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Family Games (NC-17)
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 6. Over the Edge
Horse hooves clicked briskly as the riders one by one entered the great stone bridge, Faramir at the front, Orophin after him, and another Ranger bringing up the rear.
Even though Orophin had said naught, Faramir had seen his surprise and pleasure when it became apparent that although the Elf was given a swift hale mount, his hands were to remain untied and no convoy was to be appointed to him for the journey. Faramir had even felt awkward about the glance of gratitude Orophin had cast him, for this was hardly a gesture of great trust on the captain’s behalf: all along their route throughout the woods there would be soldiers hidden amid the trees guarding their path should the enemy arrive, and without his bow and special cloak Orophin would hardly stand a chance of getaway should he attempt something rash.
But Orophin had attempted nothing, even though he did grow progressively gloomy as they approached the River, and with it the City. The Elf had stopped talking altogether as the small party went through the eastern half of the ruins of Osgiliath, the numerous soldiers garrisoned there stopping to stare and whisper as he passed.
And now, as the three rode up the curve of the bridge, the great towering mass of Mount Mindolluin coming into view some twenty miles ahead, its snowy peak dyed golden by the lowering sun, Faramir felt compelled to say something nice and encouraging.
But just as he was about to, Orophin told him quietly, “Don’t turn.”
The Man frowned. “What?”
“Slow down, but don’t turn.”
Faramir brought his horse down to a walk, and so did the second Ranger.
“Orophin, what is it…?”
The Elf steered his mare to ride abreast with Faramir. “There are Orcs on the other side,” he stated very calmly, looking ahead of himself with an unperturbed expression.
“On the western bank? How is that possible…? Are you sure?” Faramir murmured back, his features just as unfazed.
“I am afraid so,” Orophin inclined his head just a little. “I don’t know how they got there – perhaps came down the river last night, and are waiting for nightfall to make a diversion. No matter: they are there for certain, I can smell them, and I can see at least a handful of them too. They’re over there at the base of the bridge down by the water, hiding amid the boulders.”
Faramir’s face grew stern. “Do they know we know of them?”
Orophin raised his brows, “Not yet, I think not – but they are waiting for us, and shan’t let us pass. Not even if we try to charge through.”
The Man closed his eyes for a second before saying heavily, “We can’t go back either, we’re already more than half way over – they have bows, I assume?”
“Oh, yes.”
Faramir fell quiet for a moment, thinking quick as their horses moved along. There were plenty of their men on the western side, just no one near the water…
“The Orcs could shoot us from where they are the moment they suspect anything…” he mused under his breath, then said a little louder, “Here’s what we’ll do – Neardil, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Captain,” the Ranger behind them replied in a lowered voice.
“I shall blow the alarm on my horn – and as I do, you two leave your mounts and haul yourselves into the water, you’ll stand a better chance this way. There’s no point in staying here, you wouldn’t be able to strike back.”
“And what of you, Captain?” Neardil asked a little hoarsely.
“I shall follow,” Faramir replied evenly. If they don’t get me first, he did not add. “Orophin…?”
“Yes, I understood.”
“Right,” freeing his feet from the stirrups, Faramir took a deep breath and in as inconspicuous a way as he could, reached down to his hip where a small silver horn was hanging on a strap.
Then many things happened at once.
Faramir raised the horn to his lips.
Two black-clad Uruks stood tall at the bridge’s foot almost directly in front of the approaching riders, their bows ready to fire.
Orophin let out a high piercing cry as he threw himself sideways at Faramir.
Two twangs resonated in the air as two arrows were discharged.
Neardil’s horse shrieked in a shrill panicked voice and reared.
The call of the horn never came to sound, for the collision was so forceful it hammered Faramir right out of the saddle, sending the man over the bridge’s parapet straight into the running deeps below. He not so much saw as rather felt two streaks of black hiss over them through the air as the darts missed their target by a fraction of a second.
Before the man hit the surface and went under he had had time to apprehend only one thing: Orophin who had initially clung to him was not now falling with him, and thus must be still on the bridge.
And indeed it was so, for the impetus of the Elf’s leap had only been enough to push Faramir over, whereas he himself landed on the different side of the carven railing, slumping heavily onto the stone pavement. Orophin did not see Neardil’s stallion rise on its hind legs, nor did he see the Ranger slip off its back: he had other things demanding his attention. The Elf was now directly under his own and Faramir’s horses, and much as the animals were trained for battle, the situation proved just a little too much for them. Orophin rolled away from them towards the edge, searching for a gap in the parapet large enough to slip through, and at once trying to cover his head from the wildly flying hooves.
It was not his head the blow landed on, however.
He rather heard than felt the crushing snap of the bone as his vision was covered with blazing darkness. A heartbeat later a searing, mind-erasing pain exploded in his upper arm – and then he finally rolled down into the river and remembered no more.
Faramir, on the other hand, had just resurfaced from his plunge. At once he saw the Orcs had lost all interest in the three of them, for the noise had evoked a clamour from both banks, and soldiers could be seen – and heard – running in great numbers towards the bridge, weapons at the ready.
Faramir’s gear had grown heavy and was pulling him down just as the current was drawing him away, and he hurriedly rid himself of his cape and boots, and swam back towards the tall stone arch, his eyes searching the dark waters for signs of his companions.
By the time Faramir dragged the half-unconscious Elf onto the bank, everything was over, and men were running towards them.
“Are you hurt?” many voices asked Faramir, no one addressing him by name or rank as apparently he was not recognised. He did not care.
“No, but…” breathing heavily from his burden, he nodded at Orophin. The Elf coughed up water and groaned dully, then twitched and sucked his teeth sharply.
