Faramir Fiction Archive

Faramir's Dilemma (R)

Written by RubyElf

05 March 2011 | 19031 words

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 5)
Author: rubyelf
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Legolas, Aragorn, Boromir, etc…
Rating: R
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: Big brothers can be so unreasonably annoying. Especially when they’re right…
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

Stupid uncooperative characters…

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Part 5

Boromir stood in the hall outside his brother’s room, tapping his foot impatiently, arms crossed over his chest and a determined scowl across his face. He’d made it perfectly clear to Éomer on several occasions that he wouldn’t tolerate such antics, and one of those occasions had been only an hour or two ago while the two of them finished the last of several pints of ale. Boromir knew perfectly well that neither of them had consumed enough alcohol to make Éomer forget Boromir’s warning, which meant he was deliberately ignoring it, and this simply could not be tolerated.

The door suddenly swung open, just far enough for Faramir’s gray eyes to look out and meet his brother’s flashing green ones.

“What do you want, Boromir?”

“You heard me,” he said, frowning and trying to look over Faramir’s shoulder. “I know that dirty-minded horse’s ass is in there, and I told him I’d…”

Faramir raised his eyebrows, and the expression on his face made Boromir fall silent, not sure what to make of it.

“Boromir?”

“What?”

“Go fuck an orc.”

The door slammed in Boromir’s face.

When Faramir turned back around, he discovered that it hadn’t taken Éomer very long to kick off his boots and toss aside his tunic, and that he was now lounging contentedly on Faramir’s bed, wiry arms crossed over his broad, sturdy chest, watching him with a wide grin.

“Did you really just say what I think you said?”

Faramir checked to make sure the door was securely locked again; he could feel Boromir’s stunned presence still standing in the hall, having been completely unprepared for such disobedience from his always compliant sibling.

“Well, he’ll either go away and sulk or he’ll try to get the guards to come open the door,” Faramir said, feeling a grin spreading across his face.

“Aragorn would put him in his place if he tried that,” Éomer said. “You appear to still be wearing all of your clothes, which is unfortunate.”

“I suppose that could be remedied.”

Éomer stood up and walked toward him, grasping him by the shirt and pulling him back toward the bed. “Am I going to have to do all the work, young Faramir?”

Faramir started, as if waking up from a doze, and pushed Éomer back so he could begin tugging off his own clothes. Éomer leaned back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, watching appreciatively.

“I’d tell you to slow down, but at the rate things have been going, some other interruption might show up,” he noted.

He waited until Faramir was stripped to his breeches, then extended his legs and caught the other man in the same crushing muscles that could keep him seated on the most stubborn colt or maintain the same grip over days on horseback. Faramir, unbalanced, nearly fell on top of Éomer, who grinned and grabbed him by the shoulders and rolled him easily, the iron grip of the rider’s legs still locked around his hips, the big, calloused hands pinning his shoulders into the mattress.

“That’s much better,” Éomer said, with a satisfied chuckle, and leaned forward to kiss him with enough force to press Faramir’s head back into the mattress. Faramir’s hands rose, finding the lean, wiry arch of Éomer’s back, and Éomer muttered something approving into the curve of Faramir’s jaw.

Faramir pushed him back abruptly. Éomer looked at him, frowning.

“What?”

“You’re thinking about my brother.”

“What? Why would you say that?”

“Did Boromir never mention to you that his little brother is prone to strange visions and revelations?”

“I had heard that,” Éomer said, sitting up.

“You were thinking about my brother, not me, weren’t you?”

“That’s ridiculous,” the other man said.

“I know what you were thinking. I felt it.”

Éomer scowled. “This is silly.”

“It’s not silly. Is that why Boromir showed up here yelling? You went and tried to have a go with him first and it didn’t work, didn’t you?”

Éomer’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What did he tell you?”

Faramir sat up and crossed his arms. “I think you should go now.”

Muttering about visions and brothers and the tendency of certain people to ruin a perfectly good time worrying about ridiculous things, Éomer shoved his feet back into his boots and collected his shirt and stalked to the door, more embarrassed and surprised than angry. He checked the hall warily, as if half-expecting a half-drunk and righteously furious Boromir to emerge from the shadows, before heading off grumbling in the direction of his guest room.

