Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

Part Five

Osgiliath was under attack. The flames could be seen clearly against the walls, bright under the lowering skies. It was not night, but as they traveled through the glades of Ithilien, smokes and gloom from Mordor had obscured the sunlight. The day had grown darker.

Faramir stood, chewing his lip, thinking. The old sewers under the River would let them enter, if Orcs had not discovered them. It was the only way. He turned back to speak to the men closest to him, quietly. Some evil lurked above the clouds, seemed to hover close.

“One or two at a time. Use all the cover you can—we’ll go under the River. Pass the word back.”

Anborn stood near, holding Luin’s arm. He had kept pace with them during the day but he looked pale and sick now in the gloom. Two men carried the other Halfling, carefully slung between them.

“We’ll go in last,” Faramir said. “Here, I’ll take him.” He held his hand out to Luin who tugged away from Anborn.

He shrugged, released Luin, and started sending men off in small groups.

Luin stood close to Faramir, pressed against his leg. He could feel the shivering in the small body, but dared not take time to comfort him. He had to watch ground and sky, alert for any hint that his force had been seen.

After what seemed like most of a day, Anborn nodded to the two men carrying the unconscious Halfling, and they moved through the bare trees. They reached the overgrown entrances to the tunnels, sodden and stinking but still passable, and entered the dark.

Luin held Faramir’s hand. The water rose to Faramir’s knees, and he tightened his grip. Soon, the dark of the tunnel lightened to grey, and they entered the ruined City. Fallen columns and huge stones littered the way, and they had to move carefully between them. The sentries, expecting them, waved them through the ruined gates.

Faramir felt his shoulders relax, straightened. They were here. It was not safety, but it was safer than the open county had become.

Pale eyes gleamed, half-open, and breath hissed over sharp teeth. “Yessss, we sssees you, thiefs, and murderers, sssneaking away, ever so trickssy. Sseee them, there they are! Get them!”

Luin stumbled, falling to his hands and knees.

“Are you hurt?” Turning, Faramir reached down, gripping the slim arms to pull him up. The small body was limp, eyes wide and dark.

“They’ve come.” The thread of a voice was almost too slight to hear, but Faramir felt his heart leap. Luin could speak. In his joy, he made no sense of the words until a shriek split the air, a black spear of despair.

High above their heads, cutting through the air, a fell beast dived. Two others flew high and behind it, the black shapes on them shrieking horror and fear.

Pulling Luin into his arms, Faramir turned, shouting as loud as he could at the men around him. “Nazgûl! Take cover!”

Sprinting for an archway that promised cover, Faramir felt the cold blast of foulness surround him and nearly fell to cower until taken. But the warmth of Luin’s breath on his neck gave him strength to stagger on through the archway into a covered walkway. A howl and the flapping of leathery wings told him that the creature had missed its strike, this time.

Sagging against the wall, Faramir slid slowly down, until he was sitting, sprawled against the wall. He was shaking, only vaguely aware of the shouting of men and orcs.

The last time he had seen the Black Riders had been before Boromir left, when the enemy’s forces had tried to take the last bridge in Osgiliath. The bridge had been cast down behind them, and they’d saved themselves only by swimming. The weight of the fear had frozen his limbs then, but was worse now, as if their malice had grown.

The madness that had driven the enemy’s forces now fell upon Osgiliath from the sky.

Luin stirred in his arms, and Faramir smiled down.

“You spoke!”

Blue eyes stared back, and Faramir could see no hint of understanding.

“You warned us, you felt the Nazgûl.”

No response.

Faramir sighed. He set Luin on his feet and pushed himself up, leaning against the wall a moment. He felt drained by the attack, more than if he’d fought all day. But he had to go find his men, speak to whoever commanded in Osgiliath, and see to the care of the two Halflings. He would not speak of this to the others who might think the Halflings in league with Mordor.

“Come,” he said, reaching for Luin’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Cold as stone, he followed, shaking but afraid to leave the one who’d helped him, afraid to stay. They had come. They were after him. They would take him to Him, for punishment.

Their noises made no sense, but when they came into a small room at the end of a hall, he could finally see the still form of the one they’d carried all that day lying on a pallet. Bandaged head and arms lay still, but the touseled brown hair and snub nose were the first things he’d recognized. He knew the closed eyes would be brown, a light brown shot with gold like the Brandywine on a sunny day, when they opened.

Tugging free of the large hand which held him, he stumbled forward, knelt by the pallet. He ignored the sharp voices behind him, laid a trembling hand on the chest which barely rose and fell.

“Sam?”

Faramir watched as Luin called a strange word, a name, perhaps? Sam. The tension in the small figure, the gentleness with which he touched his friend, were clear.

“He would not act so had he injured his friend.”

Anborn shrugged.

“Best guard them both.”

“You stay here, then. I want to talk to the commander. We’ll take a small group and ride to the City tomorrow.”

Anborn nodded, settling down by the door, as Faramir left. Turning back, he said, “Have them bring in another pallet. I’ll sleep here tonight.”

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