He gains enough strength to stand and stumble back to a shelter under a tree, curling up in the soft grass under it like an animal in a burrow. He sees a single star caught in the net of branches above him. Comforted, he sleeps.

Faramir waved Anborn and the others out to form a circle. Several had bows drawn, the others swords.

Squinting in the uncertain light of moonset over Ithilien, Faramir stepped forward, trying to make out what it was the scouts had reported seeing at the edge of Henneth Annûn.

Death waited for any who came here uninvited by Gondor. His orders were clear.

But the huddled figure was sleeping, so small, curled in the grass. It must be a child, but how could a child be wandering in Ithilien in the midst of war? Some survivor from one of the settlements in the south that had been burned by Orcs?

Aware of the tenseness of his men, Faramir knew he could not wait. He knelt, touching the small shoulder.

With a thin shriek, the child leaped up, cowering against the tree.

Faramir reached out, hoping to reassure, to calm.

Anborn shouted as the child snatched a long knife from a sheath, swung wildly, slashed Faramir’s arm.

Leaping up, clamping his hand on his arm, Faramir shouted at his men. The shock and pain did not stop him from seeing the bleeding wounds, the torn and tattered clothes.

“Don’t shoot! Bind him!”

The small figure backed away, face distorted by a snarl, knife ready. Before he saw the men behind him, Anborn reached down, large hands taking him by the nape, pinning him, as another knocked the knife away.

Twisting, the child shrieked and clawed, twisting like a cat, but two others helped Anborn hold him, tying hands behind his back, ankles and knees. Limp and panting harshly, the child lay still in their grip, eyes gleaming.

“Easy,” said Faramir. “He cannot match you in strength. Bring him, but do not harm him further.”

He would have followed them to the cave, but Anborn held him back a few moments, binding the cut on his arm, ignoring Faramir’s protests. Only after the cloth was tightly knotted did they move through the bushes, back to the entrance and into the dark passages.

Faramir blinked as they came into the cave. Only one torch was lit, in a small niche cut into the back of the cave, but after the dark under the trees and in the passages, the light seemed too bright.

His men were gathered in a huddle, muttering.

“What is it?” Faramir pitched his voice to carry, not wanting to have to push among them.

They fell back as he approached, some making cautious signs, their hands low by their sides, nearly hidden in the drape of cloaks.

Beyond them, kneeling, back against the wall, body taut and straining against stone, was not the child he had expected to see.

Faramir stared, feeling the pounding of his blood in chest and belly.

The ripped clothes showed white skin, streaked with blood, a collar of abraded flesh around the slim throat, but what slowed Faramir’s breath and blood was the pointed ears, the burning blue eyes.

This was no child. This was no human

Part Two

Stone is cold against his skin. Tall dark shapes, misshapen, loom over him. They gloat, hands on weapons, teeth gleaming. Harsh voices echo from the spurs of rock hanging like fangs over their heads.

He kneels because he has no strength to stand after their rough handling.

Rubbing his arm, Faramir pushed down the instinct to order the thing killed. It was not human, true, but that did not mean it was an orc. Faramir had seen and fought orcs no larger than this creature. But whether large or small, and some of the orcs found in Ithlien had been huge, they did not have such soft skin, did not wear woven cloth. The blue-green trousers and shirt were ripped, filthy, stained with blood and dirt, but were finely woven. The shirt hung open, showing clearly that it, no, he, was not female despite the delicate features and limbs.

Old stories spoke of many creatures, some good, some evil, but Faramir could remember no mention of child-like creatures with hairy feet and pointed ears. The sound of the falling water seemed to grow louder in the silence.

“Kill it,” one of his men muttered.

Others agreed. “It’s an orc spy.”

“No,” Faramir said, straightening. “I want to know who he is, and why he came here.” He nodded at the man who’d spoken, the others clustered around him. “Get some sleep. I’ll tend to him.”

