Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

“We need to talk about your father, Boromir.”

Boromir struggled to remain sitting, to regain control of himself. He would not stand, would not to try to assert a dominance he could never achieve. He owed Mithrandir a great debt despite the anger that tried to insist otherwise.

Dimly, Boromir felt gratitude that Mithrandir said nothing more, standing quietly in front of the door as if he understood Boromir’s struggle. Remembering the piercing eyes and the light that had stripped his soul naked, Boromir knew how much the wizard understood. That memory led him back to anger, and he set his teeth, closed his eyes, held the memory of his father’s face as a warning.

The quiet of the room was broken only by the sound of harsh breathing. Slowly, Boromir began to relax, to feel he was in control again. Frodo could not stay with him. Mithrandir had sent Frodo away for the good of all. The desire to strike the wizard or his brother for touching Frodo was due to the Ring, was what Boromir must fight in himself.

Frodo had to take the Ring to Mordor. Boromir had no further part to play in that task, could only hinder it, serve the will of the Enemy. Perhaps he had no real part to play, he thought, tasting the final bitterness in the cup.

Drawing a deep breath, Boromir looked at Mithrandir. “What of my father?”

“He is here in the Houses of Healing, but he says nothing. He tried to claim the Ring for his own. Yet even before that, when I first arrived, he spoke of knowing and of seeing more than others, saying much about the forces of Mordor. Do you know how he came by such knowledge?”

Boromir frowned, shaking his head. “My father is sent information from all the outposts, has always studied to know the forces arrayed against Gondor. I know nothing more than that.”

Mithrandir shook his head. “Reports, yes, from many including Faramir who has spoken to me of how your father has changed during the time you were away. That information which is known by Faramir and Imrahil among others would not let your father speak as he has, revealing knowledge beyond the skills of any ranger or force of men to gather. I suspect he has done more. He must not return to the Citadel, Boromir.”

“He is the Steward. After he has recovered. . .”

“No. If what I believe is true and your father leaves here, Sauron will learn enough to cause our destruction, if he has not already.”

“Sauron? How?” Bewildered, Boromir wondered if Mithrandir believed Denethor had betrayed them.

“A palantír, one of the seven Seeing Stones of Númenor, was placed at Minas Anor. If the House of the Stewards kept it, none have spoken or it or dared to use it. But in these dark days, I believe that, driven by despair, your father may have used it. More, if he has looked into the Stone since you and Frodo came to Minas Tirith, Sauron now knows the truth about the Ring.”

Boromir nodded, hearing the truth in Mithrandir’s words, remembering how his father had spoken to him of forces beyond the Black Gates, of how he had changed since Boromir had left Gondor.

“But while he lies unspeaking, as if in a fever dream, none will expect him to lead. While you and Frodo slept, Faramir led. Now that you are awake, you are the eldest. Will you lead?”

Boromir looked down, away from the keen grey eyes, feeling the tightness in his throat. “No.”

Silence.

It would not be so easy, Boromir realized. Mithrandir still stood in front of the door, unmoving, as if solidly rooted in place, able to stand beyond the end of time. There was no escape from what must be said.

Standing, hands clenched, moving away from the bed to the center of the room, Boromir faced the wizard. “You know better than any why I am not fit to lead. You say you fear what my father might do, but I am no different. I took the Ring, I took Frodo from his path and brought him here.” Panting, Boromir closed his eyes to make the final admission. “I might have killed him. I—” he faltered, unable to say what he had done, what they had done, remembering Frodo crying out, convulsing under Boromir’s hands, seeing Frodo tied across his bed. It had to be said. “I think. . . I raped him.”

“No.”

Gasping, Boromir opened his eyes, stepped forward, gripping Mithrandir’s shoulders, ignoring the staff held casually in the crook of one arm, shaking him.

“What would you know of it, old man? I failed him, I should have been stronger!”

Although the flesh and bone in Boromir’s grip seemed to be the body of an old man, the white figure did not move, was not affected by Boromir’s strength, brushed him casually off as a boy brushes a fly.

Staggering, Boromir fell, sprawling on the floor, unable to stand.

White light pooled around the figure which moved to stand over him, the light growing more intense each moment. “I know much of what happened, Boromir. You and Frodo talked long in your sleep as I sat beside the bed. What happened between you was done by the Ring. I do not understand all the Ring is or can do. None living today can know that except perhaps Sauron, and even he has been parted from it for long ages of the world. Had you killed Frodo when you took the Ring, I would have grieved, but I would not have been surprised. Think, Boromir. Gollum killed his cousin for the Ring. Isildur released it only in death. But you bore the Ring and did not kill Frodo. You protected him. He called you back and saved you from the Ring in the Hall. Something bound the two of you together, yes. And if there was a rape, you and Frodo both suffered it because of the Ring. But the two of you also resisted, together.”

