Faramir Fiction Archive

Faramir's Dilemma (R)

Written by RubyElf

05 March 2011 | 19031 words

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma
Author: RubyElf
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Legolas, Boromir, Aragorn… and probably just about everyone else at some point.
Rating: PG13 (no guarantees it’ll stay that way…)
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: Faramir could really use some company, don’t you think? And there are so many intriguing possibilities…
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

So I decided it was about time Faramir got some attention. Easier said than done… not that I don’t want to write about him; just that he’s a bit more introspective and likely to think about what he’s doing, unlike just about everybody else in this AU, so he’s not quite as willing to allow himself to be tossed into the ridiculous situations that others (for instance, his brother) manage to get into. There even seems to be an actual plot in progress! So even if this is a little less ridiculous than my usual stuff, I promise that there will absolutely be a generous amount of silliness, a good dose of at least mild smut, and inconvenient hobbits.

(not necessary to read, but this is kind of a prologue)

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Part 1

Faramir cursed under his breath and resisted the urge to pull away as the healer perched on the stool in front of him finished putting the last few stitches in the gash that had opened him up from just above his left eyebrow to the crown of his head.

“Sorry, Captain,” the man said quickly, noticing the involuntary wince. “I’m finished now.”

Faramir sighed, relieved, and leaned back against the stone wall, musing that the cots in the Houses of Healing were not terribly comfortable, and he would have been more than happy for a few minutes of sleep at the moment. Something murmured vaguely in the back of his head that he ought to be awake and attending to what was going on, but this voice was drowned out by the crashing roar of the headache that had been nearly blinding him since… well, since he could remember. In the woods, at some point. Quite a bit of shouting. He shifted uneasily and opened his eyes, but the light streaming through the windows made him wince and close them again.

“Faramir,” a familiar voice said sternly.

He groaned. “Don’t yell, brother. My head hurts.”

A soft chuckle. “Sorry. Was a bit worried when they said you’d been hurt. Looks like you’ll live, though.”

“Ugh. The way I feel I’m not sure I want to.”

“Get up, and I’ll take you back to your room.”

The healer said something, but Faramir didn’t hear it, because as soon as he tried to get to his feet he was knocked back by a wave of dizziness that made his stomach twist. Boromir, frowning, steadied him with a hand on his shoulder as he leaned forward and fought the abrupt assault of nausea.

“You! Healer! What did you give him?”

“We didn’t give him anything, Lord Boromir. He’s had a nasty blow to the head and he has a concussion. He’ll be all right, but take it a bit easy on him, please.”

Boromir stepped back, arms crossed and scowling. “What are you going to do with him?”

“We’ll keep him here for the rest of the afternoon and keep an eye on him. If he’s feeling better then, you can take him somewhere more comfortable, but someone ought to keep an eye on him. He’s likely to have some dizziness for a few days and might not be thinking very clearly. He’s off duty for at least a fortnight.”

Faramir mused that whatever the healer was talking about might have something to do with the fact that he couldn’t seem to recall much about what had happened since he got up this morning. Something about an early morning patrol…

“… ambushed,” the healer was saying.

“Damned orcs are apparently getting smarter. Or just more desperate,” Boromir muttered.

“I’d say it’s a bit of both,” another voice said, and Faramir forced his eyes open to look across the room at the figure stretched out on the other cot, looking absently up at the ceiling.

“Your hair’s not purple anymore,” he observed, wondering where that thought came from.

Legolas smiled slightly. “No. Washed out after a week or two. I told you that once already today, when I met up with your patrol, but that orc cracking you across the head with his bow seems to have contributed to your forgetfulness.”

“Why would you let an orc attack my brother?” Boromir demanded angrily.

Legolas turned his head and met the Steward’s glare evenly.

“Well, I’d killed five or six of them before the one came up behind me with a club and took my leg out from under me.”

He nodded toward the other end of the cot; in his concern for his brother and his deliberate attempt to ignore Legolas, Boromir hadn’t noticed that the elf’s right leg below the knee was securely splinted and tightly wrapped.

“Well, I suppose that explains it,” the man admitted grudgingly.

Legolas shrugged. “Elves heal quickly. I’ll be up and about by tomorrow.”

“You will not,” the healer interrupted. “Even an elf can’t heal a break like that overnight.”

“You’ll see,” Legolas said, looking back up toward the ceiling.

“Perhaps,” the healer said. “But if you get up and try walking on that leg any time soon, you’ll put the bones all out of place, and then I’ll have to set it again… and being an elf didn’t make that part any easier, did it?”

Boromir saw the elf’s face pale slightly.

“He can leave here this evening when your brother does,” the healer said, “but only if someone’s going to be available to make sure he’s not doing anything to hurt himself more than he already has. He’s not been a very cooperative patient.”

“I’ll manage that,” Aragorn said, stepping into the room and patting Boromir on the shoulder as he studied his two injured friends. “What a sight you two are!”

“Your humor is not appreciated,” Legolas noted coolly.

Aragorn ignored him and turned to the healer. “I’ll speak to my wife. We have several unused rooms. You can arrange to have these two moved there later today. I won’t be there, but the Queen will.”

Boromir nodded; if anyone would be looking after Faramir, he could think of no one more suitable than Arwen. He had briefly contemplated offering to keep an eye on his brother himself, but he had no patience for such things and he knew it.

Aragorn rubbed Faramir’s shoulder.

“The healers will keep an eye on you two for the afternoon. I’ve no choice but to attend to the delegation arriving from Rohan this afternoon… Éomer would understand my absence, but his advisors wouldn’t, and I don’t need them sour with me when we’ve got work to do.”
Éomer, Faramir thought absently, and then suddenly frowned. Arriving this afternoon… the thought brought back a disorganized rush of distracting thoughts that had been wandering through his mind the past few days, ever since Aragorn had mentioned something about Boromir as a teenager visiting Edoras with his father, and a young Éomer showing the Steward’s son around the city, and then showing him some other sorts of things, and that was when Boromir had threatened to break Aragorn’s jaw if he didn’t bring the story to an immediate conclusion. That hadn’t stopped Faramir from musing late at night about exactly what Éomer might have taught him during that visit to make Boromir turn so very red when Aragorn mentioned it, and hadn’t stopped him from wondering whether Éomer might have an interest in providing Faramir with a similar education while he was in Minas Tirith. He reminded himself that at the moment he was still having difficulty seeing straight, much less engaging the King of Rohan in intelligent conversation, and that perhaps it was for the best anyway, since he did happen to be engaged to said King’s sister, and at that point the rambling of his mind tumbled over itself and he dozed off.

He woke up much later, with dusk gathering outside an unfamiliar window and a vague recollection of arguing with the healers about something, which wasn’t really like him and probably had something to do with the pounding pain in his head that refused to go away.

“Good evening, Captain,” a voice said, and he looked over to see a slender female elf with red-blond hair setting down a tray with a pitcher of water and some bread and cheese. “Lady Arwen asked me to come in and see if you were hungry.”

