Faramir Fiction Archive

Gollum the Great (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

08 September 2006 | 6825 words | Work in Progress

Part Six

Ignoring the large man at the door, he knelt beside his friend, watching. There was no change in the still face. Gently, he took one of the square brown hands in his, holding it, trying to share his warmth. The air was cold, and he shivered. He took over the cloak that he wore and laid it over Sam, wrapping it around him.

Two small packs lay disregarded on the floor. The kind man had brought them to him before they had left the caves, had unpacked them, shown him what they contained. There were clothes that fit him in one, and the cloak, soft and warm, but he did not recognize the strange cakes, wrapped in leaves, or the gleaming mail smeared with mud and blood. The other pack held more clothes, a few small pots and pans. Each pack held one mystery, one a glass phial that shone when he touched it, the other a carved wooden box.

His head hurt. He rubbed it, remembering how they had sat together, the mess spread before them on the floor. The jumble of oddments seemed to echo in his head, pictures half glimpsed, words lost in the wind. Nothing made sense except his fear.

He knew that was real. Somewhere high above, black wings rode the air.

Sighing, he curled up beside the still figure and closed his eyes. The warmth at his back comforted him, and he slowly relaxed.

It was later than Faramir had realized when he had finished hearing reports. The night was dark, all sleeping save for those on watch. He stood in the silent courtyard, stretching. The mountains to the east stood black against the lowering sky. He listened to the silence.

They had turned away the attack. But they had not defeated the enemy. He knew troops were massing, knew it was only a matter of time until the City fell. He would leave all the men he could spare, take a few to ride with him to Minas Tirith.

The air tasted flat, the smell of death, of burning. Faramir rubbed his aching arm and went to get what sleep he could. He would have to speak to his father tomorrow.

Dim light showed Anborn still on watch. A glance at the room beyond, lit by a guttering candle, showed two still forms curled up on one pallet.

“I asked for a Healer, for food and water,” Faramir said, keeping his voice low. “Did any come?”

“No.”

Faramir thought of waking sleeping men, of trying to find what had happened. But Luin seemed deep asleep, and the other halfling had not woken all that day. His own weariness kept him from moving any further.

“My thanks,” he told Anborn. “Get some food, rest. I’ll want you and two others to ride with me tomorrow. We will take the horses they can spare.”

Anborn nodded, turning away.

Faramir entered the small room. He took off his swordbelt, setting the weapon and his boots aside, wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down beside Luin. Despite the hard stone beneath him, sleep claimed Faramir quickly.

Faramir tightened his arm around Luin, encouraging the faltering horse with voice and legs. Ahead of them, so close, the smaller gate set in the Great Gate opened into the City, promising safety.

Over them, black shapes soared shrieking, stooping.

Dust choked Faramir’s throat. He could not see the others, could hear nothing save the harsh voices from above singing despair.

Stinking cold air blasted around him. His shoulder burned. He could see the black dart buried deep, blood soaking his clothing. His left arm was going numb. Luin would fall.

White light burned ahead.

He felt the shadow above him falter, withdraw. His eyes burning, Faramir blinked, suddenly able to see a white figure, riding a large white horse. The robed figure waved him through the gate, and he set his teeth to endure the rough ride as the lathered horse carried them into the courtyard.

Once inside, he reined aside, searching frantically for the men who rode behind him. First Anborn, then Barahil, carrying the limp figure of the second Halfling.

None other. The gates swung shut, the hollow sound echoing in Faramir’s ears. He swallowed hard. Damrod was lost then.

Figures surged around them, but even over the noise the clear voice carried.

“Faramir!”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir turned, feeling a sudden warmth. He had not seen his old friend for years, did not understand how he had come here, clothed all in white, astride a horse came out of legend, or from the Mark.

“Frodo!”

Shocked, Faramir stared at the small figure that sat in front of Mithrandir. Another halfling, one dressed in bright colours, small as a child, wearing a grey cloak like Luin’s.

“How have you come here?”

Luin shrank back against Faramir, silent. He could feel the small body shaking against his.

“Faramir, what is this? How came Frodo to you?”

“In Ithilien.” Faramir let the reins drop. The poor beast under him could barely move. “We found him, injured. He hardly speaks. I did not know his name.”

Moving with care, Faramir shifted back. His left arm hung nearly useless, and he could not dismount normally. It was awkward, but he managed to slide off the rear, slowly, using his right arm only.

The jar as his feet hit the ground sent bright pain through him, but he forced himself to move forward.

“We found another.” Faramir leaned heavily against the horse’s side, smelling sweat and dirt. “Barahil has him.”

“Sam!”

The halfling slid quickly off the horse, dashing across the courtyard.

Faramir watched him, marveling at how lightly and quickly he moved. When Mithrandir touched him, he jumped.

The wizard was standing close, keen eyes demanding. “Faramir, I must know more of what happened to Frodo.”

Faramir nodded. The urgency in Mithrandir’s voice cut through his weariness. He slid his arm up and around Luin’s waist.

“Come down,” he said. “I’ll help.”

After a moment, Luin nodded, swung his leg over, and started to slide off the horse into Faramir’s arms. Caught off balance, one arm useless, Faramir lurched sideways, and Luin fell forward across Faramir’s injured shoulder.

Pain split him, sinking dark claws deep in his body. Faramir welcomed the soft darkness that followed.

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