Faramir Fiction Archive

Under Pressure (NC-17)

Written by RubyElf

20 October 2011 | 40533 words

Title: Under Pressure
Author: RubyElf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: violence, hurt/comfort

With Boromir and the hobbits missing, an attempt on Arwen’s life that endangers Legolas instead, and an army gathering at Gondor’s southern borders, Faramir’s unique abilities are called upon to help defend Gondor even while those he loves most are in grave danger.

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Boromir watched the horizon and frowned. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

Berendir, sitting in the back of the boat and using his oar as a rudder to steady them in the increasing swift current, chuckled at the man’ s impatience.

“Not much we can do about that, is there?”

The hobbits, who had finished fighting when the boat started to rock and tip them around, were now huddled between the two larger men, Pippin with a secure grasp on Merry’s shoulder with one hand and Boromir’s tunic with the other.

“We’re nearly to the Anduin; I can see it from here off to our left,” the elf continued.

“I’m not worried about our progress. I’m worried about the others. Those fireworks they’ve got aren’t going to have quite the same effect if they’re being set off at noon, are they? And look at all the fires along the far bank of the Anduin… the Harradrim and whatever other beasts are all camped right there, just north of the river junction, and my guess would be that they’re going to attempt the crossing just before dawn. That’s when I’d do it… start sending the first ones across while it’s still dark, let them establish that the far side is clear before starting the larger troop movements…”

“Trust your men, Boromir,” the elf said. “I trust mine.”

Durian was the youngest of the ten men Faramir had sent, but his captain had chosen him less for his experience and more because he was a quick learner and remarkably adept with any sort of machinery. He had been the first to understand Faramir’s instructions for the use of the fireworks and other supplies, and for this reason he was now crouched amongst the brush along the west bank of the Anduin, watching gray light begin to touch the eastern horizon and keeping a close eye on the masses of explosives sitting at his feet. Ahead of him, two wood elves looked back over their shoulders and began signaling him with their hands: there had been movement among the troops massed on the far bank all morning, and now with dawn almost upon them, a unit of about thirty Harradrim were moving toward the ford. The elves watched as the dark-haired, dirty men approached the water cautiously, muttering amongst themselves and making signs across their chests as if to invoke some spell of protection.

“They’re mostly desert people,” the older man next to Durian said, pointing. “Large bodies of water aren’t something they deal with often, and they’ll make sure they’ve got all their ritual protections in place before they try it. If they think there’s a bad omen against trying the crossing, you’d be hard-pressed to get them to try it.”

Durian grinned and pulled his matches from his pocket, pleased to find that they were still nice and dry. “Let’s see what they think of Captain Faramir’s omens, shall we?”

He waved a warning to the wood elves, who ducked and scrambled to safety. Not all of these fireworks were designed to shoot into the sky, and it wouldn’t be wise to be in front of them, seeing as how they were hardly precision instruments. In fact, they were little more than powdered metal and gunpowder wrapped in paper, stuffed into a wooden tube with a gunpowder primer at the bottom and a rather short fuse. Faramir had made them aware of the distinct possibility that instead of lighting the primer first the fuse might ignite the entire package, transforming it from a firework to a bomb, which had something to do with Durian’s caution as he touched a lit match to three of the fireworks in quick succession and then spun on his heels and ran for cover.

Half-buried in the clay of the bank, the wooden tubes suddenly ejected their contents with a loud crack, sending them hissing in flames out over the water. The men and elves held their breath; if the packages failed to ignite, the fireworks would land harmlessly in the water.

With a tremendous flare of red light, one of the packages exploded over the river, showering the surface of the water with crackling, burning sparks that hissed as they landed. Before the sparks had finished falling the second package detonated, this one aimed closer to the water and containing rather a lot of gunpowder and a good bit of sawdust, which scattered as a flaming dust over the river, swirling like the breath of a demon. The third one landed in the water, but Faramir had followed Gandalf’s instructions and this one was packed into a glass jar, so that when it did explode, it did so with an enormous bang that sent waves skittering across the surface of the water and made the wood elves jump back and cover their sensitive ears.

Across the river, the camp was alive with chaos as if the fireworks had landed right amongst them. The troops preparing to cross the river had scattered into the crowd, shouting and throwing down their swords, and the others had jumped up from their spots around their campfires and were backing away from the water as fast as they could, knocking each other over in their haste.

Durian grinned and hurried back to the fireworks, lighting two more. These ones were more light than sound, but they soared high above the Harradrim camps before detonating, sending blue-green sparks showering toward the ground and then men below howling and running for cover. In moments the entire camp was in complete chaos, men running from the river and towards the safety of the trees, tents knocked down, weapons and tools abandoned.

“Do we have some more of those glass jar ones that go bang?” the older man asked.