Faramir had perceived back when he caught the Elf that something was wrong with his arm, and had done his best to avoid touching it – and now as he gingerly lowered Orophin onto the rocky shore, he saw crimson rapidly spreading over the Elf’s right sleeve. When he carefully cut the sodden clinging fabric away, the young man could not contain a loud gasp, for fragments of the arm’s fractured bone were sticking forth right through the torn muscles and skin, and blood was leaking everywhere.
Tearing a strip off his own tunic to use as a tourniquet, Faramir looked over the gathered crowd and, spotting a familiar face, commanded, “Neardil, get me a fast horse. He must to be taken to the City at once.”
The rest of the journey to Minas Tirith was swift and blessedly uneventful, and shortly before sundown Faramir rushed the bleeding Orophin into the main ward of the Houses of Healing. Thence, after an inevitable albeit brief expression of utter amazement at this unusual charge, the healers took over.
Faramir’s gear was still somewhat damp from the dive he had taken, and the boots he had borrowed did not exactly fit, and on the whole he was far from blithe, yet the man waved away all attention directed at him, and refused to either leave for a rest or have someone busy themselves with bringing him food and fresh clothes. He was not even aware of his weariness and discomfort, for all that truly interested him in that time was that all turn out well with Orophin.
When his injury was tended to, the bone set in place, the softer tissues stitched and a cast applied, the pale-faced Elf was led to a bed by one of the windows, where he lay down quietly and soon slept, overtaken by the fatigue of pain.
For a long while after the healers left to attend to other patients Faramir stood motionless over him, the Man’s expression sad and troubled as he gazed upon the pallid features of his new friend. Orophin had always come across as young, but now in his rest he appeared even more so, no older than Faramir himself, barely past the May of his youth. And although with his mind Faramir understood this impression to be deceptive, at least in terms of the actual count of years Orophin had walked the earth, the man could not defy the sudden inkling that the one he knew for a fierce skillful warrior and a wondrously versed partner for discourse, was but a lost child on some other, deeper level. So innocent, so unprotected, so easy to hurt, to take advantage of, so unprepared for life he looked lying now on the narrow hospital bed with his sunny hair strewn across the washed-out bedding, alone in the heart of an alien land numberless miles away from the place he no longer considered home. And seeing Orophin thus Faramir felt an ache clench his chest, and was overcome with the sensation of immense, even somewhat intimidating responsibility for him and a powerful desire to take care of him, to make certain he would inflict no more woe upon himself. He was too fine, too special, too unspoilt of heart to deal with the filth and evils of the world…
Faramir frowned and heaved a sigh, for the first time coming to doubt in earnest whether he had done right… But what else could have he done…? What is it the Elf would have needed…?
Oh, but there is something you have not told me, my good Orophin. The root of your passion was neither your infatuation with the fair Ithilien, nor your loathing for the Orcs – something else haunts you. You are clever, and sensible, yet what you did was not only irrational and pointless, it was… desperate.
Faramir was brought out of his thoughts when footsteps fell just behind him, and he turned to see his father approach.
“So this is what all the commotion in Ithilien was about,” Denethor mused with an unreadable expression after he had studied the sleeping Elf for quite some minutes. Hugging himself across the waist, he stroked his chin with his other hand. “How interesting, how very interesting indeed…”
“Father, please, do not be angry with him,” Faramir appealed to the Steward with as much feeling as he could allow himself without forgetting his place. “No ill intent had brought him to Ithilien, and he has slain many Orcs – nor had he ever intended to harm our men, although he was greatly wary of us. I have learnt his tale, and I deem it well explains his being in our land, if not entirely justifies it… And for what it’s worth, he is really quite a fascinating person.”
“I am sure he is,” Denethor murmured to himself rather than to his son, then looked at Faramir and nodded to him. “‘Tis quite an extraordinary case, and you’ve done well to seek my judgement, although…” he raised his brows and exhaled slowly, but then waved it away. “Nay, ‘tis no matter, ‘tis all for the best.”
At that moment the head of the Houses approached hurriedly and bowed to the Steward in greeting.
“My Lord…”
“What can you say?” Denethor gestured towards the Elf.
The healer drummed his fingers on his lower lip in rumination. “He seems to be doing well, sire,” he said slowly in a tone implying the man was rather surprised by that matter. “I wouldn’t go as far as to bet my money on that arm ever being good for battle again, although who can say for certain with this kind of folk, they are not made like us: mayhap he will grow himself a new bone… In any case he’s doing spectacularly well after such a loss of blood, and as there is no other damage, he’ll live. That is unless the wound should become inflamed, which is highly possible since he fell in the water and there could have been any kind of dirt in it – then there is no telling… But we have done all we could –”
“I am sure you have,” Denethor observed absently, and the healer at once fell into polite silence. “And I have a strong feeling he shall fare just fine: indeed, he is not made like us.” The Steward dismissed the man with a nod of his head and addressed Faramir once more, “He shan’t be needing you for the present, much as you apparently need not worry over his health. Come with me now, my son: you could use some rest and a meal, and meanwhile you can tell me that tale – and everything else of relevance concerning your service. And on the morrow when your companion awakes, I shall speak with both of you, and we shall see what to do about him.”
Faramir smiled, at a loss for what to reply, and followed quietly when Denethor turned to leave. Never had the young captain encountered such lenient uninquisitive disposition on behalf of his father, especially regarding a potentially troublesome subject – and as indeed Faramir was still quite young, it filled him with nothing but hope, and already he began to feel refreshed and rested.
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Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #