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.

---

When Faramir barged into his office with no knock or greeting, Aragorn looked up from his work with a flash of annoyance that rapidly transformed into concern.

“Faramir?”

“Please… come with me. Hurry.”

Aragorn stood, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s happened to Legolas.”

“What do you mean…”

“Just come with me!”

Aragorn’s sense of something terribly wrong grew as he followed the younger man down the hall at something between a walk and a run. Faramir, unlike his brother, was not excitable or prone to outbursts, and he was clearly distressed. Faramir reached his door and shoved it open, motioning for Aragorn to follow him.

“Hurry… please.”

As Faramir stepped into view, he was relieved to see Legolas flick his eyes in his direction, although the rest of his body was still arched and tight as a bowstring. Aragorn inhaled sharply.

“Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Faramir demanded.

“We need to get him out into the main room so I can see better.”

“I tried to move him… it seemed to hurt him.”

Aragorn nodded, looking down at the elf, whose eyes remained fixed on his. “Well, we can’t very well leave you on the bathroom floor, can we? Get his legs, Faramir.”

The elf was not heavy, but with his back and legs rigid and unyielding it was rather like carrying a man-sized log. He twitched as they moved him, and when they deposited him on the couch, the look he directed at Aragorn was definitely a displeased glare.

“Sorry,” the man said absently, lifting the elf’s arm and carefully flexing it. Legolas made a sharp sound of protest. “I know… sorry. What have you done to yourself?”

Faramir would have laughed at the elf’s impatient and irritated expression if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “Don’t be too sharp with him, Legolas, or he’s likely to leave you here like this. Aragorn, what’s going on? What is this? Is he ill?”

“He’s an elf. They don’t suffer from illness,” Aragorn said.

“Then what…”

“This isn’t illness. It’s poison.”

Faramir looked up, startled. “Poison?”

Aragorn nodded. “This wasn’t an accident. I’m not sure what this is but it would take a large dose of any poison to affect an elf this severely. Where would he have…”

Faramir pointed to the empty mug and bowl on the stand.
“Mushrooms?”

Aragorn picked up the bowl . “No… these are harmless. They’re Arwen’s favorites; she eats them all the time. Although I suppose something could have been put into them, or into the drink… we need to find out where this all came from. That will have to wait, though. I’m going to get some things; I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

Faramir sat down on the chair by the sofa, hearing the door close behind him as Aragorn departed. Legolas watched him intently.

“Aragorn will have something to cure this,” the man said.

Something in the blue eyes made him uneasy.

“You don’t think he will? He’s a healer. He trained with Elrond. He’ll know what to do. I wish you could tell me what happened… did the elves from Mirkwood do this to you?”

The surprise in the elf’s eyes was obvious.

“You didn’t know there were elves from Mirkwood here? That’s what I was coming to tell you. If they did something…”

Legolas sighed and made a small sound of pain and frustration.

“I know,” Faramir murmured. “I wish I could help you. I don’t even want to touch you… I’ll just make it worse.”

It seemed like a very long time before Aragorn strode back into the room, this time with Arwen close behind him. Faramir felt her presence like a balm, soothing and protective; while she did not have the full powers of her grandmother, the Queen carried Galadriel’s aura about her, which could be deeply calming or entirely terrifying, depending on who you were and why she was with you. Some of the wild near-panic in the other elf’s blue eyes eased as he glanced at her.

“Oh, Legolas,” she said gently. “You do get yourself into the strangest situations.”

Her words did not hide the grave concern in her eyes. Aragorn, who had been rummaging through his bag, nodded and held up a bottle of some sort of black, oily liquid. Legolas’ eyes widened and he gave Aragorn a sharp glare. The man laughed.

“You know what this is, do you? I thought you might. Most Mirkwood warriors are bitten at least once, right?”

“Bitten?” Faramir asked.

Arwen nodded. “The spiders in Mirkwood grew, under Sauron’s influence, very fond of elf and man flesh for their meals. Their bite is poisonous.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Not unless someone smuggled a horse-sized spider into the city,” Aragorn said. “But the bite has an effect much like whatever this poison is. The muscle spasms happen almost immediately and prevent the prey from being able to resist. After they’ve wound them up, the venom wears off, but leaves the victim too weakened to escape, even if they could.”