Anborn coughed, and Faramir nodded at him. “You can help,” he said.

“He’ll try to escape,” Anborn said as the men, slowly moved away to where mattresses were ranged along the walls.

“Get some chains, then, and some food. Water, salve, and bandages.” Faramir was watching
the small face and body closely, trying to decide if he understood language.

When all had left, Faramir forced himself to relax. He spoke softly, repeating the same few words over and over. We won’t hurt you. You’re safe here.

No change in face or body.

Faramir reached out, and the creature twisted away, his attempt to run thwarted by the tight bindings, turned into a fall. Leaping forward, Faramir caught the small body which went rigid in his grip. Lifting the light weight easily, Faramir carried him to the small cave that he used for for sleeping, where he kept the maps and records he had to use as Captain of Ithilien.

He had the best light there which would make working easier than in one of the storage caves.

Faramir laid his burden on the bed and moved to light all the lanterns which stood, filled and ready, on shelf and tables. The bed was a mattress on a low wooden frame pushed against one wall. Two large tables covered with maps, dirty dishes, and piles of parchment stood against another wall, and shelves held record books.

Golden light filled the small room. Faramir bent over the bed, trying to see how bad the injuries were.

“Are you hurt?”

No answer.

Faramir ran his hands over the bound legs and could feel no breaks. “Your arms are fine,” he said softly, remembering the knife attack.

The creature glared at him, straining at the bonds.

Faramir pressed lightly against the belly, looking for any response. None. But pressure on his ribs brought a wince. Testing, Faramir thought that one rib was cracked. That, and the cuts on chest and arms, the bleeding sores around the neck, seemed to be the sum of his injuries.

“Is he talking yet?” Anborn asked from the entrance.

“No.” Faramir turned and watched as Anborn pushed away a stack of books to set his laden tray on the table, then dropped the chains onto the floor next to the bed. “Give me the water, and a cloth.”

Saying nothing more, but with an expressive lift of his brows, Anborn handed Faramir a pan of steaming water and a soft cloth.

“Get those rags off him. And cut his bonds.”

Anborn shook his head, but drew his knife and bent over the bed. “Hold still,” he growled as the bound form rolled away. Pinning him, Anborn cut deftly through rope and cloth, easily stripping the small figure despite his struggles.

Sheathing his knife, Anborn pulled their prisoner up, holding him while Faramir cleaned him, wiping blood and grime off, dipping and rinsing the cloth, cleaning face, limbs, and body. Other than constant shivering, he made no other move. Setting aside the pan of dirty water, Faramir smoothed salve over the injuries. None was deep enough to require stitching, but Anborn helped him wrap a cloth around the cracked ribs, covering the chest wounds as well.

When Anborn cautiously released him after Faramir had tied off the bandage, the creature made no move to escape. Instead, he huddled on the bed, drawing his legs up, hiding his face against his knees.

Against the dark bedding, his skin shone, and he seemed more vulnerable than ever, naked and alone. His clothes were reduced to rags. Faramir thought a moment, then went to a chest, pulling out a spare shirt. It would be too large, but at least it was something.

He draped it around the small shoulders and was heartened when, after a moment, the still figure moved, sliding arms into the shirt, pulling it tightly around him.

“Food?”

Faramir wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Anborn, or their captive, but in any case, it was Anborn who handed him a bowl of stew with a spoon in it.

Sitting on the bed, Faramir held the bowl out to the unmoving figure. After a moment of absolute stillness, he reached out, slowly, to take the bowl. Holding it a few moments, he watched Faramir, blue eyes huge in the small face, then began to eat, rapidly, hunching over the bowl like a child with a stolen treat.

“What now?” Anborn sounded resigned though he stood close, hand on knife, watching every move.

“Wait till morning, as soon as it’s light, take out the best trackers and follow his backtrail,” Faramir said. “I want to know where he came from, what brought him here.”

“Yes, lord. Should I chain him?”

“No. I’ll handle it.”

