Faramir Fiction Archive

Under Pressure (NC-17)

Written by RubyElf

20 October 2011 | 40533 words

Title: Under Pressure
Author: RubyElf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: violence, hurt/comfort

With Boromir and the hobbits missing, an attempt on Arwen’s life that endangers Legolas instead, and an army gathering at Gondor’s southern borders, Faramir’s unique abilities are called upon to help defend Gondor even while those he loves most are in grave danger.

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Recognizing that it would be foolish to put up too much of a fight with his head covered and his hands bound behind his back, Boromir grudgingly stumbled along in his captors’ grasp. The thought entered his head that Legolas’ temper must be inherited, because the variety of curses that Berendir unleashed in both Sindarin and Westron was most un-prince-like and extraordinarily vulgar.

“Bilingual cursing seems to be a most useful skill,” Pippin said.

“I don’t know about useful,” Merry said, “but it must be very satisfying.”

“If I knew more languages, I would curse them in those too,” the elf said, his voice muffled by the cloak over his head.

“When we’re safe again, will you teach us some proper Sindarin curses?” Pippin asked hopefully. “Aragorn won’t teach us and Arwen just laughs at us, and Legolas curses quite a bit, but…”

“Pip, hush,” Merry interrupted sharply.

“What… oh. I meant… well, I didn’t mean anything.”

Boromir wished he could reach the hobbit’s head to rub it reassuringly. “It’s all right, little one. I think Berendir understands that all of us are fond of Legolas.”

One of the men grunted, and Boromir grinned, suspecting that one of the elf’s blind kicks had finally landed somewhere painful.

“I’m surprised that the guards would allow filthy Haradrim into this city,” Berendir muttered.

“They come here occasionally to trade, on Corsair ships,” Boromir said. “There are spices and other products that only come from the far south, and Haradrim merchants bring them here from Umbar.”

“No more talking,” one of the men growled.

“I’ll talk if I bloody well please,” Boromir shot back.

The man muttered something unintelligible, and Pippin squeaked in alarm, but them a voice spoke over the others, a clear and even voice with such an irresistible power to it that even Berendir’s stream of curses faded to silence.

“I told you not to harm them, Harwan, even if they are being unconscionably rude.”

Boromir frowned; he knew that voice, but could not understand how or from where until Berendir spoke.

“The elves of Mirkwood heard enough of that voice, when you and your White Council came to cast Sauron out of Dol Guldur, only to find that you did it only so you could search for the One Ring on your own, Saruman.”

The cloak was pulled from Boromir’s head, and he found that they had been brought into a small courtyard with high stone walls, and that the white-robed man standing before them, though smaller and thinner than Boromir remembered him, was the same one that had watched from the stronghold-turned-prison of Orthanc as the ents of Fangorn destroyed his forges and machines. At his side was a wizened, gray-faced, hunched little figure that Boromir also immediately recognized as the creature who had been whispering poisoned words into King Théoden’s ears before Gandalf arrived in Rohan and cast him out.

“I knew Gandalf shouldn’t have let you live,” Boromir said sharply.

“Gandalf has made many mistakes in his time,” Saruman said, giving him a thin, humorless smile. “Allying himself with the dying race of elves and the foolish upstart race of men… passing up the opportunity to take the One Ring for himself…”

“Mistakes?” Merry demanded. “So that’s why he rides with kings and is welcome everywhere he goes, while you’re slinking around without your staff or your powers and resorting to poisoning and kidnapping?”

The wizard arched one white eyebrow and glared at the hobbit. “Ahh, yes. Gandalf’s favorite race of all, his beloved hobbits. Most favored creatures. Those relatives of your friend Baggins were so easy to corrupt, the simple, greedy things…”

Both hobbits scowled, remembering the ugly trouble that the Sackville-Baggins family and their associates had caused Frodo on his return. With the considerable political clout of the Brandybucks and Tooks behind him, though, they had been put back in their place.

“Should’ve expected some evil creature like you was behind all that,” Pippin said.

“I would have been behind a great deal more of it,” the wizard said, shrugging his shoulders, “but a certain Steward of Gondor seems to have become unreasonably fond of hobbits and managed to divert a rather unnecessary number of Gondorian troops to patrol the roads to the Shire…”

Both hobbits glanced up at Boromir and grinned broadly.

“Did you do that, Boromir?”

“Possibly,” he said, smirking.

“What do you want, then?” Berendir demanded. “Surely you know that no one can give you back the power that was taken from you when you were cast out of the White Council.”

“True,” he said, with a sigh. “But I have, since leaving Isengard, found myself in a rather unfortunate position, having very little in the way of resources, and very little assistance with the exception of this pathetic creature you see at my side.”

