Faramir Fiction Archive

Faramir's Dilemma (R)

Written by RubyElf

05 March 2011 | 19031 words

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 4)
Author: rubyelf
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Legolas, Merry, Pippin… and so on.
Rating: R
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: Bored elves are extraordinarily poor house guests. Men of Rohan are extraordinarily persistent in their pursuits.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

At some point, Faramir is going to get very tired of everybody meddling with his business…

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Part 4

Faramir retreated to Legolas’s room, knowing the elf wouldn’t care much about lunch anyway, and hurried to shut the door behind him before the hobbits spotted him and started off a new round of gossip.

“You look like you’re being chased by wolves,” Legolas observed, observing Faramir with a curious upside-down gaze from where he lay sideways across the bed with his head hanging over the edge of it, his splinted leg propped up against the wall.

“Worse. Hobbits. Sticky hobbits, for that matter.”

“I see. That is worse.”

“That doesn’t look at all comfortable.”

Legolas shrugged, if it could be called a shrug while one’s shoulders were directed at the floor.

“It’s not. But at least it’s mildly interesting.”

“Are you that bored?”

“You have no idea.”

“I could send the hobbits in.”

“I’m not that bored. Well, not yet, at any rate.”

“They’re busy anyway.”

Legolas’s blue eyes looked up at him. “Do I want to ask?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m assuming it has something to do with peaches, since the entire house now smells like them.”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm. You, on the other hand, do not smell like peaches. As a matter of fact, you smell distinctly like a particular Horse Lord.”

Faramir felt his face turning red and inwardly cursed the annoyingly acute senses of elves as well as their general tendency to notice awkward and inconvenient things.

“You know how Éomer is. He’s as bad as a small child, going around hugging everyone.”

Legolas shook his head, amused. “I’m not stupid, Faramir, and neither are you, and it’s fairly spectacularly obvious that the King of Rohan has more on his mind than a hug.”

“That he does,” Faramir admitted.

Legolas, apparently tired of addressing Faramir upside-down, rolled back into a somewhat more reasonable position and sat up, wincing as his injured leg banged against the foot of the bed.

“Can’t blame him for trying,” the elf said, shrugging.

“Oh?”

“Just because he’s the only one with the nerve to try it doesn’t mean he’s the only one to consider it.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “So where are all these other interested parties, then?”

Legolas grinned. “Well, anyone who dared to pursue you, my friend, would have three fairly significant obstacles to overcome.”

“What obstacles?”

“Well, first of all, you’re engaged to a member of Rohan’s royal family. Second of all, your brother had developed an extensive reputation for being rather dangerously protective of you. And third, you are completely and utterly oblivious.”

“I am not oblivious!”

The elf snorted. “Well, it took Éomer’s approach to finally get through your thick head, and Éomer’s approach to romance is generally comparable in subtlety to a large wooden club.”

“So you’re trying to convince me that I’m unknowingly being pursued by secret admirers?”

“No. I’m trying to convince you that most of the would-be secret admirers who find you attractive in personality or appearance have been thoroughly deterred by the obstacles in the way of their pursuit.”

Faramir was spared from having to think of a response to this by a shriek from the main room, and then a female voice shouting loud reprimands while two other, very familiar voices determinedly protested that yes, there was a perfectly good reason that they were half-naked and covered with peach juice in the middle of the King’s dining room.

“Perhaps you’d better go and rescue those two,” Legolas suggested. “Miriel hasn’t been around long enough to be accustomed to the ways of hobbits.”

“I don’t think it’s all hobbits. I think it’s just those two creatures,” Faramir sighed.

He found Miriel with her hands on her hips, her voice rising in pitch as Merry and Pippin grinned up at her from their mess of squashed peaches on the floor.

“Captain Faramir! Do you see what these two have done?”

“I see that,” he observed.

“We were working on cleaning it up,” Pippin said.

Faramir chuckled. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“Oh, we have!” Merry said, glancing at his companion. “There are several parts of Pip that aren’t nearly as sticky as they were before I…”

“Now, then,” Faramir said, seeing Miriel’s eyes widening in shock and alarm.

“Well, it’s true,” Pippin added helpfully. “I think some peaches got down Merry’s pants, too, but I haven’t gotten a chance to do anything about that yet. Now, if you…”

Faramir shook his head and motioned to the door. “Out, both of you. You know where Boromir’s bath is. If you’re going to continue with whatever you’re up to, you might as well go there and do it so you don’t make any more of a mess than you already have.”

The two hobbits glanced at each other.

