Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

TITLE: Gollum the Great
BY: Ithiliana
PAIRING: Frodo/Faramir
RATING: Adult
FEEDBACK: Always Appreciated! Some explanation of what that means to me is here if you wish to see it
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to the Tolkien estate, modified by film production. This story is not written for money and therefore has no no intent to infringe upon copyright.
WARNINGS: AU. Dark. Interspecies. Slash.

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Part One

He stumbles through brush and thorn, one arm wrapped around his chest. Pain beats inside, black wings tearing at him. He is lost in the dark. His feet and legs bleed. He is cold, then hot, throat burning, mouth dry.

Head down, he pushes forward, keeps moving only because of what lies behind.

Death.

“My precious!! Give it back!”

Metal cutting soft flesh of neck. Burning eyes, grasping hands. Blood filling his mouth, filling his eyes.

He gags, falling to his knees, convulsing. Bitter fluid fills his mouth and nose. Blood.

He leans to press face and hands against cool earth, topples over, curling around the pain.

He could lie here forever.

Death.

As his breathing slows and the pounding in his chest dims, he hears a faint sound. Water.

“Just a bit of water, Mr. Frodo. And some light.”

Tears burn his face.

He cannot stop, cannot rest, even though all is dark. Sam would never forgive him. Pushing himself up, he crawls, flinching at the sharpness of stone cutting his legs and hands, blindly reaching out until cool water slides over his hand.

The scent fills his lungs, cools his face. He lies on his belly, braced on his arms, lowering his face to green-scented coolness and drinks.

He drinks as deeply as he can, feeling the blood and filth wash away. Raising his head, he breathes a while, then drinks again.

He gains enough strength to stand and stumble back to a shelter under a tree, curling up in the soft grass under it like an animal in a burrow. He sees a single star caught in the net of branches above him. Comforted, he sleeps.

Faramir waved Anborn and the others out to form a circle. Several had bows drawn, the others swords.

Squinting in the uncertain light of moonset over Ithilien, Faramir stepped forward, trying to make out what it was the scouts had reported seeing at the edge of Henneth Annûn.

Death waited for any who came here uninvited by Gondor. His orders were clear.

But the huddled figure was sleeping, so small, curled in the grass. It must be a child, but how could a child be wandering in Ithilien in the midst of war? Some survivor from one of the settlements in the south that had been burned by Orcs?

Aware of the tenseness of his men, Faramir knew he could not wait. He knelt, touching the small shoulder.

With a thin shriek, the child leaped up, cowering against the tree.

Faramir reached out, hoping to reassure, to calm.

Anborn shouted as the child snatched a long knife from a sheath, swung wildly, slashed Faramir’s arm.

Leaping up, clamping his hand on his arm, Faramir shouted at his men. The shock and pain did not stop him from seeing the bleeding wounds, the torn and tattered clothes.

“Don’t shoot! Bind him!”

The small figure backed away, face distorted by a snarl, knife ready. Before he saw the men behind him, Anborn reached down, large hands taking him by the nape, pinning him, as another knocked the knife away.

Twisting, the child shrieked and clawed, twisting like a cat, but two others helped Anborn hold him, tying hands behind his back, ankles and knees. Limp and panting harshly, the child lay still in their grip, eyes gleaming.

“Easy,” said Faramir. “He cannot match you in strength. Bring him, but do not harm him further.”

He would have followed them to the cave, but Anborn held him back a few moments, binding the cut on his arm, ignoring Faramir’s protests. Only after the cloth was tightly knotted did they move through the bushes, back to the entrance and into the dark passages.

Faramir blinked as they came into the cave. Only one torch was lit, in a small niche cut into the back of the cave, but after the dark under the trees and in the passages, the light seemed too bright.

His men were gathered in a huddle, muttering.

“What is it?” Faramir pitched his voice to carry, not wanting to have to push among them.

They fell back as he approached, some making cautious signs, their hands low by their sides, nearly hidden in the drape of cloaks.

Beyond them, kneeling, back against the wall, body taut and straining against stone, was not the child he had expected to see.

Faramir stared, feeling the pounding of his blood in chest and belly.

The ripped clothes showed white skin, streaked with blood, a collar of abraded flesh around the slim throat, but what slowed Faramir’s breath and blood was the pointed ears, the burning blue eyes.

This was no child. This was no human

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