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 woke slowly, groggy and aching from sleeping on the hard-packed ground. For a moment he didn’t know what had awakened him, but then he felt a small hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Wake up, Boromir.”

He blinked and looked up into Pippin’s concerned face. Seeing Boromir awake, he grinned broadly.

“Hello, there. How are you?”

The man forced himself to sit up, although his muscles protested and the wounds on his arms and hands throbbed painfully. Merry and Pippin watched intently until he had managed to get himself into a reasonably comfortable cross-legged position. He looked around for their orc captors; several of them were sprawled in the shade, snorting and snoring loudly, but several armed with spears were still crouched sulkily under the trees, watching them. Boromir turned back to the hobbits.

“You’re all right, little ones?”

Merry held out a wooden cup. “They brought us some water…”

“I wouldn’t drink water that orcs…”

“It’s all right. It’s from the creek just past those trees. It looks clean.”

Boromir nodded his approval and accepted the cup. As soon as the water passed his lips he realized he was desperately thirsty, and he had to chuckle when he put the cup down and found Pippin holding another one already full and waiting for him.

“You two… I don’t think anyone has kept such a close eye on me since I learned to walk.”

“Someone SHOULD have been,” Pippin said. “Look at all you’ve gotten yourself into since then!”

“Besides, someone has to look after you, because you certainly don’t take much care of yourself,” Merry said, his little fingers working at the now dirty and bloody bandages around his right arm. Pippin began the same task on his other arm, while he watched them with amusement and obediently lifted his hands at their instruction so they could unwind the bandages. Merry frowned, turning the man’s much larger hand over in his two small ones.

“This one is deep. You won’t be able to get a proper grasp on anything till it heals.”

Pippin giggled. “Aragorn will be very disappointed, since that’s the hand you probably use for grasping…”

“Pip,” Merry said disapprovingly.

“It is!” he protested. “And it’s…”

They were interrupted by Boromir’s rumbling chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Pippin asked.

“Just wondering what the healers would think about the effectiveness of certain things as a wound salve,” he said, grinning.

Merry bit his lip, trying to maintain his serious expression. “Well, if the King has the hands of a healer…”

“Perhaps one could derive healing benefits from some other parts of him, too,” Boromir agreed, struggling to keep from bursting out laughing.

“That would be a useful skill, for a healer,” Merry noted. “Especially since he has an unlimited supply of the stuff at hand…”

This was more than Pippin could bear, and despite his sore should he collapsed to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, chest convulsing with laughter. Merry joined him a moment later, leaning heavily on Pippin as he fought for breath amidst bursts of giggles. Boromir finally succumbed, ignoring his aching back as he surrendered to laughter. Several of the orcs stirred and growled in their sleep, and the spear-wielding guards gave them sharp glares, but all three of them were, for the moment, beyond caring.

Aragorn found Faramir sitting by the window in his room, letting the sun fall across his face as he lay in a half-doze. Only his eyes acknowledged Aragorn’s arrival; he looked as drawn and exhausted as Legolas had when Aragorn had seen him last.

“I brought some herbs to brew into a tea that might help both of you…”

“I don’t know that it matters,” Faramir said, his voice neutral and flat, but he sat up and took the packet Aragorn held out to him.

“Why would it not matter?”

“He won’t drink any. I haven’t been able to wake him since earlier this morning. I don’t think he can hear me anymore.”

Aragorn lowered his head. “Faramir, I…”

“It hardly seems right, does it? And just a few days ago I was wondering how he would feel when his mortal friends left him…”

Aragorn searched desperately for something to say, but failed. As he stood, helpless, there was a sharp knock at the door. Faramir seemed not to notice it, so Aragorn strode to the door and opened it, prepared to shout at whoever had ignored his orders to leave this room undisturbed.

“There you are, my Lord,” the young guard said breathlessly. “The Queen said I might find you here.”

“What is it?” he demanded, feeling a cold hand grip him.

‘My Lord… a messenger arrived just a few minutes ago from Pelargir.”

Aragorn frowned. With Umbar in the hands of the Haradrim and the Corsairs, Pelargir on the Anduin was Gondor’s chief port and the harbor where its ships of war and commerce were docked.

“What was the message?”

The guard took a deep breath before replying. “My Lord, the message was that a large number of Corsair ships have been spotted sailing up the Anduin, and at the same time there are two large troops of Haradrim moving along the west side of the river.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. “They’re blockading Pelargir.”

“Sir, the messenger’s report is that they believe there are enough men arriving that it appears they intend to try to take Pelargir.”

Aragorn nodded and turned away. The young man, sensing he was dismissed, hurried to depart. Aragorn looked back to Faramir, but the other man had not moved and was still staring blankly into the beam of sunlight. Aragorn wasn’t even sure if he had heard the guard’s message until he spoke.

“You’ll want me to lead Gondor’s army against these invaders, since my brother is not here.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask that of you, not now.”

Faramir closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Faramir…”

“There’s nothing you need to say, Aragorn. I know this… will be just as hard for you to bear as it will be for me.”

Perhaps not quite as hard, Aragorn thought. He was no stranger to loss and had learned, if not how to accept it, at least how to push it away and save the grief for when there was time. And there was no time now; with Gondor’s chief port under attack, Minas Tirith would be deprived of supplies. The Haradrim surely knew they could not hold Pelargir against the armies of Gondor, but if they were able to take the city they would burn and ruin it.

“You know the tribes of Harad didn’t put this together,” Faramir said quietly.

“I know it.”

“And you know the attacks on Arwen and Boromir are beyond their abilities to plan or to execute.”

Aragorn nodded. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

Faramir glanced over at him. “I wish I did.”

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