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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Furious with himself for allowing himself to sleep and waste more of whatever time was left, Aragorn was so lost in himself that he did not think to knock before pushing Faramir’s door open. For a brief moment he thought that Legolas had suddenly and unexpectedly recovered; the elf sitting next to Faramir had the same long, golden hair worn in Mirkwood braids, the same slender built and lightness of motion. As soon as he turned, though, Aragorn recognized the Mirkwood prince who had arrived the day before as part of the delegation from his kingdom.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, unreasonably angry.

The elf’s green eyes widened in surprise, and Aragorn could see immediately that there had been tears in those eyes only a moment before.

“I was looking for my brother,” he said. “I did not expect to find him… like this…”

“How much did you tell him, Faramir?” Aragorn snapped.

Faramir looked up at him, calm and steady against the storm of Aragorn’s confused frustration, his gray eyes darkened and filled with something that seemed to strike Aragorn in the chest. He remembered Boromir telling him about the strange moods that would overtake his little brother when he seemed to be seeing things others did not. Gandalf had told him once that the blood of Númenor ran so strongly in Faramir that it made him different than ordinary men, and the hobbits had often mentioned to Boromir that in certain moods his brother reminded them very much of Gandalf himself. Now, Faramir looked up at him as if from a very great distance, his eyes intent but serene.

“All is well, my Lord,” he said quietly.

Aragorn stepped forward cautiously, torn between the desire to grasp Faramir and yank him back into himself and the need to see where the young man’s gift might be taking him. He was wary, recalling Boromir’s words that these periods of heightened insight and vision took a heavy toll on his brother, but something told him not to disturb Faramir’s thoughts at this moment.

“Faramir,” he said, his voice slow and steady. “What do you see?”

“I see my brother. And the hobbits. They are far from here, and moving under dark skies… my brother is weary, and he is hurt…”

A wave of dread washed over Aragorn. “What else, Faramir?”

“Him,” the young man said, pointing in the direction of the startled elf sitting across from him. “I see him speaking to my brother.”

“We spoke in Mirkwood, perhaps…”

“I see you speaking to him. I hear him… thanking you. I don’t know what for.”

“Where is your brother, Faramir?”

“Under trees marked by fire. I hear water running. I think he’s trying to reach me, Aragorn…”

The young man’s eyes widened suddenly, and he sat up from his slump, startled and confused. Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly.

“Easy, Faramir.”

The elf was staring at the two men. “I had heard that the Steward’s brother had the power of second sight…”

Aragorn glared at him. “You should not be here. This is not your business.”

The green eyes flared with a spark Aragorn recognized; he’d seen it more times than he could count from Legolas when he was angry.

“It is my business. My brother is my business. I journeyed here from Mirkwood against my father’s wishes; he forbade any of us to speak to Legolas again, or even to speak his name under the trees of our land, but I wanted to see him anyway. We were children together, and we were close, once, until… things happened, and drove him away, and made me…”

He shuddered, and Aragorn remembered Boromir’s words about the King of Mirkwood and why he would never allow Legolas to be taken back there, and he wondered now what the King’s numerous other children might have suffered. Faramir, still only half in his own world and his senses painfully sensitive, winced at the elf’s words and closed his eyes.

“Don’t shout at him, Aragorn. He’s telling the truth. He came to see Legolas,” he said, glancing at Berendir. “You were… under some force. Your will taken from you. It’s different now…”

Berendir nodded. “I told you, Lord Faramir… when the Steward left my father’s house and took Legolas with him, my father’s power was undermined, and his deeds could no longer be hidden. The Lady Galadriel saw, and she and her husband have forced him to release us…”

Faramir nodded. “I could feel Legolas’ fear when he talked about Mirkwood, but I didn’t know what he was afraid of.”

“I wanted to see him, and to tell him that whatever part my brothers and I had in my father’s actions was not of our own free will,” he said, turning to Aragorn. “Will he be all right? Faramir says you are a powerful healer, and you’ll find a way to save him.”

“I’m trying,” he said. “Faramir, your brother has not been back to the city since yesterday afternoon. Was what you saw a vision of where he is now?”

