Under the Shade of Ithilien, Frodo/Faramir, PG13
Title: Under the Shade of Ithilien
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo and Faramir learn from each other
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Story Notes:
A/N: This was inspired by some of the photos of Frodo and Faramir in the Two Towers photo guide.
There are some butchered book quotes in here. And I fully acknowledge that some events/conversations are missing.
There is never rest, though I should be used to it by now. Weariness has been my fate since leaving Lothlorien -- weariness and a palpable sense of doom. My essence, everything that makes up my being, has been wrenched into the burning wheel that I see ever in my mind. Sometimes I am only a walking shell. I wonder if when I reach that mountain of fire and throw the Ring in, whether I, too, shall simply cease to be -- the Ring and I are nearly one.
My heart lifts. I have lost hope of seeing anything colorful and living again, and yet now there is grass between my toes and shady trees. None of this seemed during our trek through the black jagged rocks and the bog full of fire and dead faces.
“Sam,” I say, turning to him with a rare smile. “This place…it does not seem possible that we are so near Mordor.”
“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says, releasing a contented sigh. “It’s right good to feel grass between my toes.” He glares ahead in mistrust. “If only we didn’t have that dratted Gollum with us.”
I ignore Sam’s comment about Gollum -- the creatures is elsewhere and for now that is all right. Hearing the chirping of birds and feeling the sweet breeze on my face, it seems for the first time possible that we will make it to Mount Doom. This oasis has given me reprieve. The weight around my neck is much lighter.
It happens all at once. We hear a whistle, hurried feet on dried leaves -- and we are surrounded by a group of tall Men dressed in greens and browns.
I am paralyzed, sick with dismay. There is no escape, and I have never been threatened -- swords thrust at me -- in such a manner, save by orcs. My mind whirls. We are supposed to enter Mordor in secret and now there is nothing secret about our presence. If any of these men should find the Ring…I consider swallowing it.
“What are these little creatures, Captain?” an impatient voice asks. “Shall we slay them? There are none but orcs and their spies in this land.”
My heart leaps in new terror. That we could be mistaken for the enemy has never occurred to me. I have thought only of the Ring’s safety…not of our own. I look beseechingly at the man who appears to be their Captain. He studies me with stern gray eyes. He is different -- not so hasty.
“Wait,” he says, holding up his hand. He is tall and fair, and I feel a strangely warm familiarity with him, as if we have met before. That is impossible, as the only men I have associated with are Aragorn and Boromir. I do not know him, but something draws me to him despite my imminent danger. He holds my life…and the fate of the world in his hands.
Finally he addresses me, and I shiver at the sound of his low, silky voice and the tense curiosity in his eyes. I do not think he will find it easy to slay us, should that be his decision. We are dirty, frightened and small, weary beyond belief, and we are a new race to him. “There are no travelers in this land, save from Gondor or from the East.”
“We are neither,” I say, surprised that I keep my voice steady. So much hinges on the next few moments. I am utterly at his mercy. He has only to unsheathe his sword, and with one swipe, he can end my life.
“Then explain yourselves and your mission. We have no time to parley or riddle. Know, little strangers, that you are on perilous ground for I am commanded to slay all whom I find in this land.” His hand creeps to his sword hilt.
I take a breath, not certain what to say without endangering the quest -- I have no experience in pleading for my life. “Good Captain, I cannot reveal the nature of our quest, but I can assure you that-“
“They are orc spies,” the rough voice behind me says, and two strong hands grab my upper arms. At the corner of my eye, I see Sam grabbed by another man. He is too terrified to speak, though he is closely watching me -- I know he will fight to the death if any of these men hurt me.
“Orc spies,” the Captain says thoughtfully. “Why should orcs use such spies as these? To what use?” He turns his keen glance back on me. “You had best explain yourself quickly.”
I can no longer control my panic, and I buck violently from side to side, thought bent only on escape, to tear into the woods away from these dangerous men. The more I struggle, the tighter the grip on my arms.
“What shall we do with them?” the man asks through clenched teeth, shaking me hard in an attempt to stop my struggles.