Anborn left, not quite snorting.

Faramir decided not to hear it. He watched as the rapid movements slowed, the bowl empty. Scraping the spoon across the bottom to gather the last drops of broth, the creature licked the spoon, then, cautious, held out the empty bowl to Faramir. He set it on the floor beside the light chains.

“I have to keep you here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You’re a stranger, not known to Gondor. I don’t think you’re a spy from Mordor, but I have to find out what happened. Can’t you tell me?”

No response. The room was so quiet that Faramir could hear their breathing, two rhythms.

Shrugging, Faramir stood. This time, when he bent to pick up the small figure, there was no fight, though the tenseness of body and limbs was familiar. It took only a few moments to set him down gently and snap the cuffs around both ankles, then lock the chains to the solid frame of the bed.

After a moment’s thought, Faramir pulled one of the heavy wool blankets and a pillow off the bed and set it next to the still figure.

“Sleep,” Faramir said. “We’ll try to find out what happened to you in the morning.”

Faramir blew out the lanterns and stripped off his clothes, sliding into bed. Relaxing, he listened, hearing soft rustles and the occasional chink in the darkness. Finally, all was quiet and Faramir could sleep.

Warmth around him and softness under him. The small cave is quiet, and the darkness under the blanket small and familiar. Perhaps, for a few moments, he could rest

Part Three

He stretched, yawning. Lying on the soft pillow and wrapped in the thick blanket, he was warmer and more comfortable than he had been for, for…he frowned, licking dry lips. He could not remember the last time he had slept this way. Why were his memories all of lying on the ground, of cold days, shivering, of cruel winds shrieking down from icy heights, of wet and mist, of stinking mud?

“Awake, little one?”

The voice jolted him. He struggled up, frantic now to escape the smothering wool, but had to stumble to a halt at the length of the chains. He stood, shaking, the blanket pooled around his feet, tugging the too-large shirt around him. The cave was the same as before, the lanterns lit, no way to tell if it was night or day.

The tall man stood across the room, naked to the waist, bending over one of the tables. He straightened, stepped closer, brushing red-gold hair back.

“I thought you’d sleep till night.”

He moved back until he felt the bulk of the bed behind him. He remembered the cruel hands last night. This man had not hurt him, but he commanded the others. His blue eyes seemed kind, but the broad shoulders and muscular arms showed the warrior.

A pause, and the man knelt, resting his bandaged arm on one knee.

He spoke, his voice soft. “My name is Faramir. Can you tell me yours?”

He opened his mouth, then froze, caught in the flaming gaze of the cruel Eye, the Eye that could see all. He dropped, cowering, hands over his head, whimpering. If he spoke his name, He would know. He would come.

Warm hands lifted him, set him on softness, soothed him. Finally, he opened his eyes, panting. He was lying across the foot of the bed, the chains taut from his ankles to the frame. He felt the shirt, wet with sweat, wrinkled under him. He was not safe. He would never be safe. He stared up at the grey stone above. How could it be to solid to his eyes, yet no more than a veil to the Eye?

“Here.” The man lifted his head, gave him cool water.

Grateful, he drank and then relaxed against the strong arm.

Faramir touched his neck. “I’ve never seen an injury like this.

Pain blazed at the soft touch, burning. He set his teeth, endured. No matter how bad this was, he knew somehow it had been worse. Could be worse.

Faramir frowned, then slid his arm free, moving across the room to the table. He searched among the clutter, turning back with a small pot. “We’ll try more of this.” Scooping out a waxy green substance, he bent over the bed, pulling the damp shirt open with his free hand.

The salve was pungent but soothing on burning skin. Calloused fingers stroked over the sores, rubbing the greasy ointment slowly in, starting at the back of his neck, then moving around to the front, halting at the base of his throat.

He breathed in, slow and deep, savouring the spicy scent of skin and hair, feeling the beat of his blood against the hand that slid slowly down his chest. He arched his back, feeling a new ache, centering between his legs. Muscles in belly and thighs tightened, and he moaned, soft and low.