Faramir’s first thought when he woke up to his brother’s voice was that he was probably about to be on the receiving end of a stern talking-to. He attempted to close his eyes and ignore him, but Boromir poked him sharply between the shoulder blades.

“Wake up, you.”

Faramir scowled. “Go away. It’s late. I’d like to get some sleep.”

Boromir chuckled. “Late? It’s almost noon, little brother.”

Faramir sat up gingerly. “Ouch. Why is it that you’re the one who was out drinking and I’m the one who feels like I’m half-dead?”

“You deserve it,” Boromir said. “Tell me to go fuck an orc, will you?”

Faramir, surprised by the good humor in his brother’s voice, looked up at him. “Are you trying to make me relax so I’ll be easier to strangle?”

“Thought about it,” Boromir said easily, grinning. “Then I went off looking for Aragorn… not sure what I expected him to do about it, but when I told him I came pounding on your door and what you said, he laughed so hard I thought he was going to harm himself. Had to practically put him back in his chair to keep him from falling on the floor.”

“Thought it was funny, did he?” Faramir said, reminding himself to thank Aragorn numerous times for easing Boromir’s fury.

“It was rather funny, when I thought about it,” Boromir said, grinning. “And it got much, much funnier when Éomer came stomping in with his shirt over his shoulder, growling at me about being able to ruin his fun when I wasn’t even around…”

“So that’s what you’re in such a good mood about,” Faramir muttered, wishing that Boromir would go away and stop exacerbating what was already a pounding headache.

Boromir shrugged. “Well, there’s two fellows on their way down here with a bed to stick in your living room. I was going to be annoyed with you for letting that stupid conceited elf stay in here, but then Aragorn reminded me that if Arwen isn’t concerned with keeping an eye on him anymore, she might be persuaded to travel back to Rohan with Éomer and visit with Éowyn for a week or so…”

Faramir shook his head and reminded himself to thank Aragorn yet again, although he knew perfectly well that the King enjoyed Arwen’s occasional travels as an opportunity to spend any free time he had with Boromir without feeling guilty for neglecting his wife.

“Hello? Are you listening?” Boromir asked impatiently.

“What?”

His brother frowned. “You don’t look good, little brother. Are you all right?”

Faramir scowled. “I didn’t have a terribly restful night, and I’m far from in the mood to have you play over-protective elder sibling at the moment, Boromir.”

Boromir grinned. “If I do, will you tell me to go fuck an orc again?”

“No. I’ll tell you to go lick a hobbit. Go away and let me go back to sleep!”

Boromir made a face. “Ugh. I’ll let Finn take care of that. And for the record, she liked jelly-flavored hobbits just fine, but apparently peach-flavored hobbits are too sticky for her.”

“Boromir…” he groaned.

“All right, all right. Can I at least have someone from the kitchen bring you something to eat and leave it in the other room for when you decide to stop lounging around?”

“Fine. Now go away.”

Boromir chuckled and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep. Aragorn will probably come look in on you later, but he’s apparently quite busy at the moment… seems Éomer has decided he wants to wrap up his business in Minas Tirith as briskly as possible… before I can get my hands on him, most likely.”

He strolled off, humming to himself. Faramir muttered a curse directed at whatever malevolent powers had left him grouchy and curled up in bed with a crushing headache while his brother, regardless of his alcohol consumption the night before, was so uncharacteristically and disgustingly cheerful. It was really entirely un-called for.

Someone was poking him again, and Faramir took a half-hearted swipe at the intruder.

“Go away, Boromir!”

“There’s no need to call me nasty names,” a familiar, even voice said, and something poked him in the side again.

He rolled over and discovered that he was being prodded with the end of a wooden crutch; Legolas was leaning on the other one, balancing easily as he jabbed Faramir again.

“Wake up.”

“Leave me alone. Boromir just left and I just went back to sleep.”

Legolas cocked his head. “Boromir was leaving when I got here two hours ago. Are you all right? Get up.”

The crutch was replaced by a light but surprisingly strong hand shaking him briskly, which set off flashes of pain through his head. When Faramir refused to acknowledge that, Legolas moved away, and the man hoped he’d convinced the elf to leave him alone, but he was back a minute later with a lit lantern swinging in his hand.