Boromir flung his arm across his face, trying to block the power of the light which seemed to pull at him. With the final words from the shining figure, the light ebbed, slowly, leaving Boromir flat on his back, blinking.

“So, Boromir, will you refuse to defend your people?”

Mithrandir extended a hand, and Boromir frowned, thinking he saw a ring gleaming red. But it was only a trick of the light, he told himself. He extended his own hand and was pulled easily to his feet.

“But, Faramir—”

“He leads, but the fear you are wounded or ill affects many. The Nazgûl fly over the city, their weapon is despair. Your return would restore strength to many. Faramir knows this.”

Pushing his hair back from his face, Boromir stood, feeling at ease for the first time in many days, he could not remember how many. He smiled at Mithrandir. “I will go to the Citadel,” he said. “For whatever good it will do.” He plucked at the white nightrobe he wore. “Although you will have to find me something else to wear.”

Mithrandir smiled in return. “Clothing is easily found,” he said. “And although we cannot know all that will come, I think you have made the right choice.”

“Have some of this, whatever it is, it’s my favourite!”

Frodo smiled at Pippin who had shown up at mid-day lugging a huge basket of food. He had insisted on eating on the grass outside which turned the meal into a picnic. Frodo ignored the darkness above. At least the Nazgûl has left the sky above Minas Tirith. Frodo did not know why, he did not care why, he only knew he could relax in their absence. Pippin had told him that walking through the streets made him feel as if the whole City was holding its breath before the plunge into war.

Pippin was holding out a sticky dessert, sweet fruit filling layered between light pastry. It had been packed on top, and Pippin had already eaten more than half of the generous serving before starting to unpack the rest of the food.

Frodo could not resist learning forward to brush the crumbs off his cousin’s face. “You go ahead,” he said. Frodo had never had as much of a sweet-tooth as Pippin did. No one did, he thought.

Smiling happily, Pippin dived back in, and Frodo began to unpack, spreading the feast, and it was a feast, on the white cloth which had covered the basket. A small round of cheese and two loaves of the fine white bread he remembered from his first meal at the Citadel. Cold beef. Small red apples. Raisin cakes. He bit into one happily, enjoying the soft texture and the sweet burst of flavour on his tongue. A jug of beer and a flask of wine.

“What would you like to drink?”

Pippin swallowed the last bite of the pastry, and said “Wine,” spraying a few crumbs and wiping his mouth with his hand.

When Frodo pulled the cork out of the flask, the rich sweet scent flooded his senses. His head swam. He poured the wine for Pippin, but then chose beer for himself. The rich nutty taste slid over his tongue, and he smiled as he swallowed.

“Eat, Frodo, you’re not well,” Pippin urged. He cut Frodo several thick slices of bread and piled cheese and beef high on each before pushing them into Frodo’s hands.

“I’m feeling much better,” Frodo protested, but bit into the food appreciatively. Everything he tasted seemed to burst with flavour, as if some muffling veil had been stripped away.

He had slept well through the night, whether because of Gandalf’s potion or his words, hearing no noises, suffering no dreams. Chewing, oddly at peace, he could almost believe the days since Parth Galen had been an evil dream, one that had nearly torn him from this world. But he now woke, walked and breathed under the sun, feeling the earth under his feet again. Sitting and eating with Pippin he could almost imagine for a while that they were back in the Shire, on an afternoon outing, and would return to Bag End that night.

Frodo reached for more of the raisin cakes.
A short time later, all that was left of the picnic nuncheon, a few apple cores and the cheese rind, was returned to the basket, and Frodo and Pippin stretched out on the grass.

Pippin sighed happily, wiggling his toes. “That’s much better,” he said. “The food is very good at the Citadel, but they don’t seem to understand how much to feed a hobbit. They seem to think that because we’re smaller than a Man, we should eat less! But Faramir gave special orders today.”

“How did you come to be serving Faramir?” Frodo felt a bit shy asking about Boromir’s brother, but he could not help himself. He kept remembering how Faramir had held him in the Hall, his rich scent, the way his voice had resonated through Frodo’s body. “What is he like?” Frodo swallowed, kept his eyes on the green leaves overhead.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” Pippin said. “I was in disgrace, you know, for looking in the palantír at Isengard as if I could have helped it! So Gandalf took me with him, to keep me out of trouble, he said. But Frodo, if Gandalf ever offers you a chance to ride with him on Shadowfax, my advice is to say no!”