“Maybe a little,” he said.

“I’ll leave this for you, then.”

He sat up, relieved that at least this didn’t send him reeling anymore, and studied the elf; the distinctive golden-red hair fell over her pointed ears and into her face, and the eyes that regarded him curiously were sea-green and very bright.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She smiled slightly, looking away. “Not that it matters, Captain, but my name is Miriel.”

He frowned, searching through his lessons in Sindarin and Quenya. “Miriel… the jewel?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Very good. I don’t know many men who speak Elvish languages. Other than the King, of course, but he was raised among elves.”

“I had an unusual education. But not much opportunity to practice… all the elves I’ve ever met speak perfect Westron.”

She turned away, smiling. “And how many elves have you met, Captain?”

“It’s Faramir.”

“I hope the only example of elvenkind you’re familiar with isn’t the one in the room next to yours.”

“The room next to… you mean Legolas?”

She nodded. “He’s certainly not typical of our kind, to say the least, although I suppose it could be that all Mirkwood elves behave that way… one would expect better, though, since he is a prince… not that I’d care if he was a king, with his poor behavior.”

“Why? What’s he done now?”

“Well, first of all, he’s been terribly rude to me all afternoon. I told Lady Arwen about it and she went in and had a chat with him… we’ll see if that changed his mood at all.”

“There’s no excuse for being rude to a lady,” Faramir said, watching the graceful figure drift toward the door.

“Certainly not,” she agreed, glancing over her shoulder through the curtain of her hair. “I’m sure you’re a gentleman, Captain. I hope you recover quickly, but I will look forward to serving you while you’re a guest in my Lady’s home.”

Faramir lay back on the bed, the stabbing pain in his head eased somewhat by the pretty smile the elf maiden had given him as she departed.

After a few minutes, it occurred to him that someone ought to say something to Legolas about his manners. Ordinarily Faramir would have allowed Arwen to deal with the elf on her own, but since he still wasn’t thinking very clearly and had already forgotten that Miriel had mentioned Arwen at all, he took it upon himself to address the issue. After all, rudeness to ladies was not to be tolerated. He made his way gingerly to his feet, the abrupt dizziness making it even harder to think properly, and rested a hand on the wall to steady himself as he made his way to the door. Stepping out into the hall, which seemed unusually long as he attempted to look around, he remembered that he was supposed to be defending the honor of an attractive elf maiden. The blinding pain in his head made it difficult to recall what room Legolas might be in, so he looked around until he found a door that appeared as likely as any other and began knocking on it.

“What?” the voice from inside demanded.

Faramir pushed the door open, and even in its dazed state his brain realized that some sort of mistake had been made; the figure that stood scowling at him was tall and bearing a mane of blond hair, but the muscular shoulders and bearded face certainly didn’t belong to an elf, and neither did the curls of hair across the exposed chest revealed by not-Legolas’s current state of shirtlessness.

Abruptly, the scowl dissolved into a broad grin. “Faramir! I haven’t seen you in months! Come in, come in! How are you?”

Faramir found himself ushered into the guest room and firmly embraced by the King of Rohan.

“I’ve been better,” he admitted.

Éomer stepped back and studied the neatly stitched but still ugly wound across Faramir’s head. “Aragorn said you’d taken a good knock to the head. Glad to see you up and about. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible, honestly.”

Éomer laughed, the unrestrained merriment of a man who despite his royal title still spent most of his days outdoors.

“I know exactly what you mean. See this here?”

He leaned forward and parted the shaggy blond hair to reveal an old, long-healed scar.

“Got that when I was a teenager. My own fault, of course. Friend and I were having a contest, jumping our horses over fences, and mine refused one and tossed me on my head. It’s not a nice feeling to have your brain rattled around like that, is it? It was a week or so before I felt quite right again.”

Faramir nodded; the vice grip around his head was starting to tighten again.

“You alright, friend? You look a bit unsteady.”

“I suppose I ought to go lay back down.”

Éomer motioned to the bed. “Sit down for a moment. I’m just getting changed out of these awful formal clothes, and then I’ll give you a hand back to your room.”

Faramir sat down, not being able to think of a good argument to the contrary. To his mild alarm, Éomer briskly stripped his breeches off and, stark naked, began rummaging through his travel bags, muttering to himself. After a moment he paused, glanced over his shoulder at Faramir, and grinned.

“You’re rather red in the face, lad. You’re a soldier… I’d think you’d be used to seeing other men roaming around unclothed.”

Faramir attempted to think of a response to this, but realized that whatever he came up with was likely to make the situation worse, so he closed his mouth and attempted not to watch the wiry muscles shifting under the weathered skin of the Horse Lord’s lower back and twining down into the extraordinarily powerful legs of a man who spent half his life on horseback. Eventually Éomer found a pair of leather breeches and a shirt and set about covering up the distracting expanses of skin. Faramir absently took note of the fact that he did not appear to have put anything on underneath the breeches, and then tried to erase that thought as it was likely to prove even more distracting.

“There we are,” Éomer said, taking Faramir’s arm. “Let’s have you back to your room. You look like you’re off in the clouds somewhere.”

Faramir sprawled out on the bed with relief, as this immediately stopped the unpleasant vertigo, and also released him from the obligation of trying to ignore the heat of the other man’s strong arm behind his shoulder. Éomer chuckled down at him.

“I’ll bid you goodnight, friend. I hope to see you feeling more like yourself in the morning.”

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 2)
Author: RubyElf
Characters: Faramir, Éomer, Legolas, Boromir, Aragorn… and probably just about everyone else at some point.
Rating: PG13 (no guarantees it’ll stay that way…)
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: Elves do not appreciate forced immobility. Hobbits do not know when to shut up. Faramir wishes he was a little less virtuous. Several individuals are willing to assist him with that.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

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Part 2

Faramir woke up from a pleasant but very distracting dream about someone running their hands over him, although he couldn’t quite be sure whether they were the delicate hands of the pretty elf maiden or the rough, calloused hands of the rider of Rohan. Upon opening his eyes, though, he realized that it was not either one; it was Aragorn methodically checking him over with a healer’s businesslike focus.

“Ah. Hello, Faramir. Your head looks quite good. The healer stitched it well.”

“Boromir would’ve killed him if he didn’t,” Faramir said, and Aragorn laughed.

“I don’t doubt it. I wouldn’t want to be the healer treating you with your brother glowering over my shoulder, ready to throttle me if you so much as squeaked.”

“Where is Boromir?”

“Where do you think? Out with half the army of Gondor, killing every orc within thirty miles of this city.”

“That sounds about right. When my brother’s worried about someone, it seems his natural response is to go out and kill things.”

Aragorn shrugs. “He does it whenever he’s annoyed with me, too. I’m starting to be concerned that one day we’ll run out of orcs, and then I don’t know what he’ll do with himself. Are you hungry? Éomer and I are going to have some wine before we retire, if you’d like to join us… no wine for you, though. You’re unsteady enough as it is.”

