Faramir Fiction Archive

Dark and Dangerous (PG-13)

Written by Helmboy

22 December 2007 | 7800 words

Part Three

The following morning, in the stable of the King’s House

Faramir had not breakfasted that morning. He had packed his saddlebags and made his condolences to the family, holding Éowyn as she wept. The king had sat in a stupor as usual, his seedy disrepair unnerving as around him the court fell into despair. The night before, a tightening of security had rendered harmless the King’s Cohort and they stood nearby, glowering and showing such intensity of hatred it was painful to watch. He averted his gaze, making his farewells as he noticed Gríma nearby in the shadows. He was hovering, his eyes fixed upon the tall and noble form of the handsome ‘Spare’ of Gondor.

When he felt that he had made Gondor’s condolences well enough to the family, he turned and walked through the hall. People huddled here and there in knots of deep despair, mourning clothes adorned them and the women wore their hair free of cover. Overall, it was deeply depressing. Stepping out into the cold morning air, he surveyed the scene and fell in love with Edoras all over again. It was a very big city, deceptively so from the far off roads that led to the King’s house, which was perched on a magnificent and rugged outcropping of stone. It was as if the broken back of the world had thrust upward toward the sun, casting its bits and pieces here and there on the flat and wind-swept plain all around. Dramatic would be a small word for what he saw. Houses dotted the mound, winding streets of houses that made up the bulk of the capital of Rohan.

Villages further outward from the center complimented this great metropolis, adding to the commerce and artfulness of the people of this realm. He loved to come here, to spend time among the people who were so open and good. Rohan was a treasure of Middle Earth and it was his honor to be a friend of the family. They were his fall back people, the royal family of this kingdom and he felt a sense of homeliness here that too often he did not feel in Minas Tirith. His brother, Boromir, was his delight and his center but often he was gone and it was a bitter thing. Here, he was another son and brother and it was good for him to come.

He paused by the doors, staring back down the hall. Meduseld was a beautiful building, filled with tradition and skills of construction that called to your deeper instincts of place and value. It urged you to feel the power and strength of the people who built it. Gondor’s great hall was cold, overpowering and a testament to generations of kings. This was intimate. It was home in more ways than he cared to articulate and so with a heavy heart he turned and walked out into the cold and clear skied outdoors.

Snow packed beneath every step he took as he hurried to the stables. People gathered in groups around the hall, whispering and watching as he swept past. Down the slope to the stable he walked, nonchalant and calm appearing as he entered. Horsemen were there and they acknowledged him with nods. He nodded back and turned to the stall where his horse awaited, puffs of his breath hanging in the air around his head. It was cold and he stamped a hoof, ready to go wherever the young man wanted.

“I’m here, my friend,” Faramir said, rubbing the animal’s back with a handful of straw. It took only minutes to saddle up and tie his bags onto the saddle. Standing in the stall, waiting, he considered whether Gríma was smitten enough to take the bait he had laid out. It did not take long to get an answer. A tall man, one of Gríma’s, grim-faced and sullen, stepped from a nearby stall and walked up to where Faramir stood. He peered over the stall and then around the stable before speaking.

“Gríma told me to give you a message,” he said, his voice hoarse and low.

Faramir nodded, saying nothing.

The man shifted for a moment, disconcerted. “Gríma is going to meet you two miles from here, down the road towards Gondor.”

Faramir nodded again, his gaze never wavering. The man shifted again, nodding and turning, leaving silently through the back way. Faramir watched him go and smiled, tugging on the reins for his horse to follow. Walking through the stable, pausing in the yard in front of the barn, he looked back up at the hall, stark against the blue of the sky. The clouds had moved off a little and the sun was bright if not warm. Meduseld was magnificent he thought as he mounted his horse. Riding slowly down the winding road that led to the gates and freedom beyond, he noted the mourning that suffused the city.

People were streaming in as Faramir left, heading toward the hall and the coming funeral of their champion. He tapped his horses side, gathering speed as he turned toward the southeast and Gondor. Somewhere along the way, Gríma waited, ready to join him on the journey. The thought of it made Faramir smile as the bitter cold of the morning breeze stung his cheeks.

The house was settled in a valley, barely seen from the road. They had gathered there, drawing comfort from the roaring turf fire and a plain but filling lunch of cheese, bread and butter and cold meat. The beer was strong but tasty, taking the edge off the ride from Edoras through the darkness of early morning. All they could do now was wait.

He stood by a tree, shifting on his frozen feet, cursing himself for his weak indulgence. He could be home in a warm bed savoring the death of a major rival, yet here he was freezing under a tree on the road to Gondor. He was thinking with his dick he knew but he could not and would not do other. Something dark and sickly sweet hid behind the handsome façade of the tall soldier from Gondor. He was the key to even more power than he already had. They could mesh their achievements and be stronger than any other coalition or single entity in the lands of the world of Middle Earth. Certainly, they would together be stronger than Saruman.

Saruman. The word stuck in his craw and he felt his bile rising. Saruman, who never had a good word to say to him, never a thank you or a hello, he raged silently. He would be sorry now. He would be sorry that his most faithful follower had taken bold steps toward his own shining destiny and had done it without his help. He, Gríma Wormtongue, was now the de-facto King of Rohan. It would be the happiest day of his life to receive Saruman in his hall, sitting on his throne, in his city, in his country. Saruman would rue the day.

As his cheer began to rise, Gríma noted a rider coming over the rise. He could see it was Faramir and so he turned, boarding his own horse with difficulty. Turning, he rode out to the road to meet the rider and waited, his breath forming clouds around his head as he sat. Faramir slowed to a stop before him and Gríma coughed, clearing his throat. “You took your time.”