“Shadowfax?” Frodo was confused.

Pippin giggled. “Sorry, he’s Gandalf’s horse, remember the one he told us about at the Council? From Rohan? He’s huge, and fast, and well, beautiful, but not at all comfortable to ride. No saddle. And put Gandalf riding right behind you holding that staff, and I was bruised from head to toe. Anyway, we came to Minas Tirith that morning, early, and the first thing we saw as we came over the hill was a battle! Faramir’s men were being pursued by Orcs, but they had horses, so they could have escaped into the City, but the Nazgûl were in the sky, riding these huge winged creatures, and they would just swoop down on a horse and man like a hawk taking a rabbit,” Pippin paused and illustrated by waving his arms like wings, knocking his empty goblet over.

“Oops. Well, anyway, Gandalf saw it, and called to Shadowfax, and somehow the horse ran even faster, and Gandalf raised his staff and white light came, even more than in Moria, and the Black Riders flew away just like, just like, well, swallows when the cat arrives at the feeder. And we all rode into the City together, and the people were shouting Faramir’s name, he was riding at the head of his men, and he called Gandalf over, and, well. . .”

Frodo looked at Pippin as his voice trailed off, hearing an unfamiliar tone, seeing a strange look, almost serious, on his face.

“And?”

Pippin blushed. “Oh. He smiled at me. He had the dream too, you know, and recognized I was a Halfling. That was all then. But later, after what happened in the Hall, he said he wanted to, well, honour us for what we did. He could not make you a Guard because you have to take the Ring to Mordor, so he made me one.”

Sitting and smoothing a hand over his fine black tunic, Pippin said, “Merry’s going to be very jealous, don’t you think?”

Frodo laughed and nodded, enjoying the sensation bubbling up inside him. When was the last time he had laughed?

Pippin picked up his goblet, set it carefully back in the basket. “He’s very different from Boromir in some ways.”

“Oh?” Frodo shifted, looking back at the leaves overhead. He wanted to know more, wanted to ask, but something halted him.

“Yes, they might look something alike, but Faramir is so. . . quiet. Serious. I try to make him laugh, but. . .” Frodo waited, was surprised when Pippin said, “He asked me about you, you know.”

“Me?” Frodo held his breath.

Pippin nodded. “Last night, when he came back to the Citadel. He asked—”

“Pippin. Come at once.”

Gandalf’s voice jolted through Frodo, and he sat. Pippin jumped to his feet, looking confused.

“Faramir has been wounded. You need to take a message to Boromir.”

Boromir shifted, tired and aching, on the hard stone seat. He rubbed his head, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He had not slept well last night, in his old bed. It was too soft. The room seemed too large, too full of shadows, yet at the same time too small after the months he’d spent
sleeping on the ground under the stars. He could not breathe, kept rising to stand by the window and stare out at darkness unrelieved by any star. He had not slept, or, if he had, had dreamed he could not. He had left his room before the bell that marked the rising of the Sun, not that the Sun could be seen on this day.

The day so far had been long, spent in meetings with the commanders and Mithrandir. Faramir had gone out into the City, to hearten the men. And now came this news.

“He was on the first wall when he was struck by a dart. Some said it came from the air, but others say not. Gandalf said the weapon may have been poisoned and is tending him. I was sent to bring you the news as quickly as might be.”

Boromir forced his eyes open.

Pippin stood, face and voice utterly serious, in front of Boromir who sat in his father’s chair in the Hall.

Shaking his head, Boromir forced himself to speak. He thanked Pippin, and sent him to deliver the news to Imrahil.

Boromir had returned to the Citadel last night, had been welcomed by Faramir. They had talked.

Faramir stood over the large table in their father’s rooms. Piled with maps and scrolls jumbled between dirty dishes under scribbled notes, surrounded by burnt-down candle stubs, and several sheathed knives, the table’s top could hardly be seen.

Unfolding a map of the City, Faramir smoothed his hand over it.

“The first thing I did was to send the women and children to the mountain villages. Some of the older women insisted on staying, to help in the Houses of Healing, and there are some boys, not old enough to fight, too old to be ordered to leave, who stayed to run errands and work with the Healers as well. So there are few animals left, other than the knight’s horses. Provisions, well, our father has much stored. We will not suffer hunger soon.”

Boromir nodded. He would have done nothing different. He bent over the map as Faramir began to show him where the companies were stationed in the City.

“My lord?”

Boromir jumped, heart pounding. He had fallen asleep, slumped back in the narrow chair. A black-clad servant was standing in front of him, and he’d not even heard the man approaching.