“I seem to have totally forgotten where that bath is,” Merry said.

“Me, too,” Pippin said. “Oh, dear. It seems you’ll have to escort us, Faramir.”

“Oh, no,” he laughed, shaking his head. “It didn’t work on my brother and it’s not going to work on me, little ones.”

“If we leave,” Pippin said, shaking a finger at him, “you are not permitted to do anything interesting until we’re back.”

At that moment, Miriel returned with a broom and took a swing at both hobbits with it, and they bolted for the door, leaving wet, sticky footprints and echoes of their giggles as they raced each other down the hall.

Miriel looked at him, her red-gold hair in disarray, face flushed. “I had no idea hobbits were such vulgar creatures! Do you know what they were doing when I walked in here?”

“I could probably guess.”

She sighed and tucked her hair back into place behind her pointed ears. “I’ve never been so embarrassed. And look at this mess! I’d better get a mop and bucket.”

Faramir considered offering to help her, but decided that it might be wiser to take a walk down the hall and make sure the hobbits had at least made it to the privacy of the bath before getting back to their activities. Not finding them engaged in any questionable behaviors in the hallway, he made his way to the kitchen, where the cooks fussed over the gash on his head and hurried to put together something for him to take back with him for lunch. On the way back, he considered just going back to his own rooms for some peace and quiet, but if Aragorn or his brother came looking for him and didn’t find him where he was supposed to be, he would undoubtedly be lectured like a small child. This thought put him in a rather foul mood, which Legolas observed immediately when Faramir sat down and offered him some of the food the cooks had provided for him.

“No, thank you,” the elf said. “From the look on your face, they’ve been feeding you lemons.”

Faramir couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not the food. I’ve just grown weary already of being a good and well-behaved patient.”

“So have I.”

“You were never a well-behaved patient.”

“I’ve followed Aragorn’s orders and stayed where he put me.”

“True. But that’s only because you don’t have a choice. And you did throw things at your nurse, remember?”

“I know. I do regret that.”

“Do you?” Faramir asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Legolas said solemnly. “I deeply regret how poor my aim was. If I get another opportunity I shall do it properly this time.”

“It’s no wonder my brother doesn’t like you,” Faramir said, chuckling.

Legolas frowned. “Why?”

“Because his sense of humor is frequently lacking. And because if I like something, it’s basically guaranteed he won’t.”

“Hmm. And you like me, do you?”

“You’re better company than anyone else I’ve got to talk to at the moment.”

“That’s not much of a compliment, considering that my competition consists of two juice-covered hobbits, one ill-tempered handmaiden, and one Horse Lord who’s got something besides conversation on his mind.”

Faramir sighed. “I’d rather deal with the hobbits, I think. What do you suggest I do about…”

“What, about Éomer?” Legolas asked, selecting an apple from the basket Faramir had brought from the kitchen and inspecting it as he polished it with his sleeve. “The man is handsome, and I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“And?”

Legolas shook his head as if being asked foolish questions by a persistent child. “You really are suffering from an excess of virtue, aren’t you? Love is a very nice thing when it happens to come wandering around, Faramir, but it’s really not much good sitting around and waiting for it when there are others available who would happily occupy your time. Besides, Aragorn said your eyes got as big as dinner plates when you heard him talking about how Éomer and Boromir had… gotten to know each other.”

Faramir cleared his throat. “Why? Do you know something about that?”

“No, but Éomer does, and I’d highly recommend that you ask him about it. Now, what did you do with that book I was reading? We might as well finish it while we’re here, even if your knowledge of spoken Quenya is deplorable.”

Faramir handed him the book, shaking his head. “You know, I could easily see why someone could decide to dislike you.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows. “I don’t value my friends by number. I value them by their ability to tolerate me when I’m no longer in the mood to behave decently.”

“And me?”

“You appear to still be here, so that’s something. What page were we on?”

The elf’s even voice carried both of them through the rest of the afternoon, until finally Aragorn arrived to check on his two patients, back from his meetings and changed into his comfortable house clothes.

“What are you two up to?” he asked curiously, spotting Faramir slumped in the chair next to Legolas, contentedly half-asleep.

“Discussing your appalling taste in literature,” Legolas said.

Aragorn glanced at the book. “That’s Arwen’s.”

Legolas shrugged. “Then either she has appalling taste in literature, or you have appalling taste in wives.”

Aragorn frowned. “I’ll tolerate that once, Legolas. Don’t say it again.”

Something that might have been real apology flashed across the elf’s face. “I stand corrected, Estel. I’ll wait until I’m not under your care anymore to insult you again.”

