Faramir Fiction Archive

Not What You Think (PG-13)

Written by RubyElf

22 December 2010 | 1042 words

TITLE: Not What You Think
AUTHOR: RubyElf
CHARACTERS: Boromir, Faramir, Legolas
RATING: PG13
WARNINGS: suggestive remarks
SUMMARY: Faramir returns home on a cold Yule evening to find some strange things being said (and done) in his room
DISCLAIMER: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever you’d like… stay warm and have fun!

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Faramir finally gave up and sent his archers home early; there seemed to be little point in archery practice when the targets were completely obscured by cascades of blowing snow. On his way through the cold stone halls he stomped his feet, trying to get rid of the numbness, and blew warm breath into his hands, cursing the thin leather gloves that gave him enough precision to draw his bow but did little to protect from the biting cold. In the city’s open courtyards, drifting flakes skated like dust over the bare stone and piled up against walls and in sheltered corners.

He was not terribly surprised to hear Boromir’s voice booming out of his room as he approached the door; when pestered by councilors or other annoyances, Boromir was not above hiding in his brother’s room instead of his own, where someone was likely to look for him. The shouting, though, suggested that someone was in there with Boromir, and that was rather unexpected.

Curious enough to forget the chill, Faramir leaned against the wall beside his door, listening and growing increasingly puzzled with each passing moment.

“Get down from there, you bloody fool!” his brother’s voice exclaimed.

Another, softer voice replied to Boromir’s outburst, but Faramir couldn’t make out the words. Something hit the floor with a thud.

“Now you’ve gone and done it! Don’t you know how this is supposed to work?”

Another soft reply, and Boromir responded in a milder tone.

“Well, all right then… but I told you, that doesn’t go there. No, it won’t fit! Hey, there!”

There was a note of rising desperation in his brother’s voice, and the sound of furniture sliding across the floor.

“No, we are not switching places, you daft elf! I weigh half again as much as you do!”

Elf? Faramir frowned. There were only two elves he knew of who had any business being in these private halls, and he was quite certain Boromir would never speak to Arwen that way. His brother always addressed the queen with reverence and devotion, first because she was Aragorn’s beloved, and second because she had always understood what lay between the king and his steward, and had graciously allowed and even sometimes encouraged that bond. The only other elf likely to be around was Legolas, and though the Prince of Mirkwood was a close friend of both the king and queen, even in his best moods Boromir tended to refer to him as “that bloody self-absorbed idiot elf”, and in his worst moods things much less complimentary. The fact that Legolas had made a point of ceaselessly teasing and embarrassing Boromir since their first meeting in Rivendell had done little to endear him to the man.

The quieter voice gave what was clearly an exclamation of displeasure.

“I told you it wouldn’t fit,” Boromir said. “You’d think you’d never done this before.”

Faramir could not hear the response, but Boromir laughed.

“Well, that’s just more proof that elves are all dense, not just you. Now get your bony arse back where it’s supposed to be!”

Indignant exclamations came from within the room.

“Look, I’m not happy about this either, but I suppose if you’re in a tight enough spot even a bloody elf’s better than nothing. Now stop fussing and get me that rope.”

Faramir’s eyes widened; the voice inside was definitely indignant now, and louder. There was a shout of alarm, a few loud thuds, and then Boromir was shouting.

“Ouch! Not like that! You damned bloody useless bastard! Either get off me or get those damned stinking balls of yours out of my face before…”

This was entirely enough for Faramir, considering that this was all taking place in his room, so he shoved the door open and walked in.

The floor of the room was strewn with pine needles and branches, crumpled red ribbons, and various lengths of twine and rope. A few of the pine boughs, decorated with ribbon, had been successfully hung from the rafters, filling the air with the crisp scent of evergreen. In the middle of the room stood Boromir, scowling unhappily, shoulders slightly hunched due to the fact that Legolas was sitting on those shoulders, his ankles hooked together across Boromir’s chest. The elf’s normally sleek hair was in disarray and full of pine needles; he had lengths of rope draped over one shoulder, a branch in one hand, and in the other several strings from which hung fist-sized sacks of cheesecloth, fragrant with the aroma of clove and nutmeg and cinnamon bark.

Both of them stopped and looked at Faramir, expressions somewhere between surprise and horror.

“Err…” Boromir attempted.

“What are you doing in my room?” Faramir demanded.

“Decorating,” Legolas said cheerfully.

Boromir growled. “Get down, you daft bloody elf!”

Legolas landed neatly on his feet, grinning broadly.

“Why…” Faramir asked, bewildered.

Boromir shuffled his feet. “Because Yule always was your favorite holiday, little brother, and it’s been many years since we had time to celebrate it properly.”

Faramir tried to keep a smile from spreading across his face. “So you got Legolas to help you?”

Boromir snorted. “Asked Arwen to help. She’s good at things like that. Instead she sent me this idiot. More trouble than he’s worth. And those smelly things he’s got there…”

“Traditional for Yule,” Legolas argued. “They smell festive.”

“You smell like a dead orc’s…”

“Enough,” Faramir exclaimed, holding up his hands. “Let’s finish this up together, and we’ll have the kitchen send us up some cake and ale.”

“That’s not much of a Yule celebration for you,” Boromir said doubtfully.

Faramir laughed. “We’ll go get Aragorn when we’re finished decorating, and then I’ll have everyone I want to celebrate with.”

Boromir squeezed him rather hard. “Sorry about the mess.”

“I’d love anything you made for me, Boromir… even a mess.”

“Now about that ale…”

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