Sweating, Boromir stood. It was time for daymeal. He had no appetite, had not eaten since the meal with Gandalf and the others. But he had to go to this meal, had to speak to the commanders and the nobles still left in the City, especially with Faramir in the Houses of Healing. He wiped his face and followed the servant out of the room. He could not let any see or suspect his weakness.

Frodo groveled before him, naked, weeping. Boromir breathed deeply, smiling as he tasted the scent of blood and fear on the air. He raised the whip, slowly, the gold Ring glinting on his hand. . .

“No!”

Boromir heard his shout echoing in the room. He was in his bed but was cold, shivering. The bedding had been kicked away. He sat for a few moments, feeling his heart pounding. His mouth tasted of blood, the bitter taste strong.

He stood, crossing the room to find water. But after he had drained a goblet, he felt the churning in his gut, reached hastily for a basin and vomited the water along with what little had had been able to eat earlier. The spasms wrenched him, even after his belly was empty, and he could only retch helplessly.

When he was finally free of the pain, he sank back to sat on the cold floor, leaning against the wall. He was sweating now, could feel the robe he wore sticking to his skin, could smell the stink of fear on himself.

He moved enough to grasp the side of the heavy table, pull himself to his feet. Moving slowly, he rinsed his mouth, spat the water out, afraid to try to drink again. He pulled the stinking robe off and sluiced cool water over himself.

When he looked out the window, he could see the dim light that meant it was day. He did not know what hour it was although he thought it must be fairly early. Dully, he tried to think what he must do.

News had come last night that the Rammas was broken. The Pelennor was overrun, the last guards coming in from the northern Gate which was the way to Anórien and Rohan had reported no sign of the Rohirrim. Cair Andros had fallen to a force of Orcs and Men of the East.

The City was besieged. None could guess the numbers that had moved to surround the City.

The only good news had been brought by Mithrandir who had come to Boromir late in the night to tell him that Faramir lived.

Boromir stood, pushing the pain and weariness from his mind, and went to dress. He had to go out in to the City, speak to his commanders and his men. The walls of the City were high and thick, built by the men of Númenor. But walls would not stand if no men defended them.

Later, on the fourth wall, Boromir stood between Pippin and Mithrandir. They looked out to see the trenches filled with fire, the companies darkening the green fields. Huge engines moved ponderously, slowly, closer to the walls.

“There will be fire later,” Mithrandir said. “Warn the commanders, let them tell everyone to collect water.”

Boromir nodded, sent Pippin on the errand. The young hobbit had been by his side all day, mastering any fear he might feel, doing anything he could to help. He nodded and took off running.

“Will you arm yourself and fight in this battle?” Mithrandir asked, leaning on his staff.

Boromir wondered how long it had been since the wizard had slept. His eyes were still bright though he had not smiled during the long day.

“No,” Boromir said. “I dare not. And I will keep Pippin by my side. He will not be put at any further risk, at least not until the last fight.”

“Good.” The wizard straightened, stretching. “I will see you later, then.” And he left.

Boromir leaned on the wall. He had seen how men smiled when Mithrandir passed them, how he had always a word for everyone. Imrahil had the same effect and, Boromir hoped, he did as well. They had spent the day moving through the City, encouraging all those they met.

There was something about the dim light and the looming threat which sapped everyone’s will. Boromir knew what it was as, high above his head, a cold shriek sounded, a deadly voice riding the air. The men close to Boromir shuddered, one dropping his spear.

Gasping, Boromir felt all strength leave him. He fell forward, across the wall, nerveless, the deadly voice winding around him like a whip, choking him.

All was lost. He had failed. His City would fall. Those he loved would die, slowly, cursing him with their last breaths. Because he had been too weak to claim the Ring. He deserved death.

“My lord!”

An idiot child crying, tugging at his arm. Boromir snarled, turned to strike the fool down.

“Boromir!”

He was held, and a blow rocked him backward.

Blinking, Boromir cursed, shaking his head.

Bergond stood close, frowning, voice urgent as he spoke. “I thought you would throw yourself down, my lord!”

“What?”

Beregond released his arm but remained close, watching Boromir closely.

“You were standing here, my lord, and then you seemed to fall forward. Then you seemed to wake but began to mount the wall. You did not seem to hear me when I called you.”

Boromir pushed his hair back. He could not recall what had happened. “Do you have water?” he asked.

He had dared not eat or drink that day, but the burning in his mouth and gut demanded some relief.

Beregond nodded, handed him a flask. Carefully, Boromir drank a swallow or two, waited. Some relief.