Boromir glanced at Gríma Wormtongue, thinking that the wizened man had aged many years in the short time since being cast out of Rohan, and saw him wince as if preparing to dodge a blow when Saruman spoke of him.

“I don’t know how you thought that poisoning Arwen and taking me hostage would improve that situation.”

“Hmm,” the wizard said. “Have you not noticed that Pelargir is a very fine city? Quite a nice place to live. And vast amounts of trade occur here, trade that Gondor depends on. I think that a Sovereign State of Pelargir would have considerable power over the commerce and travel in this part of Middle Earth, and that its ruler would have the opportunity to negotiate significant tariffs and taxes on all goods transported through the port.”

“You really think Aragorn would just hand over control of Pelargir to you?” Boromir asked.

“Of course not. But if he were to be distracted by other issues… say, by the death of his beloved Queen, and the disappearance of his loyal Steward… he might be unable to collect himself and assemble his armies in time to prevent mine from taking the city. And once I hold this city, your King will have to burn it to the ground to route us from it.”

“Problem with that plan,” Merry observed. “Your ‘army’ is off hiding in the woods and thinking that evil fire spirits are going to attack them if they come back out.”

Saruman scowled. “I did receive news that the silly light show this morning caused some commotion amongst my troops. But I have no doubt that they will regroup and make the crossing in time to deal with any forces that Gondor might get around to sending.”

“Oh, you mean the ones that left Gondor a full day ago, and will arrive here before nightfall?”

“You try to intimidate me,” the wizard said, poorly disguising his surprise. “I think you are lying.”

Boromir shrugged. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Saruman scowled down at Gríma and struck him in the head.

“Why did your spies not know of this? You become more useless by the day!”

Boromir crossed his arms and smiled. “By the time your Haradrim make it out of the woods and start to turn into something like an army again, they’ll have something much more frightening than fireworks to contend with.”

Saruman studied him, regaining his composure. “True. But I find myself wondering how much the lives of a Steward, a Mirkwood Prince, and a pair of the King’s favorite hobbits are worth?”

“If you think we’re Aragorn’s favorite hobbits, you obviously haven’t heard him talk about us,” Merry said, but his expression was concerned, and Boromir knew why. He and the hobbits all knew that Saruman had no idea what he truly had. Aragorn would halt his entire army before he would let Boromir die; the wizard did not know he had far more than just the King’s Steward in his control.

“You have no power anymore,” Berendir challenged. “Gandalf took it from you.”

“No power? I admit that Gandalf left me with little in the way of resources, but I am not entirely powerless,” Saruman said, turning almost absently toward the hobbits. He opened one hand and thrust it abruptly toward them, and the invisible blow sent Merry and Pippin tumbling backwards to the stone floor. Boromir lunged forward with a growl, but the Harad guard behind him grabbed his bound arms and dragged him back.

“Are you all right, little ones?” he asked anxiously.

Merry looked up at him, but whispered something in Pippin’s ear as the two of them assisted each other to their feet.

“We’re all right, Boromir. He’ll have to do worse than that.”

“Oh, I can do much worse than that,” Saruman said, smiling. “You know, I suspect that compared to you, Lord Steward, the life of this particular wood elf is probably not terribly valuable. Perhaps I should deal with him now, just to make sure that you understand I am entirely serious.”

Berendir squirmed against the ropes that bound his arms and glared at the wizard. “Only a coward would kill an unarmed prisoner just to prove a point.”

“I care not what you think of me, elf, and I intend to shut that obnoxious mouth of yours right now.”

He drew a long dagger from a sheath at his belt and gave Boromir another thin, grim smile before stepping toward the struggling, bound elf with the dagger raised and ready. Boromir lunged forward again, but he could not free himself from the guard that dragged him back again.

“If you hurt him, Saruman…”

“You’ll do what, Steward?” he asked. “Your hobbit friends are next, if you make any trouble.”

Boromir fell back, growling in helpless rage, and looked toward Merry and Pippin. Merry, to his surprise, grinned at him.

“Boromir, did I ever tell you about the one thing that Pippin ever managed to beat me at?”

“Merry, now is not the time…”

“Oh, but it is,” Pippin said. “If we’re going to die, I want to make sure that everybody knows it. Merry has never, ever been able to beat me at one particular Shire hobby. Most young hobbits practice it a bit, but I spent a whole summer getting as good at it as I could possibly be, just so I could show Merry I could be better than him at something.”

Saruman had stopped, dagger in hand, and was listening with condescending patience to Pippin’s chatter.

“Pippin…” Boromir said warningly.