“No thank you,” Faramir said, shivering. “I believe I’ll go back to sleep.”

He did not, however, go back to sleep. After laying in bed for a while, trying to chase trails of thoughts as they drifted through his head, he got up, pulled on the pair of Aragorn’s house shoes that Arwen had left for him, and padded out into the hall. The nap after his last excursion seemed to have done him some good, as this time when he knocked the answer from within was definitely Legolas.

“What do you want?”

“Thought I’d come in and say hello,” Faramir said, to the closed door.

“Fine. Come in.”

He pushed the door open and found the elf stretched out just as he had been in the Houses of Healing, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, his injured leg outstretched and propped on several pillows.

“I thought Boromir would forbid you to visit me, since all I ever do is get you in trouble.”

“He didn’t mean that,” Faramir said. “He becomes… rather irrational when it comes to me.”

“As opposed to how perfectly rational he is the rest of the time?”

Faramir chuckled. “You know my brother well.”

“I know he doesn’t think much of me.”

Faramir, surprised by the strong hint of bitterness in the elf’s usually light voice, stepped closer and sat down in the chair next to the bed. Legolas scowled and closed his eyes, but could not hide the dark shadows underneath them or the sweat over his forehead.

“Did the healers give you something for the pain?”

Legolas snorted. “It doesn’t hurt that badly. I don’t need anything.”

“You’re usually an extraordinarily good liar, elf, but you’re not fooling anyone at the moment.”

“What difference does it make?”

“What’s in the bottle on the table here?”

The elf glanced at it. “Something Aragorn left.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “And you won’t take it.”

“No, thank you.”

“I certainly would,” Faramir said. “Would you think badly of me if I did, if I were lying here?”

“No.”

“There’s no shame in it. Injuries heal faster when you rest easier. No one but Aragorn and I have to know anything about it.”

“That little red-headed slut that was here earlier would say something.”

“She’s not a slut,” Faramir argued; if nothing else, Arwen wouldn’t tolerate such behavior from one of her handmaidens.

“You’re right. She’s a tease, and that’s much worse. At least sluts are fun.”

“She doesn’t have to come in here,” Faramir said. “I’m back on my feet, but I’m off duty regardless. I’ll tell Arwen that when she and Aragorn aren’t here I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not in here practicing your dancing skills or anything like that.”

Legolas looked thoughtful. “I suppose even your deplorable company would be preferable to that little wench of Arwen’s.”

“She is quite pretty,” Faramir observed.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “The world is full of pretty things, Faramir. If you live two or three thousand years, you won’t be terribly impressed by them either.”

“If you don’t take that medicine Aragorn left for you, I’m not going to stay here and talk to you, because at the moment your company is worse than deplorable.”

Legolas smiled slightly. “That may be. But I can’t guarantee you Aragorn has anything in his healer’s arsenal to improve my personality.”

“If he did, he’d probably have used it a long time ago,” Faramir said, handing him the small bottle.

Legolas sighed, resigned, and pulled the cork out of the bottle, raising it to Faramir. “Cheers, Captain… ugh. Tastes just as bad as all Aragorn’s other medicines.”

“I wouldn’t think an elf would have many causes to take medicine,” Faramir said. “You don’t get sick, after all.”

“No, we don’t. But there are things that can harm us… poison, injury, bleeding…”

“How many of those have you run into in your long life?”

“More than my father would have liked. Mirkwood had become a wild and dangerous place under the shadow of Mordor, and when my father would have preferred me safe at home, I was out killing giant spiders and orcs and other beasts. That’s what most of the elves of Mirkwood were doing, while those of Rivendell and Lórien were hidden away in their peaceful lands. If we hadn’t kept after them, they would have overrun us sooner or later. I was bitten by one of the spiders when I was much younger… the worst feeling imaginable… paralyzes you from head to toe, you can’t breathe…medicine they gave me for that tasted terrible…”

Faramir glanced over at the elf and saw that his eyes were an expanse of blue with tiny pinpoints for pupils; his voice was fading into a mumble. The man smiled, set the empty bottle back on the table, and slipped back to his own room.

A now-familiar voice woke him the next morning; he’d been hearing it off and on all night in his dreams, accompanied by various other intriguing noises.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning, Miriel.”

She smiled. “You remembered my name, I see.”

“It would have been difficult to forget it,” he said. The elf lowered her eyes and her cheeks flushed slightly; Faramir hadn’t been aware that elves could blush, but then again, the only elf he’d spent much time with was Legolas, and after some of the things that elf had told him, he wasn’t sure there was anything vulgar enough to make him blush.

“Your company is requested by my Lady Arwen for breakfast. She asked me to go and fetch you some clothes from your rooms. I hope these are satisfactory.”

Faramir winced, trying to remember what state he might have left his room in when he departed it early yesterday morning, but most of that part of the day seemed to be a complete blank. He stood up and took the clothes she held out, noticing that her outstretched arms gave her tightly laced bodice an intriguing snugness in certain key places.

“Do you need assistance with dressing, Captain?” she asked demurely, studying him from beneath long eyelashes. “My Lady wouldn’t want you to become dizzy and fall, lest you might injure yourself.”

“I’ll manage, thank you,” he replied, even though part of his brain was shouting quite loudly that this was not the correct answer and another part had rendered itself completely dysfunctional by imagining the slender fingers smoothly tugging his breeches over his legs.

She turned her bright smile on him again. “I’ll be just outside in the hall, sir, in case you find yourself in need of assistance.”

Faramir found the breakfast table already occupied by Aragorn, Arwen, and their guest, the King of Rohan, who at the moment looked less like a king than like a child who’d just been woken from sleep and pulled on whatever clothes were close at hand, his blond hair tangled, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“They woke you up too, did they?” he said, seeing Faramir. “I was hoping that after all the wine that was consumed last night, our host and hostess here might sleep in.”

Aragorn grinned. “Most of that wine was consumed by you, friend.”

“That’s not the point,” Éomer muttered, motioning for Faramir to sit down next to him. “Come join me, Faramir. Your brain’s been rattled by orcs and mine’s been pickled in alcohol. We’ll make a fine pair. Neither of us will be able to remember a damn thing all day.”

Faramir sat down, glancing at Arwen and remembering that he was supposed to discuss something with her, but he had no recollection of what that might be. He remembered a moment later when a high-pitched cry of alarm and the loud crash of something breaking against a stone wall echoed from the hall. Miriel came racing into the room, hand on her chest and eyes wide.

“Lady Arwen! I refuse to have anything else to do with that mean-spirited elf! I don’t care who he is!”

Arwen raised her eyebrows and set down the hard-boiled egg she’d been peeling. “Why is that, Miriel?”

“I had heard Mirkwood elves had no manners and no decency, but this is ridiculous! He called me a… well, lots of things! And then he threw a water pitcher at me!”

Faramir had some idea what Legolas had probably called her, and for some reason he found it more amusing than he should have. Éomer glanced at him and grinned, speaking to him in a low voice.