“You pulled me back?” he asked, capping the flask and returning it with a nod of thanks.

“Yes.”

“My thanks. Again.”

Bergond smiled, his relief plain in his relaxation. He stepped back a pace or two.

Boromir looked around. It was darkening toward night. The fires in the trenches and beyond in the camps were blazing. He should return to the Citadel, he thought. But first, he had to ask.

“Beregond, I do not know what happened, but I, will you,” Boromir bit his lip, not sure how to say what he must.

“I will say nothing, my lord. But, if I may ask?”

Boromir nodded, relieved.

“Will you speak to the wizard about it? Perhaps he can help.”

“I will.”

Boromir left Beregond, began the weary climb back to the Citadel. Few would sleep this night.

Frodo sat, stunned, then as Pippin followed Gandalf into the room, Frodo jumped to his feet and hurried after. After giving Pippin the message and shooing him into the hall, Gandalf swept out of the room, the tapping of his staff marking his swift steps. Frodo followed unobtrusively.

He had to know what had happened.

Through the halls Frodo followed Gandalf. Unlike the journey yesterday, today he passed unnoticed, felt no pressure beyond the fear that was pulsing inside. Gandalf met two Healers who followed him into one of the rooms. Frodo waited a few moments, then slipped through the door and sat in the nearest corner.

Gandalf and the Healers were clustered around a low bed, a table drawn close holding candles, bandages, pots, and a scatter of metal instruments.

Frodo shivered, drew his legs up and wound his arms around his knees. Between the white and grey robes, he could see flashes of green and brown. And red. Swallowing, Frodo closed his eyes, rested his head on his arms.

The murmur of voices went on for some time. Finally, silence.

Frodo looked up into Gandalf’s eyes and flushed. Gandalf smiled, held out a hand, and Frodo grasped it, was pulled to his feet.

“He will recover, in time,” Gandalf said.

Frodo took a step closer to the bed. Faramir lay still, eyes closed. His redgold hair was bright against the pillow, but his face was pale. White bandages stained with red were wound around his left shoulder and chest. The bedclothes were pulled only to his waist. Piled on the floor at the foot of the bed were his clothes and gear.

“He will?” Frodo thought that Faramir’s stillness was frightening.

“He will. Why did you follow me here?”

Frodo kept his eyes on Faramir’s face, shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Shall I take you back to your room? You should rest.”

“No!” Frodo moved away from Gandalf, closer to the low bed. “Please. I, well, I don’t want to be alone.” He held his breath as Gandalf, head tilted, looked at him, feeling as if the grey eyes could see through him.

Finally, Gandalf smiled, releasing Frodo, and nodded. “I have to go to the Citadel and give Boromir news of his brother. You may stay, if you wish.”

Turning, Gandalf crossed the room to the door and opened it. Before leaving, he turned back and said, “Don’t wander about alone, Frodo. Denethor is here in the Houses of Healing. He seems lost in a dark dream, but if he should wake, I do not wish him to find you.”

Frodo shuddered, remembering the strength of the arm around his throat, touched his chest, feeling the bandages under the thin robe. He did not want to meet Denethor again. He nodded.

Gandalf left, shutting the door behind him. Frodo sat again, feeling relaxed for the first time since Pippin had left.

The room was quiet. Frodo leaned back against the wall, watching the movement of the candle flames. Light pooled golden on the table around them, gilded Faramir’s hair and face. The smell of herbs overlay that of blood. As Frodo sat, he began to hear the soft sound of Faramir’s breathing, began to match his breath to Faramir’s.

After an uncounted time, a soft knock sounded, and the door opened. A woman looked around the door, smiled at Frodo, and came in, carrying a white roll.

“Mithrandir said to bring this to you, young master, that you’d be spending the night,” she said and knelt by the bed to unroll a pallet and blankets.

“Are you hungry?”

Frodo admitted he was, and she said she’d get food. After checking Faramir, she left but returned in a short while with soup, bread, and water.

Frodo thanked her and ate hungrily.

Then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lie on the soft pallet and draw the blankets up to his chin. Within a few breaths, he was drifting into sleep, feeling the softness under him like that of the soft grass he had lain on that afternoon, imagining himself back in the Shire, in a green glade, sleeping in the sun.

“Frodo.”

“Urrrmm,” Frodo mumbled, turned over, pulling the bedding higher. He was comfortable. Surely it wasn’t time to get up.

“Frodo!”

“Whazzit?” Grumbling, opening his eyes, Frodo turned over to see who was bothering him so early and froze.