My voice comes out in a weedy, infuriated gasp that I am ashamed of, and yet the Captain listens intently. “I am Frodo Baggins, a hobbit - halfling -- of the Shire and this is my servant, Samwise Gamgee. We came out of Imladris with two other of my kin, an elf, a dwarf, two men, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil’s heir, and Boromir, the son of the steward of Gondor--” I stop, trying to catch my breath, knowing my time for pleading my case is coming to an end. The men gasp at the mention of Boromir, and I hear scattered murmuring and sighs. I have struck a nerve.
“Boromir!” the Captain says in a taut voice. “Boromir was my brother. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. You were a friend of his?”
I gasp, and all strength leaves my legs. That explains why he looks so familiar. I fall back into the man who continues to grip my arms with bruising strength. I have barely escaped Boromir’s lust for the Ring, only to encounter his brother in the wilderness. I cannot imagine how I will escape this…Though certainly there is something in Faramir’s face that was lacking in Boromir -- keen intelligence, less rashness. I wish that I have met him under different circumstances. I would love to sit beside him and listen to his soft voice as he tells me tales about his city.
“Release them,” Faramir says quietly to his men. The huge hands on my arms are suddenly gone, and I fall forward to my knees, too weak to move. Sam falls beside me.
“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?”
The Ring has slipped outside of my filthy shirt, and desperately, I try to push it back inside. Faramir has seen it.
“What is this?” he demands, kneeling beside me. I jump to my feet, holding my hand over my chest to protect the Ring. Faramir grips my wrist and yanks it down. I try to twist out of his grip, but it is no use -- he is too strong. My wrist flares with pain and I cry out, trying to shrink back.
Faramir releases my wrist, but he is holding the Ring, still on its chain around my neck.
“So it is true,” he says in a faint voice, gazing at the Ring in awe. “The tales are true. The dream was true.” His eyes harden as he turns his gaze to me. “I must insist you tell me what you are doing so close to Mordor with this weapon of the Enemy.”
I am now so frightened that my skin feels cold and detached from my body. My heart thuds, and I can barely hear my own voice. “I cannot. I took a vow to the council in Imladris not to reveal the mission to anyone outside of the fellowship. But Boromir was planning to come to Minas Tirith, and I am certain he will gladly tell you all you wish to know.”
Faramir gives a cynical chuckle, still clutching the Ring’s chain. “Boromir will tell all, say you? You were a good friend of Boromir’s?”
I hesitate. I try to evoke memories of Boromir at his best - Boromir teaching my young cousins sword play, Boromir lifting me out of a bed of snow to keep me from freezing to death, Boromir on more than one occasion putting his fur-lined cloak around me when he saw me shiver at night, Boromir rubbing my back in a soothing manner as he carried me out of Moria after Gandalf’s fall. I try to remember these images, but all that comes to my mind is the fiery gleam in his eyes as he stumbles after me, intent on taking the Ring.
“Yes, he was my friend. He was a valiant member of our fellowship.”
Faramir released the Ring’s chain. “Then you would grieve to know that he is dead.”
I look at him, trying to read his expression. Had I misread this man? Was this a cruel joke? Was he playing with me, trying to trap me with false words?
“Dead-“ I falter. I shake my head. My wrist is beginning to throb. I do not think it is broken. I broke my wrist when I was ten, falling out of a tree, and that was a different, much sharper pain. “But…but how?” I feel dizzy.
“I was hoping that you, his friend and companion, would be able to tell me.”
I hear Sam choke, and I, too, wish to weep, not so much for the valiant man of Gondor, but because if he - great warrior as he was -- has fallen, then surely more of my companions have perished with him.
“No, no,” I say. “He cannot be dead. Because if he is dead, then…then all my companions must be dead.”
Faramir’s eyes soften, and he looks past me, to a point in the far distance. He speaks a long time about a vision he has had of Boromir’s death, though I barely listen. I can only imagine Merry and Pippin lying cold and dead, their innocent laughter stayed forever. I can only imagine Aragorn lying broken on the ground. A tear rolls down my face. I cradle my injured hand close to my chest. Faramir has handled the Ring’s chain, but he has made no further attempt to take it.
Faramir is looking at me expectantly. I have not heard what he has just said.
“I am sorry?”
“Are you injured?” he asks. “Your hand?”