“It seems the lady doesn’t have much experience with warriors, does she.”

Arwen sighed. “Miriel…”

Faramir caught a pleading look from the wide sea-green eyes and abruptly recalled the discussion he’d had with Legolas. He turned to Arwen.

“My Lady, perhaps I can help. I’m off duty for a while… whatever the healers said and then my brother’s excessive caution on top of that… perhaps while you and Aragorn are out, I could deal with our friend and spare your handmaiden the distress.”

Arwen smiled. “If you wish, Faramir. I suspect he would probably prefer the company of a fellow warrior anyway.”

“And if he throws something at Faramir, Faramir can throw it back,” Aragorn noted.

Éomer grinned. “And what if he takes it upon himself to insult your virtue as he seems to have done to this young lady?”

Faramir shrugged. “I would much prefer that there be something to insult about my virtue, but at the moment there isn’t.”

Aragorn gave him an odd look, and Éomer’s grin widened. “Are you growing weary of your virtue, young Faramir?”

Faramir’s complete and total failure to think of an appropriate response to this was relieved by a sudden knock at the door. The knockers did not wait for anyone to answer, though, but flung the door open and burst in, both talking excitedly at the same time, while the guard outside smiled apologetically at Aragorn. The King chuckled.

“No worries. A thousand guards wouldn’t hold off an assault by hungry hobbits.”

“Quite right,” Merry agreed, climbing into the chair next to Aragorn, while Pippin scrambled up next to him and reached for the bread and butter.

“We haven’t had anything to eat since supper yesterday,” the younger hobbit said, as if this were a terrible hardship.

“I beg your pardon,” Aragorn interrupted, “but you could start by saying hello. And after that, you could continue by asking permission to eat all of our food.”

“We weren’t going to eat it all,” Pippin said.

“Where did you two creatures come from?” Aragorn asked.

Merry grinned and pointed to Éomer. “We came with him and his advisors. After our last visit here we decided to pay a visit to Edoras, and when we heard the honorable King of Rohan was coming this way, we decided to come along.”

“They make very fine ale in Rohan,” Pippin added.

“We always get a hero’s welcome when we’re there, too,” Merry said.

Faramir, finding himself without much of an appetite, didn’t protest when the older hobbit grabbed the cinnamon bread off his plate and took a large bite out of it.

“Everyone’s always glad to see us,” Pippin agreed. “Not like here. When Boromir saw us this morning he growled at us and said his peace and quiet for the rest of the week were completely ruined.”

“Can’t imagine why he’d say that,” Aragorn mused.

“Because he’s got no sense of humor at all,” Merry said.

“And no sense of adventure, either,” Pippin added.

“Just because he wouldn’t let you two…” Aragorn began, but was interrupted.

“The folks in Edoras are much more welcoming,” Merry said, beaming smugly as if dispensing wisdom to uneducated fools.

Pippin grinned broadly. “The Lady Éowyn’s welcome is always particularly warm, isn’t it?”

Merry choked on his bread and kicked Pippin hard under the table. Arwen’s voice rang out sharply in a tone that made everyone at the table cringe like scolded children.

“Peregrine Took!”

Pippin looked puzzled for a moment, then saw Faramir and Éomer staring at him and suddenly turned very red. Faramir sat for a moment, his still-dazed mind attempting to conjure up a more reasonable way to process what the hobbit had just said. Aragorn looked past him and nodded his head toward the hall, and Faramir felt Éomer’s large hand descend on his shoulder, steering him out of his chair and back into the hall and into Éomer’s room before closing the door behind them.

“Bloody hobbits,” the Horse Lord muttered. “Faramir?”

“Yes?”

“Sit down.”

Faramir obediently sat down in the chair Éomer was pointing to. “Please tell me he didn’t mean what I think he meant.”

Éomer shifted uneasily. “Even if he didn’t… you do know about…”

Faramir chuckled without humor. “Her dedication to her shieldmaidens? Some more than others, perhaps?”

“Someone less kind would have found a harsher way than that to say it, but… you know there are… others.”

Faramir nodded. “I’d figured there probably were.”

Éomer glanced at the door and then back at Faramir. “Aragorn and I have a long day of meetings, and we’re probably already late. Come find me this evening, friend… there’s quite a few things we should discuss.”

Faramir vaguely heard the words, but his mind snapped back to attention when the reassuring pat on the shoulder became a deliberate motion of fingers trailing across his cheek and down the line of his jaw as the older man turned away. He sat with his head cocked, skin tingling where it had been touched, until Arwen finished shouting at Pippin and came to find him and order him back to bed.

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.”

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…

---

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!”

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…

---

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.”

TITLE: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 6)
AUTHOR: rubyelf
CHARACTERS: Faramir, Legolas, Aragorn, Boromir
RATING: R
WARNINGS: AU (ruby-verse)
SUMMARY: An elf with nothing much else to do has all the time in the world to be persuasive…
DISCLAIMER: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

(FYI: “draughts” is a much older name for the game Americans like myself know as checkers)

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Part 6

Aragorn had been correct; Faramir woke up the next morning feeling almost like himself again. As soon as he raised his arms to stretch, though, he realized that apparently the fever had made him sweat quite a bit and that he was much in need of a bath. He collected some clean clothes from his dresser and walked out into the living room, where he found Legolas stretched out on the sofa, reading one of his books.

“Good morning.”

The elf glanced over at him. “There you are. Feeling better?”

“Much. But I won’t feel quite right until I get a hold of some soap and get cleaned up. Whatever Aragon put on my head last night is making my hair feel like it’s full of glue.”

“You can’t be off scrubbing your head,” Legolas said. “You’ll have that wound opened up again.”

“Well, I’m not leaving this foul mess in my hair. It’s sticky and it smells.”

Legolas shook his head. “And your brother growls at me for keeping my hair neat and clean… I’m more than in need of a bath myself, and I’ll help you wash that stuff off.”

Faramir was accustomed to bathing in the presence of his Rangers, but his moment of hesitation made the elf laugh.

“I’m neither a busy-fingered hobbit nor an over-excited Horse Lord, Faramir, and I’ve got much better things to do than play games. If I have any such intentions toward you, you’ll know it. Otherwise, I really would just like a bath and to assist you with getting that stuff out of your hair. All right?”

Faramir grinned, relieved; if Legolas told him there would be no unexpected approaches or surprise antics, he would take him at his word. “It would be nice to have some idea what to expect for a change. Are you supposed to get that splint wet?”

Legolas shrugged, reaching for his crutches. “I think it’ll be all right. If not, Aragorn will shout at me and put a new one on. It’s not the end of the world. Aragorn’s shouted at me enough times that I’ve become quite skilled at not hearing a word he says.”

“I’ve been working on that skill with Boromir, but unfortunately he shouts too loudly,” Faramir said, chuckling. “Come on, then… the maids usually have water on the stove in the bath down the hall, and it should be safe to use as long as there aren’t any hobbits in it.”