“My head hurts, and that light isn’t helping,” Faramir muttered.

“Be quiet,” the elf said, pressing the back of his hand to Faramir’s face. “I don’t think men are supposed to be that warm. Let me see your head.”

Faramir sighed and tipped his head forward. Legolas studied the sutured gash with a displeased expression.

“What?”

“That looks bad. Worse than it did yesterday.”

“It’s fine.”

“I thought I told you to be quiet.”

He was gone again, wooden crutches clicking on the stone floors, and Faramir heard him speaking to someone outside the front door before coming back.

“I asked one of the guards. They said Aragorn is seeing the delegation from Rohan off at the moment and should be headed back this way shortly.”

“There’s no reason to bother him,” Faramir protested.

“You’re lucky I know you well, or I’d assume you were always this dense. Of course there’s a reason to bother him. Here… have some water.”

“No thanks.”

“You are not being cooperative,” Legolas said sharply. “I’ll have you know it’s extremely tricky to carry a cup of water without spilling it while your hands are occupied with these stupid crutches, so I suggest you drink it before I pour it over your head.”

Faramir shook his head, but took the cup. Legolas nodded, satisfied.

“That’s better. Now, what’s this?”

He picked up a book laying on the table next to the bed.

“Just something I was reading a few nights ago.”

Legolas flipped through the pages. “A history of the Istari? They arrived in this world in the Third Age, just as the great forest of Greenwood fell into shadow and came to be called Mirkwood.”

“You can’t possibly be old enough to have seen that with your own eyes.”

Legolas smiled slightly. “Even Aragorn, raised among elves, doesn’t know how old many of us are. But I promise you, I’m older than you think. This was a gift from Gandalf, wasn’t it.”

He settled himself at the foot of Faramir’s bed, tucking his uninjured leg underneath him and opened the book.

“How far had you gotten?”

“I’d just started.”

“Very good. That’s where we’ll begin, then.”

Aragorn arrived before Legolas had gotten past the first chapter. One glance at Faramir’s head had him scowling, and he hurried away to change into his house clothes and collect his healing supplies, giving orders over his shoulder for Legolas to set some water heating over the fire in the hearth.

On Aragorn’s return, Faramir allowed himself to be ordered into the better-lit living room and into a chair in front of the fire.

“What are you up to?” he asked Aragorn, frowning, as the older man pulled a small knife from his pack and studied it in the light from the fire.

“Taking those stitches out. A wound that’s infected has to be opened so it can be cleaned.”

Aragorn must have seen the expression of alarm that flickered across Faramir’s face, but he wouldn’t embarrass Faramir by acknowledging it. Instead, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Lean forward here, so I can see properly. Don’t worry… you’ve suffered much worse pain than this.”

Aragorn’s hands were those of a healer, steady and smooth and not wasting a single motion, as he efficiently pulled out the stitches. Faramir kept his head down and did his best not to twitch, but when Aragorn took a cloth and began washing the now-open gash with one of his bitter-smelling herbs brewed in the hot water, he had to grit his teeth to make sure he didn’t let even the smallest sound escape. He was distracted for a moment by the feeling of a strong hand slipping underneath his own and grasping it firmly. He glanced out of the corner of one eye and found Legolas looking back at him with an amused half-smile. Aragorn said nothing, but finished what he was doing, padding the wound with a clean cloth and wrapping a strip of bandages around his head to keep it in place.

“There. I told you it wouldn’t be as bad as you thought.”

“Barely tickled,” Faramir said, knowing neither the man or the elf believed a word of it.

“Go back to bed,” Aragorn said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You should feel very much better in the morning with all that taken care of.”

Faramir rose, only slightly unsteady on his feet, and went directly back to his room and fell into his bed. He heard Legolas and Aragorn talking for a moment, and then the front door closed, and he wondered if the elf had left. Then he heard the clicking of the crutches against the stone, and the mattress shifted as the weight of another body settled down behind him. He hadn’t realized how stiff he was from leaning his head forward while Aragorn worked on it until long-fingered hands began to work gently at the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t need…” he mumbled.

“Are all men as dense as you, Faramir? Stop fussing and go to sleep.”

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