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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As the last of the fireworks fell silent and the sky began to lighten, Berendir sent two of his wood elves up the slope to the west of the city, instructing them to find a vantage point in a good tree and survey the situation. They returned shortly, grinning and chatting eagerly to their commander in the peculiar dialect of Sindarin that Boromir could not understand a word of.

“What are they saying?” he demanded, interrupting the discussion.

“Are all mortals as impatient as you?” Berendir asked curiously.

“No,” Merry said, looking up from the piece of wood he was whittling with his knife.

“Depends on the situation,” Pippin added.

Boromir glared at them, but they both beamed at him from their seat on the overturned boat, and he scowled and turned back to the elf.

“They were saying,” Berendir went on, “that it appears your brother’s plan was highly effective. A few of the Haradrim remain in their camps, but most of them fled away from the river and into the forest. It will take quite some time to get them all back together, and some of them appear to be abandoning the fight entirely and were spotted sneaking off to the south.”

“Running for home,” Boromir said, pleased. “Will this keep them busy long enough?”

“I suspect they will not be able to attempt the crossing till tomorrow morning, at the very least. And that’s if they can convince their men to attempt it at all.”

“Could they see my men and yours? Are they safe?”

Berendir spoke quickly to the two wood elves before answering.
“They appear to be well and their position is, for the moment, quite secure. They will be there to meet your King when he arrives.”

Boromir glanced toward the city walls and frowned. “Whoever orchestrated all of this is in that city somewhere.”

“Boromir…” Pippin said. “The intelligent thing to do would be to wait for Aragorn.”

“For once, I agree with Pip,” Merry said.

The man shook his head. “If this person is in the city, he’s got to be aware by now that Gondor has been alerted to the threat, and he’s probably assuming that they’re sending their army to deal with the situation. If he flees and escapes from the city before Aragorn arrives…”

The hobbits glanced at each other, understanding.

“Then Arwen will never be safe, and neither will you, or Aragorn, or anyone else that’s important to him,” Merry said.

Boromir rubbed his curly head fondly. “Yes, little one. I’m going to have Berendir take you two to safety with the men on the other side of the city, and…”

Pippin shook his head and sighed. “Boromir, you do realize that every time you attempt to send us to safety, we refuse to go?”

“I am aware of that,” the man rumbled.

“So why do you bother?” Merry asked, hopping down from his perch and sliding his knife back into his boot.

“I don’t want you two going with me now. You’re…”

“We don’t care,” Pippin said. “We’re going with you.”

Berendir nodded. “I’ll join the three of you. I’d like to meet this enemy in person. I’m going to send the rest of my men back to join the others… they have no experience fighting inside a city and might do more harm than good.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m fully aware of that,” the elf shot back.

Boromir raised an eyebrow and tried to suppress a smile. “Now you sound like your brother.”

“I fight like him, too,” Berendir said, drawing his short sword. “This blade would like to taste some blood today.”

“Very well,” Boromir said, relenting. “I wouldn’t deny you an opportunity for revenge. And you two…”

The hobbits grinned at him.

“You two are beyond impossible. You’re both going to get killed someday.”

“Everybody dies someday,” Merry said.

“Except elves,” Pippin added.

“Shut up, Pip. I was trying to say something intelligent.”

“Well, that was a lost cause from the start, then.”

“Hmm. Perhaps we should see if you’re still smirking after I box your ears.”

“I’d like to see you try… hey, there!”

This was as much of a protest as Pippin could manage before Merry, full of high spirits and nervousness and excitement, tackled the younger hobbit to the ground and tumbling them both into a pile of leaves. Boromir rolled his eyes and waded in, coming out of the fracas with a hobbit in each hand, grasped firmly by the shirt.

“None of that, now,” he scolded, setting them down.

“Just getting warmed up,” Merry said, flushed and grinning.

“Merry, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were starting to look forward to getting into dangerous situations,” Pippin said.

“So what if I am?” Merry said, straightening his shirt. “Let’s go, Boromir. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

With only an hour’s nap shortly after dawn, Faramir was far from happy when Arwen came to awaken him and send him to the King’s meeting room. He’d been curled up quite contentedly in his bed, wrapped around a half-dozing elf who had finally started to properly warm up, when the Queen’s voice dragged him back to consciousness.

“What is it that needs done right away?” he muttered, rummaging through his drawers for a clean tunic while Arwen watched with amusement. “Aragorn’s not even here.”