The elf frowned. “I would prefer to have some clean clothes to change into. These trousers that Arwen gave me fit over the splint, but they’re absurdly large and I don’t have another pair at the moment.”

Faramir thought for a moment. “You’re not bothered by cold, are you?
”
“No.”

He went to his room and returned with a pair of loose-fitting, knee-length shorts intended for wearing to sleep on hot summer nights.

“These are the best I can do at the moment. And one of my shirts, although it’ll be quite a bit too big.”

Legolas shrugged. “It’ll be better than wearing these dirty clothes another day.”

Faramir laughed. “I know you’ve been on journeys for weeks without a chance to get properly clean.”

“Just because I tolerate it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t prefer bathing regularly. And that’s what I’m going to do right now.”

The bath room was small and very warm, with the small woodstove radiating heat from every inch of its iron surface as it heated the two large kettles of water set on top of it. Faramir tossed the clean clothes onto the low wooden bench and collected two towels and a fresh bar of soap from the cabinet by the door, then carefully retrieved one of the kettles and poured the steaming hot water in to heat the cooler water in the low marble bath set into the stone floor. He slipped off his shoes and gingerly pulled his shirt over his head, then stripped off his breeches and stepped into the bath, sliding down to let the water rise up to his shoulders. He felt the elf sit down behind him on the edge of the bath, but didn’t turn around, preferring at the moment not to know what state of undress his companion might be in. Legolas chuckled to himself as he leaned over the man’s shoulder and scooped up water in a wooden bowl.

“Unless you want this nasty stuff from your hair to end up in your eyes, I suggest you close them.”

Water poured over Faramir’s head, and he winced at the sting of it in his open wound.

“Sorry,” the elf said, reaching for the soap, and a moment later long fingers were working their way through Faramir’s hair, quickly scrubbing until the clumps and stickiness were gone, then continuing to rub steadily over his scalp, deftly avoiding sore spots.

“I occasionally wonder if Aragorn tortures his patients on purpose,” Legolas said absently.

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Well, he won’t put honey in medicine to improve the flavor when you drink it, but he’ll put it in a salve and rub it all over your hair.”

“Is that what’s so sticky?”

“Appears to be. It’s not as silly as it sounds, though… honey is an excellent wound dressing. Close your eyes, unless you want soap in them.”

Another cascade of water continued until Legolas, apparently satisfied with his work, set the bowl down and tapped Faramir’s shoulder.

“Move over.”

Faramir slid obediently to the other end of the bath as Legolas slid into the water, noticing that every part of the elf was pale and lean, entirely smooth with the exception of a small patch of gold curls and the awkward splint.

“Soap, please.”

Faramir handed him the bar of soap, eyes directed studiously in another direction. Legolas sighed and shook his head.

“Are you this unsettled when you and your Rangers jump in a pond to get clean?”

The man smiled, embarrassed at having his unease pointed out to him. “No. Not at all.”

“And this is different?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, first of all, this water’s quite a bit clearer,” Faramir said.

Legolas glanced down lazily. “It is that. Warm, too. What are you thinking about, Faramir?”

“Mostly about trying to behave like a normal person and not say or do anything stupid,” he admitted.

“You’re a man. You can’t help it.”

Faramir scowled. “I’m quite certain elves do stupid things too.”

“Of course we do,” Legolas agreed cheerfully. “But we never admit it.”

He vanished underwater for a moment, came back up with his wet hair curtained over his face, and began rubbing soap through it.

A sharp knock at the door startled Faramir, but Legolas seemed to have been expecting it; he parted his hair, glanced in the direction of the door, and then let it fall back over his face and continued scrubbing it.

“Who’s that?” Faramir called.

“This door had better not be locked,” Boromir’s voice muttered. The handle turned and the door swung, leaving Faramir’s brother looking at it curiously as if he hadn’t expected it to open. His eyes flashed to the bath, flicking back and forth between his brother and the elf.

“Boromir, what the hell are you doing?” Faramir demanded.

“Checking in on you. Aragorn said he saw you last night and… why are you looking at me like that?”

“You went to my rooms, and I wasn’t there, and neither was Legolas, so you just assumed someone else was attempting to seduce your poor innocent little brother,” Faramir said.

Boromir gave Legolas a suspicious look. “He is in the bath with you.”

“Yes, he is. Because I needed some assistance with getting rid of the honey Aragorn put all over my head last night.”

“Honey? In your hair? Was that as a treatment or a joke?”

“Possibly a bit of both,” Legolas said, leaning forward to wash the soap out of his hair. “Not that Faramir needs to explain his choice of bathing companions to you, as far as I can see.”

Boromir glared at him. “It’s none of your business.”

“You’re correct. But it’s none of yours, either, and at the moment only one of us seems to be meddling in it, Boromir, and it isn’t me.”

Boromir gave Faramir a sharp look, demanding that he say something, but Faramir met his glare for a long moment before turning back to Legolas.

“Soap, please.”

Boromir turned and slammed the door behind him, muttering curses about elves in general and certain blond elves in particular.

Finally scrubbed clean, Faramir stepped out of the bath and looked back at Legolas.

“Need a hand? You’re not supposed to be standing on that leg.”

“So I’ve been told,” Legolas said, but he held out a hand and let Faramir balance him as he stood up.

They sat by the fire in the living room, watching snowflakes drift past the window. Legolas looked rather out of place in the too-large shorts and shirt, but this didn’t seem to concern him as he picked through the food the kitchen had sent for them and selected a biscuit.

“This arrangement is much more satisfactory than that unpleasant little guest room,” he said.

“You’re more than welcome here. I don’t mind the company.”

Legolas sat back in his chair. “Out of everyone here, you seem to be the only one whose bed it always empty, you know.”

Faramir shrugged.

“Do you plan to marry the Lady Éowyn?” the elf asked, his tone conversational, as if inquiring about the weather.

Faramir thought about it for a moment. “No. I don’t think so. It would be for convenience only. She’s made it clear that she has… other interests.”

“If she intended to marry you out of love, would you have her then?”

Faramir shrugged again. “She’s beautiful. I did fall rather hard for her when we met… she’s extraordinarily brave and open-hearted.”

“So you found her desirable?”

“Found her desirable? Of course I did. I intended to marry her.”

Legolas inspected his uneaten biscuit for a moment before tossing it carelessly into the fire. “Do you find men desirable also?”

Faramir was not as stunned by the question as he might have been; he had known since his teens where his brother’s preferences lay, and although Boromir and Aragorn never shared a touch between them while anyone else was around to see it, he was fully aware of the relationship between them.

“I suppose I don’t find them undesirable. I just don’t…”

“You have discriminating tastes,” Legolas said easily, smiling. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It does make for some lonely nights,” Faramir said.

“Would you care to take a guess at how long it’s been since I had company in my bed?”

“You’ve had lots of offers. I’ve heard them. Here in Minas Tirith you’re a celebrity, and I know women are always chasing after you.”