“I think so. I think he was reaching toward me, trying to show me. He knows part of me is always tuned to him.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to ignore the weight of despair beginning to settle on his shoulders. “So instead of being here to help me keep my loved ones safe and find out why they’re in danger, he is in danger himself. He wouldn’t be so far from here willingly without telling someone. He must have been taken, captured, he and the little ones. I’ll go and have a troop of your Rangers prepare to go after him, Faramir…”

The younger man’s eyes widened. “I can’t leave… what if Legolas…”

“He needs you here, for now,” Aragorn said, wondering how much longer it would make any difference. “I’ll have one of your captains lead them, although without knowing where to send them…”

Berendir stood up excitedly. “Send me and my men, my Lord.”

“What?”

“Please. Send us. There are no trackers on Arda more skilled or more swift than elves of Mirkwood. Surely if you know Legolas you know that. Please… Lord Boromir had a great part in freeing me and my brothers, and I would be honored to go to his aid now.”

Aragorn glanced at Faramir. He closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded, his gaze still distant and strange.

“Let them go. Whoever has my brother and the little ones will be expecting troops from Gondor. They know you’ll send men after your Steward. I’m quite certain they’re not expecting Mirkwood elves.”

Aragorn was torn; Boromir trusted his brother’s visions unquestioningly, but an error in judgment now could cost Boromir his life. In his mind he imagined asking Boromir what to do, and smiled slightly as he realized that Boromir would growl at him for being indecisive and tell him to trust in Faramir.

“All right,” he said finally.

The elf grinned, excited. “We won’t fail Lord Boromir, my Lord. And if those holding him captive have anything to do with… with Legolas, I’ll make certain they pay for that too.”

“I hope you do,” Aragorn said. “Are you sure your men will agree to this?”

He laughed, and Aragorn was startled by how much like Legolas the green-eyed elf looked in this moment of enthusiasm. “They will be delighted, my Lord. We love the hunt, no matter what we’re hunting.”

“Go and prepare them, then, and decide what supplies you need. I’ll send a message to the quartermaster to equip you with whatever you need.”

Berendir grinned, and again Aragorn recognized the expression; it was the one that flashed across Legolas’ face in the moment before his fingers released an arrow from his bow. “We need nothing, my Lord, but a place to start tracking.”

“I suspect they may have been captured in the woods outside the city, near a fishing pond…”

“That will do,” Berendir said brightly. “We will be on their trail before the sun is high.”

“Should I have the stable boys prepare your horses?”

“We hunt on foot, my Lord. Horses tread on signs that might point the way.”

He grasped Aragorn’s hand, shook it enthusiastically, and vanished out the door, pausing only long enough to close it behind him.

“I hope you’re right, Faramir,” Aragorn sighed.

He got no answer. Turning, he discovered that Faramir was no longer sitting in his chair. He made his way back toward the bedroom and found the man seated on the bed, shaking Legolas firmly. After a few brisk shakes, the elf blinked at yawned.

“Hello, Faramir. And Aragorn, too. Is it morning already?”

“You were sleeping,” Faramir said.

“Elves don’t sleep,” he muttered, closing his eyes again.

“Hey, there… wake up, Legolas,” Faramir said, shaking him again.

“What do you want?”

Faramir glanced at Aragorn for a moment before answering him. “I want you to come out in the other room where there are more windows. The sun is starting to come out, and I’ll have the kitchen send us some breakfast.”

The elf made a face. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry,” Faramir said, continuing to shake him until Legolas swatted at him half-heartedly and allowed the man to pull him upright.

“I wish you’d just let me sleep,” he said, voice irritated and sharp.

“Why?”

“It would be over faster that way.”

“Nothing is over,” Faramir said determinedly. “Aragorn is still looking. He’ll find something.”

Aragorn could not listen anymore, and there was nothing else he needed to see. His old friend was running out of time and he had no answers, and his Steward, the man he loved, was far away, his life hanging on a small band of elves and Faramir’s intuition. The ruse that the poisoner had successfully targeted his chosen victim could only be kept up for so long, and with no idea who might be responsible, he had no idea how to protect Arwen or anyone else. He turned and left Faramir and Legolas alone, not wanting to hear Faramir’s words of faith in him, faith he feared was drastically misplaced.

Legolas watched the man go before looking over at Faramir. “He’s given up.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Faramir said. “And even if he had, I haven’t. So get up, and we’re going to go out in the other room and have something to eat.”

Legolas smiled slightly. “You’re persistent; I’ll give you that.”

