Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

Part Two

Stone is cold against his skin. Tall dark shapes, misshapen, loom over him. They gloat, hands on weapons, teeth gleaming. Harsh voices echo from the spurs of rock hanging like fangs over their heads.

He kneels because he has no strength to stand after their rough handling.

Rubbing his arm, Faramir pushed down the instinct to order the thing killed. It was not human, true, but that did not mean it was an orc. Faramir had seen and fought orcs no larger than this creature. But whether large or small, and some of the orcs found in Ithlien had been huge, they did not have such soft skin, did not wear woven cloth. The blue-green trousers and shirt were ripped, filthy, stained with blood and dirt, but were finely woven. The shirt hung open, showing clearly that it, no, he, was not female despite the delicate features and limbs.

Old stories spoke of many creatures, some good, some evil, but Faramir could remember no mention of child-like creatures with hairy feet and pointed ears. The sound of the falling water seemed to grow louder in the silence.

“Kill it,” one of his men muttered.

Others agreed. “It’s an orc spy.”

“No,” Faramir said, straightening. “I want to know who he is, and why he came here.” He nodded at the man who’d spoken, the others clustered around him. “Get some sleep. I’ll tend to him.”

Anborn coughed, and Faramir nodded at him. “You can help,” he said.

“He’ll try to escape,” Anborn said as the men, slowly moved away to where mattresses were ranged along the walls.

“Get some chains, then, and some food. Water, salve, and bandages.” Faramir was watching
the small face and body closely, trying to decide if he understood language.

When all had left, Faramir forced himself to relax. He spoke softly, repeating the same few words over and over. We won’t hurt you. You’re safe here.

No change in face or body.

Faramir reached out, and the creature twisted away, his attempt to run thwarted by the tight bindings, turned into a fall. Leaping forward, Faramir caught the small body which went rigid in his grip. Lifting the light weight easily, Faramir carried him to the small cave that he used for for sleeping, where he kept the maps and records he had to use as Captain of Ithilien.

He had the best light there which would make working easier than in one of the storage caves.

Faramir laid his burden on the bed and moved to light all the lanterns which stood, filled and ready, on shelf and tables. The bed was a mattress on a low wooden frame pushed against one wall. Two large tables covered with maps, dirty dishes, and piles of parchment stood against another wall, and shelves held record books.

Golden light filled the small room. Faramir bent over the bed, trying to see how bad the injuries were.

“Are you hurt?”

No answer.

Faramir ran his hands over the bound legs and could feel no breaks. “Your arms are fine,” he said softly, remembering the knife attack.

The creature glared at him, straining at the bonds.

Faramir pressed lightly against the belly, looking for any response. None. But pressure on his ribs brought a wince. Testing, Faramir thought that one rib was cracked. That, and the cuts on chest and arms, the bleeding sores around the neck, seemed to be the sum of his injuries.

“Is he talking yet?” Anborn asked from the entrance.

“No.” Faramir turned and watched as Anborn pushed away a stack of books to set his laden tray on the table, then dropped the chains onto the floor next to the bed. “Give me the water, and a cloth.”

Saying nothing more, but with an expressive lift of his brows, Anborn handed Faramir a pan of steaming water and a soft cloth.

“Get those rags off him. And cut his bonds.”

Anborn shook his head, but drew his knife and bent over the bed. “Hold still,” he growled as the bound form rolled away. Pinning him, Anborn cut deftly through rope and cloth, easily stripping the small figure despite his struggles.

Sheathing his knife, Anborn pulled their prisoner up, holding him while Faramir cleaned him, wiping blood and grime off, dipping and rinsing the cloth, cleaning face, limbs, and body. Other than constant shivering, he made no other move. Setting aside the pan of dirty water, Faramir smoothed salve over the injuries. None was deep enough to require stitching, but Anborn helped him wrap a cloth around the cracked ribs, covering the chest wounds as well.

When Anborn cautiously released him after Faramir had tied off the bandage, the creature made no move to escape. Instead, he huddled on the bed, drawing his legs up, hiding his face against his knees.

Against the dark bedding, his skin shone, and he seemed more vulnerable than ever, naked and alone. His clothes were reduced to rags. Faramir thought a moment, then went to a chest, pulling out a spare shirt. It would be too large, but at least it was something.

He draped it around the small shoulders and was heartened when, after a moment, the still figure moved, sliding arms into the shirt, pulling it tightly around him.

“Food?”

Faramir wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Anborn, or their captive, but in any case, it was Anborn who handed him a bowl of stew with a spoon in it.

Sitting on the bed, Faramir held the bowl out to the unmoving figure. After a moment of absolute stillness, he reached out, slowly, to take the bowl. Holding it a few moments, he watched Faramir, blue eyes huge in the small face, then began to eat, rapidly, hunching over the bowl like a child with a stolen treat.

“What now?” Anborn sounded resigned though he stood close, hand on knife, watching every move.

“Wait till morning, as soon as it’s light, take out the best trackers and follow his backtrail,” Faramir said. “I want to know where he came from, what brought him here.”

“Yes, lord. Should I chain him?”

“No. I’ll handle it.”

Anborn left, not quite snorting.

Faramir decided not to hear it. He watched as the rapid movements slowed, the bowl empty. Scraping the spoon across the bottom to gather the last drops of broth, the creature licked the spoon, then, cautious, held out the empty bowl to Faramir. He set it on the floor beside the light chains.

“I have to keep you here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You’re a stranger, not known to Gondor. I don’t think you’re a spy from Mordor, but I have to find out what happened. Can’t you tell me?”

No response. The room was so quiet that Faramir could hear their breathing, two rhythms.

Shrugging, Faramir stood. This time, when he bent to pick up the small figure, there was no fight, though the tenseness of body and limbs was familiar. It took only a few moments to set him down gently and snap the cuffs around both ankles, then lock the chains to the solid frame of the bed.

After a moment’s thought, Faramir pulled one of the heavy wool blankets and a pillow off the bed and set it next to the still figure.

“Sleep,” Faramir said. “We’ll try to find out what happened to you in the morning.”

Faramir blew out the lanterns and stripped off his clothes, sliding into bed. Relaxing, he listened, hearing soft rustles and the occasional chink in the darkness. Finally, all was quiet and Faramir could sleep.

Warmth around him and softness under him. The small cave is quiet, and the darkness under the blanket small and familiar. Perhaps, for a few moments, he could rest

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