“My lord, Anborn has returned. With another of the creatures.”

Faramir bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, forced himself to straighten, slowly. He turned to thank Damrod and say he would join them in a moment.

Damrod nodded and left.

Faramir stood, stunned. He had thought only of trying to heal the sores which were open, oozing a thick blood. But as he smoothed the salve on, something had happened. A look from blue eyes, a smile, had touched some part of him that had long been hidden.

Trying to hide from himself, Faramir turned to fumble for a cloth, wipe his greasy hands.

The soft sound from the bed behind him, not quite a word, forced him to turn, to acknowledge what he had felt, what he did feel even now, the arousal of more than his body. Helpless, he sank to his knees by the bed, reaching out a hand which was clasped in two small ones.

“You cannot tell me your name, but I must call you something,” Faramir said. Looking into the large blue eyes which had darkened at his touch decided him. “Luin.” The old language, the fluid sound, seemed right.

“Luin. I have to go.” Faramir tugged his hand free though it pained him to do so. “Here.” He rose and fetched food from his nuncheon, bread and cheese and apples, setting it on the bed beside Luin. Thinking of how long Luin had slept, he bent down and tugged the bucket out from under the bed. “You can use this if you need to. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He pulled on his tunic, lacing it carelessly, and left, buckling on his swordbelt. He forced himself into rough movement, denying the surge of pleasure, fearful of what it meant.

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!”

Part Five

Osgiliath was under attack. The flames could be seen clearly against the walls, bright under the lowering skies. It was not night, but as they traveled through the glades of Ithilien, smokes and gloom from Mordor had obscured the sunlight. The day had grown darker.

Faramir stood, chewing his lip, thinking. The old sewers under the River would let them enter, if Orcs had not discovered them. It was the only way. He turned back to speak to the men closest to him, quietly. Some evil lurked above the clouds, seemed to hover close.

“One or two at a time. Use all the cover you can—we’ll go under the River. Pass the word back.”

Anborn stood near, holding Luin’s arm. He had kept pace with them during the day but he looked pale and sick now in the gloom. Two men carried the other Halfling, carefully slung between them.

“We’ll go in last,” Faramir said. “Here, I’ll take him.” He held his hand out to Luin who tugged away from Anborn.

He shrugged, released Luin, and started sending men off in small groups.

Luin stood close to Faramir, pressed against his leg. He could feel the shivering in the small body, but dared not take time to comfort him. He had to watch ground and sky, alert for any hint that his force had been seen.

After what seemed like most of a day, Anborn nodded to the two men carrying the unconscious Halfling, and they moved through the bare trees. They reached the overgrown entrances to the tunnels, sodden and stinking but still passable, and entered the dark.

Luin held Faramir’s hand. The water rose to Faramir’s knees, and he tightened his grip. Soon, the dark of the tunnel lightened to grey, and they entered the ruined City. Fallen columns and huge stones littered the way, and they had to move carefully between them. The sentries, expecting them, waved them through the ruined gates.

Faramir felt his shoulders relax, straightened. They were here. It was not safety, but it was safer than the open county had become.

Pale eyes gleamed, half-open, and breath hissed over sharp teeth. “Yessss, we sssees you, thiefs, and murderers, sssneaking away, ever so trickssy. Sseee them, there they are! Get them!”

Luin stumbled, falling to his hands and knees.

“Are you hurt?” Turning, Faramir reached down, gripping the slim arms to pull him up. The small body was limp, eyes wide and dark.

“They’ve come.” The thread of a voice was almost too slight to hear, but Faramir felt his heart leap. Luin could speak. In his joy, he made no sense of the words until a shriek split the air, a black spear of despair.

High above their heads, cutting through the air, a fell beast dived. Two others flew high and behind it, the black shapes on them shrieking horror and fear.