“Lots more,” Durian said, grinning. “Pete down there has a bunch of them. Go tell him to light four or five of them at once, and let’s see if we can really get them running. I’ll go have the fellows down river set off theirs and we’ll get a proper spark shower going to go with your bangs.”

Merry and Pippin sat on the overturned boat on the sandy bank of the Anduin, watching the light show over the dark walls of the city of Pelargir.

“Those are lovely,” Merry said.

“Not as good as Gandalf’s,” Pippin sighed.

“No, but Faramir hasn’t had a few thousand years to practice, has he?”

Boromir winced happily as a series of loud explosions echoed down the river. “Always knew my brother was a clever lad, even if he does get a bit side-tracked, what with the visions and the elves and all.”

Berendir glanced at him. “Then Faramir and my brother are…”

Boromir scowled. “Why do you think you found him in Faramir’s bed?”

“I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“And what are you going to say about it?” Boromir challenged, crossing his arms. “Whatever I say about my brother’s choice of partners, that doesn’t mean I won’t…”

His eyes widened and he had only a moment to uncross his arms before the elf had wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulder and pulled his head down into a kiss.

Pippin squeaked loudly, halfway between amusement and alarm, and Merry quickly stifled him as Boromir hurriedly stepped back, eyes wide and startled. The elf also took a step back, watching the man’s reaction. The hobbits, reading the complete bewilderment in the man’s body language and, knowing what Boromir’s usual reaction to a confusing situation was likely to be, scrambled toward him. Boromir, though, waved for them to sit back down, and since he did not appear to intend to hit the elf, they warily obeyed.

“I apologize,” Berendir said quietly. “Some of the things you’ve said… I thought you might not be opposed to the idea of another male…”

Pippin snorted loudly, and Merry punched him. Boromir turned very red and his eyes were fixed on the ground.

“I… am not opposed to that idea, friend. But there is already someone… and…”

The elf smiled. “I understand.”

He held out his hand, and Boromir shook it heartily, relieved. “I’m quite certain we can find you some companionship when we return to my city. Elves are still somewhat of a novelty there, and there are women and men who would like to satisfy their curiosity and their gossip, which your brother has done nothing to quiet.”

“Legolas has always done as he pleased,” Berendir said.

Another round of fireworks crashed and hissed over the city, flaring against the brightening horizon. The elf turned away and walked toward the water, and Boromir turned to find both hobbits staring at him, wide-eyed and desperately trying to stifle giggles

“You evil little creatures!” he hissed, glaring at them. “You KNEW that was going to happen, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Merry wouldn’t let me,” Pippin said.

“If you’d told him, he’d have laughed at you and told you to stop being a jealous brat, which you are,” Merry retorted.

Boromir growled and captured one of them with each hand and tickled them ruthlessly until both of them screamed for mercy so loudly that Berendir came back from the river to see who was being murdered.

Faramir muttered in protest at the hand on his shoulder, shaking him and making the hammock swing.

“Stop that… go away!”

“Faramir,” Arwen said, shaking him again. “Wake up.”

“I don’t want to wake up.”

“I know. But someone else is awake, and I think you’ll be happy to see him.”

The man yawned and forced his eyes open to find Arwen smiling down at him in the fading light.

“Look,” she said, nodding.

Faramir turned his head and found himself looking into a pair of slightly confused but very alert blue eyes.

“Well, hello,” he said.

I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.

“Why didn’t you just wake me up like you usually do when you’re bored?”

Thought you could use the rest.
“How thoughtful of you. How do you feel?”

Ugh. Awful. This is entirely uncalled-for.

Faramir laughed, drawing a curious look from Arwen. “Elves really aren’t used to being ill, are they?”

“No,” Arwen said. “And when they are, they are terrible patients.”

Faramir sat up, forgetting he was in a hammock, and then had to swing his legs around quickly and grab Legolas with one arm to keep them from both ending up on the ground. He was pleased to feel the elf’s muscles shift in an unconscious attempt to keep himself from falling.

“So, since we’re up, what would make you feel better?” Faramir asked.

Back to your rooms. Maybe you can read something aloud… I’m bored out of my mind and I don’t think my vision’s clear enough to read.

“We could play draughts,” Faramir suggested, hooking the elf’s arm over his shoulder. “But you’d have to tell me where to move your pieces.”

You would cheat. And although I never thought I’d say this, maybe some of that foul tea of Aragorn’s would be good.

Faramir nodded. “That could be arranged.”

After sleeping through the day, Faramir was content to stay awake late into the night, especially since Legolas was finally back to himself enough to sit propped up on the couch and follow Faramir with his eyes and an occasional turn of his head as the man moved through the room. Countless games of draughts and several books later, as the sky in the east began to turn gray, Faramir sat up abruptly as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Legolas looked at him curiously.

What is it?

Faramir grinned and closed his eyes. “Fireworks.”

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