“It hurts, but it is really nothing.”
Faramir, who is still kneeling in front of me, takes my hand and examines it. In contrast to before, his touch is gentle now, as he prods at the dark bruises that are already forming on my fair skin. He releases a dismayed sigh.
“I am sorry,” he says. “I do not know my strength sometimes.” He looks at me, his gray eyes grave, deep with compassion. My heart lifts again with new hope that perhaps this man, who has handled the Ring and has not taken it from me, may help. “I consider myself a good judge of men, or of halflings as is your case, and you, Frodo Baggins, I doubt no longer. However, there is much to decide and I cannot allow you to wander free in this land. I must take you with me to our hidden stronghold. There we will discuss what will come next. And if you will trust me, you may find that I can help you.”
***
We have been talking for hours, Faramir asking many questions about the fellowship, the quest, and Boromir, and me trying to dodge any question that hit too close to the mark of the purpose of the fellowship. Sam has fallen asleep, curling on a chair nearby, bless him. He has barely slept in days.
I have fallen in love with the sound of Faramir’s voice and his gentle gaze upon me now that he knows I am not an enemy. I long to fall into his arms and lay the burden on him. I wonder what he would do if I crawled onto his lap and lay my head against his chest. I blush at the thought.
“I do not think you need fear that your friends are all dead,” he says. “Certainly the orcs did not array my brother as for a funeral.”
I love him for this simple reminder; my morbid mind has been too stubborn to realize this obvious truth.
My stomach is warm with wine, but I am weary, weary beyond belief. I will soon leave this haven and this kind man for a much darker path.
“Come, I think it is time you got some sleep,” Faramir finally says, squeezing my shoulder. I will sleep well tonight. I trust him. He has all the qualities that I loved about Boromir, and none of the qualities that I distrusted. His touch sends a strange pulse through me. I imagine him squeezed beside me in my bed, his strong arms around me, protecting me from the wheel of fire. I blush again, and this time he notices. He smiles at me as he brushes his fingertips over my face. “Your skin…so soft,” he says. “You are a wondrous new people to me…so brave.”
“No,” I say, a lump filling my throat. “I feel weak and hopeless, though your kindness is certainly a beacon of light.”
“What will you do with this…evil instrument of…” he waves vaguely to the east. “I will not name it. Earlier, when I held your chain, it called to me with foul voice…I can see how evil it is.”
I pause as I scoot forward in my stool. I am shaking, trembling from the events of the day.
“I must destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom…It is the only way…I do not think I shall ever make it.”
I try to stand, but I have no strength. The room tilts and darkens, but I never hit the ground.
***
I open my eyes. I am in a soft bed, low to the ground. Faramir sits on the edge of the bed.
“Stay,” I whisper. He turns to me in surprise, his lips slightly parted.
His eyes glow with desire and curiosity, though he quickly squelches it. “Frodo, you need rest.”
He bends over me to tuck me under the covers, and when he is close enough, I coil my hands behind his neck and pull him down, opening my mouth to him. His lips are soft and warm, and I have been in need of such pleasure for so long. Faramir does not resist. Placing his hands on either side of my head, clutching the pillow, he presses his lips to mine. I wriggle my tongue in his mouth, and he lets out a pleasant gasp.
He pulls back, letting his hands fall on my cheeks. “Frodo,” he says with a slight smile, as if he loves the sound of my name on his tongue. He rubs his hands over my cheeks as if trying to warm them. “Frodo, you need your rest.”
“I know,” I say, though my body tingles with need. Rest is the last thing on my mind.
“You begin the darkest part of your journey tomorrow…I would not have you go more weary than when you came to me. And…” His smile fades, his eyes darkening like a winter sky. “I will not give away my heart in such evil times.”
I understand. I do not know that I will have a heart to give when this is over. I do not know that I will survive. I know I shall go forth with the good will of men, and I will hold strong the memory of the grave young Captain of Gondor who resisted the call of the Ring.
I close my eyes. I feel his hesitation above me…only for a moment. He plants a gentle kiss on my brow before leaving me in weary silence. I am alone. The fiery wheel burns behind my eyes, but it is not as vivid. Tonight the memory of warm, soft lips and gray eyes will overpower it.
