Faramir Fiction Archive

Faramir's Dilemma (R)

Written by RubyElf

05 March 2011 | 19031 words

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 3)
Author: RubyElf
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Legolas, Merry, Pippin… and so on.
Rating: PG13 (no guarantees it’ll stay that way…)
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: Boromir sends orders. Éomer makes some suggestions. Hobbits, as usual, make it impossible for anyone to get anything done.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

Training for new job = information overload = brain functioning at minimal capacity! Loving every minute of it, though!

So, here is some stuff. Yeah. Woooo.

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Part 3

Faramir stayed in bed for a while, pretending to be asleep when Miriel looked in on him, and waited until the house was quiet before getting up and wandering around the empty rooms. He eventually found his way to the small library where the King and Queen kept a selection of their favorite books. Faramir had long ago been given an open invitation to come here and read if the other libraries were in use or didn’t have what he was looking for. Many of the books in this private collection were in Quenya, which Faramir ordinarily read fairly well, and he scanned the titles on the shelves with a vague idea in the back of his head that he might impress a certain pretty handmaiden with his fluency if he could find a book of poems or something like that. He pulled down a likely-looking leather-bound volume and opened it, but found to his annoyance that the curved letters blurred and fuzzed when he tried to focus on them, setting off the stabbing pain in his head again.

After debating for a moment, he decided that there was a good chance Legolas was bored enough that he might be willing to read and translate poetry just for something to do, so he went and knocked on the door.

After a long moment, he heard, “That had better not be that little wench who was in here earlier.”

“No, but I could pretend to be, if throwing things at me would put you in a better mood.”

“Well, come in, then… I’m out of things to throw at the moment anyway.”

He found the elf exactly where he’d been the day before, hands still behind his head, still staring absently at the ceiling. His eyes flicked over to glance at Faramir, but the rest of him remained perfectly still, and his gaze seemed distant, as if he were not entirely awake.

“Have you moved at all since I saw you last?” the man asked.

“Not really.”

“What have you been doing?”

“I tried sleeping, but that didn’t last long.”

“I didn’t know elves slept.”

“We do… not often, and it’s not necessary. It would be entirely possible for an elf to never sleep at all. When we need rest it’s sufficient to find a little time in a quiet place to let our minds drift and relax, but we’re still aware of everything that’s happening around us.”

“Is that why I’ve heard that elves sleep with their eyes open?”

“Probably. Most men alive today know very little about elves in general. And to my great annoyance, the ones they seem to consider as representative of elvenkind are the endlessly graceful and cultured residents of Imaldris and Lórien.”

“They’re not proper representatives?”

Legolas frowned. “How many men know what deadly warriors elves are capable of being?”

“Well, anyone who’s ever seen you fight, for one.”

Legolas, now fully alert, glanced over at him again. “What do you have there?”

“Oh, this? It’s a book.”

“Yes, Faramir, I can see that it’s a book. You’re the one with the head injury, not me.”

“If you’re going to be unpleasant I’ll leave you alone to count cracks in the ceiling again.”

Legolas smiled slightly. “What sort of book is it?”

“I think it’s poetry…”

“You think? The title’s in Quenya… you read Quenya, don’t you?”

“Right now it appears I don’t read much of anything,” he admitted. “I tried, but it made my head spin.”

“Well, let me see it.”

Faramir handed over the book, and Legolas thumbed through the pages for a few minutes.

“It’s a volume of poetry… but I don’t think it’s the sort of poetry you’re looking for.”

“What is… wait, what sort of poetry do you think I’m looking for?”

Legolas grinned. “I expect you’re looking for something romantic and charming to impress a certain handmaiden. This is a rather poetic version of the story of Melkor’s corruption of the Music of the Ainur, among other things. Interesting, but not very romantic.”

Faramir scowled. “Of course, I find it now, when I probably couldn’t read my own name without my head hurting.”

Legolas turned his head and looked at him. “I don’t seem to be having any trouble with my eyes, and I’ve got nothing but time at the moment. Would you like me to read some of it aloud?”

Faramir sat down in the armchair. “It would be a way to pass the time… and I wouldn’t object to the distraction.”

“Ah, yes. Master Peregrine isn’t very good at keeping secrets, is he?”

“What do you know…”

“Have you forgotten that elves have excellent hearing? And Arwen raised her voice with him, which you know doesn’t happen often. She’s quite protective of you, you know.”

“She is?”

“All three of them. She and Aragorn and your brother.”

“Of course they are,” Faramir sighed. “Obviously the Captain of Gondor’s Rangers can’t look after himself.”