Faramir was in bed, leaning on his good arm, looking down at Frodo. The candles had burned low, the light was dim, but there was enough to see the confusion on Faramir’s face.

“Where are we? What happened?”

Licking his lips, Frodo sat. “You’re in the Houses of Healing. You were wounded today, well, maybe yesterday now. Don’t you remember?”

Faramir shook his head, slid down to rest his head on his arm, wincing as he moved. “No. I don’t.” He coughed.

Frodo tossed the bedding back and stood to cross to the table. There was a pitcher of water left, as he’d thought there would be. He stood on tiptoe, pulled a plain clay goblet toward him, and filled it with water.

He brought it back to Faramir who sat awkwardly, took the goblet in his right hand and drank thirstily.

Seeing the darkening stains on the bandages around Faramir’s left shoulder, Frodo found himself rubbing the old wound from Weathertop on his left shoulder.

“It was a dart of some sort. They thought it was poisoned at first.”

Faramir drained the goblet. Frodo reached for it, fumbled, feeling the touch of Faramir’s hand against his, barely managing to catch the goblet before it fell.

“Does Boromir know?”

“Gandalf sent Pippin to tell him, first thing.”

“Good.” Faramir piled one pillow on the other, then cautiously lay back.

Frodo returned the goblet to the table.

“Frodo?”

He turned, feeling suddenly awkward in the thin white robe, and looked at Faramir.

“Why are you here?”

Feeling the hot blood rise in his face, Frodo searched frantically for something to say, something that would make sense. Nothing seemed right. He felt trapped, as he had earlier, in the blue gaze, could not look away.

Faramir smiled, held out his hand.

Crossing the room, Frodo clasped Faramir’s hand, let himself be tugged closer to the bed until he was leaning against it.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Faramir raised Frodo’s hand, held it against his face.

Heart pounding, Frodo leaned forward, opening his hand, feeling the soft skin and bristle of beard against his palm.

“But you should not be sleeping on the floor,” Faramir said, tilting his head, rubbing against Frodo’ hand. “What kind of host would leave his guest lying on the floor?”

“I have a pallet,” Frodo said, not moving away.

“Umhmm,” Faramir said and pulled Frodo closer.

Moving easily, Frodo leaned over into a warm kiss, lips parting, drowning in the scent and taste and touch of Faramir. The moment seemed both long and short, ending too soon, Frodo thought, as he opened his eyes.

Faramir smiled at him, his hand moving through Frodo’s hair. “The bed is narrow as Master Pippin noted, but would you share it with me?”

“Yes.”

Careful not to jostle Faramir, Frodo lifted the bedding, sliding underneath, into warmth.

Faramir slid his good arm around Frodo, shifting over, pulling Frodo down to lie by his side.

“That’s better,” he said drowsily, arm tight around Frodo who could not have agreed more.

He watched Faramir’s face as his eyes closed, the half smile on his lips.

Frodo closed his eyes, feeling the warmth beside him, around him. Drifting off to sleep, Frodo thought that if being with Boromir had been like the night in the rapids at Sarn Gebir, smooth water suddenly snarling white around sharp rocks, then tonight with Faramir was like the deep waters that ran through Lothlorien. The image drew Frodo into dreams of green glades and sweet-sounding water.

Darkness. . . .

Drifting hands touch as if in a dream skin slides across skin, kindling warmth shared in touch, soft touches become urgent, trail down a trembling body to slide between legs, cupping, rubbing, until a kiss, lifelong hunger now well fed, sparks appetite green and growing until new life arcs from one to the other, feeds back, redoubles, explodes in showers of silver rain.

. . . is reclaimed and made new.

Frodo drifted awake, feeling better than he had in days. Weeks. Months. The light in the room was dim. Only one or two candles still burned, nearly down to stubs. He yawned, felt the smooth skin of Faramir’s right shoulder under his cheek.

Lying on his side, Frodo felt Faramir’s arm wrapped around him, holding him pressed close to Faramir’s body. Frodo realized that while he slept, the white nightrobe he had been wearing had been cast off. Save for the bandages they both had wound around them, they were naked. And he had never felt so good.

He was aware of the Ring, trapped between their two bodies, but it seemed small, a minor irritant until he felt damp stickiness on the wrinkled sheet beneath him and between his body and Faramir’s. What had happened in the night? Had the Ring begun to act on Faramir?

Frodo felt heat rise in his face, tried to slide out of Faramir’s grasp. He must leave, go back to his room, try to pretend this night had never happened. He could not believe he had followed Gandalf here. Thinking of what Boromir would say if he found his brother with Frodo made him shudder, twist to slide out of bed.