End
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo and Faramir learn from each other
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Story Notes:
A/N: This was inspired by some of the photos of Frodo and Faramir in the Two Towers photo guide.
There are some butchered book quotes in here. And I fully acknowledge that some events/conversations are missing.
There is never rest, though I should be used to it by now. Weariness has been my fate since leaving Lothlorien -- weariness and a palpable sense of doom. My essence, everything that makes up my being, has been wrenched into the burning wheel that I see ever in my mind. Sometimes I am only a walking shell. I wonder if when I reach that mountain of fire and throw the Ring in, whether I, too, shall simply cease to be -- the Ring and I are nearly one.
My heart lifts. I have lost hope of seeing anything colorful and living again, and yet now there is grass between my toes and shady trees. None of this seemed during our trek through the black jagged rocks and the bog full of fire and dead faces.
“Sam,” I say, turning to him with a rare smile. “This place…it does not seem possible that we are so near Mordor.”
“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says, releasing a contented sigh. “It’s right good to feel grass between my toes.” He glares ahead in mistrust. “If only we didn’t have that dratted Gollum with us.”
I ignore Sam’s comment about Gollum -- the creatures is elsewhere and for now that is all right. Hearing the chirping of birds and feeling the sweet breeze on my face, it seems for the first time possible that we will make it to Mount Doom. This oasis has given me reprieve. The weight around my neck is much lighter.
It happens all at once. We hear a whistle, hurried feet on dried leaves -- and we are surrounded by a group of tall Men dressed in greens and browns.
I am paralyzed, sick with dismay. There is no escape, and I have never been threatened -- swords thrust at me -- in such a manner, save by orcs. My mind whirls. We are supposed to enter Mordor in secret and now there is nothing secret about our presence. If any of these men should find the Ring…I consider swallowing it.
“What are these little creatures, Captain?” an impatient voice asks. “Shall we slay them? There are none but orcs and their spies in this land.”
My heart leaps in new terror. That we could be mistaken for the enemy has never occurred to me. I have thought only of the Ring’s safety…not of our own. I look beseechingly at the man who appears to be their Captain. He studies me with stern gray eyes. He is different -- not so hasty.
“Wait,” he says, holding up his hand. He is tall and fair, and I feel a strangely warm familiarity with him, as if we have met before. That is impossible, as the only men I have associated with are Aragorn and Boromir. I do not know him, but something draws me to him despite my imminent danger. He holds my life…and the fate of the world in his hands.
Finally he addresses me, and I shiver at the sound of his low, silky voice and the tense curiosity in his eyes. I do not think he will find it easy to slay us, should that be his decision. We are dirty, frightened and small, weary beyond belief, and we are a new race to him. “There are no travelers in this land, save from Gondor or from the East.”
“We are neither,” I say, surprised that I keep my voice steady. So much hinges on the next few moments. I am utterly at his mercy. He has only to unsheathe his sword, and with one swipe, he can end my life.
“Then explain yourselves and your mission. We have no time to parley or riddle. Know, little strangers, that you are on perilous ground for I am commanded to slay all whom I find in this land.” His hand creeps to his sword hilt.
I take a breath, not certain what to say without endangering the quest -- I have no experience in pleading for my life. “Good Captain, I cannot reveal the nature of our quest, but I can assure you that-“
“They are orc spies,” the rough voice behind me says, and two strong hands grab my upper arms. At the corner of my eye, I see Sam grabbed by another man. He is too terrified to speak, though he is closely watching me -- I know he will fight to the death if any of these men hurt me.
“Orc spies,” the Captain says thoughtfully. “Why should orcs use such spies as these? To what use?” He turns his keen glance back on me. “You had best explain yourself quickly.”
I can no longer control my panic, and I buck violently from side to side, thought bent only on escape, to tear into the woods away from these dangerous men. The more I struggle, the tighter the grip on my arms.
“What shall we do with them?” the man asks through clenched teeth, shaking me hard in an attempt to stop my struggles.