“I don’t think it’s your abilities as a warrior they’re concerned about.”

“Oh?”

Legolas picked up the book again. “Shall I read it as it is or translate it?”

“What? Oh… either one. It will probably sound better in Quenya even if I don’t catch all of it.”

The morning wore away; Legolas never seemed to tire of reading, and Faramir, who had never had the opportunity to hear the formal elven language read aloud in the form of poetry, found himself lulled into sitting back and letting the flow of the words pass over him, catching only a fraction of the content.

A knock on the door startled both of them out of their reverie.

“What?” Legolas demanded sharply.

“I’m looking for Captain Faramir… I have an urgent message for him.”

Alarmed, Faramir stood up quickly, displeased by the sudden spinning in his head that the sudden motion caused, and stumbled to the door. He opened it to find a young soldier standing in the hall.

“What’s the message?”

“It’s from Lord Boromir, sir.”

“Why? What happened?”

The young man’s mouth twitched slightly as if fighting a grin. “Lord Boromir sends word that since he was not able to return to the city last night due to the intensity of orc resistance, it is essential that you proceed to his rooms immediately.”

“What for?”

The twitch in the soldier’s mouth became a barely controlled smile. “He instructs that you are to let the dog out and take her to the garden. You are to have a maid come and clean up whatever… damages might have occurred, and you are to make sure the dog has had her breakfast.”

“I see.”

“And some milk.”

“Milk?”

“Lord Boromir’s instructions, sir,” the soldier blurted out, and then fled down the hall without being dismissed, his laughter poorly muffled. Legolas glanced at Faramir.

“Can you imagine the look on your brother’s face while he actually dictated that message?”

Faramir snorted. “Oh, I can. And I’m quite enjoying it. But I suppose someone should see to the poor thing… Aragorn probably fed her last night, but she’ll be hungry this morning… not to mention the mess she’s probably left.”

“And of course, she must have her milk,” Legolas said.

Faramir grinned. “Of course. I’ll go tend to her, and then I’ll come back and see what I can find for lunch.”

Finn was deliriously happy to see Faramir, and jumped at him, barking excitedly, as soon as he unlocked the door. Faramir chuckled and rubbed the puppy’s head.

“Do you want to go to the garden for a bit?”

She beamed up at him, tongue lolling happily.

“Well, then. Shall we?”

Finn bolted down the hall; she knew her way to the small garden that Boromir had claimed as her playground and restroom. Faramir opened the gate and followed her in, brushing a light dusting of snow off one of the benches before sitting down. Finn sniffed, bounded, and galloped back and forth across the garden for a while before coming to sit at Faramir’s feet expectantly.

“What… oh, you’re hungry, aren’t you. Let’s go by the kitchen and see what we can get for you.”

At the word “kitchen”, Finn’s ears flicked and her eyes widened. She knew her way to this location just as well as to the garden, and trotted along with a determined expression, barely glancing at the guards she passed. The sight of two small figures down the hall, however, drew her full attention, and she took off running toward them. Before either one could flee, they had both been bowled over and thoroughly licked until Faramir grabbed Finn by the collar and pulled her back.

“Hey, there! What’s gotten into you?”

“I do believe,” Merry said, sitting up, “that since our first meeting, she mistakenly assumed that hobbits are jelly-flavored.”

Faramir decided not to ask about that, but did turn and give a stern look to the other hobbit, the one trying to sneak away around the corner.

“Pippin, come back here.”

Pippin came back, eyes lowered and looking quite miserable.

“There’s no sense in shouting at him, Faramir,” Merry said. “Arwen already did, and that was more than enough. The poor idiot didn’t even mean what it sounded like he meant.”

Pippin rubbed his face with one fist and refused to look at Faramir.

“Tell him what you meant, Pip.”

“I just meant that Éowyn always has her kitchen make a big feast when we get there. And doesn’t growl at us or tell us we’ve ruined her week by showing up.”

Faramir smiled. “Boromir didn’t mean that, silly hobbit. He adores you two.”

“Is he that dreadfully rude to everyone he adores?” Merry asked.

“Have you ever heard him and Aragorn be in the same room for more than ten minutes without getting annoyed with each other?”

“He has a point,” Merry noted.

Pippin looked hopeful. “Are you terribly angry with me, Faramir?”

He shook his head. “No, Pippin. I’m not angry with you.”

Both hobbits grinned broadly.

“I told you he had more sense than his brother,” Pippin said.

“I’m not sure that’s saying much, Pip. I think I’ve met orcs with more sense than his brother.”