Aragorn nodded and turned one of the lamps to get a better look at Faramir’s head.

“This looks fine. How are you feeling?”

“A bit fuzzy. Still have a headache.”

“Not dizzy?”

“Only a bit, when I stand up suddenly.”

“If you’d like, I’ll have some of the maids go and start a fire and prepare your rooms, and you can go back there after supper if you’d like.”

Legolas sat up, frowning. “You can’t do that, Faramir! I’ll be left with no one to talk to but babbling hobbits!”

Faramir glanced at Aragorn. “How long were you planning on keeping him here?”

“I could give him some crutches, but I don’t want him going very far. It wouldn’t take more than a stumble to make a mess of that leg. I’m not sending him off by himself until I think that bone’s at least begun to knit.”

“How long will that be?” Legolas demanded impatiently. “I am an elf, you know.”

“And I was trained as a healer among elves,” Aragorn reminded him evenly. “Two weeks, and then we’ll see how your leg feels.”

“If you make me stay here another two weeks, I’ll either kill somebody or say something that will make somebody kill me.”

Faramir intervened. “Aragorn… my rooms at least have my books and a writing desk and windows that look out on the city. It’s probably a bit less boring than this little guest room.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you can tolerate him for that long?”

“I suspect I can manage,” Faramir said, glancing at the elf, who was looking up at him hopefully.

Aragorn shrugged. “It would certainly make life easier for everyone in my household. If you’re both agreeable to that arrangement, I’ll arrange for someone to bring a spare bed to your rooms in the morning.”

“You mean I have to spend another night here?” the elf protested.

Aragorn grinned. “Perhaps you should have thought about it before you insulted my wife.”

Sprawled out on his own familiar couch, watching the flames crackle in the hearth, Faramir had nearly dozed off in the comfort of his own rooms when a knock on his door woke him.

“Hello?”

The door swung open, and a familiar head of shaggy blond hair looked in, eyes finding him on the couch and a broad grin spreading.

“There you are, Faramir.”

The younger man sat up, straightening his clothes, as Éomer slipped in and locked the door behind him before turning around.

“There aren’t any hobbits hidden in here, right?” he asked.

“No,” Faramir said, puzzled.

“Good. The little bastards have been following me since Aragorn and I got back. I have no idea what they’re up to.”

“I know exactly what they’re up to,” Faramir said.

Éomer slumped into the chair across from the couch. “What’s that, then?”

“They want a follow-up of the glimpse they got earlier.”

Éomer laughed merrily. “Dirty little creatures.”

“You have no idea. If they had their way they’d be molesting my brother all day long.”

“Boromir?” Éomer snorted, eyes widening.

“Oh, yes. They’ve been after him since they met him on the Quest.”

“Well, can’t half blame them,” Éomer mused. “Although it’s been a long time…”

Faramir looked over at the man across from him, fire light flickering behind his tangled hair and the shadows of his broad shoulders falling across Faramir’s legs.

“You did mention that,” he said quietly.

Éomer grinned. “It’s a shame Aragorn’s forbidden you to be out riding. That would make everything much easier.”

“Why is that?”

Éomer shrugged. “I suppose I’m always in my element when I’m on a horse. Do you have any wine?”

Faramir nodded and stood up, heading for his wine cabinet, but there was a quick rustle behind him and then large, calloused hands were turning him around and pressing him firmly into the wall.

“On second thought, let’s just skip the wine,” Éomer said, hands sliding down Faramir’s arms. “I’d prefer not to waste any more time.”

Faramir found himself staring blankly.

“No hobbits coming to rescue you this time,” Éomer said, hands slipping behind Faramir’s back and pulling him closer. “Either tell me to go away, Faramir, or point me in the direction of your bedroom.”

Faramir, mouth suddenly very dry, considered these options for a moment, but when Éomer’s thigh with its tightly coiled muscles rose between his legs and rubbed firmly against him, he closed his eyes and raised his hand to indicate the door to the bedroom.

The effect of being relocated by Éomer from one place to another was, Faramir thought, comparable to being relocated across a battlefield by a battering ram. Before he could get his breath back, he had been conveyed across the room and was on his back on his bed with Éomer grinning down at him.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Now then, where should I begin?”

A sharp pounding at the main door drew the attention of both men. Éomer scowled.

“That had better not be who I think it is…”

“Éomer! You rotten bastard! I don’t care if you’re the King of all of Arda, you’d better not be in there with my brother doing what I think you’re doing!”

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