My voice comes out in a weedy, infuriated gasp that I am ashamed of, and yet the Captain listens intently. “I am Frodo Baggins, a hobbit - halfling -- of the Shire and this is my servant, Samwise Gamgee. We came out of Imladris with two other of my kin, an elf, a dwarf, two men, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil’s heir, and Boromir, the son of the steward of Gondor--” I stop, trying to catch my breath, knowing my time for pleading my case is coming to an end. The men gasp at the mention of Boromir, and I hear scattered murmuring and sighs. I have struck a nerve.
“Boromir!” the Captain says in a taut voice. “Boromir was my brother. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. You were a friend of his?”
I gasp, and all strength leaves my legs. That explains why he looks so familiar. I fall back into the man who continues to grip my arms with bruising strength. I have barely escaped Boromir’s lust for the Ring, only to encounter his brother in the wilderness. I cannot imagine how I will escape this…Though certainly there is something in Faramir’s face that was lacking in Boromir -- keen intelligence, less rashness. I wish that I have met him under different circumstances. I would love to sit beside him and listen to his soft voice as he tells me tales about his city.
“Release them,” Faramir says quietly to his men. The huge hands on my arms are suddenly gone, and I fall forward to my knees, too weak to move. Sam falls beside me.
“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?”
The Ring has slipped outside of my filthy shirt, and desperately, I try to push it back inside. Faramir has seen it.
“What is this?” he demands, kneeling beside me. I jump to my feet, holding my hand over my chest to protect the Ring. Faramir grips my wrist and yanks it down. I try to twist out of his grip, but it is no use -- he is too strong. My wrist flares with pain and I cry out, trying to shrink back.
Faramir releases my wrist, but he is holding the Ring, still on its chain around my neck.
“So it is true,” he says in a faint voice, gazing at the Ring in awe. “The tales are true. The dream was true.” His eyes harden as he turns his gaze to me. “I must insist you tell me what you are doing so close to Mordor with this weapon of the Enemy.”
I am now so frightened that my skin feels cold and detached from my body. My heart thuds, and I can barely hear my own voice. “I cannot. I took a vow to the council in Imladris not to reveal the mission to anyone outside of the fellowship. But Boromir was planning to come to Minas Tirith, and I am certain he will gladly tell you all you wish to know.”
Faramir gives a cynical chuckle, still clutching the Ring’s chain. “Boromir will tell all, say you? You were a good friend of Boromir’s?”
I hesitate. I try to evoke memories of Boromir at his best - Boromir teaching my young cousins sword play, Boromir lifting me out of a bed of snow to keep me from freezing to death, Boromir on more than one occasion putting his fur-lined cloak around me when he saw me shiver at night, Boromir rubbing my back in a soothing manner as he carried me out of Moria after Gandalf’s fall. I try to remember these images, but all that comes to my mind is the fiery gleam in his eyes as he stumbles after me, intent on taking the Ring.
“Yes, he was my friend. He was a valiant member of our fellowship.”
Faramir released the Ring’s chain. “Then you would grieve to know that he is dead.”
I look at him, trying to read his expression. Had I misread this man? Was this a cruel joke? Was he playing with me, trying to trap me with false words?
“Dead-“ I falter. I shake my head. My wrist is beginning to throb. I do not think it is broken. I broke my wrist when I was ten, falling out of a tree, and that was a different, much sharper pain. “But…but how?” I feel dizzy.
“I was hoping that you, his friend and companion, would be able to tell me.”
I hear Sam choke, and I, too, wish to weep, not so much for the valiant man of Gondor, but because if he - great warrior as he was -- has fallen, then surely more of my companions have perished with him.
“No, no,” I say. “He cannot be dead. Because if he is dead, then…then all my companions must be dead.”
Faramir’s eyes soften, and he looks past me, to a point in the far distance. He speaks a long time about a vision he has had of Boromir’s death, though I barely listen. I can only imagine Merry and Pippin lying cold and dead, their innocent laughter stayed forever. I can only imagine Aragorn lying broken on the ground. A tear rolls down my face. I cradle my injured hand close to my chest. Faramir has handled the Ring’s chain, but he has made no further attempt to take it.
Faramir is looking at me expectantly. I have not heard what he has just said.
“I am sorry?”
“Are you injured?” he asks. “Your hand?”
“It hurts, but it is really nothing.”