“Ummmm, Frodo, it’s too early to get up, love. Sleep.”

Frodo froze in place as Faramir shifted under him, arm tightening, pulling Frodo closer.

“No, no, please, let me go.” Remembering Boromir’s arm painfully tight around his ribs, Frodo pushed at the strong body without effect.

“What?”

Faramir released him, bit back a curse as he tried to raise his left hand to push hair out of his face, shook his head. Rising stiffly to his right arm, Faramir asked, “What’s wrong?”

Trying to wind the sheet around himself, looking for his nightrobe, Frodo could not look at Faramir. “I have to leave, it’s the Ring, you don’t understand. . . .something happened.”

“Yes, yes, it did. And it was very nice, I thought. Didn’t you?”

The laughter in Faramir’s voice shocked Frodo. He stilled, wary, sitting near the edge of the bed with as much of the sheet as he could grasp pulled around him, and finally looked up to see Faramir smiling at him. The bed was so narrow that the space between them was small, but at least Faramir was not touching him. He was not touching Faramir. If it was like it had been with Boromir, perhaps the Ring needed that closeness to work.

“But why do you want to leave?” The smile disappeared as Faramir sat, reaching out to touch Frodo gently on the cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Frodo dropped his hands, still clutching the sheet, to his lap. “No, I’m not hurt. But, but do you remember what happened?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not that badly injured.”

“I thought it was the Ring, again, doing what it did to Boromir.”

“Oh.” Faramir pushed the pillows together, lay back on them, grimacing, then watched Frodo a moment in silence. “But you said you did not know what had happened between you and Boromir.”

Frodo bit his lip, closed his eyes. He would have to speak, have to warn Faramir. Frodo could not stand it if he brought harm to anyone else, especially to this man. Haltingly, he spoke, eyes still closed, of waking in the bed of Cair Andros after fever dreams, or perhaps visions sent by the Ring, but having to wash himself, seeing the stained sheets.

“I still don’t know what happened,” he said. He made himself open his eyes, look at Faramir. “But after that night, I slept in Boromir’s bed. We never talked. I don’t know what he’d experienced, or thought.” Frodo knew he could never tell Faramir what had happened in the Citadel after Frodo had tried to leave. Boromir did not deserve that betrayal. It had been the Ring, Frodo knew.

Faramir held out his hand. Hesitantly, Frodo reached out, felt the warmth and strength of Faramir’s hand around his.

“You never talked with Boromir about any of this?”

Frodo shook his head, miserable. “It was as if we couldn’t, while he bore the Ring. And after, well, there’s been no time.”

“True. He and I have had little time to talk of what happened on the journey, but he did tell me one thing, of how he felt he walked in an evil dream much of the time. He did not feel as if he was forced to do what he did, but more that he could see no other choice, until the very end, when you spoke to him in the Hall. Was that how you felt, love?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Is that how you feel now?” Faramir tugged Frodo’s hand and he leaned closer, letting the sheet fall away.

“No.”

Releasing Frodo’s hand, Faramir set his palm against Frodo’s face. “Neither is that how I feel. If you wish to leave, I will not stop you. You are not bound to me in any way. I knew little of Isildur’s Bane before Boromir and Mithrandir told me what happened, before you told me what you felt, but even then I knew it must be a thing of great evil. I would not take this thing if I found it lying in the road. I do not believe what I feel for you has anything to do with the Enemy’s Ring.”

Frodo placed his hand on Faramir’s broad chest, feeling warm skin soft under the reddish hair, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Perhaps Faramir was right. Frodo wished to believe he was, hoping beyond all hope, that out of darkness, he had come into this light.

Looking into the blue eyes, Frodo realized that he could leave, could return to his room. But he did not wish to. Leaning forward, he kissed Faramir who slid his arm around Frodo.

Pulling back, Frodo spoke, lips moving against Faramir’s. “While I hope you are right about the Ring, I think you are wrong about one thing.”

“What?”

“If love is a binding, we are bound.”

“Yes,” Faramir said.

Joyful, Frodo bent over Faramir, hands exploring, roving freely over chest and belly, careful not to touch his wounded shoulder. Mouth soon following hands, Frodo trailed kisses down and across his lover’s body, lingering to lick and suck at a hardening nipple, moving down to tease a gasp from Faramir as Frodo gently bit his thigh.

Faramir’s hand stroked up Frodo’s back, tangled in his hair as Frodo leaned, pinning Faramir’s thighs, slid a hand between his legs.