When the sun made its appearance over the edge of the gray horizon, the orcs took shelter beneath a stand of trees, their sparse leaves casting half-shadows, their trunks darkened and scarred from some past violence. One of them directed their exhausted captives to the center of the grove, where they could be watched from all directions, but none of the three had any intention of making an escape at the moment. Pippin, though his shoulder ached painfully, was the best of the three, having been spared the last few hours of walking. Merry, who had struggled to keep up with the much larger orcs who threatened him with spear points when he fell behind, was so exhausted he could barely stand, and as soon as they were given the order to stop, he slumped against a tree and closed his eyes. Boromir, who had been concentrating for the last hour on putting one foot in front of the other, set Pippin down next to Merry before lying down beside them.

Merry roused himself enough to make his way to Boromir’s side and examine the rough bandages they had wrapped around his hands and arms. Boromir opened one eye and smiled at him.

“Go lie down and rest, little one.”

“In a minute,” Merry said, untying a bandage and frowning.
“These wounds don’t look good.”

“Orc blades are dirty, just like orcs,” the man said, shrugging.
Merry pressed his small hand to Boromir’s face. “You’re warm.”

“We’ve been walking all night, Merry, and with as much as Pippin eats he’s not as light as he looks.”

Merry ignored him and stood up, walking determinedly toward a cluster of orcs who stood nearby, grumbling to each other. One of them turned and looked down at him with a chuckle.

“Look here, it’s a bug. Perhaps we should squash it.”

“What do you want, little bug?” another orc asked.

Merry made a determined effort to make his voice authoritative. “The man is hurt. He needs water to drink and clean his wounds.”

The orcs laughed, but one waved his hand sharply and silenced them.

“Quiet, fools. The old man told us that the man is to arrive in Umbar alive, or we won’t receive our part of the reward. We’re not far from the river; go and get some buckets of water. And you, find this halfling some clean cloth to tend to the man.”

The orc looked down at Merry; the hobbit glared up at him defiantly, refusing to drop his gaze, and eventually the orc chuckled and turned away.

Merry returned to his friends to find Pippin sitting by Boromir’s head, working tangles out his blond hair with his small fingers.

“What are you doing, Pip?”

Pippin shrugged. “Just doing things that don’t require thinking.”

“He’s all right,” Boromir said, smiling, eyes closed. “Feels rather nice.”

“The beasts are going to bring us some water so we can have a drink and clean up these wounds,” Merry said.

Pippin stared at him. “You asked them?”

“I told them,” he said.

Boromir raised a hand to gently brush Pippin aside. “I need to sleep a bit, little ones, and so do you. When we wake up we can worry about other things.”

The man closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately. Merry was dozing himself, despite the hard ground, when he felt Pippin slide closer to him and felt the younger hobbit trembling. He opened his eyes and looked into Pippin’s wide green ones.

“Hey there, Pip. Are you all right?”

“Once we get where we’re going, they’re going to kill us, aren’t they?”

“You don’t know that,” Merry said, pulling Pippin into his arms and stroking his hair as Pippin pressed his face into Merry’s chest. “We’ll be all right. Aragorn has probably sent half of Gondor’s army after us by now. When they catch up with us, these orcs will wish they’d never come near us.”

Pippin nodded, and Merry felt his lips pressing against his neck. “As long as all three of us are together…”

“It’ll be fine, my little love,” he whispered, kissing Pippin’s forehead.

“Merry… did they say something about an old man? And Umbar?”

Merry nodded. “They did say that, yes.”

“What old man? And isn’t Umbar a city?”

“I don’t know about the old man, Pip. Umbar is a city and a port. A big one, a long way to the south. It belonged to the Númenoreans, I think, a long time ago, and then to Gondor, and Gondor has been fighting the Harardrim and Corsairs for it ever since. Remember, it was their ships Aragorn captured and brought to break the siege of Gondor…”

“I remember, Merry… are they taking us there?”

“It sounds like it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s an important port, though, and without it the Haradrim probably wouldn’t be able to keep fighting against Gondor, and the Corsairs, or what’s left of them, would lose their base of operations.”

“You were always good at maps and history,” Pippin murmured. “You’re the smartest hobbit I know.”

“And you,” Merry said, kissing his forehead again, “are the silliest. Stop pawing at me and go to sleep, my little one… when we wake up, we have to be ready to take care of Boromir. He needs us.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Pippin agreed sleepily. “You won’t hear him admit it, though.”

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