“Oh? And how many orcs have you met, Meriadoc? Besides the ones that tied us up and whacked you in the head?”

“Well, there’s all those ones I killed in battle…”

“Pssh! You probably bored them to death with your stupid stories.”

“No… I just told them some of your jokes,” Merry retorted, as Faramir and the puppy both decided they had no further part in the discussion and headed off down the hall.

Faramir installed Finn back in Boromir’s rooms with a plate of kitchen scraps and a bowl of milk. She gave him a slightly reproachful look when he walked to the door, but apparently the meal was more important than the company, and she went back to eating.

Having not eaten much in the way of breakfast, Faramir’s mind was on lunch when he wandered into the royal residence. He expected to find Miriel, and vaguely hoped she might be setting the table for a meal, but when he walked into the main room, the elf maid was nowhere in sight.

“Miriel?” he called.

A deep chuckle rumbled behind him. “I sent her off for a while.”

Faramir began to turn to face the unexpected voice, but a pair of enormously strong arms pinned his arms to his sides, and a rough bearded face was laughing against the side of his neck.

“Would you prefer me to go away and have her come back?”

“That depends,” Faramir said. “She’s more likely to feed me.”

“True,” Éomer agreed. “But there are some things I’d guess she won’t do.”

“I imagine you’re right about that.”

Another chuckle. “I heard that you’d been told some stories about your brother’s visit to Edoras in his younger days.”

“Well… I did hear something…”

“Anything interesting?”

“I didn’t really get much in the way of details…”

“I could give you a first-hand account.”

Faramir squirmed. “I don’t know…”

“I thought you were looking to get rid of some of that excess of virtue, young Faramir.”

“Did I say that?”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m quite certain you did.”

He became aware that he was being gradually walked backwards toward Éomer’s guest room, and contemplated resisting, but managed to convince himself that he could always make his escape later if he deemed it necessary. At that moment, though, loud shouting erupted in the hall, and then the main doors were flung open and Merry burst in, breathless and laughing, with a large jar under each arm and a furious Pippin on his heels.

“Give those back! You don’t even like canned peaches!”

“You’re right! But I like making sure you don’t get any!”

Merry spotted the two men first and skidded to a stop; Pippin crashed into him, and both of them frantically scrambled for a moment to prevent the two jars of sliced peaches from hitting the floor. When they finally came to a halt in a tangle of arms and legs with the two jars balanced between them, Éomer had released Faramir and was leaning against the wall, shaking his head with an expression somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

“I’d heard hobbits had a habit of always showing up at exactly the wrong time, but apparently I’ve seen the proof for myself,” he muttered, glancing at the other man.

Faramir, who was still trying to decide if they’d arrived at exactly the wrong time or exactly the right time, shook his head. “Hobbits are a force of nature. Nothing to be done about it, really.”

“Well,” Éomer said, clapping him on the shoulder with a hand strong enough to bruise. “I suppose if those two are here, I might as well get back before Aragorn gets annoyed with me for sneaking out and leaving him to manage that meeting by himself.”

Faramir and both hobbits watched until the door closed behind Éomer. Then both hobbits turned to look at Faramir, who could only chuckle and duck back into the hallway.

“They were, Merry!” Pippin said excitedly.

“They were not, Pip.”

“I’m sure of it!”

“Pip, you think everyone is in each other’s pants.”

“Didn’t you see…”

“All I saw was you trying to break two jars of peaches that we’re not even supposed to have.”

“I wasn’t trying to break them. I was trying to keep you from breaking them.”

“I’ll break you…”

Faramir leaned back against the wall around the corner and listened to the pair scuffle for a moment, until the disapproving squeak from Pippin indicated that Merry was sitting on him and tickling him.

“Let me up!”

“Admit that you would have liked to catch those two in each other’s pants.”

“Ow! Of course I would’ve, and so would you!”

“Well, then,” Merry said, and apparently released Pippin, since he had stopped squeaking. “We shall have to keep an eye on them, won’t we?”

“Definitely,” Pippin said happily.

“We’ll have to be discreet about it, though.”

“Discreet? What’s that?” Pippin asked.

“Don’t be an idiot, Pip. It means…”

“I know what it means. I just wasn’t sure you did.”

His laughter was interrupted by Merry tackling him again, and the sound of glass breaking.

“Now you’ve done it!”

“Me? That was you!”

“It was not!”

“Was so!”

“Now we’re both covered with peaches!”

Faramir could almost hear Pippin’s sly grin.

“Come’ere, Merry. I like peaches.”

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