Legolas stared defiantly at Aragorn.

“Look, I know it tastes foul, but if I don’t do something for you very soon, you’re going to have some permanent damage, so just put up with it.”

The elf gave a resigned sigh and closed his eyes. Aragorn smiled and nodded to Faramir.

“Hold his head still. This stuff is awful and I want to make sure it all ends up in his mouth.”

“Can he swallow it?”

“Probably some of it,” Aragorn said. “But he doesn’t have to. For elves, or men, who are too severely affected to swallow it, the Mirkwood healers spread a good bit of it over the lips and inside the mouth, and it’s absorbed that way reasonably well.”

Faramir laid his hands cautiously on either side of the elf’s head. Legolas flashed him a quick, unreadable glance before Aragorn poured a good quantity of the thick black liquid into his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut in a scowl of disgust. The smell was acrid and sharp enough to make Faramir cough, and he felt Legolas twist his head in an effort to escape the awful taste.

“Now what?” Faramir demanded.

“Wait a few moments,” Aragorn said. “It works quite quickly… it has to. Anyone who’s been bitten by one of those monstrous spiders is on a very short timeline.”

Faramir kept his hands where they were, and after a minute he felt the elf’s head shift as the painfully contracted muscles in his neck began to relax. In a short time the tight arch of his back eased until he was slumped on the sofa, limp and calm under Faramir’s hands as he rubbed his shoulder.

“Feel better?”

Legolas managed to tip his chin in a small nod. Faramir frowned.

“Is that all the more you can move?”

Another small nod. Aragorn grasped Faramir by the arm and pulled him toward the door, motioning for Arwen to follow. On the way to the door, he pointed absently at the bowl on the table.

“Those mushrooms aren’t poisonous, are they, my dear? They’re the ones we eat often, I think.”

“Yes,” she murmured, but Faramir noticed she had gone very wide-eyed and still.

Aragorn ushered Faramir and Arwen out into the hall, his expression grave.

“Is he all right now?” Faramir demanded. “When will that stuff you gave him wear off? Will he be back to normal…”

“Not if this is what I think it is,” Aragorn said, his voice low.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I believe this is a poison the Haradrim use to dispose of undesirable people, such as elders who are in the way of a younger man’s place as chieftan. If that’s what this is, I’m not sure what will happen.”

“Why would Mirkwood elves have a poison made by Haradrim?” Faramir said, frowning.

“They wouldn’t,” Arwen said, her voice unsteady. Both men turned to look at her, surprised.

“What’s that?” Aragorn asked.

“This wasn’t the Mirkwood elves,” she said, shaking her head.
“How do you know?”

“Because,” she murmured, glancing toward the door before replying. “The poison wasn’t intended for Legolas. It was intended for me.”

Merry sat up quickly and tucked his knife back into his boot as one of the orcs lurched in their direction. Pippin, his shoulder jarred by Merry’s motion, squeaked and grabbed Merry’s arm tightly. The orc grinned down at them and prodded Merry with its filthy foot.

“Hello, little creatures. Your friend the Steward is on his way here, you know.”

Merry scowled and kicked at the beast’s foot. “Get away from us!”

“You don’t believe me?” the orc chuckled. “Listen… here he comes.”

Sure enough, Merry had no trouble recognizing Boromir’s colorful curses and insults ringing out in the gathering darkness, but there was a pained and frantic edge to the man’s voice. A group of orcs emerged from the trees, several carrying flaming torches and two of them dragging Boromir along as he kicked and shouted at them.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried out.

The man twisted in the orcs’ grip, his hands bound behind him. Seeing the hobbits, his eyes brightened and he gave them a quick grin before the orcs jerked him back.

“Let go of him!” Merry demanded, stumbling to his feet, which were numb from Pippin lying on them.

The orc standing over them laughed and motioned to his associates, who hauled the man over and dropped him unceremoniously on the ground next to the hobbits.

“You took all his weapons?”