Pulling Luin into his arms, Faramir turned, shouting as loud as he could at the men around him. “Nazgûl! Take cover!”

Sprinting for an archway that promised cover, Faramir felt the cold blast of foulness surround him and nearly fell to cower until taken. But the warmth of Luin’s breath on his neck gave him strength to stagger on through the archway into a covered walkway. A howl and the flapping of leathery wings told him that the creature had missed its strike, this time.

Sagging against the wall, Faramir slid slowly down, until he was sitting, sprawled against the wall. He was shaking, only vaguely aware of the shouting of men and orcs.

The last time he had seen the Black Riders had been before Boromir left, when the enemy’s forces had tried to take the last bridge in Osgiliath. The bridge had been cast down behind them, and they’d saved themselves only by swimming. The weight of the fear had frozen his limbs then, but was worse now, as if their malice had grown.

The madness that had driven the enemy’s forces now fell upon Osgiliath from the sky.

Luin stirred in his arms, and Faramir smiled down.

“You spoke!”

Blue eyes stared back, and Faramir could see no hint of understanding.

“You warned us, you felt the Nazgûl.”

No response.

Faramir sighed. He set Luin on his feet and pushed himself up, leaning against the wall a moment. He felt drained by the attack, more than if he’d fought all day. But he had to go find his men, speak to whoever commanded in Osgiliath, and see to the care of the two Halflings. He would not speak of this to the others who might think the Halflings in league with Mordor.

“Come,” he said, reaching for Luin’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Cold as stone, he followed, shaking but afraid to leave the one who’d helped him, afraid to stay. They had come. They were after him. They would take him to Him, for punishment.

Their noises made no sense, but when they came into a small room at the end of a hall, he could finally see the still form of the one they’d carried all that day lying on a pallet. Bandaged head and arms lay still, but the touseled brown hair and snub nose were the first things he’d recognized. He knew the closed eyes would be brown, a light brown shot with gold like the Brandywine on a sunny day, when they opened.

Tugging free of the large hand which held him, he stumbled forward, knelt by the pallet. He ignored the sharp voices behind him, laid a trembling hand on the chest which barely rose and fell.

“Sam?”

Faramir watched as Luin called a strange word, a name, perhaps? Sam. The tension in the small figure, the gentleness with which he touched his friend, were clear.

“He would not act so had he injured his friend.”

Anborn shrugged.

“Best guard them both.”

“You stay here, then. I want to talk to the commander. We’ll take a small group and ride to the City tomorrow.”

Anborn nodded, settling down by the door, as Faramir left. Turning back, he said, “Have them bring in another pallet. I’ll sleep here tonight.”

Part Six

Ignoring the large man at the door, he knelt beside his friend, watching. There was no change in the still face. Gently, he took one of the square brown hands in his, holding it, trying to share his warmth. The air was cold, and he shivered. He took over the cloak that he wore and laid it over Sam, wrapping it around him.

Two small packs lay disregarded on the floor. The kind man had brought them to him before they had left the caves, had unpacked them, shown him what they contained. There were clothes that fit him in one, and the cloak, soft and warm, but he did not recognize the strange cakes, wrapped in leaves, or the gleaming mail smeared with mud and blood. The other pack held more clothes, a few small pots and pans. Each pack held one mystery, one a glass phial that shone when he touched it, the other a carved wooden box.

His head hurt. He rubbed it, remembering how they had sat together, the mess spread before them on the floor. The jumble of oddments seemed to echo in his head, pictures half glimpsed, words lost in the wind. Nothing made sense except his fear.

He knew that was real. Somewhere high above, black wings rode the air.

Sighing, he curled up beside the still figure and closed his eyes. The warmth at his back comforted him, and he slowly relaxed.

It was later than Faramir had realized when he had finished hearing reports. The night was dark, all sleeping save for those on watch. He stood in the silent courtyard, stretching. The mountains to the east stood black against the lowering sky. He listened to the silence.