“Pip,” Merry said, “tell Boromir what this particular hobby is that we’re speaking about.”

Pippin smiled, and when his hand came up from his side, it was holding the small blade Merry had been carrying in his boot.

“Oh, you mean knife throwing?”

“It’s all in the wrist,” Merry said fondly. “Do it, Pip.”

Pippin snapped his hand forward, and the knife hissed through the air, spinning end over end, before burying the narrow blade into the wizard’s throat just above the collar bone.

The dagger clattered on the stone as Saruman staggered back, groping at the knife as blood welled around the blade and flowing freely over his white robes. The stunned Haradrim froze, watching in horror, but Boromir and Berendir were too shocked to take advantage of the opportunity.

“I knew you could do it,” Merry said.

“You were hoping for me to miss.”

“Why? So we could all get killed?”

Pippin burst out laughing and Merry embraced him tightly. Saruman lurched toward Boromir, but collapsed to the stone floor, his robes covered with blood. Berendir, snapping out of his astonishment, jerked free of the guard holding him and delivered a vicious kick to the unmoving body.

“Gandalf showed you mercy, but I won’t.”

Boromir pulled away from the guard behind him, but the man did not seem to know what to do. He looked toward the only other person left in the courtyard, the shrunken, cloaked, silent figure who now stood staring at the fallen wizard. After a moment, he looked up at Boromir and his mouth shifted into what might have been a hint of a smile.

“My master has a history of underestimating people,” he said. Then, looking over Boromir’s shoulder, “Guards, you may go. I shall handle this from here.”

The guards seemed almost happy to be excused, now that the situation had changed so drastically. The small man waited until they were gone before he spoke.

“I could have ordered them to kill you, Son of Gondor.”

Boromir nodded warily.

“What do you want?”

“Let me go. That’s all. Before your king and his army arrive.”

“How do I know you won’t go right on being a threat to us like your master was?”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “You think I wish for power? To control a great city or bring down a kingdom?”

“You served Saruman.”

“And I had a choice? Let me go, Steward, or kill me… it matters very little, but either way, you will never see me again.”

Boromir glanced at the elf, who nodded slowly.

“It seems to me, Lord Boromir, as if he speaks the truth.”

“Very well. Go.”

Gríma bowed. “The destruction of the One Ring has freed you of much anger, Son of Gondor. Farewell.”

He ducked through the doorway and was gone.

Merry took Saruman’s dagger from the floor and quickly cut Berendir and then Boromir free. The first thing the man did when his arms were released was to sweep a hobbit up in each of them and pull them close until they squeaked and squirmed and laughed.

“You two…” he said, struggling for the right words.

“Of course we are,” Merry said, and kissed him on one cheek while Pippin planted a kiss on the other cheek.

Berendir raised an eyebrow. “Should I leave you three alone for a while?”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “Don’t give them any ideas.”

“I knew you could do it, Pip,” Merry said, leaning over Boromir’s lap to kiss his cousin enthusiastically.

“Liar,” Pippin gasped, when he could get his lips free.

“Knife-throwing, little one?” Boromir asked, shaking his head in astonishment.

“It works brilliantly for getting apples out of trees when they’re too far out on a branch to reach,” Pippin said, shrugging.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”

“Because,” Merry said, shaking his head. “He’s always afraid that if he tries it again, I’ll beat him this time, and they he won’t be able to say he ever won at anything against me.”

“I can think of some new competitions that I’m pretty sure you’ll lose,” Pippin said, grinning.

Boromir stood, lifting one of them in each arm. “Come, Berendir. We’ll go out and meet our men and wait for Aragorn.”

“What shall we do with him?” Berendir asked, prodding the dead body with his foot.

“Just leave him there. That’s all he deserves.”

“At least I can say I avenged my brother’s loss…”

“I don’t think your brother is dead,” Boromir said.

Berendir and both hobbits looked at him, puzzled. “How do you know?”

“Because I think if that had happened, Faramir would feel it strongly enough that I would know it.”

Berendir looked hopeful. “You think he may be alive?”

“I think he might. But Aragorn will arrive soon, and he’ll be able to tell us for sure.”

Berendir nodded. “I hope his news for us is as good as ours is for him.”

“Are you going to tell him what we did?” Pippin demanded.

“No,” Boromir said, chuckling. “I am going to take credit for all of it myself.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would.”

“You awful man!” Pippin exclaimed, glaring at him until Boromir relented and kissed him on the head.

“I promise, little Pippin, that you shall get all the credit you deserve.”

“Hmph,” Merry said, crossing his arms. “It was my knife.”

“Are they always like this?” Berendir asked.

Boromir rolled his eyes. “Or worse.”

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