“True,” Legolas agreed. “But I much prefer the company of other men. And I’ve had plenty of those offers too… but like you, I have discriminating tastes.”

The snow continued to fall throughout the day, the storm worsening until Faramir found he could see nothing out of his window except drifting flakes against a background of flat gray. Opening the door, he found that even in the covered hallway the snow had blown in and drifted against the walls, accumulating silently but swiftly. He closed the door, shivering, and tossed another log into the fire.

“Doesn’t look like it intends to stop any time soon,” he said.

Legolas, who had been stretched out on the couch with one of Faramir’s books again, sat up and glanced toward the window.

“No. It’ll be up to your knees by the time it’s done… which will make it unreasonably difficult to get around with crutches.”

“Do you play draughts?” Faramir asked.

The elf sat up, interested. “I do. I didn’t know that game was known among men.”

Faramir went to the cabinet and found the slightly dusty box he was looking for. “It’s not well-known. Gandalf taught me to play when I was young, and he gave me this set. Aragorn knows how to play it, of course.”

Legolas snorted. “If he learned from Elladan and Elrohir, I can guarantee you he cheats, because I know for a fact they always do. Wouldn’t put it past Arwen, either.”

Faramir pulled a chair over and set the box on the low table between them, taking out the board with its black and white squares, then the round disks of dark and light marble.

“This is a very nice set,” Legolas noted, collecting the dark-colored pieces and setting them up in rows on his end of the board. “Not that I’d expect anything less of Gandalf.”

For some time, the room was quiet except for the click of the stone pieces against the board, an occasional chuckle, and a few declarations of victory or good-natures accusations of cheating. The peace was interrupted when Aragorn arrived and alternated between scolding Legolas for getting his splint soaking wet and Faramir for washing the honey salve out of his hair.

After a minute or two of this, he stopped and looked at both of them. “Neither one of you gives a damn what I’m saying at the moment, do you.”

“I was listening very intently,” Legolas said. Faramir snorted.

“Draughts, eh?” Aragorn said. “I haven’t seen you take that out for a while. Just finishing a game?”

Faramir nodded. “Legolas won again… I’ve beat him once, though.”

“He’s not nearly as good as he thinks he is,” Aragorn said.

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “Faramir, come sit over here and give Aragorn the chair. I believe I shall need to remind him of exactly who he’s speaking to.”

Faramir laughed and took a seat on the couch next to Legolas, and Aragorn sat down and began arranging his pieces.

“Shall we make a bet?” Legolas asked.

Aragorn raised one eyebrow, and Faramir caught a hint of hesitation before the man nodded briskly.

“Of course. What’s the bet?”

“Just a minor wager,” Legolas said lightly. “If you win, I guarantee that as long as I’m your patient and until my leg is healed, I will refrain from deliberately irritating Boromir or any other member of your household.”

“Is that so? And if I lose?”

“If you lose, it will become your responsibility to take Boromir off this afternoon and persuade him to stop meddling with his brother’s personal affairs.”

“I can’t promise I’ll succeed at that,” Aragorn said, chuckling.

“You may not,” Legolas said. “But regardless, you will be sure to take him away and keep him away from this room for the rest of the day.”

Aragorn extended his hand. “It’s a bet, then.”

Faramir glanced at the elf, wondering what the point of this wager was, until he found the blue eyes glancing back at him with knowing amusement and a hint of a promise that left Faramir completely unable to say anything at all.

“You’re first, Aragorn,” Legolas said, turning his eyes back to the board.

Faramir discovered that he was suddenly extremely interested in the outcome of this game, and also quite interested in watching the lightning-quick motion of the elf’s long fingers and the teeth that pressed slightly into his lower lip for just a moment as he contemplated Aragorn’s last move.

“Excellent,” Legolas said suddenly, grinning, and he took up one of his pieces and neatly hopped it over three of Aragorn’s, ending up in an empty space at the far end of the board and flipping the piece over to reveal the star on the other side, indicating that it was now a king and could move freely in any direction. “I do believe that leaves you with very few moves left, Estel.”

Aragorn frowned, studying the board. “A few, but I can see where this is going. You’ll have those last two pieces trapped in three moves.”

“That’s correct.”

“So I suppose you’ve won the bet, then.”

Legolas smiled. “It seems I have. Good luck with Boromir. Even if he won’t listen to you, I’m sure you can find some other way to occupy him until tomorrow morning.”

Aragorn shook his head and grinned at the elf. “I can’t promise he won’t try to get his hands around your neck if you’re up to something.”

“I,” Legolas said, “am always up to something. And Boromir is welcome to try it… tomorrow.”

Aragorn was laughing to himself as he closed the door behind him.

Faramir looked at Legolas with a curious expression.

“What’s that all about, getting rid of my brother for the rest of the day?”

“Well, at the very least, it frees either one of us from having to be annoyed by him barging in to protect your virtue. Anything beyond that, Faramir, is entirely up to you.”

Title: Faramir’s Dilemma (Part 7)
Author: rubyelf
Characters: Faramir, Legolas, Aragorn, Boromir, etc…
Rating: R
Warnings: AU (ruby-verse)
Summary: About damned time…
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

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Part 7

“Well, at the very least, it frees either one of us from having to be annoyed by him barging in to protect your virtue. Anything beyond that, Faramir, is entirely up to you.”

The blue eyes watched him intently for a long moment, waiting for an answer.

“If you’d rather pretend we didn’t have this conversation, feel free to pick up those pieces and we’ll go back to playing draughts.”

Faramir shook his head.

“No? Tell me what you’d rather be doing, then.”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, I think you do. But you’re going to tell me, or I’m just going to sit here. I’ve got two thousand years worth of patience. Are you going to say something, or just sit there being dense?”

Faramir heard the challenge and saw it flash across the usually smooth and controlled features, and a hint of his brother’s hot temper flared up.

“Is it necessary to go from being so pleasant to being so rude?”

Legolas shrugged. “Whichever one will work. I can be much, much ruder if you’d like. In fact, it would be remarkably easy at the moment to make fun of that blank expression on your face…”

“That’s more than enough,” Faramir said sharply, thinking distantly that he sounded exactly like Boromir, and he realized that he had a firm grip on the front of the elf’s shirt. Far from being alarmed, Legolas grinned at him confidently, taunting him, and Faramir hauled him closer with his fist wrapped in the fabric and kissed him hard.

He was surprised to find the elf’s mouth warm and unresisting, and knew he could feel him smiling into the kiss.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

Legolas grinned at him. “I’m sorry. I thought this was supposed to be fun.”

Faramir had to admit, as he wrapped the lean figure in his arms and pulled him closer, that the elf did indeed have a point.

“Where are you going?” Aragorn asked, looking up at Boromir as he rose from his chair by the fire.

“Just taking a quick walk.”

“In the middle of a blizzard?”

Boromir muttered something under his breath about Finn needing to go out. Aragorn glanced at the puppy, who was snoring softly on her rug and showed no interest in going anywhere.