“You whine too much, Gríma. You are lucky you are here. If you had not come, I would have had to come and get you.”

Gríma considered the pleasant expression on Faramir’s face. “You enjoy this sort of thing. You enjoy murder.”

Faramir smiled slightly. “Let us leave shall we?” With that, Faramir started down the road, moving at a decent pace with Gríma behind, working to catch up.

Darkness was coming when they reached a little house nestled in a valley. Faramir had turned down the road that led to the door, his keen eyes spotting what Gríma had missed. They arrived in the darkness, illuminated only by light streaming from tiny windows. Faramir dismounted and started toward a small barn next to the house. Gríma, watching, dismounted and followed, his wary eyes darting here and there are if expecting attack from all sides. The various knives secreted all over his body comforted him.

They entered a barn that housed a number of horses, their saddles stacked in the corner on the racks for such things. There were saddles of Rohan and Gondor. There was tack from places he had never seen. Gríma tugged the saddle from his horse and followed Faramir’s lead, rubbing the horse with burlap and pulling down fodder for the rudimentary manger that the two horses would share.

Faramir, finishing, turned and started for the house, leaving a puzzled and intrigued Gríma to scramble in his wake. The cold hit them like a sledgehammer after the welcomed warmth of the barn. Trudging through ever deepening snow, they arrived at the house and knocked. It opened and they entered, bending down to clear the doorway.

Inside, it was warm and cozy. Several men sat by the fire, some with pipes, others with jars of beer. They stared at the two of them without comment as the mistress of the house bade them to sit. She put food before them and beer and they ate without comment. The other men began to talk softly together and overall, it was comfortable. When Faramir finished, he rose and walked to the fireplace, joining the men seated around it. Gríma, standing beside the table, considered what to do. None of the men appeared too eager to invite him and even if they did, there was nowhere in the group to sit.

He stood for a moment weighing his options and then decided to be bold. He walked up and stood behind Faramir, the heat of the fire welcoming to him. As he did, a man rose and turned silently, walking to the table. He sat down and began to stuff his pipe from a pouch in his pocket. Gríma, watching him for a moment, moved to the empty spot and sat. For a moment, all was well if silent. Then all the men rose save for Faramir and turned, stepping back to stand by the wall behind them. Gríma, startled, looked behind him before glancing at Faramir. The Gondorian was silent and seemingly unconcerned about the men moving away. Gríma looked at the grim men staring at him and then back to Faramir, concern rising inside. “What is the meaning of this? Is there something wrong?”

“There is,” Faramir said softly. “Something very, very wrong.”

Gríma began to rise until one of the men stepped forward and shoved him back into his seat. He sat, glancing with fear from one face to another, beseeching with his eyes for Faramir to intercede. Faramir cleared his throat and sighed. “I would tell you what is wrong, Gríma, but there is someone else who can do a much finer job than I.”

Gríma looked at him as he rose, moving away from the seat that he had occupied. From the back of the room through curtains acting as a door, a familiar figure stepped. He stared at them and gasped, looking around the room wildly for any avenue of escape that was possible. There was none and so he sat, grasping his robes in his hands as he began to sweat profusely. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he asked.

“I would think you would grasp the matter handily, Gríma. Wormtongue,” Éomer said, moving to sit on the chair next to his nemesis.

“You are dead. I saw your body myself.”

“You saw what we wanted you to see,” Éomer said, his voice soft with menace.

For a moment, there was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the sound of the wind around the corner of the house. Gríma turned shades of pale and outrage silently and they watched him, pitiless in their manner.

“What do you intend to do with me?” he finally asked, looking from Éomer to Faramir and back again.

“We have to discuss that,” Éomer said. He rose and moved to stand beside Faramir. He glanced at the others and nodded. They turned and filed out of the room, disappearing behind the curtains into another part of the house.

“You are dismissing witnesses to your foul deeds?” Gríma asked bitterly as he began to shiver with fear and tension.

Éomer looked at Gríma the way a predator looks at prey. Then he slipped his arm around Faramir’s waist. He tugged the tall man toward him and Faramir slipped his arms around Éomer’s shoulders. Without another word, Éomer leaned in and kissed Faramir on his lips, lingering for a moment before turning a triumphant expression to his enemy. “You have no idea how long I have waited to do this, Gríma. To show you how much contempt I feel for you.” He slackened his grip on his lover and moved back to sit before him, their knees nearly touching. “That you could think in the passage of ages of men that Faramir could ever want you just gladdens my heart to a degree that heals me of the many hurts that you have heaped upon my family. I can stand before you feeling nothing but pity instead of the fury of hatred that has been my lot since you came into our lives. You are responsible for the death of my cousin, Théodred and the enslavement of my uncle.”

“I did nothing of the sort, my Lord,” Gríma replied, glancing from Faramir to Éomer and back. “I have done nothing but serve the king and your family with all the skill and dedication I could muster. You are wrong.”

“Am I wrong to think that you would have Faramir too? That on top of all that you stole from me, you could steal him too?”

“He murdered you. He stabbed you with his own knife,” Gríma retorted, leaning a bit back from Éomer.

“And so it looked did it not?” Faramir said, moving to sit on the edge of a shelf. He grinned. “You died well, my friend.”

Éomer grinned at Faramir. “Thank you,” he replied, the softness of his voice tender and filled with love. He rose and stood, staring down at Gríma. Then he looked at Faramir, enjoying the beauty of light on his hair as it reflected from a lantern on a hook behind him. “What we have to do now, my true and most beloved friend is decide what to do about Gríma.”

Faramir nodded and smiled.

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