“Ahhh, love, not now—”

Frodo felt the muscles tense beneath him, opened his mouth to suck, gently at first, then harder, exulting as Faramir’s voice halted and he moaned, arching up. Quivering muscles warned Frodo, and he slid a hand around Faramir’s member, stroking, fingers playing across the firm softness, pulling the spasm and cry from him at the same time.

Frodo lay across Faramir’s body, head resting on his chest, smiling. Slowly, the heart beat he could feel against his cheek slowed, and Faramir wrapped an arm around him.

“Frodo, I—”

“Ssh.” Frodo put his hand across Faramir’s mouth, smiled to feel a kiss against his palm. “Rest.”

Voice muffled, Faramir said “But, you. . .”

“I have everything I need,” Frodo said, eyes closing. “Everything.”

Silence grew except for the sound of their breathing.

Frodo heard the firm knocking at the door and opened his eyes.

He was still lying across Faramir, both of their legs tangled in the bedding. Who could be knocking?

Faramir stirred under Frodo.

“Faramir,” Frodo whispered as strongly as he could. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?”

More knocks, and Faramir woke fully. He and Frodo looked at each other until Faramir shrugged, smiling at Frodo. “We need not hide,” he said softly, then louder, called “Enter.”

Frodo relaxed as the door opened to show Gandalf, alone, carrying a tray full of dishes. He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and stood a moment in silence, looking keenly at them. Then he smiled and nodded.

“Good,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray on the table next to the bed. He bent to pick Frodo’s nightrobe up off the floor and hand it to him. “I see you are both recovering. Are you hungry?”

Sliding the robe on, Frodo sat, his mouth watering. He could smell sausage, and butter, and hot bread.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

Gandalf handed him a full plate, and Frodo forgot to worry as he began to eat. Gandalf helped Faramir sit, despite his protest, and served him as well. Then, drawing up a chair, Gandalf sat and watched them eat.

The large meal ended with the hot savoury drink Frodo remembered from the Citadel. He sat, replete and happy, sipping from the large mug. The silence in the room, broken only by the sound of eating, was suddenly torn by a shriek, softened hardly at all by the walls of stone around them.

Frodo trembled, gripping the mug in hands suddenly gone cold, shrinking back against Faramir. “What is it,” he asked, hoping to learn his fear was wrong.

Gandalf sighed. “The Nazgûl, Frodo, the Black Riders. They ride on fell beasts high above the city in the smoke-filled air.”

“I heard them once before but thought I dreamed it,” Frodo said, looking down. For a time in the night he had almost forgotten the peril they were in.

Faramir stirred behind Frodo, “I should return to my duty,” he said. “What has been happening in the city?”

Gandalf sat forward to frown at Faramir. “You are recovering, but you are not well enough to fight,” he said. “I will tell you what news I can so you do not worry yourself into a fever. If you promise not to try to leave until I release you.”

“But—”

“I will have your word, first,” Gandalf said, implacable.

Frodo felt the tension between the two, then felt Faramir relax behind him, drawing a long breath, and releasing it. “Very well. You have my word.”

Gandalf sat back, nodding. “Good. The city is besieged. You knew it would happen when the Rammas was breached. Rohan has not yet come. The enemy is using fire against the city. But the Gate still holds. We will hold, Faramir. Rohan will come. You and Frodo have only one duty at this time, and that is to recover. Rest here, eat, and do not despair.”

Frodo smiled at Gandalf. “Such counsel seems too pleasant to be true,” he said. “I cannot remember the last time you said such a thing.”

Gandalf laughed, the rich sound filling the room. “Perhaps that is true, at least when it comes to eating. But I have always counseled against despair. That is why some think me foolish.” He stood, piling the dishes back on the tray. “But I do not see any wisdom in the rush to declare that all is lost. Take advantage of this time, then, and do not fear. I will not see you again until tomorrow, I think, for I have been asked to help with the defense of the city.”

After Gandalf left, Frodo and Faramir washed and returned to bed. Remembering the darkness of the day before, hearing the shrieks of the Black Riders, neither wished to go outside. Turning their backs on the battle that was denied them, they spent the day talking, telling over the days of their past, sharing the most joyful and the most painful memories.

Their peace was broken once, when a Healer came to clean and dress their wounds. She looked weary, was clad in robes stained with blood and smoke. When Faramir questioned her, she told him that yes, many were injured but the Gate still held. She refused to say more, hurrying out with the promise to send them food.

After that, Faramir ate and spoke little, holding Frodo close until they both slept.

That night, Frodo’s sleep was broken by uneasy dreams, dreams in which strong hands pulled him away from Faramir, dreams in which knives flashed as someone laughed.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/so-small-a-thing. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!