One of the other orcs nodded. “Not easily. He took five of us.”

The other one shrugged. “Leave them be for now, then. Post guards. If you see the man try anything, just shoot the little creatures.”

“I’ll rip your throats out if you harm them,” Boromir growled.

The orcs chuckled and shuffled off into the darkness, bows drawn and torches lit. The leader moved a short distance away and settled himself at the foot of a tree, sharpening his sword. Merry slipped his knife from his boot and hurried to cut away the ropes binding Boromir’s arms behind his back.

“Boromir!” he gasped. “What happened to you?”

The man thrust his arms forward and studied the deep, bleeding gashes across his arms and hands. “Hmph. That’s what happens trying to block sword blows when you’ve lost your sword. Are you all right, little ones?”

“I am,” Merry said. “They hurt Pip’s shoulder, but he’ll be all right.”

Boromir immediately reached for the younger hobbit, picking him up carefully and standing him up in front of him and examining his injured shoulder while Pippin stared at him with large, solemn eyes.

“I’m sorry, Pippin,” he said, rubbing the hobbit’s curly hair. “I tried to get here faster…”

“I’ll be fine,” Pippin said bravely.

Boromir glanced at Merry. “I can try to put that shoulder back in place, and it will feel a great deal better, but it’s going to hurt doing it.”

Merry nodded and grasped Pippin’s trembling hand.

“Are you sure you know how to do that?” Pippin asked uneasily.

Boromir nodded. “It’s a fairly common injury, especially with soldiers training on horseback who aren’t used to it and take a few tumbles.”

“All right,” Pippin said, stepping closer and closing his eyes tightly.

Boromir wiped his bloody hands on his tunic before grasping Pippin’s small arm carefully but firmly. Merry resisted the temptation to close his eyes and put his hands over his ears as Boromir gently raised Pippin’s hand until his elbow was bent and his hand across his lower chest.

“Take a deep breath, little one,” he said.

Pippin obeyed, and Merry could see how hard he was trying not to shake. Boromir, intently focused, began to flex the arm and injured shoulder out away from Pippin’s body. The younger hobbit bit his lip but could not hold back a sharp cry. The orc looked up from sharpening his sword, but did not move from his spot.

“Oh!” Pippin gasped, gingerly moving his arm as his eyes brightened and a smile spread across his face. “Oh, Merry, look! He fixed it!”

Boromir grinned. “Better now?”

“Oh, yes! So much better!”

Merry smiled and patted Pippin’s back. “Excellent. You were very brave, Pip.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to remind you that you said that next time you make fun of me and call me a baby.”

Merry waved him off. “Not now, Pip. We must see to Boromir’s wounds.”

Pippin took a moment to study the man’s gashed and bloody arms and hands. “Oh, my. Yes, we must. We don’t have any clean cloths or any water, and I doubt those brutes are going to give us any.”

“Do you still have that salve in your pocket?”

Pippin flushed slightly. “Well, yes, but that’s for…”

“I know what WE use it for,” Merry said impatiently. “But that’s not what it’s made for, you know. It’s for treating wounds and keeping them clean.”

“Oh.”

Boromir sat back against the tree, knowing better than to protest as the two hobbits busily tore strips of reasonably clean fabric from their undershirts and set about cleaning the blood from his hands and arms, their little hands careful and gentle. He was surprised to feel himself nearly dozing and realized absently that he must have bled quite a bit to be nodding off now.

“It’s all right, Boromir,” Merry said, leaning over to plant a kiss on the man’s cheek. “Rest for a bit. If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it already. They seem to want you alive, and they won’t kill us as long as we’re keeping you here.”

“And I can fight now,” Pippin said, spreading salve over the worst of the gashes with his small, quick fingers. “Merry and I are a match for any number of orcs, you know.”

“You are not,” he muttered sleepily.

“Well, at least one of them,” Merry said.

“Two small ones,” Pippin added.

Boromir felt them tying strips of cloth around his arms and wrapping up his hands before they curled up, one against each side, tucking themselves up against his chest. He pulled them closer with bandaged hands and allowed himself to drift off.

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/under-pressure. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!