“No. Hopefully he is well on the way to Pelargir at the head of his army,” she agreed. “And if your plan worked…”

Faramir smiled, losing some of his sleepy grouchiness. “It worked. I could see the fireworks. Boromir was watching them.”

“Then he’s alive and well, and at Pelargir.”

Faramir nodded, pulling a decent tunic over his head. “As far as I can tell, yes. Now, what did you need from me?”

“You are meeting with my husband’s advisors and other concerned parties,” she said. “With the King and the Steward gone, they are very, very uneasy, especially since the Steward’s whereabouts are still officially unknown. And I, of course, am officially on my deathbed. Or am I dead? I lost track.”

Faramir shivered at hearing this, but Arwen’s mood was merry.

“No fear, Faramir. All will be well. Go and tell them that their Steward is alive and well and that he and King Elessar will soon settle all this foolishness. They trust you. Possibly more than your brother, since you are less inclined to throw things at them.”

Faramir chuckled and glanced toward his bedroom. “Will he be all right while I’m gone?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Arwen said. “I believe he is on the way to recovery, though it will take him much longer than he is willing to tolerate. And you are bound to him now… you’d know if something was wrong.”

“I’m sure,” Faramir said, rolling his eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to have him being able to complain to me while he’s not even with me.”

“I can imagine,” Arwen said, straightening his tunic and rearranging his disheveled hair. “As I told you, that’s something very unusual, even between two elves. But I suspect that it won’t take you long to learn how to manage it, just like you learned to manage your visions when you were young. Out of curiosity… it is just words, this communication, or are there other senses involved?”

“So far it seems to be just his voice,” Faramir said. “And I’d be fine if it stayed like that. Legolas is phenomenally good at being distracting.”

Arwen smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Off with you… they’re waiting.”

The broad streets of Pelargir were still and silent in the gray morning light. Orders had clearly been given for everyone to shut themselves up safely in their homes, and the shuttered windows and darkened store-fronts gave the usually busy port city an air of abandonment. They had not gone far before a guard stepped out in front of them and halted their progress.

“Who are you, and why are you in the street?” he demanded.
Boromir studied the younger man for a moment. “Identify yourself, soldier.”

The soldier frowned and straightened up. “Sir?”

“Identify yourself.”

“I’m guarding this street by order of my captain, sir. If you haven’t heard, there is a large army of Haradrim…”

“Yes, yes. And do you know who I am?”

“No,” he said warily.

“I am Lord Steward Boromir, Captain-General of the White Tower.”

The man’s eyes widened. “I don’t…”

“Take me to your captain. He’ll recognize me.”

Realizing that if this man really was who he claimed to be, giving him a hard time was probably very unwise, the soldier nodded briskly.

“Come with me, then.”

Faces peered through curtains and shutters as the small party passed. Several other guards stepped out to stop them, but seeing that they were already under supervision they allowed them to continue. The men’s boots cast echoes off the cobblestone streets. When Boromir had visited Pelargir in the past, these streets had been so full of people, market stalls, carts, shipping crates, and livestock that it was almost impossible to walk anywhere in a straight line. The city’s quick and thorough response to threat, though, told him that although the city was within territory that belonged securely to Gondor, they were wary of attack and had prepared to deal with it.

“Your preparations are very satisfactory,” he said, looking around.

“Thank you, sir. We find that…”
Boromir had just enough time to think that he should have had enough sense to be wary of dark alleys before the thick cloak was thrown over his head and strong arms were wrestling his behind his back. He heard the young guard attempt a shout of alarm, which was immediately and sharply cut off, and Boromir winced at the knowledge that it was probably the last sound the young man would ever make. He tried to still himself enough to listen, and to his relief he could hear Merry and Pippin’s muffled but noisy and outraged protests. Although he could not hear the elf, he assumed that if their attackers had not harmed the hobbits, Berendir was probably unharmed as well, at least for now. He felt his sword being yanked from him and heard voices speaking a language barely recognizable as Westron. Haradrim, then, he guessed.

“Captain Boromir.”

The speaker had a heavy accent, but at least Boromir could somewhat understand him. “Uncover my face and give me my sword, you bastard, and then we’ll talk.”

“The Wizard wants to see you.”

“Good,” he growled. “Take me to your bloody wizard, and let’s see what he has to say about all this.”

“He can’t be much of a wizard if he has to send filthy humans to do his business for him,” Berendir snapped. “Give me back my bow and we’ll see how magical he is.”

“That will not happen, elf. The Wizard will decide what to do with you. Maybe when he is done he will give your bones to the Wargs to play with.”

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