They had turned away the attack. But they had not defeated the enemy. He knew troops were massing, knew it was only a matter of time until the City fell. He would leave all the men he could spare, take a few to ride with him to Minas Tirith.

The air tasted flat, the smell of death, of burning. Faramir rubbed his aching arm and went to get what sleep he could. He would have to speak to his father tomorrow.

Dim light showed Anborn still on watch. A glance at the room beyond, lit by a guttering candle, showed two still forms curled up on one pallet.

“I asked for a Healer, for food and water,” Faramir said, keeping his voice low. “Did any come?”

“No.”

Faramir thought of waking sleeping men, of trying to find what had happened. But Luin seemed deep asleep, and the other halfling had not woken all that day. His own weariness kept him from moving any further.

“My thanks,” he told Anborn. “Get some food, rest. I’ll want you and two others to ride with me tomorrow. We will take the horses they can spare.”

Anborn nodded, turning away.

Faramir entered the small room. He took off his swordbelt, setting the weapon and his boots aside, wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down beside Luin. Despite the hard stone beneath him, sleep claimed Faramir quickly.

Faramir tightened his arm around Luin, encouraging the faltering horse with voice and legs. Ahead of them, so close, the smaller gate set in the Great Gate opened into the City, promising safety.

Over them, black shapes soared shrieking, stooping.

Dust choked Faramir’s throat. He could not see the others, could hear nothing save the harsh voices from above singing despair.

Stinking cold air blasted around him. His shoulder burned. He could see the black dart buried deep, blood soaking his clothing. His left arm was going numb. Luin would fall.

White light burned ahead.

He felt the shadow above him falter, withdraw. His eyes burning, Faramir blinked, suddenly able to see a white figure, riding a large white horse. The robed figure waved him through the gate, and he set his teeth to endure the rough ride as the lathered horse carried them into the courtyard.

Once inside, he reined aside, searching frantically for the men who rode behind him. First Anborn, then Barahil, carrying the limp figure of the second Halfling.

None other. The gates swung shut, the hollow sound echoing in Faramir’s ears. He swallowed hard. Damrod was lost then.

Figures surged around them, but even over the noise the clear voice carried.

“Faramir!”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir turned, feeling a sudden warmth. He had not seen his old friend for years, did not understand how he had come here, clothed all in white, astride a horse came out of legend, or from the Mark.

“Frodo!”

Shocked, Faramir stared at the small figure that sat in front of Mithrandir. Another halfling, one dressed in bright colours, small as a child, wearing a grey cloak like Luin’s.

“How have you come here?”

Luin shrank back against Faramir, silent. He could feel the small body shaking against his.

“Faramir, what is this? How came Frodo to you?”

“In Ithilien.” Faramir let the reins drop. The poor beast under him could barely move. “We found him, injured. He hardly speaks. I did not know his name.”

Moving with care, Faramir shifted back. His left arm hung nearly useless, and he could not dismount normally. It was awkward, but he managed to slide off the rear, slowly, using his right arm only.

The jar as his feet hit the ground sent bright pain through him, but he forced himself to move forward.

“We found another.” Faramir leaned heavily against the horse’s side, smelling sweat and dirt. “Barahil has him.”

“Sam!”

The halfling slid quickly off the horse, dashing across the courtyard.

Faramir watched him, marveling at how lightly and quickly he moved. When Mithrandir touched him, he jumped.

The wizard was standing close, keen eyes demanding. “Faramir, I must know more of what happened to Frodo.”

Faramir nodded. The urgency in Mithrandir’s voice cut through his weariness. He slid his arm up and around Luin’s waist.

“Come down,” he said. “I’ll help.”

After a moment, Luin nodded, swung his leg over, and started to slide off the horse into Faramir’s arms. Caught off balance, one arm useless, Faramir lurched sideways, and Luin fell forward across Faramir’s injured shoulder.