“I don’t think Finn has the same idea, Boromir.”

Aragorn rose and wrapped his arms around the other man from behind, tugging him back toward the fire.

“Besides, you invited me here, so you can’t just go off and leave me alone. Terribly rude.”

“I didn’t invite you,” Boromir said, distracted by the warm mouth that was now searching along the edge of his tunic, leaving wet stripes on his neck.

“You should have,” Aragorn said, and slid around, steering Boromir back into his chair and pinning him there, one knee on either side of Boromir’s hips, his hands on his chest. He leaned in to kiss him, but Boromir suddenly twisted.

“Wait just a moment. You’re trying to keep me from going to check on my brother.”

Aragorn grinned. “He doesn’t need checked on.”

“He’s alone in his room with that bloody useless manipulative elf!”

Aragorn nodded cheerfully. “Almost certainly, yes.”

“You rotten bastard,” Boromir muttered, raising his hands to push the other man off, but Aragorn was ready for him, and in an instant had each of his wrists in an iron grip, pinning them to the arms of the chair. Boromir bucked, trying to unseat him, but Aragorn was the more skilled of the two when it came to grappling, and he knew how to use his weight to immobilize a larger opponent. Boromir found himself unable to get any leverage to throw the other man off or even get his hands free; Aragorn had too much of his weight on his arms.

“This isn’t funny. Let me up.”

“Why? So you can go interrupt Faramir’s fun?”

“I’m not letting that elf get his hands on my brother!”

“I see,” Aragorn said, jamming a knee into Boromir’s chest as he tried to get up again. “And why is that?”

Boromir scowled. “Faramir deserves much better.”

“Oh? And who would be better?”

“He’s engaged to marry Éowyn. She’s beautiful and clever and strong-minded… she’s a good match for him.”

“I see. And that’s why she’s using their engagement as a cover for her ongoing affairs, right?”

Boromir stopped fighting. “Don’t joke about things like that.”

“You think Faramir’s well-being is the subject of jokes for me? You know I love him like my own brother.”

Boromir sighed, slumping into the chair. “And these… affairs… Faramir knows about them?”

“He has for quite some time.”

“He didn’t tell me…”

“Would you have told him, if circumstances were reversed?”

“I’ll make her pay for…”

“She would put a stop to all of it, if Faramir asked her to.”

“But he won’t,” Boromir said, wincing. “He’s always been too willing to let himself be hurt so someone else could have what they needed.”

“So why not let him take a chance with someone who doesn’t need anything? Legolas has been alive for a long time and he’s quite accustomed to being alone. He doesn’t need to be saved from himself and he’s not looking for redemption or to mend a heartbreak.”

“Wouldn’t it be much simpler if he just found himself a nice, pretty, good-natured wife?”

Aragorn smiled wryly. “Wouldn’t that have been simpler for you, Boromir?”

Boromir nodded. “Much simpler, yes.”

Aragorn leaned in, rubbing his face into Boromir’s neck and speaking quietly into his ear. “Would you trade this for that simpler life, love?”

Boromir shivered and turned his head to kiss him.

“No, but I’d trade you for someone less impossible to deal with.”

“You would not,” Aragorn laughed. “If you were to fall in love with someone who always agreed with you, you’d go out of your mind from boredom.”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “An elf, though? Really?”

“Are you still on that?”

“Yes, I’m still on that. What does an elf want with my brother anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What does anybody really want with anybody else? To enjoy each other’s company and please each other, to understand and be understood?”

Boromir shook his head. “I don’t know about that last part, Aragorn.”

“Why not?”

“Because half of the things you do, I don’t understand at all.”

The other man laughed. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing we do so well with that other part.”

“The part about pleasing each other? If you’d let go of my arms, we could get to work on that.”

Aragorn shifted and tightened his grip, the weight of his body pressing Boromir back into the chair.

“Oh, no. You’ve been much too busy telling other people what to do. So now, you’re quite finished telling anyone what to do for today.”

“It’s only afternoon, though, Aragorn. You know I can’t go the entire rest of the day without telling someone what to do,” he laughed.

“I’m going to make sure you’re too busy for any of that.”

“Are you,” Boromir said, licking his lips distractedly.

“That’s right. Rangers have many talents, you know.”

“Too bad that shutting up and getting on with business isn’t one of them.”

“If you’re going to be rude, you’ll end up gagged.”

“You won’t gag me.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Boromir said, his voice low and intimate, his lips brushing Aragorn’s ear, “then I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

“I’ll still gag you if you don’t stop complaining.”

“Who’s complaining?”

Faramir found himself wondering how the elf underneath him could manage to make their shirts disappear so quickly, but the question was entirely erased from his mind the moment he wrapped his arms around the lean, yielding body, feeling the pale velvet skin, the twining muscles, and beneath it all, the core of flexed steel, bending willingly at the moment, but tight with coiled energy. He ran his hands over the sleek shoulder blades and down the ridged column of the spine, face pressed against the pulse vibrating under the skin of the soft throat. Legolas contentedly permitted this handling for a while, compliant and relaxed, shifting his weight to allow the man’s roaming hands access to whatever they were reach for. The splint on his leg was a nagging annoyance, and as he absently enjoyed the strong hands on his skin and the warm breath against his neck, he was already contemplating how best to work around that hindrance.

“Faramir?”

It took a long moment for the man to drag his mind back to a state where it could process language. “What?”

“Sofas are not ideally designed for this sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh. Right. I do have a bed…”

“Yes, you do,” Legolas agreed, grinning as he draped an arm over Faramir’s shoulder. “I don’t see where you’ve tossed those stupid crutches, but you’ll do just fine. Shall we?”

Aragorn knew he couldn’t keep Boromir pinned for the rest of the day, so he’d set about making sure that by the time he did let him go, Boromir would have no intention of leaving. At the moment, his hands were knotted tightly in Aragorn’s dark hair, his eyes closed, all his attention on the warm tongue leaving wet stripes up the length of his shaft, leaving him shivering and muttering under his breath.

“What are you mumbling about?” Aragorn asked, looking up at him, grinning.

The familiar green eyes flickered open and glanced down at him. “I was suggesting that you either get on with what you’re up to down there, or go fetch us some oil and find a nice, convenient piece of furniture for me to bend you over.”

“Impatient,” Aragorn chided. “I’ve been instructed to keep you busy until morning, and if I give you what you want now, you’re likely to start being difficult again.”

“I’m going to be really difficult if you don’t… ohhh…”

“Besides, I have every intention of having you on the receiving end of things tonight, love.”

Boromir opened one eye again, trying to maintain some ability to speak coherently as those very knowing and familiar fingers slid along the back of his thigh.

“What if I don’t intend to be on the receiving end of things tonight?”

The blue-gray eyes had a sudden flash of steel behind them. “I wasn’t asking, Boromir.”