Faramir, who is still kneeling in front of me, takes my hand and examines it. In contrast to before, his touch is gentle now, as he prods at the dark bruises that are already forming on my fair skin. He releases a dismayed sigh.
“I am sorry,” he says. “I do not know my strength sometimes.” He looks at me, his gray eyes grave, deep with compassion. My heart lifts again with new hope that perhaps this man, who has handled the Ring and has not taken it from me, may help. “I consider myself a good judge of men, or of halflings as is your case, and you, Frodo Baggins, I doubt no longer. However, there is much to decide and I cannot allow you to wander free in this land. I must take you with me to our hidden stronghold. There we will discuss what will come next. And if you will trust me, you may find that I can help you.”
***
We have been talking for hours, Faramir asking many questions about the fellowship, the quest, and Boromir, and me trying to dodge any question that hit too close to the mark of the purpose of the fellowship. Sam has fallen asleep, curling on a chair nearby, bless him. He has barely slept in days.
I have fallen in love with the sound of Faramir’s voice and his gentle gaze upon me now that he knows I am not an enemy. I long to fall into his arms and lay the burden on him. I wonder what he would do if I crawled onto his lap and lay my head against his chest. I blush at the thought.
“I do not think you need fear that your friends are all dead,” he says. “Certainly the orcs did not array my brother as for a funeral.”
I love him for this simple reminder; my morbid mind has been too stubborn to realize this obvious truth.
My stomach is warm with wine, but I am weary, weary beyond belief. I will soon leave this haven and this kind man for a much darker path.
“Come, I think it is time you got some sleep,” Faramir finally says, squeezing my shoulder. I will sleep well tonight. I trust him. He has all the qualities that I loved about Boromir, and none of the qualities that I distrusted. His touch sends a strange pulse through me. I imagine him squeezed beside me in my bed, his strong arms around me, protecting me from the wheel of fire. I blush again, and this time he notices. He smiles at me as he brushes his fingertips over my face. “Your skin…so soft,” he says. “You are a wondrous new people to me…so brave.”
“No,” I say, a lump filling my throat. “I feel weak and hopeless, though your kindness is certainly a beacon of light.”
“What will you do with this…evil instrument of…” he waves vaguely to the east. “I will not name it. Earlier, when I held your chain, it called to me with foul voice…I can see how evil it is.”
I pause as I scoot forward in my stool. I am shaking, trembling from the events of the day.
“I must destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom…It is the only way…I do not think I shall ever make it.”
I try to stand, but I have no strength. The room tilts and darkens, but I never hit the ground.
***
I open my eyes. I am in a soft bed, low to the ground. Faramir sits on the edge of the bed.
“Stay,” I whisper. He turns to me in surprise, his lips slightly parted.
His eyes glow with desire and curiosity, though he quickly squelches it. “Frodo, you need rest.”
He bends over me to tuck me under the covers, and when he is close enough, I coil my hands behind his neck and pull him down, opening my mouth to him. His lips are soft and warm, and I have been in need of such pleasure for so long. Faramir does not resist. Placing his hands on either side of my head, clutching the pillow, he presses his lips to mine. I wriggle my tongue in his mouth, and he lets out a pleasant gasp.
He pulls back, letting his hands fall on my cheeks. “Frodo,” he says with a slight smile, as if he loves the sound of my name on his tongue. He rubs his hands over my cheeks as if trying to warm them. “Frodo, you need your rest.”
“I know,” I say, though my body tingles with need. Rest is the last thing on my mind.
“You begin the darkest part of your journey tomorrow…I would not have you go more weary than when you came to me. And…” His smile fades, his eyes darkening like a winter sky. “I will not give away my heart in such evil times.”
I understand. I do not know that I will have a heart to give when this is over. I do not know that I will survive. I know I shall go forth with the good will of men, and I will hold strong the memory of the grave young Captain of Gondor who resisted the call of the Ring.
I close my eyes. I feel his hesitation above me…only for a moment. He plants a gentle kiss on my brow before leaving me in weary silence. I am alone. The fiery wheel burns behind my eyes, but it is not as vivid. Tonight the memory of warm, soft lips and gray eyes will overpower it.
End