Pain split him, sinking dark claws deep in his body. Faramir welcomed the soft darkness that followed.

Part Seven

He did not wish to wake, kept eyes closed. He was lying on softness, wrapped in warmth. He could breathe easily. A memory of pain lingered. He stretched, feeling clean linen against skin, then froze at the sound of a soft scrape, a cough, and smelt smoke.

“Frodo.”

The voice was low and soothing, seemed kind. He opened his eyes, seeing stone walls, a small room. A window opened on green and sunlight in the wall opposite his small bed and next to him sat a large figure, a bearded man, clad in white, smoking a pipe.

“How do you feel?” The man leaned forward, white teeth gleaming.

Cowering from the large body looming over him, he burrowed under the bedding, his heart racing. Something snarled in the back of his mind, waiting for him.

“Frodo!”

He shook his head. He would not answer. Could not.

Hands stripped away his cover, gripped his shoulders to pull him, twisting and clawing, into the light.

The thin cry startled him until he realized he was making it. A bitter odor, heavy in his throat, rose from where the pipe lay smoldering on the bed. He kicked, frantic, at the man who stood, easily holding him until, exhausted, he hung limp in the large hands.

Keen eyes underneath bushy brows watched him closely, seemed to strip him. He closed his eyes, wishing he was back in the cave with the man who had been kind.

He was lowered to the bed and sat, panting. After a moment he was released, but he did not move save to open his eyes.

The man stood within arm’s length, watching him. He staredat the hands that had held him, wary.

The man sighed, shook his head. “I had not realized how dire things are, that you do not know me. Can you even speak?” After a silence, he continued. “So you cannot even tell me what happened to Sam.”

Only one word touched him. He raised his head, dared to whisper. “Sam?”

The man smiled at him. “Yes, Sam. So you remember Sam. That heartens me. Can you tell me what happened, Frodo?”

He shook his head, not understanding.

The man stepped closer, picking up the pipe.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, he made himself as small as possible as the man reached out to touch his head.

“Sleep, sleep and heal, my friend.”

His eyes heavy, he felt his head fall, felt himself tumble forward, limbs loose. He could sleep safely here.

He woke suddenly, in the dark, heart pounding. He’d heard something, he did not know what. Perhaps a hiss. Perhaps leathery wings beating the air high above his head.

He was sweating, the bedding damp under and around him. He pushed back the blankets, slid out of the low bed. Slivers of light outlined a door. He walked as softly as he could across the room, stood by the door listening.

Quiet.

He fumbled across wood until he found the latch and pulled. The door opened a crack, and he peered out. More stone walls. Lamps high on the walls burned with steady flames. He closed his eyes, listening as hard as he could.

No sound.

He slipped through the door and into the passage, the stone striking cold up through his feet. He wrapped his arms around himself, holding the loose robe close. One way, the passage seemed to run into shadow. He looked the other way, could see moonlight on the floor. He turned to walk that way.

When he reached the patch of light, he saw it shone through an open door. He hesitated. As he stood, afraid to pass, he heard a rustle, a low mutter. He recognized the voice.

He was shivering but forced himself to step inside the room. His eyes adjusted to the silver light and he easily saw the dark shape in the bed. Even in the cool light, redgold hair gleamed.

Drawn to the side of the tall bed, he stood, feeling the pounding of his heart, the harsh rasp of his breath drowning out the quiet breathing of the sleeper. He could feel the warmth.

He would be safe here.

He folded the bedding back, climbed carefully up. His legs tangled in the too-large robe, and when he was sitting beside the warm shape, he tugged the damp cloth off, tossing it onto the floor. The air chilled against his skin, and he lay down, tugging the bedding back up over them.

Warmth soaked into him and he stretched, sliding closer, feeling the arm wrap around him, sliding his own arm across the broad chest. Wrapped in moonlight, feeling the heat from the large body next to him, he sighed.

Now he could sleep.

To Be Continued

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