He felt Boromir’s muscles tense under his hands for a moment, but then all the resistance left him with a slow exhale of breath, and the stubborn set of his shoulders slipped away. Aragorn smiled to himself.

“Let’s take this into the bedroom, shall we?”

Legolas laughed and pressed a hand to Faramir’s bare chest, easing him back. Faramir looked down at him anxiously.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. But I don’t want things to be over before they’ve properly begun.”

Faramir nodded and attempted to force his brain to take some control over the rest of his body, which was more than eager to resume what it had been doing. The entire length of the elf’s body was pressed tightly to his own, and he realized he’d been thrusting himself blindly, quite lost in the sensation of hot bare skin and the breathless electrical shock of feeling another hard, eager length against his own.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Legolas said, grinning. “It’s just that there are so many other things yet to do…”

Faramir looked at him, suddenly uneasy. “You want to…”

The elf chuckled. “Not at the moment. You’re always much too willing to let others take what they want from you, Faramir. I believe it’s your turn.”

“Oh…” he murmured, eyes widening. “I don’t… I mean, I’m not sure how to…”

“Well, surely you’ve got some oil or something like that in one of those drawers.”

Faramir turned slightly red. “I suppose I do.”

He slid the drawer open and retrieved a small capped bottle. Opening it released a distinct scent of almonds with a trace of lavender and sage. Legolas nodded approvingly.

“I suspected you’d have something nice, and not just an old bottle of something for cleaning swords.”

“Why is that?” Faramir asked, frowning.

“Because, as I said before, you have discriminating tastes. Unusual to find in a man. When you live as long as elves do, you discover that it’s always worth taking the time to enjoy fine things.”

He took the bottle from Faramir and sat up.

“I have no objection to letting you take what you want, but something tells me that you’d rather learn to do it properly.”

Faramir nodded.

“And that’s part of why I like you,” the elf said, smiling, and kissed him until Faramir had almost completely forgotten everything that had just been discussed. A gentle tap on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Shall we commence with the teaching?”

“I don’t think I like the idea of using you as a training dummy,” Faramir said.

“You don’t make this sound very romantic,” Legolas said, with mock reproach. “I’ve put up with far less considerate lovers. You won’t do me any harm. Elves are quite resilient.”

Faramir felt his face turning very red. “Yes, but I want… you should…”

“I should enjoy it? Don’t worry. If I’m a proper teacher, we both will. Stop looking so anxious. I thought I told you this was supposed to be fun.”
“You did say that.”

“Well, start having fun, then. Give me your hand.”

He poured the oil liberally into the man’s bow-calloused palm, slender fingers stroking over the larger ones until Faramir found himself wondering exactly how someone touching his hand like that could have such an immediate effect on other parts of his body. Then one finger flicked across his wrist, tickling, and Faramir couldn’t help but twitch and laugh.

“That’s better,” Legolas said approvingly.

Aragorn couldn’t remember the last time Boromir had yielded control so willingly, and with it the past few days of worry and frustration and anger and defensiveness. Now he was stretched out across the bed, hands above his head gripping tightly at the sheets, hips rising eagerly to meet the smooth motion of Aragorn’s slick, seeking fingers, his heart pounding in Aragorn’s ear as he bit at one tight nipple.

“You’re unusually cooperative today,” he murmured. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Tired of…” he attempted, then lost the words in a gasp as Aragorn’s fingers found their target. “Tired of thinking.”

“Since when do you think?” Aragorn teased gently, leaning in to kiss him.

“Tired of being in charge of everything.”

“Nobody asked you to be, you know.”

Boromir smiled. “Nobody has to.”

Aragorn drew his hand back, straightening up and taking a firm hold of Boromir’s thighs, pushing them up and back. Finding no resistance, and Boromir’s muscles relaxing even further as they yielded to his direction, Aragorn took only a moment to steady them both before pressing forward, sliding steadily and relentlessly until Boromir’s legs wrapped around him, and then he grasped at Boromir for leverage and fell into the familiar rhythm, knowing exactly when to drive forward and meet the hips thrusting up to meet him, when to hold back and wait for the strong legs to tighten around him and pull him in, until Boromir’s back arched against the bed and he was demanding, breathlessly pleading, and Aragorn grinned and wrapped his hand around him, taking them both over the edge together.

Faramir bit his lip and buried his face in disheveled blond hair. With his arms around the elf, he could feel the chuckle as Legolas pressed his back against Faramir’s chest.

“I told you, slowly.”

“It’s getting extremely hard to remember what you told me,” Faramir muttered, not at all sure how he was still managing to maintain any rational thought with this warm body nestled up against him and the blinding heat and tightness he’d just discovered. Legolas, his head resting against Faramir’s shoulder, smiled to himself.

“Good things come to those who wait.”

Faramir growled and tightened his grip. “And how much waiting is involved?”

Legolas relented and reached up, taking Faramir’s hand from his chest and leading it downward, pushing his hips back into the man’s lap. Realizing he was tormenting Faramir, he closed his own hand over Faramir’s around his shaft, taking just a moment to enjoy the broad palm and the fingers with their bowman’s callouses before tightening his grip.

“All right, then. Enough waiting.”

He grinned and braced himself, expecting his over-stimulated partner to slam into him, but Faramir apparently still had some self-control left, because he kept his motions steady, even though Legolas could feel the man’s body stretched tight as a bowstring against his back. He had not expected Faramir to find a rhythm so easily between his thrusts and the smooth strokes of his hand, and he stopped guiding him and let go so he could grasp Faramir’s arms with both hands, steadying himself against the unexpectedly rapid spiral of excitement. He knew he had entirely lost control of the situation when he realized that now it was Faramir chuckling, holding back, tormenting him.

“Enough,” he gasped.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Faramir said, breathless amusement in his voice.

“I’ve been waiting for quite a while,” Legolas said, head jerking back against Faramir’s shoulder. “It’s not my fault you’ve been so dense this entire time.”

Faramir rewarded this remark with a thrust hard enough to leave both of them seeing stars, and then neither of them had any breath left for talking, and both bodies were arching eagerly, and Faramir cried out something unintelligible and gripped Legolas harder, until they both sank back breathing hard and shaking against each other.

“You,” Legolas said breathlessly, “are an excellent student.”

Faramir pressed his face into the back of the elf’s neck and waited for his pulse to return to something approaching normal.

Boromir yawned and rolled over against Aragorn, making room for the un-amused puppy who was insisting upon being given her spot on the bed. Aragorn mumbled something in his sleep and shifted himself closer, head tucked against Boromir’s broad shoulder, and his steady breathing gradually lulled the other man back to sleep.

Legolas was not, of course, asleep, but he laid contentedly on his back, looking up at the ceiling and feeling Faramir’s sleeping body stir slightly against him as he dreamed. He smiled in the darkness and reached over to absently run his fingers through the man’s still-damp hair.

“Wasn’t expecting to be surprised by much, after a few thousand years,” he said aloud.

“Glad I could help,” Faramir muttered sleepily.

THE END

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